The first eighteen verses of the Gospel of John, known as the Prologue, have been near and dear to my heart for a long time. They were the first sentences I ever translated from Greek into English, way back in high school. They are so full of meaning, so mystical, that if I spend the rest of my life studying them I will still only have begun to plumb their depths.
They always show up on the first Sunday after Christmas, and fittingly so. Once the cultural frenzy of Christmas itself has passed, there is time for people of faith to stop and reflect on what it all means. That’s what John does for us. He places a particular birth in a particular time within the context of eternity, and so helps us place our own particular place and time within God’s unending time.
“In the beginning” – right back to the first words of the Bible, John takes us, before creation itself. “Was” – the Greek verb expresses ongoing time, continuing action. “The Word” – all of the multivalent meanings of “Logos” in Greek are brought to bear: thought, reason, what goes on inwardly as well as the outward expression of inner thought through speech. God’s thought is God’s speech is God’s action. That’s what the doctrine of the Trinity is all about. God the Father speaks through God the Son in the power of God the Holy Spirit. John gets all of that meaning in just the first few verses.
Because the Word arises from the heart of God, speaking what God thinks, I am used to saying that Jesus Christ is God’s most complete self-revelation to humanity. That’s part of what makes me a Christian. But the fourteenth-century mystic Johannes Tauler takes that concept even further. In uttering the Word, Tauler says, God also comprehends himself. The implication is that without begetting the eternal Word, God the Father would not be able to know himself.
Yet the Prologue doesn’t remain in the realm of the eternal. John soon switches to punctiliar verbs, ones that place an action at a particular point in time. John the Baptist is born (“happened” in the Greek). And remarkably enough, so was the eternal Word, born in the flesh.
Every time I get to the verse, “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us,” my spine starts tingling. If I’m reading it out loud, I have to stop and collect myself. That’s the absolute center of our faith. God in all of God’s fullness, the eternal Word through whom all things came into being, emptied himself and became a finite human being. “God became human that humans might become God,” as St. Athanasius put it. The enormity of that, the utter grace of it, gets me every time.
Through Jesus Christ, who is the Word become flesh, we all receive grace upon grace, grace freely given to us out of the fullness of the eternal God. It is a grace that is totally unmerited. By many it is not even accepted, as John well knew. Yet God offers it nonetheless. How could God do anything else? For it is the very nature of God to speak the Word, to reveal God’s self, to enter the particularity of time and place so that we, too, might witness to that eternal conversation of love that is God.
Christmas 1: John 1:1-18. For those who keep track of such things, the actual quotation from Tauler is: “In this pure act of self-comprehension [the Father] utters Himself completely by a Word; and the Word is His Son. And the act whereby He knows Himself is the generation of the Son in eternity.” Johannes Tauler: Sermons, p. 36 (Paulist Press).
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Christmas Bird Count
This Saturday I will be going on my first Christmas Bird Count in many years. Except for the Christmas part, it’s just what it sounds like: a count of birds over a 24-hour period within a 15-mile-diameter area. The National Audubon Society has been sponsoring Christmas Bird Counts nationwide since 1900. In spite of the vagaries of weather and variation in observers, CBCs have actually provided useful long-term data about changes in bird populations.
I last participated in a count when I was in graduate school at Duke. For a while I was the compiler for the Durham CBC – organizing groups of birders, collecting the numbers, investigating unusual sightings, sending it all on to the Audubon Society. I was young enough to get up in the middle of the night to listen for owls and then wander around the North Carolina woods all day with my birding buddies. Fortunately for me (and for R, who still remembers the alarm clock going off at 3 a.m.), Saturday’s meeting time is a more civilized 7:00.
Do Christmas Bird Counts have any theological significance? Probably not. Yet I do enjoy spending hours outdoors in the midst of creation, searching distant shores for eagles perched in tall trees, listening for the high pitch of chickadees or cedar waxwings. Our first assignment upon gathering will be to find the peregrine falcon that frequents a Mississippi River bridge. Birding is like that: you look for things where you have seen them in the past while keeping your eyes and ears open for the unusual.
That kind of expectant anticipation makes birding a bit like Advent. Like Advent, we think we know what or who is coming. But do we really? Jesus never seemed to do what was expected, even before he was born. Joseph certainly didn’t know what he was getting into when he decided to quietly divorce his suddenly pregnant fiancée. The only assurance he had was from dreams, and how can one be sure that a dream has come from God? Righteous and faithful, Joseph did believe, and accepted this Child that was not really his, naming him as his own, naming him Jesus, for he would be one who saves.
Names are important. Even bird names. There’s actually an organization that gives birds their official English names, changing them from time to time for various reasons. I expect that I will show my birding rustiness by not calling something its new name – saying marsh hawk instead of northern harrier, for instance. I hope I am amused when I’m corrected. Now that I no longer teach, I don’t have to be right any more, at least about names. One thing I am still sure about, however. Thanks to that baby of Mary and Joseph, that Immanu-el, God is with us and will remain with us now and always. It doesn’t take a pair of binoculars to see that.
Advent 4: Matthew 1:18-25.
I last participated in a count when I was in graduate school at Duke. For a while I was the compiler for the Durham CBC – organizing groups of birders, collecting the numbers, investigating unusual sightings, sending it all on to the Audubon Society. I was young enough to get up in the middle of the night to listen for owls and then wander around the North Carolina woods all day with my birding buddies. Fortunately for me (and for R, who still remembers the alarm clock going off at 3 a.m.), Saturday’s meeting time is a more civilized 7:00.
Do Christmas Bird Counts have any theological significance? Probably not. Yet I do enjoy spending hours outdoors in the midst of creation, searching distant shores for eagles perched in tall trees, listening for the high pitch of chickadees or cedar waxwings. Our first assignment upon gathering will be to find the peregrine falcon that frequents a Mississippi River bridge. Birding is like that: you look for things where you have seen them in the past while keeping your eyes and ears open for the unusual.
That kind of expectant anticipation makes birding a bit like Advent. Like Advent, we think we know what or who is coming. But do we really? Jesus never seemed to do what was expected, even before he was born. Joseph certainly didn’t know what he was getting into when he decided to quietly divorce his suddenly pregnant fiancée. The only assurance he had was from dreams, and how can one be sure that a dream has come from God? Righteous and faithful, Joseph did believe, and accepted this Child that was not really his, naming him as his own, naming him Jesus, for he would be one who saves.
Names are important. Even bird names. There’s actually an organization that gives birds their official English names, changing them from time to time for various reasons. I expect that I will show my birding rustiness by not calling something its new name – saying marsh hawk instead of northern harrier, for instance. I hope I am amused when I’m corrected. Now that I no longer teach, I don’t have to be right any more, at least about names. One thing I am still sure about, however. Thanks to that baby of Mary and Joseph, that Immanu-el, God is with us and will remain with us now and always. It doesn’t take a pair of binoculars to see that.
Advent 4: Matthew 1:18-25.
Monday, December 6, 2010
The Desert Shall Rejoice and Blossom
When I first started teaching at St. Ambrose University, a colleague and I spent a term break at Big Bend National Park in southern Texas. It was my first experience in a desert, and I shall never forget it. Big Bend covers a huge area where the Rio Grande River makes a wide arc as it separates the U.S. and Mexico. The park is large enough to contain the entire Chisos Mountain range as well as a good deal of the Chihuahuan Desert.
Like most real deserts, Big Bend is stony, not sandy, and trackless. What look like paths are actually dry watercourses. If you follow one, you are likely to end up in a canyon with high walls – not the place to be if there’s a thunderstorm nearby. The water will come rushing down in a torrent, as large stones washed onto high ledges attest.
Deserts are usually dry places, of course. In some areas it may not rain for years. But when it does rain, really rain, the plants are ready. Some have waited as seeds; others as dry branches surviving under the scorching sun. When the rain finally comes, they burst into bloom. The seeds sprout, grow, flower, and create new seeds within a few weeks.
“The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,” Isaiah writes,” the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing.” To see a dry desert break forth into blossom is like watching a miracle unfold – as miraculous as the eyes of the blind being opened, the ears of the deaf unstopped, and the lame leaping like a deer.
For millennia, people have gone to the desert to encounter God. John the Baptist was one of them. Yet the God John encountered was not the one he was expecting. He didn’t think that God’s chosen one would turn out to be his younger cousin, Jesus. “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” John asked through his disciples. In reply, Jesus told them, look at what I am doing. See what happens to the people who come to me. Then remember what the desert is like when the rains come, and you will know the finger of God when you see it.
It was a chilly January when I went to Big Bend, so I didn’t see any rain or flowers. But I did get to hear the remarkable silence, like the "sound of sheer silence" as one translator described God’s appearance to Elijah on Mount Horeb. It is a silence one can almost touch. Out of that desert silence, that midnight silence, God speaks. Out of that silence one winter’s night God spoke in the cry of a newborn baby, a baby who became a man that caused the desert to rejoice and the lame to leap for joy. Thanks be to God for the gift of that Child.
Like most real deserts, Big Bend is stony, not sandy, and trackless. What look like paths are actually dry watercourses. If you follow one, you are likely to end up in a canyon with high walls – not the place to be if there’s a thunderstorm nearby. The water will come rushing down in a torrent, as large stones washed onto high ledges attest.
Deserts are usually dry places, of course. In some areas it may not rain for years. But when it does rain, really rain, the plants are ready. Some have waited as seeds; others as dry branches surviving under the scorching sun. When the rain finally comes, they burst into bloom. The seeds sprout, grow, flower, and create new seeds within a few weeks.
“The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,” Isaiah writes,” the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing.” To see a dry desert break forth into blossom is like watching a miracle unfold – as miraculous as the eyes of the blind being opened, the ears of the deaf unstopped, and the lame leaping like a deer.
For millennia, people have gone to the desert to encounter God. John the Baptist was one of them. Yet the God John encountered was not the one he was expecting. He didn’t think that God’s chosen one would turn out to be his younger cousin, Jesus. “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” John asked through his disciples. In reply, Jesus told them, look at what I am doing. See what happens to the people who come to me. Then remember what the desert is like when the rains come, and you will know the finger of God when you see it.
It was a chilly January when I went to Big Bend, so I didn’t see any rain or flowers. But I did get to hear the remarkable silence, like the "sound of sheer silence" as one translator described God’s appearance to Elijah on Mount Horeb. It is a silence one can almost touch. Out of that desert silence, that midnight silence, God speaks. Out of that silence one winter’s night God spoke in the cry of a newborn baby, a baby who became a man that caused the desert to rejoice and the lame to leap for joy. Thanks be to God for the gift of that Child.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
A Shoot Shall Come Forth
A shoot shall come forth out of Jesse,
And a bud shall grow out of his roots.
The spirit of life shall be with him,
The spirit of wisdom and truth.
The prophet Isaiah was full of words of hope to a people who faced one crisis after another. Threatened by foreign invasion and weak leadership, they did not know which way to turn. Return to the Lord, Isaiah said, for he will raise up a new ruler for you from the descendants of King David, the son of Jesse. He will lead in wisdom and truth, and bring peace to the earth.
Then the lamb shall lie down with the leopard,
And the lion eat straw with the ox,
For the hand of a Child shall lead them,
To the peaceable kingdom of God.
Early Christians saw Isaiah’s prophecy of David’s descendant fulfilled in Jesus Christ. It was this Child who would usher in a new Eden, a place where animals would neither eat one another nor harm anyone. It’s like the painting of “The Peaceable Kingdom” by Edward Hicks, in which people and animals look out as though the viewer has disturbed their tranquility.
From out of the wells of salvation
Will he draw us the water of life;
His waist shall be girdled with justice,
The heart of his heart shall be Love.
My brother Richard Horn wrote these words many years ago and set them to music for a Christmas card. Words and music were subsequently published and have been sung during Advent ever since, especially on the second Sunday of Advent in liturgical Year A, when we hear the reading from Isaiah on which the text is based.
He’ll come from the end of his heaven,
And the earth shall be torn from its place;
Our lives shall be filled with his radiance
As floodwaters cover the sea.
In Advent we wait for the return of Christ, even as we prepare to celebrate that first appearance at Christmas. The Bible portrays the Second Coming in cosmic terms, as though the earth will be torn from its place. Our lives will be totally up-ended. And yet the One whose heart is Love will fill us with his radiance, with joy irresistibly flowing everywhere, like floodwaters covering the sea. God’s love will be all-encompassing.
Then the lamb shall lie down with the leopard,
And the lion eat straw with the ox,
For the hand of a Child shall lead them,
To the peaceable kingdom of God.
What wonderful yearning there is in Isaiah’s vision! This is not "pie in the sky by and by," but rather a hope and a promise that this life is not the end, that there is more than what we see now. A time will come when all things will be reconciled to God and to one another. That is the promise God gives us through Jesus Christ. Knowing that such a time will come, we can begin now, in all of our weak and broken humanity, to work for the coming of that peaceable kingdom. It will come in God's time, whether we like it or not, whether we believe it or not. Wouldn't it better to work with God for the coming of the kingdom, rather than simply wait?
Advent 2: Isaiah 11:1-10; Psalm 72; Romans 15:4-13; Matthew 3:1-12.
And a bud shall grow out of his roots.
The spirit of life shall be with him,
The spirit of wisdom and truth.
The prophet Isaiah was full of words of hope to a people who faced one crisis after another. Threatened by foreign invasion and weak leadership, they did not know which way to turn. Return to the Lord, Isaiah said, for he will raise up a new ruler for you from the descendants of King David, the son of Jesse. He will lead in wisdom and truth, and bring peace to the earth.
Then the lamb shall lie down with the leopard,
And the lion eat straw with the ox,
For the hand of a Child shall lead them,
To the peaceable kingdom of God.
Early Christians saw Isaiah’s prophecy of David’s descendant fulfilled in Jesus Christ. It was this Child who would usher in a new Eden, a place where animals would neither eat one another nor harm anyone. It’s like the painting of “The Peaceable Kingdom” by Edward Hicks, in which people and animals look out as though the viewer has disturbed their tranquility.
From out of the wells of salvation
Will he draw us the water of life;
His waist shall be girdled with justice,
The heart of his heart shall be Love.
My brother Richard Horn wrote these words many years ago and set them to music for a Christmas card. Words and music were subsequently published and have been sung during Advent ever since, especially on the second Sunday of Advent in liturgical Year A, when we hear the reading from Isaiah on which the text is based.
He’ll come from the end of his heaven,
And the earth shall be torn from its place;
Our lives shall be filled with his radiance
As floodwaters cover the sea.
In Advent we wait for the return of Christ, even as we prepare to celebrate that first appearance at Christmas. The Bible portrays the Second Coming in cosmic terms, as though the earth will be torn from its place. Our lives will be totally up-ended. And yet the One whose heart is Love will fill us with his radiance, with joy irresistibly flowing everywhere, like floodwaters covering the sea. God’s love will be all-encompassing.
Then the lamb shall lie down with the leopard,
And the lion eat straw with the ox,
For the hand of a Child shall lead them,
To the peaceable kingdom of God.
What wonderful yearning there is in Isaiah’s vision! This is not "pie in the sky by and by," but rather a hope and a promise that this life is not the end, that there is more than what we see now. A time will come when all things will be reconciled to God and to one another. That is the promise God gives us through Jesus Christ. Knowing that such a time will come, we can begin now, in all of our weak and broken humanity, to work for the coming of that peaceable kingdom. It will come in God's time, whether we like it or not, whether we believe it or not. Wouldn't it better to work with God for the coming of the kingdom, rather than simply wait?
Advent 2: Isaiah 11:1-10; Psalm 72; Romans 15:4-13; Matthew 3:1-12.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Yearning
This year I am not tempted to greet everyone on the first Sunday in Advent with “Happy New Year!” It was funny the first time, perhaps. At least it’s appropriate. Advent 1 marks the beginning of a new three-year lectionary cycle, when all Episcopal churches are supposed to follow the Revised Common Lectionary. But this year I am more aware of continuity than change.
Toward the end of Pentecost, the lessons focused on the end times, the second coming of Christ. Advent begins with the same. “You know what time it is,” Paul writes to the Romans, “how it is the moment for you to wake from sleep…the night is far gone, the day is near.” Jesus says, “But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father…Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.”
One introduction to the church year that I recently read acknowledged this focus on the unpredictability of the second coming, and then said that because of it, the church should work to bring about God’s reign of peace and justice today. There’s an implication that we can create the kingdom of God on earth. That’s debatable. Even so, I don’t think it goes deep enough.
What I sense this year is a tremendous amount of yearning. Some yearn for gainful employment. Some stop by the church looking for food or gas money to get to a job interview or an Iowa City hospital. A Quad City colleague sits in an interstate rest stop and sees young women desperately trying to get out of the human trafficking web in which they are enmeshed. All of these people yearn for very real physical needs, needs that must be met before spiritual growth can occur.
I see spiritual yearning, too. “Can we have some Wednesday evening sessions on prayer?” I am asked. That request was made last year; will I finally take it to heart this time? I think of the beginning of Psalm 63: “O God, you are my God; eagerly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my flesh faints for you, as in a barren and dry land where there is no water.” But do those who are thirsting and fainting always know that it is God that they seek? And how will they know unless there is someone to tell them, to walk with them?
Yes, “Happy New Year” is just a bit too glib this year. Yearning doesn’t need humor; it needs Good News. The news that God has already come in human flesh, in human frailty, in human poverty. The news that God came to us through a bewildered, poor, unmarried young woman. The news that God loved us so much that God was willing to die for us. The news that Christ overcame death and will indeed come again to make all things new. Does that end yearning? No. But at least then we know what it is we’re yearning for.
Advent 1: Isaiah 2:1-5; Psalm 122; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44.
