“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.
Monday, October 25, 2010
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.
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