Toward the end of Pentecost, the lessons focused on the end times, the second coming of Christ. Advent begins with the same. “You know what time it is,” Paul writes to the Romans, “how it is the moment for you to wake from sleep…the night is far gone, the day is near.” Jesus says, “But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father…Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.”
One introduction to the church year that I recently read acknowledged this focus on the unpredictability of the second coming, and then said that because of it, the church should work to bring about God’s reign of peace and justice today. There’s an implication that we can create the kingdom of God on earth. That’s debatable. Even so, I don’t think it goes deep enough.
What I sense this year is a tremendous amount of yearning. Some yearn for gainful employment. Some stop by the church looking for food or gas money to get to a job interview or an Iowa City hospital. A Quad City colleague sits in an interstate rest stop and sees young women desperately trying to get out of the human trafficking web in which they are enmeshed. All of these people yearn for very real physical needs, needs that must be met before spiritual growth can occur.
I see spiritual yearning, too. “Can we have some Wednesday evening sessions on prayer?” I am asked. That request was made last year; will I finally take it to heart this time? I think of the beginning of Psalm 63: “O God, you are my God; eagerly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my flesh faints for you, as in a barren and dry land where there is no water.” But do those who are thirsting and fainting always know that it is God that they seek? And how will they know unless there is someone to tell them, to walk with them?
Yes, “Happy New Year” is just a bit too glib this year. Yearning doesn’t need humor; it needs Good News. The news that God has already come in human flesh, in human frailty, in human poverty. The news that God came to us through a bewildered, poor, unmarried young woman. The news that God loved us so much that God was willing to die for us. The news that Christ overcame death and will indeed come again to make all things new. Does that end yearning? No. But at least then we know what it is we’re yearning for.
Advent 1: Isaiah 2:1-5; Psalm 122; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Making Peace Through the Blood of the Cross
Christ the King Sunday is something of a mystery to me. I don’t remember it growing up, so I don’t have a childhood context. We don’t have a monarchy in this country, so the concept of a king does not resonate, and such autocratic authority is inimical to an egalitarian, democratic spirit. And worst of all, this year’s Gospel reading suddenly propels us into the midst of Jesus on the cross. At least during Lent we have some preparation for the crucifixion, but it’s hardly what we expect in the midst of Thanksgiving plans.
“If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” The soldiers mock Jesus as he hangs on the cross under an inscription that says, “This is the King of the Jews.” The two criminals on either side argue with one another. One derides Jesus because he didn’t save any of them, but the other rebukes the first and asks Jesus to remember him when he comes into his kingdom. Finally, Jesus speaks. “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
The paradox of the day is clear. The one who is supposed to be king dies an ignominious death. He who is destined to save others cannot save himself. It just doesn’t make sense. No wonder some who want a more rational explanation argue that Jesus was a victim of Roman oppression and religious machinations and that this wasn’t really part of God’s plan. Those who espouse that idea also seem unwilling to entertain the thought that Jesus was in any way divine. He was just a good man with a special connection to God who ran afoul of the authorities.
The problem with that approach is that it doesn’t fit the witness of Scripture. It doesn’t fit the experience of faith, either. Faith is more comfortable with paradox than reason is. How else can one understand the reading from the letter to the Colossians? “For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.”
Making peace through the blood of his cross! How outrageous is that? That someone should have to suffer so that reconciliation could occur – it offends all of our Western sensibilities. Yet that is the witness of the gospel. It is the witness – but not the end of the gospel. Yes, Jesus dies, but he also rises again on the third day. For me, resurrection is the key. If Christ has not been raised, Paul wrote to the Corinthians, then our faith is futile and we are still in our sins. It is only through the new life of Jesus Christ that we, too, have new life available to us. Only through Jesus can we be reconciled to God.
The image of Jesus as King reminds us that, although he was just like us in his humanity, he was wholly other than us in his divinity. The two have to be together for reconciliation to occur. Without the humanity of Jesus, we have no one who lived and was tempted like us. Without his divinity, we have no one who has the standing to approach God on our behalf. That’s the paradox of our faith – a paradox clearly captured by the image of the King of the Jews dying on a cross.
Last Pentecost: Colossians 1:11-20; Luke 23:33-43; see also First Corinthians 15:17.
“If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” The soldiers mock Jesus as he hangs on the cross under an inscription that says, “This is the King of the Jews.” The two criminals on either side argue with one another. One derides Jesus because he didn’t save any of them, but the other rebukes the first and asks Jesus to remember him when he comes into his kingdom. Finally, Jesus speaks. “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
The paradox of the day is clear. The one who is supposed to be king dies an ignominious death. He who is destined to save others cannot save himself. It just doesn’t make sense. No wonder some who want a more rational explanation argue that Jesus was a victim of Roman oppression and religious machinations and that this wasn’t really part of God’s plan. Those who espouse that idea also seem unwilling to entertain the thought that Jesus was in any way divine. He was just a good man with a special connection to God who ran afoul of the authorities.
The problem with that approach is that it doesn’t fit the witness of Scripture. It doesn’t fit the experience of faith, either. Faith is more comfortable with paradox than reason is. How else can one understand the reading from the letter to the Colossians? “For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.”
Making peace through the blood of his cross! How outrageous is that? That someone should have to suffer so that reconciliation could occur – it offends all of our Western sensibilities. Yet that is the witness of the gospel. It is the witness – but not the end of the gospel. Yes, Jesus dies, but he also rises again on the third day. For me, resurrection is the key. If Christ has not been raised, Paul wrote to the Corinthians, then our faith is futile and we are still in our sins. It is only through the new life of Jesus Christ that we, too, have new life available to us. Only through Jesus can we be reconciled to God.
The image of Jesus as King reminds us that, although he was just like us in his humanity, he was wholly other than us in his divinity. The two have to be together for reconciliation to occur. Without the humanity of Jesus, we have no one who lived and was tempted like us. Without his divinity, we have no one who has the standing to approach God on our behalf. That’s the paradox of our faith – a paradox clearly captured by the image of the King of the Jews dying on a cross.
Last Pentecost: Colossians 1:11-20; Luke 23:33-43; see also First Corinthians 15:17.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Signs of the End?
Another election season has come and gone, setting new records for cost and nastiness. Winning an election appears to be the end for which all means are acceptable, and now that the U.S. Supreme Court has removed barriers to corporate contributions, more money is available to fund those means. It is an unusual race in which candidates stick to the issues and treat one another with respect. In our part of the prairie one state representative was elected that way, a small bit of relief in what was otherwise a slimy shouting match.
Two years ago Democrats rejoiced and the Republican Party seemed finished. Last week the Republicans surged back and the Democrats lost ground. Each time some people on the losing side view the results in almost cosmic terms: the beginning of the end of the world as we know it. Considering how many of our problems need thoughtful solutions, and how likely gridlock will prevent anything happening over the next two years, perhaps the doomsayers have a point.
All of this tempts me to interpret Jesus’ comments on the end times politically. I resist that temptation, however, because his starting point is something never seen by the reigning culture in our country: total domination by a foreign power and the destruction of the central religious shrine (in Jesus’ case, the Jerusalem Temple). This is not Sudan or Pakistan; our lives are not in danger because we are Christians.
I also resist it because the end times are not really Jesus’ focus. What is most important, he says, is how you live when really bad things happen. Worried about persecution? That gives you an opportunity to witness to the faith. Rehearsing your answers? Don’t bother. I will give you a mouth (literally) and a wisdom that no one opposing you will be able to withstand. That’s exactly what we see happening in places where Christians really are persecuted. To apply this to U.S. politics is to trivialize it.
So what to do with this Gospel? Certainly it should not be used as a predictor, a claim that there are now wars and insurrections and great earthquakes, so the end is coming soon. Elsewhere Jesus makes it quite clear that his return will be unpredictable and unexpected. Yet the emphasis on how we live our lives is timeless. The baptismal covenant provides the blueprint: pray and worship, resist evil, proclaim the Good News by word and example, seek and serve Christ in all persons, strive for peace and justice, respect the dignity of all human beings. If those had been followed in this recent election, it would have been a very different process. We can only pray and hope that those who will now hold office will come to their senses after a bitter contest and govern in a more reasonable and faithful way.
Pentecost 25: Luke 21:5-19.
Two years ago Democrats rejoiced and the Republican Party seemed finished. Last week the Republicans surged back and the Democrats lost ground. Each time some people on the losing side view the results in almost cosmic terms: the beginning of the end of the world as we know it. Considering how many of our problems need thoughtful solutions, and how likely gridlock will prevent anything happening over the next two years, perhaps the doomsayers have a point.
All of this tempts me to interpret Jesus’ comments on the end times politically. I resist that temptation, however, because his starting point is something never seen by the reigning culture in our country: total domination by a foreign power and the destruction of the central religious shrine (in Jesus’ case, the Jerusalem Temple). This is not Sudan or Pakistan; our lives are not in danger because we are Christians.
I also resist it because the end times are not really Jesus’ focus. What is most important, he says, is how you live when really bad things happen. Worried about persecution? That gives you an opportunity to witness to the faith. Rehearsing your answers? Don’t bother. I will give you a mouth (literally) and a wisdom that no one opposing you will be able to withstand. That’s exactly what we see happening in places where Christians really are persecuted. To apply this to U.S. politics is to trivialize it.
So what to do with this Gospel? Certainly it should not be used as a predictor, a claim that there are now wars and insurrections and great earthquakes, so the end is coming soon. Elsewhere Jesus makes it quite clear that his return will be unpredictable and unexpected. Yet the emphasis on how we live our lives is timeless. The baptismal covenant provides the blueprint: pray and worship, resist evil, proclaim the Good News by word and example, seek and serve Christ in all persons, strive for peace and justice, respect the dignity of all human beings. If those had been followed in this recent election, it would have been a very different process. We can only pray and hope that those who will now hold office will come to their senses after a bitter contest and govern in a more reasonable and faithful way.
Pentecost 25: Luke 21:5-19.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
For All the Saints
This year All Saints is transferred to Sunday, November 7, as far as it can be moved. At Christ Church we will have people carrying banners of saints and putting photos of their loved ones in the window alcoves. It is also a First Sunday, so youth will be participating in the service, and we will have incense – new Trappist incense burned on new “smokeless” charcoal. To round out the day we will have two baptisms, both bringing large extended families.
How does all of this fit in with the readings for the day? It’s still lectionary Year C, so we have what often seem like third-string selections (the most appropriate ones having been assigned to Years A and B). Daniel has a terrifying vision of four great beasts rising out of the sea. Ephesians is even more obscure than the rest of Paul’s letters, if that’s possible (and indicates that Paul may not have been the real author). The Gospel starts out like Matthew’s Beatitudes, but Luke shortens them and adds his own series of “woes.” What does all of this have to do with All Saints, let alone baptism?
Perhaps the place to start is with the day itself. All Saints originated in the early Christian desire “to express the intercommunion of the living and the dead in the Body of Christ,” as Lesser Feasts and Fasts puts it. Martyrs were especially honored, but all those who had died in Christ were included at first, as in New Testament usage. Only as “saints” became limited to those who led an especially holy life (and why were they mostly male clergy?) did it become necessary to create a second All Souls’ Day for all the faithful departed. I am glad that those faithful departed can once again be included with the “real” saints, and will grace the windows of our church.
Thus it makes sense to celebrate both the beginning and ending of life in the Body of Christ on this Sunday. Ephesians says, “In Christ you also…were stamped with the seal of the Holy Spirit.” “Stamped with the seal” is all one word in Greek, and by using “stamped” the Revised English Bible emphasizes the physically of that sealing. For baptism I will use oil blessed by the bishop, and those sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism will be marked as Christ’s own forever. That mark not only signifies ownership but also protection by the owner – Jesus Christ, in this case.
Ephesians lays out what we can expect from being sealed: “what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe.” That’s a pretty big set of promises to give to a three-month-old child, which may be why there will be godparents to remind him down the road. Even so, those promises are often forgotten in the day-to-day work of living. But they are made nonetheless, and a faithful God will not fail to carry them out. Just ask any of the saints.
All Saints Sunday: Daniel 7:1-3,15-18; Psalm 149; Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-31.
How does all of this fit in with the readings for the day? It’s still lectionary Year C, so we have what often seem like third-string selections (the most appropriate ones having been assigned to Years A and B). Daniel has a terrifying vision of four great beasts rising out of the sea. Ephesians is even more obscure than the rest of Paul’s letters, if that’s possible (and indicates that Paul may not have been the real author). The Gospel starts out like Matthew’s Beatitudes, but Luke shortens them and adds his own series of “woes.” What does all of this have to do with All Saints, let alone baptism?
Perhaps the place to start is with the day itself. All Saints originated in the early Christian desire “to express the intercommunion of the living and the dead in the Body of Christ,” as Lesser Feasts and Fasts puts it. Martyrs were especially honored, but all those who had died in Christ were included at first, as in New Testament usage. Only as “saints” became limited to those who led an especially holy life (and why were they mostly male clergy?) did it become necessary to create a second All Souls’ Day for all the faithful departed. I am glad that those faithful departed can once again be included with the “real” saints, and will grace the windows of our church.
Thus it makes sense to celebrate both the beginning and ending of life in the Body of Christ on this Sunday. Ephesians says, “In Christ you also…were stamped with the seal of the Holy Spirit.” “Stamped with the seal” is all one word in Greek, and by using “stamped” the Revised English Bible emphasizes the physically of that sealing. For baptism I will use oil blessed by the bishop, and those sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism will be marked as Christ’s own forever. That mark not only signifies ownership but also protection by the owner – Jesus Christ, in this case.
Ephesians lays out what we can expect from being sealed: “what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe.” That’s a pretty big set of promises to give to a three-month-old child, which may be why there will be godparents to remind him down the road. Even so, those promises are often forgotten in the day-to-day work of living. But they are made nonetheless, and a faithful God will not fail to carry them out. Just ask any of the saints.
All Saints Sunday: Daniel 7:1-3,15-18; Psalm 149; Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-31.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Run Without Stumbling
“Grant that we may run without stumbling to obtain your heavenly promises.” So says the Collect for this coming Sunday. “Grant that we may run,” certainly. We should joyfully run toward God. But what insight into human nature led an anonymous author to add “without stumbling”? Was it his own awareness of how many times he had fallen short of God’s goodness? Or was it a thorough knowledge of the Bible? (“If you run [in the way of wisdom], you will not stumble.” – Proverbs 4:12)
I run a lot, figuratively speaking. I’m always on the go. It’s rare for me to sit and do nothing. I don’t watch TV because it’s way too passive for me. I’m unable to sit at a computer for long periods of time, in spite of its seductive qualities. A desire to always do something is not that unusual, however. Being on the go is an essential characteristic of our culture, which has drive-up everything and calendars so booked that researchers study how sleep-deprived we are.
The prophet Habakkuk knew about running. He cried out to the Lord day and night, for all he could see was destruction and violence, strife and contention. Finally one day at his watchpost, he was told to write a vision so plainly on a tablet that a runner could read it as he sped by. The letters must have been pretty big, and the message must have been pretty short. “The righteous live by their faith” may have been it; that is only three words in Hebrew.
Zacchaeus knew about running, too. He was short, and as a rich tax collector he was probably also portly. He wanted to see Jesus but couldn’t because of the crowd’s height. So he huffed and puffed along the route he expected Jesus to take, got there early enough to clamber up a sycamore that sagged under his weight, and waited. Sure enough, Jesus came by and spotted him. Not only that, but Jesus told him to hurry up and get down because the whole entourage was about to show up at his house for dinner.
That encounter changed Zacchaeus’ entire life. From a grasping, Roman-collaborating tax collector he turned into a philanthropist for the poor, rendering judgment on himself for his cheating ways. His running had saved him. He was just the type Jesus had come to save: those who were perishing in their own sins. Zacchaeus had figured out how to run without stumbling.
Living the Christian life sometimes reminds me of a toddler who runs happily but unsteadily toward a loving parent. Like the toddler, we move too quickly for our own good or something distracts us, and we fall. It takes comfort from a parent (or God) to make another attempt possible.
Eventually, children learn to run without falling. Somehow we never quite get there in the life of faith. Maybe that comes from always being on the go, always finding something to distract us from God. Maybe that’s just part of the human condition. And so I, for one, am glad that we will be praying this Sunday, “Grant that we may run without stumbling to obtain your heavenly promises.”
Pentecost 23: Habakkuk 1:1-4,2:1-4 and Luke 19:1-10.
I run a lot, figuratively speaking. I’m always on the go. It’s rare for me to sit and do nothing. I don’t watch TV because it’s way too passive for me. I’m unable to sit at a computer for long periods of time, in spite of its seductive qualities. A desire to always do something is not that unusual, however. Being on the go is an essential characteristic of our culture, which has drive-up everything and calendars so booked that researchers study how sleep-deprived we are.
The prophet Habakkuk knew about running. He cried out to the Lord day and night, for all he could see was destruction and violence, strife and contention. Finally one day at his watchpost, he was told to write a vision so plainly on a tablet that a runner could read it as he sped by. The letters must have been pretty big, and the message must have been pretty short. “The righteous live by their faith” may have been it; that is only three words in Hebrew.
Zacchaeus knew about running, too. He was short, and as a rich tax collector he was probably also portly. He wanted to see Jesus but couldn’t because of the crowd’s height. So he huffed and puffed along the route he expected Jesus to take, got there early enough to clamber up a sycamore that sagged under his weight, and waited. Sure enough, Jesus came by and spotted him. Not only that, but Jesus told him to hurry up and get down because the whole entourage was about to show up at his house for dinner.
That encounter changed Zacchaeus’ entire life. From a grasping, Roman-collaborating tax collector he turned into a philanthropist for the poor, rendering judgment on himself for his cheating ways. His running had saved him. He was just the type Jesus had come to save: those who were perishing in their own sins. Zacchaeus had figured out how to run without stumbling.
Living the Christian life sometimes reminds me of a toddler who runs happily but unsteadily toward a loving parent. Like the toddler, we move too quickly for our own good or something distracts us, and we fall. It takes comfort from a parent (or God) to make another attempt possible.
Eventually, children learn to run without falling. Somehow we never quite get there in the life of faith. Maybe that comes from always being on the go, always finding something to distract us from God. Maybe that’s just part of the human condition. And so I, for one, am glad that we will be praying this Sunday, “Grant that we may run without stumbling to obtain your heavenly promises.”
Pentecost 23: Habakkuk 1:1-4,2:1-4 and Luke 19:1-10.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Grace is Freely Given
Luke’s parable of the Pharisee and the tax-collector has always been one of my favorites. I can see it so clearly: the Pharisee standing tall and proud, reeling off his accomplishments to God, sneering at all those despicable types beneath him, catching sight of the tax-collector to round off his list of low-lifes. Meanwhile the tax-collector can’t bring himself to be anywhere close to where God might be, won’t even look up, just thumps his chest and pleads for mercy. A starker contrast could not be made.
No doubt the tax collector had plenty to repent. Collaborating with the hated Romans, publicans (to use the older term) were notorious for demanding more than required in order to line their pockets. No wonder they made the list of cheaters. The Pharisee, on the other hand, was doing everything right, following every letter of the Jewish Law, completely confident that the way to salvation was to live by the Book. He wanted to be sure that God knew just how good he was.
And that was his downfall. The Apostle Paul, who as Saul tried to out-Pharisee the Pharisees, discovered one blinding day on the Damascus road that his ideas about salvation were totally wrong. It didn’t come from works of the Law, but through the grace of Jesus Christ. There is nothing one can do to earn salvation. It is freely given to us. As Paul put it in Romans 5:8¸ “while we were still sinners Christ died for us.” We didn’t have to do all the right things first.
That temptation to “works-righteousness” is never-ending. A favorite book of mine is A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life by William Law, written in 1728. John Wesley came upon that book and scrupulously put it into practice. The term “Methodist” was used to describe John and his friends because of their stringent religious practices, unusual in that day. Yet the more Wesley toiled at his prayers, the more miserable he became. It was only when he encountered Moravians, with their deep pietistic faith, that he understood that the grace of Christ means more than the works of the Law.
We all have some Pharisee in us, and those of us who are male are also prone to his pride. Kathleen Fischer maintains that pride is the essential male sin, whereas its opposite, a conviction of unworthiness, is the essential female sin (at least in Western culture). That’s why some classic Christian practices – such as the Orthodox use of “God, be merciful to me a sinner” as a repeated prayer – can be very difficult for women.
All of which brings us back to grace. So many of the stories from Luke these past Sundays deal with what we do and how we act. In each one the forgiving love of God is so great that at times we want to protest, especially at the unfairness of God loving someone else so much. At least in this week’s story, the “right” person is forgiven. Yet the message is the same. God’s grace is freely given to all through Jesus Christ, if only we will stop focusing on ourselves long enough to accept it.
Pentecost 22: Luke 18:9-14.
No doubt the tax collector had plenty to repent. Collaborating with the hated Romans, publicans (to use the older term) were notorious for demanding more than required in order to line their pockets. No wonder they made the list of cheaters. The Pharisee, on the other hand, was doing everything right, following every letter of the Jewish Law, completely confident that the way to salvation was to live by the Book. He wanted to be sure that God knew just how good he was.
And that was his downfall. The Apostle Paul, who as Saul tried to out-Pharisee the Pharisees, discovered one blinding day on the Damascus road that his ideas about salvation were totally wrong. It didn’t come from works of the Law, but through the grace of Jesus Christ. There is nothing one can do to earn salvation. It is freely given to us. As Paul put it in Romans 5:8¸ “while we were still sinners Christ died for us.” We didn’t have to do all the right things first.
That temptation to “works-righteousness” is never-ending. A favorite book of mine is A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life by William Law, written in 1728. John Wesley came upon that book and scrupulously put it into practice. The term “Methodist” was used to describe John and his friends because of their stringent religious practices, unusual in that day. Yet the more Wesley toiled at his prayers, the more miserable he became. It was only when he encountered Moravians, with their deep pietistic faith, that he understood that the grace of Christ means more than the works of the Law.
We all have some Pharisee in us, and those of us who are male are also prone to his pride. Kathleen Fischer maintains that pride is the essential male sin, whereas its opposite, a conviction of unworthiness, is the essential female sin (at least in Western culture). That’s why some classic Christian practices – such as the Orthodox use of “God, be merciful to me a sinner” as a repeated prayer – can be very difficult for women.
All of which brings us back to grace. So many of the stories from Luke these past Sundays deal with what we do and how we act. In each one the forgiving love of God is so great that at times we want to protest, especially at the unfairness of God loving someone else so much. At least in this week’s story, the “right” person is forgiven. Yet the message is the same. God’s grace is freely given to all through Jesus Christ, if only we will stop focusing on ourselves long enough to accept it.
Pentecost 22: Luke 18:9-14.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Made for Goodness
Currently I’m reading a book R gave me on the occasion of our 35th wedding anniversary: Made for Goodness, and Why This Makes All the Difference by Desmond Tutu and Mpho Tutu (his daughter). Archbishop Tutu has been one of my heroes for many years. In 1987 he came to Davenport to receive the Pacem in Terris Award, and at a Eucharist at Trinity Cathedral I managed to have our two-year-old son blessed by him. Only recently has Tutu announced that he is retiring from public life.
The basic idea of the book is in its title – God made us for goodness. It’s a fundamental part of who we are. God loves us with a love that requires nothing of us to earn it. Archbishop Tutu wrote the book because so many people ask him, “Why are you so joyful?” Why, indeed, after all of the heartbreaking apartheid-era stories he heard as chair of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Some of those stories are described in the text, and Tutu does not minimize their horror. Yet he emphasizes again and again that this is not what God wants. Instead it happens because God gave us the freedom to choose evil rather than the good for which we were made. Listen to God’s invitation to goodness, he says, and be whole again.
The prophet Jeremiah speaks the same message in a different way. He rejects the idea that children suffer because of the sins of their parents; each is responsible for her or his own actions. And the new covenant that God is about to create will be an internal one, written on the heart instead of on tablets of stone. “I will be their God, and they shall be my people…for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord.” Made for goodness, each will seek the good within.
The unjust judge in Luke’s Gospel seems far from goodness. He isn’t described as taking bribes, but he doesn’t appear to care about anyone except himself. He certainly doesn’t care the least about God. Nevertheless, he finally gives in to the pleas of a poor widow so that she will stop pestering him. If this unjust judge will respond to a request, Jesus says, don’t you think that God will hear your prayers? Won’t he be right there with you?
And yet, Jesus adds, will you be just as persistent in prayer as that widow was? Will you give up too easily? Will your faith be as strong as hers? The widow had no doubts about the rightness of her cause, and she probably had little to lose. Desmond Tutu gives numerous examples of people who persisted in protesting the injustice of what they experienced, with little hope for recompense. They believed that goodness would prevail, and amazingly, in some cases it did. Apartheid did end in South Africa without a bloodbath. The Mothers of the Plaza del Mayo focused light on those who “disappeared” and hastened an end to military rule in Argentina.
Goodness does not always prevail, of course. Evil still abounds in the world. Yet that does not disprove the Tutus’ position. Given the freedom to choose evil, humans continue to turn away from God, to be less than whole. We live in a broken world. But that does not change the fact that God loves us unconditionally and waits patiently for us to return to the covenant written on our hearts. Like the widow, we should cry day and night to God, so that justice will prevail.
Pentecost 21: Jeremiah 31:27-34; Luke 18:1-8.
The basic idea of the book is in its title – God made us for goodness. It’s a fundamental part of who we are. God loves us with a love that requires nothing of us to earn it. Archbishop Tutu wrote the book because so many people ask him, “Why are you so joyful?” Why, indeed, after all of the heartbreaking apartheid-era stories he heard as chair of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Some of those stories are described in the text, and Tutu does not minimize their horror. Yet he emphasizes again and again that this is not what God wants. Instead it happens because God gave us the freedom to choose evil rather than the good for which we were made. Listen to God’s invitation to goodness, he says, and be whole again.
The prophet Jeremiah speaks the same message in a different way. He rejects the idea that children suffer because of the sins of their parents; each is responsible for her or his own actions. And the new covenant that God is about to create will be an internal one, written on the heart instead of on tablets of stone. “I will be their God, and they shall be my people…for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the Lord.” Made for goodness, each will seek the good within.
The unjust judge in Luke’s Gospel seems far from goodness. He isn’t described as taking bribes, but he doesn’t appear to care about anyone except himself. He certainly doesn’t care the least about God. Nevertheless, he finally gives in to the pleas of a poor widow so that she will stop pestering him. If this unjust judge will respond to a request, Jesus says, don’t you think that God will hear your prayers? Won’t he be right there with you?
And yet, Jesus adds, will you be just as persistent in prayer as that widow was? Will you give up too easily? Will your faith be as strong as hers? The widow had no doubts about the rightness of her cause, and she probably had little to lose. Desmond Tutu gives numerous examples of people who persisted in protesting the injustice of what they experienced, with little hope for recompense. They believed that goodness would prevail, and amazingly, in some cases it did. Apartheid did end in South Africa without a bloodbath. The Mothers of the Plaza del Mayo focused light on those who “disappeared” and hastened an end to military rule in Argentina.
Goodness does not always prevail, of course. Evil still abounds in the world. Yet that does not disprove the Tutus’ position. Given the freedom to choose evil, humans continue to turn away from God, to be less than whole. We live in a broken world. But that does not change the fact that God loves us unconditionally and waits patiently for us to return to the covenant written on our hearts. Like the widow, we should cry day and night to God, so that justice will prevail.
Pentecost 21: Jeremiah 31:27-34; Luke 18:1-8.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Giving Thanks
Through most of high school I wanted to be a doctor. I’m not quite sure why; no one in my family was in medicine. I was fascinated by the human body, though, and being a doctor seemed the right outlet for that. It was only during senior year that my interests gravitated more toward the wider natural world and plants in particular.
Medicine and human disease fit in well with a teenage boy’s interest in all things bizarre. I was especially fascinated by leprosy, perhaps because there’s a whole chapter on it in Leviticus. My dad had a persistent case of psoriasis, no doubt aggravated by tensions at church (I understand that better now!), providing grist for my adolescent imagination. At that time leprosy was a disease that spread mysteriously and was difficult to cure. It still is; the leprosy bacteria, like those causing tuberculosis, have a waxy coating that protects them from the immune system.
Lepers were social pariahs in Israel. Their skin condition made them ritually unclean, and by the purity codes of the Torah, everything they touched was made unclean. So they had to live outside town and “wear torn clothes and let the hair of [the] head be disheveled” and cry out “Unclean, unclean” (Leviticus 13:45). That way everyone would know to avoid them.
The ten lepers whom Jesus encountered were doing their part. They made sure that they didn’t get too close. They raised their voices and shouted at him. But instead of crying “Unclean!” they pleaded for mercy. Jesus, never one to turn down a cry for help, told them to show themselves to the priests, the first step in getting back a passport to human society. In faith the lepers ran off and found that they were suddenly whole again.
Only one turned back to thank Jesus, falling at his feet. And he was a Samaritan, the Greek emphasizes. An outsider. A foreigner. Jesus said to him, “Were not ten cleansed? And the nine are where? Were they not found returning to give thanks to God except this foreigner?” To that foreigner who came back, Jesus said, “Arise and go; your faith has saved/rescued/delivered you/made you well.”
I always wondered what happened to the other nine. Did they come back sheepishly, apologizing and hanging their heads? Did they blow the whole gratitude thing off? Did their leprosy return because of that? I sometimes get so focused on what isn’t in the story that I miss what’s really there.
And what is really there are several remarkable words: eleison, euchariston, and sesoken: have mercy, give thanks, have been saved. Two of those words have made it into our liturgy. The lepers ask Jesus for mercy and he gives it to them – but mercy’s effects are not apparent until they step out in faith, believing that they will receive it. The proper response to receiving mercy is thanksgiving, which we give weekly in the Eucharist. And through the grace of receiving mercy and the act of thanking God in the power of the Holy Spirit, we are saved. Well, not exactly. Jesus tells the Samaritan that his faith has saved him. It is faith that saves us, not what we do – although clearly God expects a faithful response to God’s love.
One of those faithful responses is discerning a vocation, a calling from God. By the time I graduated from college I knew that I was called to teach botany. Some years later I discerned another call, one to preach the Word. Is there another vocation yet in the future? I doubt it. But I will continue to ask for God’s mercy, to give thanks for what God has done, and to step out in faith. It has led me well thus far, and I expect that it will continue to do so.
Pentecost 20: Luke 17:11-19.
Medicine and human disease fit in well with a teenage boy’s interest in all things bizarre. I was especially fascinated by leprosy, perhaps because there’s a whole chapter on it in Leviticus. My dad had a persistent case of psoriasis, no doubt aggravated by tensions at church (I understand that better now!), providing grist for my adolescent imagination. At that time leprosy was a disease that spread mysteriously and was difficult to cure. It still is; the leprosy bacteria, like those causing tuberculosis, have a waxy coating that protects them from the immune system.
Lepers were social pariahs in Israel. Their skin condition made them ritually unclean, and by the purity codes of the Torah, everything they touched was made unclean. So they had to live outside town and “wear torn clothes and let the hair of [the] head be disheveled” and cry out “Unclean, unclean” (Leviticus 13:45). That way everyone would know to avoid them.
The ten lepers whom Jesus encountered were doing their part. They made sure that they didn’t get too close. They raised their voices and shouted at him. But instead of crying “Unclean!” they pleaded for mercy. Jesus, never one to turn down a cry for help, told them to show themselves to the priests, the first step in getting back a passport to human society. In faith the lepers ran off and found that they were suddenly whole again.
Only one turned back to thank Jesus, falling at his feet. And he was a Samaritan, the Greek emphasizes. An outsider. A foreigner. Jesus said to him, “Were not ten cleansed? And the nine are where? Were they not found returning to give thanks to God except this foreigner?” To that foreigner who came back, Jesus said, “Arise and go; your faith has saved/rescued/delivered you/made you well.”
I always wondered what happened to the other nine. Did they come back sheepishly, apologizing and hanging their heads? Did they blow the whole gratitude thing off? Did their leprosy return because of that? I sometimes get so focused on what isn’t in the story that I miss what’s really there.
And what is really there are several remarkable words: eleison, euchariston, and sesoken: have mercy, give thanks, have been saved. Two of those words have made it into our liturgy. The lepers ask Jesus for mercy and he gives it to them – but mercy’s effects are not apparent until they step out in faith, believing that they will receive it. The proper response to receiving mercy is thanksgiving, which we give weekly in the Eucharist. And through the grace of receiving mercy and the act of thanking God in the power of the Holy Spirit, we are saved. Well, not exactly. Jesus tells the Samaritan that his faith has saved him. It is faith that saves us, not what we do – although clearly God expects a faithful response to God’s love.
One of those faithful responses is discerning a vocation, a calling from God. By the time I graduated from college I knew that I was called to teach botany. Some years later I discerned another call, one to preach the Word. Is there another vocation yet in the future? I doubt it. But I will continue to ask for God’s mercy, to give thanks for what God has done, and to step out in faith. It has led me well thus far, and I expect that it will continue to do so.
Pentecost 20: Luke 17:11-19.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Worthless Slaves
This week our Wednesday evening sessions at church resume. They had been preempted by confirmation classes. But now the bishop has come and gone, and life at church has returned to normal (whatever that means). So this Wednesday we will celebrate Michaelmas with a Eucharist and potluck and discussion. I’ve been so focused on confirmation that I haven’t had much time to plan the discussion, so we will have a few weeks of what went well last year: a close look at the Gospel lesson for the upcoming Sunday.
Fortunately, a Gospel study requires the same preparation as a sermon: translating the passage from Greek, checking context and textual variants and Greek commentary, letting everything rumble around in my head, and writing a blog. If I have time, I may check other commentaries or do some word studies. I’ve also returned to our local clergy study group, only to be reminded that their focus does not often seem to be mine. (Have I ever mentioned that one of them has a habit of inserting comments about Republicans into the lessons when she reads them out loud?)
So how does one approach “We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done”? One clerical colleague suggested that this be paired with the parable where the master returns from the wedding banquet, finds his slaves alert and waiting, and has them sit down so that he can serve them (Luke 12:35 ff). It’s a reversal using a classic preaching move – if you don’t like the passage you’re given, find a related one you like better. To be fair, the good news does involve all of the Gospel, not just the weekly reading. Yet I’d rather sit and struggle with what I’m given.
And what I’m given is a passage about duty. Today, “duty” always seems associated with military service, as in “duty to my country.” It’s a word my parents’ generation knew well in other contexts. Duties were expectations of behavior, moral obligations arising from one’s position in life. There were civic duties, such as voting in elections and serving on boards when asked. There was the moral obligation to attend church and help the needy. There was an expectation of civility in public discourse. All of these “duties” have either vanished or ceased to be obligatory. And thus to preach on duty is to be an anachronism.
But the Gospel passage is not so much about duty as about attitude. It’s about what we expect as a result of what we’ve done. Will we be like the Pharisee who stood next to the tax collector, reminding God of his virtuous life and clearly expecting a better reward than the miserable man nearby? When we do good, do we have a claim on God for what we did? Or should we be giving thanks to God for the grace that enabled us to do good? As one commentator put it, “The disciples are not to seek thanks, but to give thanks.”
“Worthless” in this context is hyperbole. It’s a reminder that there is nothing we can do to earn God’s grace, just as there is no reward for accepting that grace other than being able to sing God’s praises. We are, of course, not worthless at all. We are of incomparable worth as children of God. That worth is freely given, however, and in no way makes us “worthy” of reward.
I expect that Wednesday evening will go well. After taking the summer off, the group that shows up will be glad to see one another again in that intimate context. The food will be good, as usual. And so will the Gospel nourishment. Perhaps that’s the best thing about studying Scripture, no matter what the passage: the focus is not on us, but on God, and God’s relationship with us. Thanks be to God!
Pentecost 19: Luke 17:5-10 is the Gospel. The commentator is I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke, in the New International Greek Testament Commentary series.
Fortunately, a Gospel study requires the same preparation as a sermon: translating the passage from Greek, checking context and textual variants and Greek commentary, letting everything rumble around in my head, and writing a blog. If I have time, I may check other commentaries or do some word studies. I’ve also returned to our local clergy study group, only to be reminded that their focus does not often seem to be mine. (Have I ever mentioned that one of them has a habit of inserting comments about Republicans into the lessons when she reads them out loud?)
So how does one approach “We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done”? One clerical colleague suggested that this be paired with the parable where the master returns from the wedding banquet, finds his slaves alert and waiting, and has them sit down so that he can serve them (Luke 12:35 ff). It’s a reversal using a classic preaching move – if you don’t like the passage you’re given, find a related one you like better. To be fair, the good news does involve all of the Gospel, not just the weekly reading. Yet I’d rather sit and struggle with what I’m given.
And what I’m given is a passage about duty. Today, “duty” always seems associated with military service, as in “duty to my country.” It’s a word my parents’ generation knew well in other contexts. Duties were expectations of behavior, moral obligations arising from one’s position in life. There were civic duties, such as voting in elections and serving on boards when asked. There was the moral obligation to attend church and help the needy. There was an expectation of civility in public discourse. All of these “duties” have either vanished or ceased to be obligatory. And thus to preach on duty is to be an anachronism.
But the Gospel passage is not so much about duty as about attitude. It’s about what we expect as a result of what we’ve done. Will we be like the Pharisee who stood next to the tax collector, reminding God of his virtuous life and clearly expecting a better reward than the miserable man nearby? When we do good, do we have a claim on God for what we did? Or should we be giving thanks to God for the grace that enabled us to do good? As one commentator put it, “The disciples are not to seek thanks, but to give thanks.”
“Worthless” in this context is hyperbole. It’s a reminder that there is nothing we can do to earn God’s grace, just as there is no reward for accepting that grace other than being able to sing God’s praises. We are, of course, not worthless at all. We are of incomparable worth as children of God. That worth is freely given, however, and in no way makes us “worthy” of reward.
I expect that Wednesday evening will go well. After taking the summer off, the group that shows up will be glad to see one another again in that intimate context. The food will be good, as usual. And so will the Gospel nourishment. Perhaps that’s the best thing about studying Scripture, no matter what the passage: the focus is not on us, but on God, and God’s relationship with us. Thanks be to God!
Pentecost 19: Luke 17:5-10 is the Gospel. The commentator is I. Howard Marshall, The Gospel of Luke, in the New International Greek Testament Commentary series.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Confirmation
The bishop will be making his visitation to Christ Church this Sunday. We will be presenting nine young people to be confirmed and two adults to be received into the Episcopal Church.
It’s a relatively large group, in part because my predecessor did not have a high regard for confirmation. I understand the theological basis for that point of view – baptism is the sacrament that gives us full membership in the Christian church, and nothing is needed to “complete” that process once one has reached a certain age. The restored emphasis on baptism in the 1979 prayer book has necessarily meant a diminishment in the importance of confirmation.
Nevertheless, most of the youth who will be confirmed were baptized when they were infants. They have not had the opportunity to make a mature public profession of their faith, individually, before a bishop. They are now excited and eager to do so. And witnessing that level of commitment will strengthen the faith of the whole community. For me, that it is more important than any abstract theological reasoning.
I remember my own confirmation quite vividly. I was confirmed by my father after three years of classes for which he wrote the texts. During the service, as he reached me in the line of confirmands, his voice broke. (I later learned that he had been unable to speak while confirming one of my older siblings.) In the Lutheran Church, confirmation meant a lot. That’s why it took me so long to agree to let an Episcopal bishop lay his hands on my head. As far as I was concerned, once was good enough.
So I understand what it will mean to the two adults who are to be received into the Episcopal Church on Sunday. It means moving into a new stage in faith. It is not a repudiation of the past, for the past is what brought us to faith in the first place. Rather, it represents a renewed willingness to stand up and witness to Jesus Christ in this place at this time.
No doubt our bishop will follow his usual custom of asking those present to come forward for the laying on of hands in reaffirmation of their faith. I haven’t prepared anyone especially for that – it’s one aspect of the preparation process that I’d like to change next time – yet I’m hoping some will rise to the challenge. After all, if we cannot witness to our faith among one another, how will we ever be able to proclaim to anyone by word and example the good news of God in Christ?
It’s a relatively large group, in part because my predecessor did not have a high regard for confirmation. I understand the theological basis for that point of view – baptism is the sacrament that gives us full membership in the Christian church, and nothing is needed to “complete” that process once one has reached a certain age. The restored emphasis on baptism in the 1979 prayer book has necessarily meant a diminishment in the importance of confirmation.
Nevertheless, most of the youth who will be confirmed were baptized when they were infants. They have not had the opportunity to make a mature public profession of their faith, individually, before a bishop. They are now excited and eager to do so. And witnessing that level of commitment will strengthen the faith of the whole community. For me, that it is more important than any abstract theological reasoning.
I remember my own confirmation quite vividly. I was confirmed by my father after three years of classes for which he wrote the texts. During the service, as he reached me in the line of confirmands, his voice broke. (I later learned that he had been unable to speak while confirming one of my older siblings.) In the Lutheran Church, confirmation meant a lot. That’s why it took me so long to agree to let an Episcopal bishop lay his hands on my head. As far as I was concerned, once was good enough.
So I understand what it will mean to the two adults who are to be received into the Episcopal Church on Sunday. It means moving into a new stage in faith. It is not a repudiation of the past, for the past is what brought us to faith in the first place. Rather, it represents a renewed willingness to stand up and witness to Jesus Christ in this place at this time.
No doubt our bishop will follow his usual custom of asking those present to come forward for the laying on of hands in reaffirmation of their faith. I haven’t prepared anyone especially for that – it’s one aspect of the preparation process that I’d like to change next time – yet I’m hoping some will rise to the challenge. After all, if we cannot witness to our faith among one another, how will we ever be able to proclaim to anyone by word and example the good news of God in Christ?
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Indifference
I went to the local lectionary study group for the first time in a number of weeks. A Methodist lay pastor at our community picnic encouraged me to help balance the large group of Lutherans who attend. As it turned out, my schedule allowed me to go this week, so I did and was welcomed back.
It took us a while to get around to the Gospel reading. It’s not a pretty one, and no seemed inclined to preach on it. Jesus tells the large crowd following him that in order to be his disciple, one has to hate father, mother, spouse, children, brothers, sisters, even life itself. Count the cost first, he says, and if you aren’t prepared to give up all your possessions, forget it. I told the group that I am always troubled by this passage. If it is taken seriously, why would anyone want to become a Christian?
Our discussion included the usual interpretations: Jesus is speaking in hyperbole and not literally; “hate” in Greek doesn’t have the same strong emotional connotations as it does for us; we aren’t really expected to give up everything. I couldn’t dismiss it quite so easily, however, because I’m steeped in the ancient monks of Egypt. They did give up everything and even refused to see family members who visited them in the desert. (There were a few cases where brothers became monks, but they didn’t treat one another any differently than non-relatives.) These monks understood “hate” as abandonment, which is part of the meaning Luke appears to intend.
The Greek word for hate does have a sense of disfavor, disregard, be indifferent to – a kind of renunciation. And the word for possessions reflects what we have at our disposal. Put together, they mean that we are to consider everything with a sense of indifference, of detachment. That’s especially hard with human relationships. Neither my wife nor my son (nor my parish, for that matter) would be happy with me if I were indifferent to them. But another way of expressing the same idea is that we must prefer nothing to Jesus Christ. To take up the cross is to put Christ before any human attachment, before even life itself. And that, at least, makes sense to me, even if I’m not very successful at it.
Having possessions makes it easier to put something in the place of God. In the confirmation classes I’m now leading, we created a cultural creed to parallel the Apostles’ Creed – what our culture tells us to believe. In the U.S., where the economy is so dependent on consumers, we are told to buy more possessions, not give them all up. And if a friend or mate doesn’t make us happy, we’re supposed to find someone else.
It’s a culture focused on self. That creates its own indifference to others, but surely not in the way that Jesus meant. Jesus tells us to give up even our attachment to ourselves, so that in emptying ourselves of everything we can be filled by God. And maybe that’s the reason to become a Christian. To be a true follower of Christ is costly, but to be filled by God is ultimately more fulfilling than any thing or any person can be.
Pentecost 15: Jeremiah 18:1-11; Psalm 139:1-5, 13-17; Philemon 1-21; Luke 14:25-33.
It took us a while to get around to the Gospel reading. It’s not a pretty one, and no seemed inclined to preach on it. Jesus tells the large crowd following him that in order to be his disciple, one has to hate father, mother, spouse, children, brothers, sisters, even life itself. Count the cost first, he says, and if you aren’t prepared to give up all your possessions, forget it. I told the group that I am always troubled by this passage. If it is taken seriously, why would anyone want to become a Christian?
Our discussion included the usual interpretations: Jesus is speaking in hyperbole and not literally; “hate” in Greek doesn’t have the same strong emotional connotations as it does for us; we aren’t really expected to give up everything. I couldn’t dismiss it quite so easily, however, because I’m steeped in the ancient monks of Egypt. They did give up everything and even refused to see family members who visited them in the desert. (There were a few cases where brothers became monks, but they didn’t treat one another any differently than non-relatives.) These monks understood “hate” as abandonment, which is part of the meaning Luke appears to intend.
The Greek word for hate does have a sense of disfavor, disregard, be indifferent to – a kind of renunciation. And the word for possessions reflects what we have at our disposal. Put together, they mean that we are to consider everything with a sense of indifference, of detachment. That’s especially hard with human relationships. Neither my wife nor my son (nor my parish, for that matter) would be happy with me if I were indifferent to them. But another way of expressing the same idea is that we must prefer nothing to Jesus Christ. To take up the cross is to put Christ before any human attachment, before even life itself. And that, at least, makes sense to me, even if I’m not very successful at it.
Having possessions makes it easier to put something in the place of God. In the confirmation classes I’m now leading, we created a cultural creed to parallel the Apostles’ Creed – what our culture tells us to believe. In the U.S., where the economy is so dependent on consumers, we are told to buy more possessions, not give them all up. And if a friend or mate doesn’t make us happy, we’re supposed to find someone else.
It’s a culture focused on self. That creates its own indifference to others, but surely not in the way that Jesus meant. Jesus tells us to give up even our attachment to ourselves, so that in emptying ourselves of everything we can be filled by God. And maybe that’s the reason to become a Christian. To be a true follower of Christ is costly, but to be filled by God is ultimately more fulfilling than any thing or any person can be.
Pentecost 15: Jeremiah 18:1-11; Psalm 139:1-5, 13-17; Philemon 1-21; Luke 14:25-33.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Community Picnic
This Sunday Christ Church will provide a free picnic to the surrounding community in the public park across the street from the church. It has been on the calendar for several months, but most of the planning has taken place within the last few weeks. The goal is to develop community within the church as well provide outreach to the people who live around us.
It also fits in particularly well with this Sunday’s readings. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,” the letter to the Hebrews states, “for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” I doubt that we will have three men wander by and tell one of our octogenarian couples that they will have a child (as happened to Abraham and Sarah, the couple the writer had in mind). But one never knows who will show up. At this point the outreach team is concerned that either no one will show up, or hundreds will show up. How to entertain angels is not high on the list of worries.
After attending a Sabbath meal given by a Pharisee, Jesus gives this caution: “Do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors…But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you.” I can’t say that Christ Church has deliberately sought out all those whom Jesus lists, but we have certainly put the word out around town. The idea is to welcome all who come, whoever they are. In addition to food, there will be live music and face painting and games. It will indeed be a Sabbath banquet.
So what happens if someone at the picnic decides to come to church the next Sunday? That will be a true test of hospitality. I hope they will be as warmly greeted as if they were being given a plate of hot food. It’s true that we don’t paint faces during the service and wander around listening to a musician in the warm sunshine. We do have a pretty traditional service. But that first impression – will it be a smile? A “glad you’re here” look? Will each person passing through the church door be welcomed as a possible angel, or as St. Benedict put it, as Christ himself? I hope so. In fact, if we got in the habit of welcoming everyone as Christ himself, including the people we know, we might actually become the church God wants us to be.
Pentecost 14: Jeremiah 2:4-13; Psalm 81:1,10-16; Hebrews 13:1-8,15-16; Luke 14:1,7-14.
It also fits in particularly well with this Sunday’s readings. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers,” the letter to the Hebrews states, “for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” I doubt that we will have three men wander by and tell one of our octogenarian couples that they will have a child (as happened to Abraham and Sarah, the couple the writer had in mind). But one never knows who will show up. At this point the outreach team is concerned that either no one will show up, or hundreds will show up. How to entertain angels is not high on the list of worries.
After attending a Sabbath meal given by a Pharisee, Jesus gives this caution: “Do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors…But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you.” I can’t say that Christ Church has deliberately sought out all those whom Jesus lists, but we have certainly put the word out around town. The idea is to welcome all who come, whoever they are. In addition to food, there will be live music and face painting and games. It will indeed be a Sabbath banquet.
So what happens if someone at the picnic decides to come to church the next Sunday? That will be a true test of hospitality. I hope they will be as warmly greeted as if they were being given a plate of hot food. It’s true that we don’t paint faces during the service and wander around listening to a musician in the warm sunshine. We do have a pretty traditional service. But that first impression – will it be a smile? A “glad you’re here” look? Will each person passing through the church door be welcomed as a possible angel, or as St. Benedict put it, as Christ himself? I hope so. In fact, if we got in the habit of welcoming everyone as Christ himself, including the people we know, we might actually become the church God wants us to be.
Pentecost 14: Jeremiah 2:4-13; Psalm 81:1,10-16; Hebrews 13:1-8,15-16; Luke 14:1,7-14.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Only a Boy
My oldest sister turned seventy-one this week. She’s now the oldest sibling, although she didn’t start life that way; our oldest brother died six years ago. He was fourteen when I was born, the youngest of six children. It doesn’t take much math to figure out that I’m in my late fifties. But I’m still the youngest.
I’m also the only one in my family, and one of the few within my many cousins, to be an ordained minister. In a way that’s odd, because there were so many ministers among our ancestors – “a family of Levites,” a friend once said. It also seems odd to me that the youngest, rather than the oldest, is a cleric; on the other hand, the oldest was a gifted musician, using the graces God had given to him.
Maybe being youngest is why I resonate with Jeremiah’s call. It’s a bit frightening, in a way. God tells Jeremiah that he knew him even before he was in the womb, and consecrated him before he was born. God had him in mind all the time! All of the childhood peccadilloes and tantrums and arguments with his parents – God was watching. And still God chose him to be a prophet to the nations.
Taken aback, Jeremiah protests. “Ah, Lord God,” he says, “I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” The Hebrew word for “boy” is the standard one, although the lexicon indicates that there is a special stress on youthfulness here. Jeremiah may not have literally been a boy, but he was certainly young at the time. To convince him that this will work, the Lord touches his tongue and his mouth, putting his words there. (Unlike Isaiah, Jeremiah doesn’t have to deal with hot coals on the lips.) And from then on, Jeremiah prophesies.
When I was younger, I had a different calling from God, to teach the woods. But even then I suspected that someday I would be doing what I am doing now. I told my dad so, and got his imprimatur. I’m glad I did, because he died long before I was ordained. During those years as a botanist, God prepared me for this life in ways that I am only beginning to understand.
My oldest brother prepared me too, especially as he was dying. One of our last conversations, arranged to gather information for his obituary, became an almost sacramental confession of what had happened in his life. And by asking me to preach at his funeral, he gave me the courage to preach to anyone, anywhere, any time.
Only a boy. I’m hardly that now, but to my siblings I’ll always be the youngest, the last one. That’s okay. Yet it means that I’ll always be waiting for that touch on the mouth, the reassurance that what I do and say comes from God, that this work is God’s idea, not mine. Truthfully, that need is not a matter of age or place in a family. It’s a need that we all have, a need to know that God is really leading us, guiding us, loving us – a need for God with us, Emmanuel. That is the grace of Jesus Christ. May that grace and the love of God always be with us, in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit.
Pentecost 15: Jeremiah 1:4-10.
I’m also the only one in my family, and one of the few within my many cousins, to be an ordained minister. In a way that’s odd, because there were so many ministers among our ancestors – “a family of Levites,” a friend once said. It also seems odd to me that the youngest, rather than the oldest, is a cleric; on the other hand, the oldest was a gifted musician, using the graces God had given to him.
Maybe being youngest is why I resonate with Jeremiah’s call. It’s a bit frightening, in a way. God tells Jeremiah that he knew him even before he was in the womb, and consecrated him before he was born. God had him in mind all the time! All of the childhood peccadilloes and tantrums and arguments with his parents – God was watching. And still God chose him to be a prophet to the nations.
Taken aback, Jeremiah protests. “Ah, Lord God,” he says, “I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” The Hebrew word for “boy” is the standard one, although the lexicon indicates that there is a special stress on youthfulness here. Jeremiah may not have literally been a boy, but he was certainly young at the time. To convince him that this will work, the Lord touches his tongue and his mouth, putting his words there. (Unlike Isaiah, Jeremiah doesn’t have to deal with hot coals on the lips.) And from then on, Jeremiah prophesies.
When I was younger, I had a different calling from God, to teach the woods. But even then I suspected that someday I would be doing what I am doing now. I told my dad so, and got his imprimatur. I’m glad I did, because he died long before I was ordained. During those years as a botanist, God prepared me for this life in ways that I am only beginning to understand.
My oldest brother prepared me too, especially as he was dying. One of our last conversations, arranged to gather information for his obituary, became an almost sacramental confession of what had happened in his life. And by asking me to preach at his funeral, he gave me the courage to preach to anyone, anywhere, any time.
Only a boy. I’m hardly that now, but to my siblings I’ll always be the youngest, the last one. That’s okay. Yet it means that I’ll always be waiting for that touch on the mouth, the reassurance that what I do and say comes from God, that this work is God’s idea, not mine. Truthfully, that need is not a matter of age or place in a family. It’s a need that we all have, a need to know that God is really leading us, guiding us, loving us – a need for God with us, Emmanuel. That is the grace of Jesus Christ. May that grace and the love of God always be with us, in the fellowship of the Holy Spirit.
Pentecost 15: Jeremiah 1:4-10.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
So Great a Cloud of Witnesses
There are some Sundays when it’s hard to find good news in the lectionary readings. This Sunday is one of them. The parable of the vineyard in Isaiah starts out as a love-song between God and the people of Israel. The vineyard is lovingly built and tended, but fails to yield the expected choice fruit. When only wild grapes emerge, judgment is given: the vineyard will be torn down and turned into a wasteland. That condemnation must have been chilling to the people who heard it – God was no longer going to love them, and they would be destroyed.
The letter to the Hebrews isn’t much better. Yes, the heroes of the faith are held up for admiration, but when I hear what happened to them (being sawn in two and going about in the skins of sheep and goats are my favorites), I start looking for a place to hide. And Jesus seems almost to be drooling with anticipation as he talks about bringing fire and division to the earth, pitting members of families against one another. As one of my seminary professors used to say, “What’s that about?”
Well, for one thing, it means that true Christianity isn’t a happy clappy religion. Religious entertainment and a prosperity gospel and the “law of attraction” are nowhere in these readings. To truly be a Christian is hard work, and almost certainly will create conflict. That’s a difficult message to preach in a consumer culture, where people go to church to feel good and are ready to move on if they aren’t satisfied. Others avoid organized religion entirely because they already see too much conflict in the church.
Why is discipleship so hard? For one thing, it’s easy to mistake the form of religion for its content. That’s what the Israelites did; they followed all the rules for sacrifice and keeping kosher and observing the prescribed feasts. But they conveniently overlooked the fact that justice was part of the plan. They thought they could cheat the poor and ignore the needy and God would smell incense and not notice. They were wrong, and they didn’t like the prophets who told them so.
Jesus saw even more clearly where following him would lead. Given the opposition he created with the religious authorities, he knew that his death was certain and didn’t expect much better for his disciples. Everywhere Christianity is persecuted, Christian/non-Christian conflict still occurs. As those fleeing organized religion perceive, some of the more militant forms of Christianity create conflict even among fellow Christians.
So where is the good news in all of this? It’s found in that great cloud of witnesses surrounding us, those who have come before. They, too, sinned; they faltered, they suffered as we do. Yet they persevered. They saw the promises, and believed. They threw off the weight that held them down, and the sin that clings so closely. Of course we should cast those aside if we are to run! And run with perseverance, we are told. Run toward the goal of Jesus Christ, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. And the best part about this race is that even now Jesus is coming toward us from the future. As the cloud of witnesses cheers us on, we will not have as far to go. With that kind of promise, who wouldn’t keep running?
The letter to the Hebrews isn’t much better. Yes, the heroes of the faith are held up for admiration, but when I hear what happened to them (being sawn in two and going about in the skins of sheep and goats are my favorites), I start looking for a place to hide. And Jesus seems almost to be drooling with anticipation as he talks about bringing fire and division to the earth, pitting members of families against one another. As one of my seminary professors used to say, “What’s that about?”
Well, for one thing, it means that true Christianity isn’t a happy clappy religion. Religious entertainment and a prosperity gospel and the “law of attraction” are nowhere in these readings. To truly be a Christian is hard work, and almost certainly will create conflict. That’s a difficult message to preach in a consumer culture, where people go to church to feel good and are ready to move on if they aren’t satisfied. Others avoid organized religion entirely because they already see too much conflict in the church.
Why is discipleship so hard? For one thing, it’s easy to mistake the form of religion for its content. That’s what the Israelites did; they followed all the rules for sacrifice and keeping kosher and observing the prescribed feasts. But they conveniently overlooked the fact that justice was part of the plan. They thought they could cheat the poor and ignore the needy and God would smell incense and not notice. They were wrong, and they didn’t like the prophets who told them so.
Jesus saw even more clearly where following him would lead. Given the opposition he created with the religious authorities, he knew that his death was certain and didn’t expect much better for his disciples. Everywhere Christianity is persecuted, Christian/non-Christian conflict still occurs. As those fleeing organized religion perceive, some of the more militant forms of Christianity create conflict even among fellow Christians.
So where is the good news in all of this? It’s found in that great cloud of witnesses surrounding us, those who have come before. They, too, sinned; they faltered, they suffered as we do. Yet they persevered. They saw the promises, and believed. They threw off the weight that held them down, and the sin that clings so closely. Of course we should cast those aside if we are to run! And run with perseverance, we are told. Run toward the goal of Jesus Christ, the pioneer and perfecter of our faith. And the best part about this race is that even now Jesus is coming toward us from the future. As the cloud of witnesses cheers us on, we will not have as far to go. With that kind of promise, who wouldn’t keep running?
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Pulpit Swap
This Sunday R and I will swap pulpits: we will be at each others’ churches. We did it once before when I was at St. Peter’s, but this is the first time for my home parish of Christ Church. It’s a fun perk of being a clergy couple with parishes open to trying something new.
As I read through the lessons and considered the three services at R’s Trinity parish, I remembered something an uncle once told me. He had been the pastor for many years near Harvard Square at a big Lutheran church, which also had three Sunday services. He said he felt that each service had a different congregation, so he preached three different sermons each week. He told me this long after he retired, lamenting the fact that he had finally reached the point where he had to reuse a sermon!
I don’t have my uncle’s massive intellect, nor will I be speaking to congregants who are faculty at the Harvard Divinity School. Yet the idea of three somewhat different sermons intrigues me. “You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour” will resonate with the older group at the earliest service I’ll do, because they know that their hour is not that far away. The contemporary service crowd needs to hear that “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” amid the uncertainties of their world and their hopes for their children. And those at the late morning Choral Eucharist may need Isaiah’s reminder that exquisitely executed liturgy is not, after all, what puts one right with God.
Isaiah particularly intrigues me. After the opening verse establishing his identity and credentials, there is a long condemnation of Israel for its continued rebellion from God. That in itself is not unusual, but when God says “come now, let us argue it out,” one suddenly realizes that God is more interested in dialogue than harangue. Indeed, the next verses indicate that God is always willing to forgive us – as long as we are obedient rather than rebellious. Psalm 50 sets this same theme in the context of a heavenly courtroom, reminding us that there are consequences for rebellion.
That’s why the reassurance of the letter to the Hebrews is so important. The consequences of following or not following God are not always apparent. If we are to step out in faith, we need the assurance that God will follow through on what God has promised. Thus the letter’s eleventh chapter gives a long list of those who have “died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them.”
Jesus provides additional encouragement in Luke’s Gospel. “It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom,” he says. So live as though you are already in the kingdom. Let your checkbook tell you what your priorities are (“where your treasure is, there your heart will be also”). Or as Isaiah writes, “Cease to do evil, learn to do good, seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.” The Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour, and you’d best be ready.
And so the message for the day is the same for all: Live in faith and hope that Christ will come again, to make all things new – but in the meantime there’s work to be done. One message, yet each person will hear it somewhat differently. Thus it may well be that my part of this pulpit swap will need three different approaches, three different sermons. If so, not only will I experience R’s usual Sunday, but my uncle’s whole preaching life.
Pentecost 11: Isaiah 1:1,10-20; Psalm 50:1-8,23-24; Hebrews 11:1-3,8-16; Luke 12:32-40.
As I read through the lessons and considered the three services at R’s Trinity parish, I remembered something an uncle once told me. He had been the pastor for many years near Harvard Square at a big Lutheran church, which also had three Sunday services. He said he felt that each service had a different congregation, so he preached three different sermons each week. He told me this long after he retired, lamenting the fact that he had finally reached the point where he had to reuse a sermon!
I don’t have my uncle’s massive intellect, nor will I be speaking to congregants who are faculty at the Harvard Divinity School. Yet the idea of three somewhat different sermons intrigues me. “You also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour” will resonate with the older group at the earliest service I’ll do, because they know that their hour is not that far away. The contemporary service crowd needs to hear that “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” amid the uncertainties of their world and their hopes for their children. And those at the late morning Choral Eucharist may need Isaiah’s reminder that exquisitely executed liturgy is not, after all, what puts one right with God.
Isaiah particularly intrigues me. After the opening verse establishing his identity and credentials, there is a long condemnation of Israel for its continued rebellion from God. That in itself is not unusual, but when God says “come now, let us argue it out,” one suddenly realizes that God is more interested in dialogue than harangue. Indeed, the next verses indicate that God is always willing to forgive us – as long as we are obedient rather than rebellious. Psalm 50 sets this same theme in the context of a heavenly courtroom, reminding us that there are consequences for rebellion.
That’s why the reassurance of the letter to the Hebrews is so important. The consequences of following or not following God are not always apparent. If we are to step out in faith, we need the assurance that God will follow through on what God has promised. Thus the letter’s eleventh chapter gives a long list of those who have “died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them.”
Jesus provides additional encouragement in Luke’s Gospel. “It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom,” he says. So live as though you are already in the kingdom. Let your checkbook tell you what your priorities are (“where your treasure is, there your heart will be also”). Or as Isaiah writes, “Cease to do evil, learn to do good, seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.” The Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour, and you’d best be ready.
And so the message for the day is the same for all: Live in faith and hope that Christ will come again, to make all things new – but in the meantime there’s work to be done. One message, yet each person will hear it somewhat differently. Thus it may well be that my part of this pulpit swap will need three different approaches, three different sermons. If so, not only will I experience R’s usual Sunday, but my uncle’s whole preaching life.
Pentecost 11: Isaiah 1:1,10-20; Psalm 50:1-8,23-24; Hebrews 11:1-3,8-16; Luke 12:32-40.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
We Have Not Ceased Praying for You
We have not ceased praying for you and asking that you may be filled with the knowledge of God’s will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding, so that you may lead lives worthy of the Lord, fully pleasing to him, as you bear fruit in every good work and as you grow in the knowledge of God.
I never cease to be astonished at how many ways we choose to turn away from God. That’s not why we exist. We exist to glorify God. As Thomas Merton once put it, a tree glorifies God simply by being a tree – implying that when we are truly the people God knows us to be, we too will glorify God. A more radical, incarnational view came from the fourth-century bishop Athanasius, defender of the Trinitarian faith: God became man that man might become God. There’s a lot of room to go astray in that statement, which may be why Protestants of Calvinist extraction stress the unbreachable gap between sinful humans and sovereign God. We can strive only to take on God’s qualities, not God’s essence. But an incarnational faith affirms that in becoming ever more Christ-like through grace, we become more God-like as well.
So I am always amazed that we choose to turn away from God. Sometimes the reasons are clearly evil. Amaziah, the priest of Bethel, owed his position to being cozy with King Jeroboam, who had led the people of Israel away from true faith to worshipping idols. When Amaziah threatened Amos for speaking the truth about Jeroboam’s incipient downfall, Amos let him have it. Are you trying to silence God’s word? he asked. You’re going to witness all the carnage, and then you’ll be hauled off into exile. (As an aside, I just love Amos’ self-description as a “herdsman and a dresser of sycamore trees.” Lots of room for the botanical imagination there.)
Sometimes we do evil for apparently good reasons. The priest who passed by a beaten, half-dead man in Luke’s “Good Samaritan” story probably didn’t want to become ritually unclean, which would keep him away from his duties for a week if the man turned out to be fully dead. Likewise with the Levite, although the Greek implies that he at least took a closer look. And the lawyer who asked Jesus the question that got this whole story launched wanted to “justify himself.” Apparently it wasn’t enough to know that he should love his neighbor; he wanted limits on who might be included in that designation.
That’s why we need prayers, unceasing prayers, that we may be filled with the knowledge of God’s will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding and not wander down the wrong side of the road. I have a pack of index cards with the names of all the people in my parish that I keep with my prayer book at home. That helps me do what the Apostle Paul did for his churches. Our diocese has a prayer cycle that includes every parish and its clergy once a month. And, of course, there are the Prayers of the People, which hold those whom we love and remember in prayer. May we continue to pray for one another, day by day and year by year, so that we may lead lives worthy of the Lord and bear fruit in every good work – and glorify God as well as a tree.
Pentecost 7: Amos 7:7-17; Psalm 82; Colossians 1:1-14; Luke 10:25-37.
I never cease to be astonished at how many ways we choose to turn away from God. That’s not why we exist. We exist to glorify God. As Thomas Merton once put it, a tree glorifies God simply by being a tree – implying that when we are truly the people God knows us to be, we too will glorify God. A more radical, incarnational view came from the fourth-century bishop Athanasius, defender of the Trinitarian faith: God became man that man might become God. There’s a lot of room to go astray in that statement, which may be why Protestants of Calvinist extraction stress the unbreachable gap between sinful humans and sovereign God. We can strive only to take on God’s qualities, not God’s essence. But an incarnational faith affirms that in becoming ever more Christ-like through grace, we become more God-like as well.
So I am always amazed that we choose to turn away from God. Sometimes the reasons are clearly evil. Amaziah, the priest of Bethel, owed his position to being cozy with King Jeroboam, who had led the people of Israel away from true faith to worshipping idols. When Amaziah threatened Amos for speaking the truth about Jeroboam’s incipient downfall, Amos let him have it. Are you trying to silence God’s word? he asked. You’re going to witness all the carnage, and then you’ll be hauled off into exile. (As an aside, I just love Amos’ self-description as a “herdsman and a dresser of sycamore trees.” Lots of room for the botanical imagination there.)
Sometimes we do evil for apparently good reasons. The priest who passed by a beaten, half-dead man in Luke’s “Good Samaritan” story probably didn’t want to become ritually unclean, which would keep him away from his duties for a week if the man turned out to be fully dead. Likewise with the Levite, although the Greek implies that he at least took a closer look. And the lawyer who asked Jesus the question that got this whole story launched wanted to “justify himself.” Apparently it wasn’t enough to know that he should love his neighbor; he wanted limits on who might be included in that designation.
That’s why we need prayers, unceasing prayers, that we may be filled with the knowledge of God’s will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding and not wander down the wrong side of the road. I have a pack of index cards with the names of all the people in my parish that I keep with my prayer book at home. That helps me do what the Apostle Paul did for his churches. Our diocese has a prayer cycle that includes every parish and its clergy once a month. And, of course, there are the Prayers of the People, which hold those whom we love and remember in prayer. May we continue to pray for one another, day by day and year by year, so that we may lead lives worthy of the Lord and bear fruit in every good work – and glorify God as well as a tree.
Pentecost 7: Amos 7:7-17; Psalm 82; Colossians 1:1-14; Luke 10:25-37.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
What to Wear?
R and I have taken several plane trips in the last year. Because we can’t get anywhere on fewer than two flights, and because the connections may be dicey, we’ve taken to checking our bags. That way we don’t have to lug them around and compete for stowage with passengers who bring more and larger “carry-on” luggage each time. However, we paid $100 in baggage fees on the last trip. So for her next excursion, R is planning to take a suitcase small enough to fit under her seat. That will require some careful packing.
In this week’s readings we have two stories about packing for a trip. Naaman traveled to Israel to be cured of his leprosy, and seventy of Jesus’ disciples were sent on a preaching mission. Naaman, “a great man” and foreign army commander, packed the reward he intended to give his healer: ten talents of silver, six thousand shekels of gold, and ten festal garments. Jesus’ disciples were told what not to take: no purse, bag, or sandals – and presumably no money, given that they were to depend on good will for room and board.
The contrast couldn’t be greater. Naaman exudes wealth and power. The disciples of Jesus are told to embrace poverty. When Naaman isn’t treated the way he expects, he’s furious. When the disciples of Jesus return, they’re filled with joy. Naaman is forced to humble himself before the power of the God of Israel. The seventy discover that they are more powerful than the powers of evil – Satan himself falls from heaven like a flash of lightning.
What’s packed does reveal one’s priorities. Naaman in his military finery expects everything to go his way. Ironically, it is people with almost nothing who effect his cure – the young Israeli slave who tipped him off to Elisha’s power, the servant whom Elisha sent to talk to Naaman, and the foreign servants who timidly approached their master and convinced him to do what Elisha commanded. The followers of Jesus were poor to begin with. Yet the power that they carried, a message that the kingdom of God had come near, was enough to send the demons packing. Maybe that’s because the disciples carried the most important baggage inside of themselves, in the form of the Holy Spirit.
On our last trip, besides the hefty luggage fees, one airplane was too heavy. No passenger was willing to take another flight, so some of the bags were left behind. Mine was one of them. For a while it looked like I’d have to attend the Pentecost Solemn High Mass at our son’s Anglo-Catholic church in a day-old polo shirt, but my suitcase finally arrived around 3 a.m. with my clergy duds inside. We were relieved. I suppose I could have gone to church barefoot to proclaim that the kingdom of God had come near, but what would I have done if a bunch of demons had started yelling?
Pentecost 6: 2 Kings 5:1-14; Psalm 30; Galatians 6:1-16; Luke 10:1-11, 16-20.
In this week’s readings we have two stories about packing for a trip. Naaman traveled to Israel to be cured of his leprosy, and seventy of Jesus’ disciples were sent on a preaching mission. Naaman, “a great man” and foreign army commander, packed the reward he intended to give his healer: ten talents of silver, six thousand shekels of gold, and ten festal garments. Jesus’ disciples were told what not to take: no purse, bag, or sandals – and presumably no money, given that they were to depend on good will for room and board.
The contrast couldn’t be greater. Naaman exudes wealth and power. The disciples of Jesus are told to embrace poverty. When Naaman isn’t treated the way he expects, he’s furious. When the disciples of Jesus return, they’re filled with joy. Naaman is forced to humble himself before the power of the God of Israel. The seventy discover that they are more powerful than the powers of evil – Satan himself falls from heaven like a flash of lightning.
What’s packed does reveal one’s priorities. Naaman in his military finery expects everything to go his way. Ironically, it is people with almost nothing who effect his cure – the young Israeli slave who tipped him off to Elisha’s power, the servant whom Elisha sent to talk to Naaman, and the foreign servants who timidly approached their master and convinced him to do what Elisha commanded. The followers of Jesus were poor to begin with. Yet the power that they carried, a message that the kingdom of God had come near, was enough to send the demons packing. Maybe that’s because the disciples carried the most important baggage inside of themselves, in the form of the Holy Spirit.
On our last trip, besides the hefty luggage fees, one airplane was too heavy. No passenger was willing to take another flight, so some of the bags were left behind. Mine was one of them. For a while it looked like I’d have to attend the Pentecost Solemn High Mass at our son’s Anglo-Catholic church in a day-old polo shirt, but my suitcase finally arrived around 3 a.m. with my clergy duds inside. We were relieved. I suppose I could have gone to church barefoot to proclaim that the kingdom of God had come near, but what would I have done if a bunch of demons had started yelling?
Pentecost 6: 2 Kings 5:1-14; Psalm 30; Galatians 6:1-16; Luke 10:1-11, 16-20.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Follow Me
What does it mean to follow Jesus? What should be the characteristics of his followers? The Apostle Paul gives a lengthy list of do’s and don’ts in his letter to the Galatians. The fruits of the Spirit, he writes, are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. He gives an even longer list of things to avoid: fornication, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, anger, quarrels, dissensions, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing, and things like these. We do all right in the Church until we get to the enmity and strife part of the list. One of the reasons I don’t read some Anglican blogs is because they contain so much anger, dissension, and factions that I have trouble maintaining any generosity, gentleness, and self-control.
I suppose it should be reassuring that Jesus’ disciples didn’t do much better. After Jesus “set his face to go to Jerusalem,” he had to pass through Samaritan country, where Jerusalem didn’t count for much – so the locals gave him the cold shoulder. James and John, ever ready to earn their Sons of Thunder epithet, want a few lightning bolts to come down on those heathens. Instead, Jesus rebukes them with a Greek word often used to rebuke demons. Clearly the two brothers need to work on their fruits of the Spirit.
Being a follower requires commitment, also. As the group heads on toward Jerusalem, several would-be followers try to join in. To the first Jesus says that he doesn’t have any idea what he’s in for. Another who is invited to follow wants to first mourn the loss of his father, a reasonable request. Yet Jesus is so determined to keep to his schedule that he’s not about to wait, although he does tell the man to go out and proclaim the kingdom of God (presumably after the funeral). The third fellow, like the first, invites himself, but he also has a few things to do first. To him Jesus says, if you’re not ready, don’t act like you are, or you’ll walk as crooked a line as someone who isn’t paying attention to where his plow animal is going.
If it’s so much trouble to follow Jesus, why bother? The best answer is the one Peter gave after Jesus offended a lot of people by talking about eating his flesh and drinking his blood. Noticing that the crowd had suddenly gotten a lot smaller, Jesus said to the twelve, “Do you also wish to go away?” Peter answered for all of them, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.” That’s really it, isn’t it? Jesus may not be the only game in town, but he’s the best one there is. I, too, struggle with those fruits of the Spirit, yet I recognize that they are the only way to go. They end in life. The other list ends in death. It’s as simple as that. I just wish the journey itself were as easy to follow as a straight, well-planted row.
Pentecost 5: 2 Kings 2:1-2,6-14; Psalm 77:1-2.11-20; Galatians 5:1, 13-25; Luke 9:51-62. The dialogue between Jesus and Peter is in John 6:67-68.
I suppose it should be reassuring that Jesus’ disciples didn’t do much better. After Jesus “set his face to go to Jerusalem,” he had to pass through Samaritan country, where Jerusalem didn’t count for much – so the locals gave him the cold shoulder. James and John, ever ready to earn their Sons of Thunder epithet, want a few lightning bolts to come down on those heathens. Instead, Jesus rebukes them with a Greek word often used to rebuke demons. Clearly the two brothers need to work on their fruits of the Spirit.
Being a follower requires commitment, also. As the group heads on toward Jerusalem, several would-be followers try to join in. To the first Jesus says that he doesn’t have any idea what he’s in for. Another who is invited to follow wants to first mourn the loss of his father, a reasonable request. Yet Jesus is so determined to keep to his schedule that he’s not about to wait, although he does tell the man to go out and proclaim the kingdom of God (presumably after the funeral). The third fellow, like the first, invites himself, but he also has a few things to do first. To him Jesus says, if you’re not ready, don’t act like you are, or you’ll walk as crooked a line as someone who isn’t paying attention to where his plow animal is going.
If it’s so much trouble to follow Jesus, why bother? The best answer is the one Peter gave after Jesus offended a lot of people by talking about eating his flesh and drinking his blood. Noticing that the crowd had suddenly gotten a lot smaller, Jesus said to the twelve, “Do you also wish to go away?” Peter answered for all of them, “Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life.” That’s really it, isn’t it? Jesus may not be the only game in town, but he’s the best one there is. I, too, struggle with those fruits of the Spirit, yet I recognize that they are the only way to go. They end in life. The other list ends in death. It’s as simple as that. I just wish the journey itself were as easy to follow as a straight, well-planted row.
Pentecost 5: 2 Kings 2:1-2,6-14; Psalm 77:1-2.11-20; Galatians 5:1, 13-25; Luke 9:51-62. The dialogue between Jesus and Peter is in John 6:67-68.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Testing the Spirits
One of the great advantages of being a priest with a science background is that it frees me to take the spiritual world seriously. I know the value and limits of science, and I also know that there are forces within and without that can lead us toward or tempt us away from God. Those forces that take us further from God can conveniently be labeled demons; giving them a name makes them easier to confront. And not all are internal. There is evil greater than any one human could accomplish (the Holocaust and Gulag come to mind), and so one can talk of Satan as well, not as a figure with a long tail and horns, but rather as an evil power greater than ours (though not equal to God’s power).
Discerning whether a particular “voice” or spirit is or is not from God can be tricky – so much so that the desert fathers and mothers of Egypt never trusted the appearance of an angel. One could never be sure of its source. Elijah did not have that problem, it appears, perhaps because the evil he faced was so transparent in Ahab and Jezebel. By contrast, the angel that appeared to Elijah fed him and led him to Mount Horeb, where he had a chance to encounter God directly. A rock-shattering wind, earthquake and fire nearly overwhelmed him before there was “a sound of sheer silence” (a more elegant translation than “a still, small, voice”). Out of this great silence God spoke the Word to Elijah.
It’s just as clear that the spirit residing in the Gerasene man is an evil one. And not just one, either, but an entire Roman legion’s worth! Whether we take that at face value or not, it certainly expresses how he felt, as though inhabited by many evil spirits. No wonder the man couldn’t be controlled. And no wonder that the people of the region were petrified when they found this uncontrollable man in his right mind, clothed and sitting at Jesus’ feet. Besides, they couldn’t afford to lose any more pork chops. So they rejected the One who is greater than any evil spirits.
How do we test the spirits in our own time? How do we know which lead us toward God and which lead us away? Here we come to a real problem, not only because the spirits are difficult to determine, but also because it’s hard to see our own complicity in what the spirits are doing. Take the Gulf oil spill, for instance. I don’t own BP stock and I don’t usually buy BP gas. Yet I drive fifty miles back and forth to work every day. I use plastic bags all the time, the more so because I have a dog. I eat food that isn’t grown locally, but must be trucked in from large farms that use fossil fuels for machinery and fertilizer. We fly out to Connecticut to visit our son. All of that is possible because there are oil wells, including offshore ones that can fail catastrophically. Surely it is an evil spirit that entices humans to put profits before safety – but when we allow that to happen, are we not also subject to that same evil spirit?
And that reveals one of the limits of science. Scientific knowledge is not value-neutral, as some think. Out of our values we decide what will be researched and how that knowledge will be used, and in doing so we follow the spirit of good or evil. We study how to drill deep wells, but not what will happen if and when they fail. We devise ever more uses for fossil fuels, but only after decades of use do we consider what the global consequences of such use may be. The spirits of our time are not as obvious as a Jezebel or Gerasene demoniac. Fortunately, one part of the picture still hasn’t changed: Jesus can still command the unclean spirits. It is for us to ask that they be cast from us.
Pentecost 4: 1 Kings 19:1-15a; Psalms 42, 43; Galatians 3:23-29; Luke 8:26-39.
Discerning whether a particular “voice” or spirit is or is not from God can be tricky – so much so that the desert fathers and mothers of Egypt never trusted the appearance of an angel. One could never be sure of its source. Elijah did not have that problem, it appears, perhaps because the evil he faced was so transparent in Ahab and Jezebel. By contrast, the angel that appeared to Elijah fed him and led him to Mount Horeb, where he had a chance to encounter God directly. A rock-shattering wind, earthquake and fire nearly overwhelmed him before there was “a sound of sheer silence” (a more elegant translation than “a still, small, voice”). Out of this great silence God spoke the Word to Elijah.
It’s just as clear that the spirit residing in the Gerasene man is an evil one. And not just one, either, but an entire Roman legion’s worth! Whether we take that at face value or not, it certainly expresses how he felt, as though inhabited by many evil spirits. No wonder the man couldn’t be controlled. And no wonder that the people of the region were petrified when they found this uncontrollable man in his right mind, clothed and sitting at Jesus’ feet. Besides, they couldn’t afford to lose any more pork chops. So they rejected the One who is greater than any evil spirits.
How do we test the spirits in our own time? How do we know which lead us toward God and which lead us away? Here we come to a real problem, not only because the spirits are difficult to determine, but also because it’s hard to see our own complicity in what the spirits are doing. Take the Gulf oil spill, for instance. I don’t own BP stock and I don’t usually buy BP gas. Yet I drive fifty miles back and forth to work every day. I use plastic bags all the time, the more so because I have a dog. I eat food that isn’t grown locally, but must be trucked in from large farms that use fossil fuels for machinery and fertilizer. We fly out to Connecticut to visit our son. All of that is possible because there are oil wells, including offshore ones that can fail catastrophically. Surely it is an evil spirit that entices humans to put profits before safety – but when we allow that to happen, are we not also subject to that same evil spirit?
And that reveals one of the limits of science. Scientific knowledge is not value-neutral, as some think. Out of our values we decide what will be researched and how that knowledge will be used, and in doing so we follow the spirit of good or evil. We study how to drill deep wells, but not what will happen if and when they fail. We devise ever more uses for fossil fuels, but only after decades of use do we consider what the global consequences of such use may be. The spirits of our time are not as obvious as a Jezebel or Gerasene demoniac. Fortunately, one part of the picture still hasn’t changed: Jesus can still command the unclean spirits. It is for us to ask that they be cast from us.
Pentecost 4: 1 Kings 19:1-15a; Psalms 42, 43; Galatians 3:23-29; Luke 8:26-39.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Great Love
Every once in a while I abandon my usual reading of non-fiction and pick up a novel. R, who is used to seeing me wading through medieval monastic texts, invariably says, “You’re reading fiction?” I’ve learned not to be offended at her reaction, because she’s had to suffer through my self-important pronouncements that there are too many good works of antiquity for me to waste my time reading modern novels. To make matters worse, I sometimes pick up a book she is still reading, and we have to compete for its pages.
This time, however, I have followed my mother’s lead and turned to Agatha Christie. I’ve read two of her murder mysteries in the last few days, and will probably read a couple more before I reluctantly come to the conclusion that dwelling on the evil side of human nature is probably not the best spiritual discipline. And Christie, like A. Conan Doyle, presents me with British class distinctions and bigotries that I’d rather not remember. Even aspiring actresses have a maid, and the butler, of course, is always a suspect.
The U.S. certainly does not have the same class distinctions. We like to think of ourselves as an egalitarian society. Yet that is simply not true. All it takes for me to realize that is to sit in my office each day and watch students arrive for the G.E.D. class down the hall. Unlike our son, who had the support and resources to put him in the position where he is, these children of God never finished high school. They are still struggling in their twenties and thirties and beyond. Without education and probably without stable families behind them, they are in a very different socioeconomic class from most of those who come to this building for church each Sunday.
I’d like to think that if a G.E.D. student did show up on a Sunday, we’d be more welcoming than the Pharisee was to the “sinner woman” who just wandered right into his dinner party and poured out her tears on Jesus’ feet. It’s pretty clear that even if the Pharisee was holding his nose, Jesus knew she was a child of God. Interestingly, when Jesus dresses down the Pharisee for his hard-heartedness, he doesn’t completely turn him aside. The man may not be forgiven much, compared to the woman, but he is still forgiven. And one gets the distinct impression that if he would stop judging other people, he might be forgiven more.
That’s really the trick, isn’t it? It’s a habit to judge others, to consider if someone is really good enough to be associated with. Jesus just blasts through all that. True, such behavior eventually got him killed. Yet it also showed us how we are to be – more grateful that we are forgiven than concerned with what someone else has done. Maybe that’s why the lure of Agatha Christie’s novels, as well-written as they are, will eventually peter out. They aren’t about grace; they’re about judgment. And I, for one, need all the grace I can get.
3 Pentecost: 1 Kings 21:1-21a; Psalm 5:1-8; Galatians 2:15-21; Luke 7:36-8:3.
This time, however, I have followed my mother’s lead and turned to Agatha Christie. I’ve read two of her murder mysteries in the last few days, and will probably read a couple more before I reluctantly come to the conclusion that dwelling on the evil side of human nature is probably not the best spiritual discipline. And Christie, like A. Conan Doyle, presents me with British class distinctions and bigotries that I’d rather not remember. Even aspiring actresses have a maid, and the butler, of course, is always a suspect.
The U.S. certainly does not have the same class distinctions. We like to think of ourselves as an egalitarian society. Yet that is simply not true. All it takes for me to realize that is to sit in my office each day and watch students arrive for the G.E.D. class down the hall. Unlike our son, who had the support and resources to put him in the position where he is, these children of God never finished high school. They are still struggling in their twenties and thirties and beyond. Without education and probably without stable families behind them, they are in a very different socioeconomic class from most of those who come to this building for church each Sunday.
I’d like to think that if a G.E.D. student did show up on a Sunday, we’d be more welcoming than the Pharisee was to the “sinner woman” who just wandered right into his dinner party and poured out her tears on Jesus’ feet. It’s pretty clear that even if the Pharisee was holding his nose, Jesus knew she was a child of God. Interestingly, when Jesus dresses down the Pharisee for his hard-heartedness, he doesn’t completely turn him aside. The man may not be forgiven much, compared to the woman, but he is still forgiven. And one gets the distinct impression that if he would stop judging other people, he might be forgiven more.
That’s really the trick, isn’t it? It’s a habit to judge others, to consider if someone is really good enough to be associated with. Jesus just blasts through all that. True, such behavior eventually got him killed. Yet it also showed us how we are to be – more grateful that we are forgiven than concerned with what someone else has done. Maybe that’s why the lure of Agatha Christie’s novels, as well-written as they are, will eventually peter out. They aren’t about grace; they’re about judgment. And I, for one, need all the grace I can get.
3 Pentecost: 1 Kings 21:1-21a; Psalm 5:1-8; Galatians 2:15-21; Luke 7:36-8:3.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Refreshment
R and I were able to get away for a weekend recently to attend our son’s graduation in Connecticut. As it turned out, we spent more time in church “on vacation” than usual. He had to find a pick-up choir to sing Mozart’s Mass in c minor for a funeral, so he recruited us as well as whatever students were still in town. It’s been a while since I had to sing long fugue runs on the fly, and it showed, but there’s nothing quite like singing for your son. I’m just glad that we were doubled by a small orchestra and that the other three basses had a better sense of what they were doing.
The break was good, and so was the day off on Memorial Day. One of my biggest adjustments right now is not having the summer open before me. Between being in school and teaching, I lived on the academic calendar for fifty years. I know how privileged that was, and I never complained about time (except to other teachers, of course). I don’t think I’m complaining now, either, just reflecting on how hard it is to adjust to how most people live their lives. And the life of a parish priest makes it even more difficult; the burdens of the people are always on one’s mind. On the other hand, the great joy I experience on Sundays tells me that I’m doing the right thing.
Time away prepares one for the time ahead. Being enveloped in clouds of incense and the triumph of form over feeling (our son is in a very high church) helps me appreciate even more a place that has very real people with very real issues, some of which I can only approach with the faith that God will provide. We are all inadequate for what we are asked to do, and that is good. It keeps us from thinking that it’s all about us, when it should be all about God. But it still would be nice to have a little more time off now and then.
The break was good, and so was the day off on Memorial Day. One of my biggest adjustments right now is not having the summer open before me. Between being in school and teaching, I lived on the academic calendar for fifty years. I know how privileged that was, and I never complained about time (except to other teachers, of course). I don’t think I’m complaining now, either, just reflecting on how hard it is to adjust to how most people live their lives. And the life of a parish priest makes it even more difficult; the burdens of the people are always on one’s mind. On the other hand, the great joy I experience on Sundays tells me that I’m doing the right thing.
Time away prepares one for the time ahead. Being enveloped in clouds of incense and the triumph of form over feeling (our son is in a very high church) helps me appreciate even more a place that has very real people with very real issues, some of which I can only approach with the faith that God will provide. We are all inadequate for what we are asked to do, and that is good. It keeps us from thinking that it’s all about us, when it should be all about God. But it still would be nice to have a little more time off now and then.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
What About Philip?
“Philip said to Jesus, ‘Lord, show us the Father, and we will be satisfied.’”
Seeing is believing. Philip had spent all of that time with Jesus, even bringing his reluctant friend Nathanael along, and he still didn’t get it. He couldn’t understand that in seeing Jesus he was seeing God. Jesus had to make it really, really plain to him. Then two chapters later, when the disciples said that they finally got it, Jesus immediately told them that they would be scattered in spite of their belief. Indeed they were, as soon as he was arrested.
Philip went and hid like the rest of them. Through the trial and passion of Jesus only Peter hung around, apparently so he could deny knowing Jesus three times. Even so, the group stayed in touch after Jesus died. They were all together behind closed doors three days later when the risen Christ suddenly appeared in the room. Philip’s eyes probably popped. This wasn’t the Father he had asked for; this was something totally unexpected.
Fifty days later they were still together on Pentecost, the traditional Jewish celebration of the wheat harvest. Suddenly there was a sound “like the rush of a violent wind…Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.”
What would it have been like to be in that group, to have a tongue of fire sitting on top of you and suddenly be filled with words that were a mystery to you? What would it be like to be totally consumed by the Holy Spirit? They must have seemed out of their minds, those disciples, for the people around them thought they were drunk. Peter managed to find words that everyone could understand so he could preach, and assure the crowd that they hadn’t hit the bars that early in the day.
What about Philip? He ended up getting a lot more than he bargained for. He wanted to see and be satisfied. Instead he saw little but was filled to overflowing. The ironic thing is that we often ask for little when God wants to give extravagantly. We think we know what we want, but God gives something else that is so much greater. We want to see the Father – and discover that we have been made joint heirs with Christ, as the Apostle Paul puts it. Ask for a little, get a lot.
And what about those who don’t get what they ask? What about the apparently unanswered prayers for health and safety in the midst of death and destruction? Is the love of God limited to a few chosen people, the inner circle? That’s a gospel that is sometimes preached, but not by me. I have no doubt that human sin can thwart the effect of God’s grace, and that a fallen world waiting for its final redemption can bring pain and suffering. But I cast my lot with Philip. I’ll keep asking, and try my best to hold on when the wind and fire arrive.
Pentecost: Acts 2:1-21; Psalm 104:25-35, 37; Romans 8:14-17; John 14:8-17, 25-27.
Seeing is believing. Philip had spent all of that time with Jesus, even bringing his reluctant friend Nathanael along, and he still didn’t get it. He couldn’t understand that in seeing Jesus he was seeing God. Jesus had to make it really, really plain to him. Then two chapters later, when the disciples said that they finally got it, Jesus immediately told them that they would be scattered in spite of their belief. Indeed they were, as soon as he was arrested.
Philip went and hid like the rest of them. Through the trial and passion of Jesus only Peter hung around, apparently so he could deny knowing Jesus three times. Even so, the group stayed in touch after Jesus died. They were all together behind closed doors three days later when the risen Christ suddenly appeared in the room. Philip’s eyes probably popped. This wasn’t the Father he had asked for; this was something totally unexpected.
Fifty days later they were still together on Pentecost, the traditional Jewish celebration of the wheat harvest. Suddenly there was a sound “like the rush of a violent wind…Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability.”
What would it have been like to be in that group, to have a tongue of fire sitting on top of you and suddenly be filled with words that were a mystery to you? What would it be like to be totally consumed by the Holy Spirit? They must have seemed out of their minds, those disciples, for the people around them thought they were drunk. Peter managed to find words that everyone could understand so he could preach, and assure the crowd that they hadn’t hit the bars that early in the day.
What about Philip? He ended up getting a lot more than he bargained for. He wanted to see and be satisfied. Instead he saw little but was filled to overflowing. The ironic thing is that we often ask for little when God wants to give extravagantly. We think we know what we want, but God gives something else that is so much greater. We want to see the Father – and discover that we have been made joint heirs with Christ, as the Apostle Paul puts it. Ask for a little, get a lot.
And what about those who don’t get what they ask? What about the apparently unanswered prayers for health and safety in the midst of death and destruction? Is the love of God limited to a few chosen people, the inner circle? That’s a gospel that is sometimes preached, but not by me. I have no doubt that human sin can thwart the effect of God’s grace, and that a fallen world waiting for its final redemption can bring pain and suffering. But I cast my lot with Philip. I’ll keep asking, and try my best to hold on when the wind and fire arrive.
Pentecost: Acts 2:1-21; Psalm 104:25-35, 37; Romans 8:14-17; John 14:8-17, 25-27.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Given and Sent
The Apostle Paul had an attitude. No doubt about that. He wanted everyone to listen to him, because he had some important things to say about Jesus Christ. So when a slave girl followed him, day after day, yelling at people to pay attention because he was a slave of the Most High God and knew a way of salvation, Paul finally blew up. He ordered the spirit of prophecy to come right out of her, and it did. After that she wasn’t of much use to her owners, so they angrily dragged Paul and his friend Silas off to jail. We aren’t told what happened to the slave girl.
It was a bad night for Paul and Silas, hurting from a beating and their feet spread apart in stocks. They kept their spirits up by singing hymns, maybe even including this week’s psalm. They must have had powerful singing voices, for the earth shook and the shackles fell and the jail doors opened. Wakened by the commotion, the jailer was sure everyone had fled and that he’d have to pay for it in the morning, so he decided to save the executioner some work. Paul stopped him just in time from doing himself in. Still shaking, he asked Paul what he needed to do to be saved. Like any good street evangelist, Paul gave him a simple answer: “Believe on the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved.” And so everybody in his house was baptized without delay.
The jailer’s conversion was dramatic. Conversions often are in the Bible; that’s what made them memorable. Yet quiet conversions are just as important, because everyone is called. Everyone is invited. “Let everyone who is thirsty come,” we hear at the end of the book of Revelation. “Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.” Take the water of life as a gift that God gives freely, abundantly, extravagantly.
“Give” appears nearly twenty times in the seventeenth chapter of John’s Gospel. Often it is in the perfect tense, “has given,” implying that what was given in the past continues to affect the present – the “gift that keeps on giving,” as the old Victrola ads used to say. That gift is love, given to us by God through Jesus Christ, love that is the very Being of God. God’s love is beyond comprehension, more beautiful and wonderful than we dare imagine, and it is given freely. “The love with which you loved me,” Jesus prays to God, “may be in them, and I in them.”
Dwelling in that love, Jesus also prays that all may be one. That may be hardest for us to accept or imagine. But if God is willing to take in apostles with an attitude and fearful jailers, then God will certainly take in you and me and everyone who thirsts. Yet the gift comes with a catch. Having received it, we are then sent to take it to others. It is not for us to hoard; we must also freely give it. Who do you know who is thirsty? Who needs the love of God found in Jesus Christ? Who desires to be within the unity of God?
Let everyone who is thirsty, come. Let anyone who wishes, take the water of life as a gift.
Easter 7: Acts 16:16-34; Psalm 97; Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21; John 17:20-26.
It was a bad night for Paul and Silas, hurting from a beating and their feet spread apart in stocks. They kept their spirits up by singing hymns, maybe even including this week’s psalm. They must have had powerful singing voices, for the earth shook and the shackles fell and the jail doors opened. Wakened by the commotion, the jailer was sure everyone had fled and that he’d have to pay for it in the morning, so he decided to save the executioner some work. Paul stopped him just in time from doing himself in. Still shaking, he asked Paul what he needed to do to be saved. Like any good street evangelist, Paul gave him a simple answer: “Believe on the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved.” And so everybody in his house was baptized without delay.
The jailer’s conversion was dramatic. Conversions often are in the Bible; that’s what made them memorable. Yet quiet conversions are just as important, because everyone is called. Everyone is invited. “Let everyone who is thirsty come,” we hear at the end of the book of Revelation. “Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.” Take the water of life as a gift that God gives freely, abundantly, extravagantly.
“Give” appears nearly twenty times in the seventeenth chapter of John’s Gospel. Often it is in the perfect tense, “has given,” implying that what was given in the past continues to affect the present – the “gift that keeps on giving,” as the old Victrola ads used to say. That gift is love, given to us by God through Jesus Christ, love that is the very Being of God. God’s love is beyond comprehension, more beautiful and wonderful than we dare imagine, and it is given freely. “The love with which you loved me,” Jesus prays to God, “may be in them, and I in them.”
Dwelling in that love, Jesus also prays that all may be one. That may be hardest for us to accept or imagine. But if God is willing to take in apostles with an attitude and fearful jailers, then God will certainly take in you and me and everyone who thirsts. Yet the gift comes with a catch. Having received it, we are then sent to take it to others. It is not for us to hoard; we must also freely give it. Who do you know who is thirsty? Who needs the love of God found in Jesus Christ? Who desires to be within the unity of God?
Let everyone who is thirsty, come. Let anyone who wishes, take the water of life as a gift.
Easter 7: Acts 16:16-34; Psalm 97; Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21; John 17:20-26.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Peace Where There is No Peace
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives.
I have lived long enough to have witnessed how elusive peace on earth really is. For my father’s generation, there were the very real dangers of German expansionism that resulted in two world wars. For my generation, there was the more elusive threat of Communism and the country-dividing conflict in Viet Nam that it spawned. Now, even as weapons have become more precise and more destructive, the combat zone has become murkier and the weapons more useless against a shadowy enemy. No longer are imperialist countries the issue; instead, there are “cells” that create fear simply by planting crude bombs made from readily available goods.
The Christian Church has been for many people a refuge from the world of fear, a place that is reliably the same, week after week. For them, change in the Church is threatening. For others, lack of change is stifling. For yet others who have suffered mental or physical abuse by Christians, the Church is itself a source of fear. And increasingly “Christian” is an adjective attached to newsworthy examples of prejudice or narrow-mindedness.
Why is the peace of Jesus so elusive? Perhaps it is because the name of Jesus has been used so many times as a battle cry. Ever since coming of draft age during the Viet Nam era, I have been fascinated by the historic peace churches, the Friends (Quakers) and the Mennonites, in particular. They believe that the teachings of Jesus are essentially pacifist, and refuse to engage in combat under any circumstances. I know the world would be very different had that view prevailed in our history, yet I will say that most Christians have accepted precious little of the gift of peace which Jesus has tried to give us. Instead, we have sought the world’s peace, a tense absence of conflict held in place by power.
Paul’s vision of the man who said, “Come over to Macedonia and help us,” was used by missionary-minded Western Christians who “viewed peoples of other races and religions as living in darkness and deep despair and as imploring Westerners to come to their aid.”* We still suffer from the consequences of that missionary imperative, for it created lasting instability in many parts of the Global South, and for some, rejection of Christianity as a Western religion.
We cannot undo the past. But we can do a better job of seeking the peace of God rather than the peace of the world. If the Church as a whole were to do that, perhaps “Christian” in the news would no longer be pejorative.
May God be merciful to us and bless us; show us the light of his countenance and be gracious unto us.
Easter 6: Acts 16:9-15; Psalm 67; Revelation 21:1-10, 22-22:5; John 14:23-29. *David J. Bosch, Transforming Mission: Paradigm Shifts in Theology of Mission, p. 340. It’s a tome, but well worth the read. For those who have trouble getting through it, there’s also a reader’s guide to Bosch's book.
I have lived long enough to have witnessed how elusive peace on earth really is. For my father’s generation, there were the very real dangers of German expansionism that resulted in two world wars. For my generation, there was the more elusive threat of Communism and the country-dividing conflict in Viet Nam that it spawned. Now, even as weapons have become more precise and more destructive, the combat zone has become murkier and the weapons more useless against a shadowy enemy. No longer are imperialist countries the issue; instead, there are “cells” that create fear simply by planting crude bombs made from readily available goods.
The Christian Church has been for many people a refuge from the world of fear, a place that is reliably the same, week after week. For them, change in the Church is threatening. For others, lack of change is stifling. For yet others who have suffered mental or physical abuse by Christians, the Church is itself a source of fear. And increasingly “Christian” is an adjective attached to newsworthy examples of prejudice or narrow-mindedness.
Why is the peace of Jesus so elusive? Perhaps it is because the name of Jesus has been used so many times as a battle cry. Ever since coming of draft age during the Viet Nam era, I have been fascinated by the historic peace churches, the Friends (Quakers) and the Mennonites, in particular. They believe that the teachings of Jesus are essentially pacifist, and refuse to engage in combat under any circumstances. I know the world would be very different had that view prevailed in our history, yet I will say that most Christians have accepted precious little of the gift of peace which Jesus has tried to give us. Instead, we have sought the world’s peace, a tense absence of conflict held in place by power.
Paul’s vision of the man who said, “Come over to Macedonia and help us,” was used by missionary-minded Western Christians who “viewed peoples of other races and religions as living in darkness and deep despair and as imploring Westerners to come to their aid.”* We still suffer from the consequences of that missionary imperative, for it created lasting instability in many parts of the Global South, and for some, rejection of Christianity as a Western religion.
We cannot undo the past. But we can do a better job of seeking the peace of God rather than the peace of the world. If the Church as a whole were to do that, perhaps “Christian” in the news would no longer be pejorative.
May God be merciful to us and bless us; show us the light of his countenance and be gracious unto us.
Easter 6: Acts 16:9-15; Psalm 67; Revelation 21:1-10, 22-22:5; John 14:23-29. *David J. Bosch, Transforming Mission: Paradigm Shifts in Theology of Mission, p. 340. It’s a tome, but well worth the read. For those who have trouble getting through it, there’s also a reader’s guide to Bosch's book.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Who Likes Being Left Out?
When I was growing up, I always dreaded the pick-up ball games where the “captains” of each team alternately picked players from the group of boys hanging around. I was always one of the last to be picked. Maybe it was being ungainly from various parts of my body growing at different rates, or maybe I already had a reputation for being more brains than brawn. Whatever the reason, I was left shuffling my feet until all the better players had been chosen. At least there were a couple of pudgy kids who were always dead last.
Sometimes it seems like we spend most of our lives trying to figure out where we are in the pecking order, glad that we’re not as bad as those guys but envious of those who are better. At our worst, we humans enshrine in law who’s in and who’s out. (The state of Arizona is only the latest example of that, not to minimize in any way the iniquities that will likely result if their new immigration law takes effect.)
It’s nice to know, I guess, that spending a lot of time around the Son of God didn’t predispose Jesus’ disciples to naturally take to those who were different. As one commentator put it, their faith and knowledge are both inadequate; they are still of this world. So Jesus has to be very explicit. “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
Oddly enough, that heart-to-heart talk took. Christians were recognized by their non-Christian neighbors as different. They actually got along and didn’t try to kill or cheat one another. (That would come much later.) Not only did they take care of their own, they also helped the poor and needy around them.
Some of those early Christians had trouble disentangling their Jewish roots, however. They weren’t interested in picking any Gentiles for their team. Paul had to be blinded for three days to get there. Peter had to dream of forbidden food while he was famished, and then argue with God about what he should eat. After hearing the same thing three times (a common event with Peter – he must have been a slow learner), he finally figured out that maybe God was right. Then when his preaching caused Gentiles to start speaking in tongues, even he was impressed. Apparently his Jewish friends were, too. (As an aside, I’m not quite sure what I’d do if my preaching caused an outbreak of tongues, but it’s not something on my worry list.)
If it hadn’t been for Peter’s dream, there wouldn’t be pork chops for dinner, and most of us wouldn’t be Christians. We’d still be kicking up dust at the edge of the ball field. Yet once we were picked for the team, it was easy to forget those left behind. But those are people God still loves just as much as us. And that’s a lesson we never seem to learn.
Easter 5: Acts 11:1-18; Psalm 148; Revelation 21:1-6; John 13:31-35. The commentator mentioned above is C.K. Barrett, whose The Gospel According to John is still the only Greek commentary I know. Besides, I’m using my father’s copy, a first edition. The passage quoted is from page 337.
Sometimes it seems like we spend most of our lives trying to figure out where we are in the pecking order, glad that we’re not as bad as those guys but envious of those who are better. At our worst, we humans enshrine in law who’s in and who’s out. (The state of Arizona is only the latest example of that, not to minimize in any way the iniquities that will likely result if their new immigration law takes effect.)
It’s nice to know, I guess, that spending a lot of time around the Son of God didn’t predispose Jesus’ disciples to naturally take to those who were different. As one commentator put it, their faith and knowledge are both inadequate; they are still of this world. So Jesus has to be very explicit. “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
Oddly enough, that heart-to-heart talk took. Christians were recognized by their non-Christian neighbors as different. They actually got along and didn’t try to kill or cheat one another. (That would come much later.) Not only did they take care of their own, they also helped the poor and needy around them.
Some of those early Christians had trouble disentangling their Jewish roots, however. They weren’t interested in picking any Gentiles for their team. Paul had to be blinded for three days to get there. Peter had to dream of forbidden food while he was famished, and then argue with God about what he should eat. After hearing the same thing three times (a common event with Peter – he must have been a slow learner), he finally figured out that maybe God was right. Then when his preaching caused Gentiles to start speaking in tongues, even he was impressed. Apparently his Jewish friends were, too. (As an aside, I’m not quite sure what I’d do if my preaching caused an outbreak of tongues, but it’s not something on my worry list.)
If it hadn’t been for Peter’s dream, there wouldn’t be pork chops for dinner, and most of us wouldn’t be Christians. We’d still be kicking up dust at the edge of the ball field. Yet once we were picked for the team, it was easy to forget those left behind. But those are people God still loves just as much as us. And that’s a lesson we never seem to learn.
Easter 5: Acts 11:1-18; Psalm 148; Revelation 21:1-6; John 13:31-35. The commentator mentioned above is C.K. Barrett, whose The Gospel According to John is still the only Greek commentary I know. Besides, I’m using my father’s copy, a first edition. The passage quoted is from page 337.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Dorcas
When I was a child, I went with my mother to every church event next door. I had to. My parents couldn’t afford a babysitter, and my sisters were in college by the time I was seven. So I learned a lot about ladies’ clubs and Jell-O salad and other things that have turned out to be useful to a parish priest.
One church group that always mystified me was the Dorcas Society. Their function was clear enough – sewing items of clothing that would be given away. My mother and the other women would haul their sewing machines to the church once a month and sit for several hours turning big pieces of cloth into real clothes. I was fascinated by the magic of it all. Years afterward I was happy to get my mother’s old sewing machine and make everything from curtains to jumpers to kites.
But who or what was Dorcas? That was the mystery. Only much later did I realize that the group was named after someone in the Bible, the subject of this week’s resurrection story. (Or perhaps resuscitation; the text only says that Peter brought her back to life.) Dorcas must have either been pretty or fleet of foot to get her name (which means gazelle, as does Tabitha in Aramaic). Dorcas was also an excellent seamstress, even without a brand new Singer. When she died, her sewing club showed Peter the extensive wardrobe she had made by hand.
The story really is touching. Dorcas had died and was prepared for burial. The word had gotten out that Peter the Wonderworker was in a nearby town, so he was sent for. When he arrived, he was shown to the upper room where the weeping widows were keeping watch over the body. Peter needed some quiet, so he had them leave and then prayed. When he said “Tabitha, get up,” she opened her eyes and saw him. Then he put his rough fisherman’s hand in her soft seamstress’s hand and she got up, just like that.
Jesus had used similar words when he held the hand of a twelve-year-old child: Talitha cum – “Child, arise.” In that case, too, someone who was dead returned to life. One can speculate on natural reasons how it happened; certainly before embalming people were buried alive. But that’s not the point. The point is that one who seemed dead was now alive.
We aren’t told if Dorcas went back to sewing, but I’m sure she did. Like her namesakes centuries later, she probably got together again with her friends and turned shapeless fabric into useful clothing, amid talk of the latest doings and a table of Jell-O salads waiting by the side. That’s really what the church is at its best: people enjoying one another’s company while doing something that takes them beyond themselves. That, and making sure there’s enough food to eat when the work’s finished.
4 Easter: Acts 9:36-43; Psalm 23; Revelation 7:9-17; John 10:22-30.
One church group that always mystified me was the Dorcas Society. Their function was clear enough – sewing items of clothing that would be given away. My mother and the other women would haul their sewing machines to the church once a month and sit for several hours turning big pieces of cloth into real clothes. I was fascinated by the magic of it all. Years afterward I was happy to get my mother’s old sewing machine and make everything from curtains to jumpers to kites.
But who or what was Dorcas? That was the mystery. Only much later did I realize that the group was named after someone in the Bible, the subject of this week’s resurrection story. (Or perhaps resuscitation; the text only says that Peter brought her back to life.) Dorcas must have either been pretty or fleet of foot to get her name (which means gazelle, as does Tabitha in Aramaic). Dorcas was also an excellent seamstress, even without a brand new Singer. When she died, her sewing club showed Peter the extensive wardrobe she had made by hand.
The story really is touching. Dorcas had died and was prepared for burial. The word had gotten out that Peter the Wonderworker was in a nearby town, so he was sent for. When he arrived, he was shown to the upper room where the weeping widows were keeping watch over the body. Peter needed some quiet, so he had them leave and then prayed. When he said “Tabitha, get up,” she opened her eyes and saw him. Then he put his rough fisherman’s hand in her soft seamstress’s hand and she got up, just like that.
Jesus had used similar words when he held the hand of a twelve-year-old child: Talitha cum – “Child, arise.” In that case, too, someone who was dead returned to life. One can speculate on natural reasons how it happened; certainly before embalming people were buried alive. But that’s not the point. The point is that one who seemed dead was now alive.
We aren’t told if Dorcas went back to sewing, but I’m sure she did. Like her namesakes centuries later, she probably got together again with her friends and turned shapeless fabric into useful clothing, amid talk of the latest doings and a table of Jell-O salads waiting by the side. That’s really what the church is at its best: people enjoying one another’s company while doing something that takes them beyond themselves. That, and making sure there’s enough food to eat when the work’s finished.
4 Easter: Acts 9:36-43; Psalm 23; Revelation 7:9-17; John 10:22-30.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
An Instrument Whom I Have Chosen
We’re studying Paul’s missionary journeys on Wednesday evenings during the Easter season, at the suggestion of our deacon. At the first session last week, someone loaned me a book on Paul that “was too boring to read.” I made my way through the first chapter long enough to get the main thesis: Christianity would not exist as a world religion without Paul. Jesus himself was just another no-name revolutionary put to death by the Romans; it was Paul who turned him into the Son of God. And Nero’s blaming of the Christians for burning Rome put them on the map. If Nero hadn’t created martyrs, Christianity would have died out.
The underlying assumption of the author, which is never voiced, is that of course Jesus could not really have been divine. Such things don’t happen in our rational world. Somebody had to put that idea in everyone’s head. And who else but Paul? It’s an old, well-trod path, separating the Jesus of history from the Christ of faith, as though we can better know what happened in the first century than the people who were closest to it. We’ll use what they wrote, but then tell you what they really meant and what really happened.
What really happened is something strange on the road to Damascus. Paul never describes the event in his letters, but Luke gives three accounts in the Acts of the Apostles, one within the narrative and two as parts of Paul’s defense before his accusers. All of the accounts are a little bit different, which shouldn’t be surprising. All include a blinding light, a voice, and a commission. Paul’s commission comes through Ananias, a disciple who is sent into the lion’s den, as it were, to minister to this person who had been hauling Christians off to jail. (“Saul, still breathing threats and murder” is how the story starts.) When Ananias protests, God says, “Go, for he is an instrument whom I have chosen…”
Paul always said that he was an apostle, sent by Christ, who appeared to him “last of all, as to one untimely born.” He counted himself the equal of (and sometimes better than) Simon Peter. But Paul didn’t go through the grilling Peter did. Peter had denied he knew Jesus three times in order to save his own skin, so when Jesus treated everyone to a post-resurrection breakfast, Peter had to say three times that he loved Jesus. Each time Jesus gave him a commission to “feed my sheep,” ending with the same words he had used when he first called Peter: “Follow me.” Peter, too, was an instrument whom God had chosen.
All of us are instruments of God. All of us have been chosen by God. Some days we sit like Paul, blinded, waiting for someone to come and show us the way. Or like Peter, having to be reminded multiple times what it is we are called to do. Other days the way is clear and the road straight. None of this has anything to do with Nero and the burning of Rome. Nor was it invented by Paul. Instead, it's what God had in mind all along – that each of us would hear in our own way the voice of the risen Jesus Christ saying, “Follow me.”
3 Easter: Acts 9:1-20; Psalm 30; Revelation 5:11-14; John 21:1-19.
The underlying assumption of the author, which is never voiced, is that of course Jesus could not really have been divine. Such things don’t happen in our rational world. Somebody had to put that idea in everyone’s head. And who else but Paul? It’s an old, well-trod path, separating the Jesus of history from the Christ of faith, as though we can better know what happened in the first century than the people who were closest to it. We’ll use what they wrote, but then tell you what they really meant and what really happened.
What really happened is something strange on the road to Damascus. Paul never describes the event in his letters, but Luke gives three accounts in the Acts of the Apostles, one within the narrative and two as parts of Paul’s defense before his accusers. All of the accounts are a little bit different, which shouldn’t be surprising. All include a blinding light, a voice, and a commission. Paul’s commission comes through Ananias, a disciple who is sent into the lion’s den, as it were, to minister to this person who had been hauling Christians off to jail. (“Saul, still breathing threats and murder” is how the story starts.) When Ananias protests, God says, “Go, for he is an instrument whom I have chosen…”
Paul always said that he was an apostle, sent by Christ, who appeared to him “last of all, as to one untimely born.” He counted himself the equal of (and sometimes better than) Simon Peter. But Paul didn’t go through the grilling Peter did. Peter had denied he knew Jesus three times in order to save his own skin, so when Jesus treated everyone to a post-resurrection breakfast, Peter had to say three times that he loved Jesus. Each time Jesus gave him a commission to “feed my sheep,” ending with the same words he had used when he first called Peter: “Follow me.” Peter, too, was an instrument whom God had chosen.
All of us are instruments of God. All of us have been chosen by God. Some days we sit like Paul, blinded, waiting for someone to come and show us the way. Or like Peter, having to be reminded multiple times what it is we are called to do. Other days the way is clear and the road straight. None of this has anything to do with Nero and the burning of Rome. Nor was it invented by Paul. Instead, it's what God had in mind all along – that each of us would hear in our own way the voice of the risen Jesus Christ saying, “Follow me.”
3 Easter: Acts 9:1-20; Psalm 30; Revelation 5:11-14; John 21:1-19.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Easter Sunday
[The following is the text of my Easter Sunday sermon, for those who missed it. Next week I hope to return to a weekly blog based on the upcoming Sunday's lectionary.]
Jesus has died. There’s no mistaking that. He had suffered on the cross, watched by a lot of people, including a group of women who had followed him. They saw his body lowered from the cross and put in a tomb. They saw a big stone rolled against that tomb, and went away crying.
Mary Magdalene was one of those who had watched. As soon as the Sabbath day was over, long before dawn the next day, she went to the tomb to cry some more. There was enough light to see that the stone had been rolled back and the tomb was empty. So she ran and told Simon Peter what she had seen.
Peter went barreling out in the darkness to see for himself, with another disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, often identified with John the Evangelist. The scene is almost comical, with the young John outrunning Peter, who eventually arrived, huffing and puffing. John didn’t have the nerve to actually go into the tomb, but Peter didn’t hesitate. They both saw the cloths, but no Jesus. So they went back home, totally baffled.
Mary must have gone with them, because she stuck around to cry some more. So she is the one who has a conversation with the angels. And she is the first one to see Jesus, even though she doesn’t recognize him at first. It’s only when he calls her by name that she suddenly knows that he is the one she’s been looking for, and she holds on to him.
Each of the Gospel writers has a gripping story of the first Easter. Each one is a little different. But there are the same elements in each: the first witness to the resurrection is Mary Magdalene. The male disciples don’t believe her; they have to see for themselves. And no one seems to know what’s really going on. All of this is just what you would expect from people who have actually witnessed an event. If it were all made up, everybody’s story would be the same.
When we think of the resurrection, if we think of it at all, we often jump straight to the picture of paradise that we heard this morning in the passage from Isaiah. It was actually written during the time of Israel’s exile in Babylon, and the prophet was promising a new and much better life back in Israel. But the promise is expressed in cosmic terms: there will be a new heavens and a new earth, and a new Jerusalem. It will be a place where there will be no weeping, where people will live to old age in their own houses and eat the fruit of their own vineyards. They would be blessed by the Lord. The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. It’s a wonderful series of images. But it doesn’t much sound like earth now, does it?
And it doesn’t much sound like the Gospel stories of the resurrection, either. That’s because the resurrection of Jesus Christ was only the beginning. A new world started at Easter, and continues to embrace us through the power of the Holy Spirit, given to us at baptism. In the words of British Bishop N.T. Wright, the project that began at Easter, the defeat of sin and death, has not yet been finished. The full and final redemption of God’s good creation, and ourselves with it, will come when Jesus once again reappears.
So what’s to be done in the meantime? If you look closely at each of the resurrection stories, they don’t talk about personal hope. There’s no mention of life after death or eternal life. They don’t say, “Jesus is risen, therefore you will be too.” Those ideas don’t show up until later, after the Church reflected some more on the resurrection of Christ. No, if you listen carefully to these earliest Easter stories, they all say the same thing: “Jesus is risen, therefore you have work ahead of you.”
Consider the conversation Jesus had with Mary Magdalene in today’s Gospel. Jesus doesn’t say, “Tell everyone that they’ll be resurrected just like me.” Instead, Jesus says, “Go to my brothers and say to them, “I am ascending to my father and your father, to my God and your God.’” And so Mary goes out and becomes the first Apostle to the Apostles. She announces to them, “I have seen the Lord.”
What work does God have in mind for you? Where is God calling you in your life? One way to figure that out is to think about what you are passionate about. The author Fredrick Buechner put it beautifully when he said, “God calls you to that place where your deep joy meets the world’s deep longing.” That is where you are called to be a witness to resurrection life. That is where you will be able to say with Mary, “I have seen the Lord.” Easter is a beginning, not an end. The resurrection of Jesus Christ proclaims a new kind of life, a new heaven and a new earth. Jesus is risen, therefore you have work ahead of you. May you find that deep joy within you and may you be blessed in the work which God has given you to do. Amen.
Jesus has died. There’s no mistaking that. He had suffered on the cross, watched by a lot of people, including a group of women who had followed him. They saw his body lowered from the cross and put in a tomb. They saw a big stone rolled against that tomb, and went away crying.
Mary Magdalene was one of those who had watched. As soon as the Sabbath day was over, long before dawn the next day, she went to the tomb to cry some more. There was enough light to see that the stone had been rolled back and the tomb was empty. So she ran and told Simon Peter what she had seen.
Peter went barreling out in the darkness to see for himself, with another disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, often identified with John the Evangelist. The scene is almost comical, with the young John outrunning Peter, who eventually arrived, huffing and puffing. John didn’t have the nerve to actually go into the tomb, but Peter didn’t hesitate. They both saw the cloths, but no Jesus. So they went back home, totally baffled.
Mary must have gone with them, because she stuck around to cry some more. So she is the one who has a conversation with the angels. And she is the first one to see Jesus, even though she doesn’t recognize him at first. It’s only when he calls her by name that she suddenly knows that he is the one she’s been looking for, and she holds on to him.
Each of the Gospel writers has a gripping story of the first Easter. Each one is a little different. But there are the same elements in each: the first witness to the resurrection is Mary Magdalene. The male disciples don’t believe her; they have to see for themselves. And no one seems to know what’s really going on. All of this is just what you would expect from people who have actually witnessed an event. If it were all made up, everybody’s story would be the same.
When we think of the resurrection, if we think of it at all, we often jump straight to the picture of paradise that we heard this morning in the passage from Isaiah. It was actually written during the time of Israel’s exile in Babylon, and the prophet was promising a new and much better life back in Israel. But the promise is expressed in cosmic terms: there will be a new heavens and a new earth, and a new Jerusalem. It will be a place where there will be no weeping, where people will live to old age in their own houses and eat the fruit of their own vineyards. They would be blessed by the Lord. The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. It’s a wonderful series of images. But it doesn’t much sound like earth now, does it?
And it doesn’t much sound like the Gospel stories of the resurrection, either. That’s because the resurrection of Jesus Christ was only the beginning. A new world started at Easter, and continues to embrace us through the power of the Holy Spirit, given to us at baptism. In the words of British Bishop N.T. Wright, the project that began at Easter, the defeat of sin and death, has not yet been finished. The full and final redemption of God’s good creation, and ourselves with it, will come when Jesus once again reappears.
So what’s to be done in the meantime? If you look closely at each of the resurrection stories, they don’t talk about personal hope. There’s no mention of life after death or eternal life. They don’t say, “Jesus is risen, therefore you will be too.” Those ideas don’t show up until later, after the Church reflected some more on the resurrection of Christ. No, if you listen carefully to these earliest Easter stories, they all say the same thing: “Jesus is risen, therefore you have work ahead of you.”
Consider the conversation Jesus had with Mary Magdalene in today’s Gospel. Jesus doesn’t say, “Tell everyone that they’ll be resurrected just like me.” Instead, Jesus says, “Go to my brothers and say to them, “I am ascending to my father and your father, to my God and your God.’” And so Mary goes out and becomes the first Apostle to the Apostles. She announces to them, “I have seen the Lord.”
What work does God have in mind for you? Where is God calling you in your life? One way to figure that out is to think about what you are passionate about. The author Fredrick Buechner put it beautifully when he said, “God calls you to that place where your deep joy meets the world’s deep longing.” That is where you are called to be a witness to resurrection life. That is where you will be able to say with Mary, “I have seen the Lord.” Easter is a beginning, not an end. The resurrection of Jesus Christ proclaims a new kind of life, a new heaven and a new earth. Jesus is risen, therefore you have work ahead of you. May you find that deep joy within you and may you be blessed in the work which God has given you to do. Amen.
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