I’ve always loved the call of Isaiah. It has so much grandeur with God seated on his throne, so much detail with the hem of God’s robe filling the temple. When the seraphim glorify God with the resounding Sanctus (“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts”), incense fills the air and everything shakes like it’s all going to come roaring down.
Isaiah is scared out of his wits, of course. He knows he’s seen too much, and can only think about how unworthy he is to be there. He remembers when the evil thoughts of his heart became words in his mouth. He’s a man of unclean lips. Rather too helpfully, one of the seraphim picks up a live coal from the altar, so red-hot he has to carry it with tongs, and touches that unclean mouth. That’ll sear away those sins! So when God issues an invitation – “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” – Isaiah can now utter the classic words of humble submission, through blistered lips: “Here am I; send me!”
The apostle Paul never got his lips burned. Yet he never quite got over the fact that he had missed the boat for so many years. All of this Jesus stuff had happened while he was in Pharisee U, and by the time he got his diploma he was ready to haul every one of those Christian misfits off to prison. God had a different idea for him, however, and it took a voice from heaven and a few days of blindness for Paul to get the point. After that there were never enough days for all of the missionary work he wanted to do, so he thought of himself as one untimely born, the last of the last to whom the risen Jesus had appeared.
Simon Peter and his buddies got burned figuratively, toiling all night and coming up with nothing. All they had in their fishing nets was muck and seaweed, and now they had to put off sleep in order to wash those nets. While they were hard at work, the wandering preacher who had healed Simon’s mother-in-law showed up again. He commandeered the boats for a better view of his congregation from out on the water. So Simon wearily obliged and took him out.
After Jesus was done preaching, he told Simon to drop the nets again. Simon protested. He was bone-weary, and didn’t want more muck on those clean nets. But then he remembered his mother-in-law, and did what he was told. This time when he pulled the nets in, there were so many fish in them that the nets began to break. Wide-eyed and fully awake now, he called James and John, his partners, to bring their boat. The fish filled both boats and then some, and they began to sink. Now Simon was scared out of his wits. He, too, knew of his sins. But instead of getting hot coals, Jesus gave him reassurance: “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.” They were so impressed that when they got back to shore, they left their boats and nets and fish behind and followed Jesus.
Blistered lips, untimely births, sinking ships. Does it take something that spectacular for God to get our attention? Unfortunately, it sometimes does. God often shows up when least expected. And when God does show up in all of God’s glory, it is overwhelming. But for Isaiah, Paul, and Simon – and for us – glory is tempered with grace: grace that forgives sins, that builds faith, that gives purpose to life. And in response to that grace, our only faithful response is Isaiah’s: “Here am I; send me.”
Epiphany 5: Isaiah 6:1-8; Psalm 138; 1 Corinthians 15:1-11; Luke 5:1-11.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Hearing Things
What would you do if someone came to you and said, “God spoke to me and said such-and-such”? No one has yet come to me with that statement, but I already know that I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand. I’d want to hear more. If he or she was truly hearing voices, or a Voice, it would be essential to determine whether the next step is a psychiatric evaluation or spiritual direction. Just because we live in a post-Enlightenment world doesn’t mean that God is now voiceless.
The prophet Jeremiah doesn’t come right out and say that he heard a Voice, but it’s clear that he has a conversation going with God. “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you,” says the word of the Lord. It’s a commission to go out and be a prophet. Like Moses, Jeremiah objects; unlike Moses, he runs out of objections pretty quickly. I’m only a boy, he says. But God replies, don’t say that! I will send you, and you will speak whatever I command you. [Note to those in my parish: God makes no reference to frontal lobe development.] Action swiftly follows words, for God touches Jeremiah’s lips and puts the words in his mouth. He got off easier than Isaiah, who had a hot glowing coal put on his lips.
“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you.” God knows Jeremiah better and more thoroughly that the prophet knows himself. That’s a promise that God makes to all of us, whether we like it or not. If you can make it through the thirteenth chapter of Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians without recalling every wedding at which you heard it read, without getting caught up in love, love, love, love, love, then you’ll hear those wonderful verses: “For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I am fully known.” This is the same state of being fully known that Jeremiah experienced, at the deepest and most intimate level. Most importantly, it is being accepted and loved at that level as well.
One of the works of Bernard of Clairvaux that I come back to again and again is “On Loving God” (De Diligendo Deo). In it he talks about the four degrees of love. The fourth degree, which few souls on this side of heaven attain, is loving oneself for the sake of God. It is to be totally immersed in God, to fully know as we are fully known. As Bernard says of such blessed people, “they are wholly immersed in that sea of eternal light and bright eternity.”
The danger in being so blessed – or in hearing voices – is that we can become transfixed on our vertical relationship with God. But that is not enough. We are called to love God and our neighbor. The relationship needs to be both vertical and horizontal. As Teresa of Ávila once wrote, no doubt thinking about her fractious convent, it’s a lot easier to tell if you’re growing in love of your neighbor than growing in love of God. It’s a lesson that’s hard to learn, and one that people don’t like to hear. Jeremiah was friendless because of his prophecies. Jesus was almost thrown over a cliff by the hometown crowd. Only that connection with God, that being fully known, kept them going. Sometimes it is only the promise of being full known, being fully loved, that will sustain us. “So faith, hope, love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.”
4 Epiphany: Jeremiah 1:4-10; Psalm 71:1-6; 1 Corinthians 13:1-13; Luke 4:21-30.
The prophet Jeremiah doesn’t come right out and say that he heard a Voice, but it’s clear that he has a conversation going with God. “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you,” says the word of the Lord. It’s a commission to go out and be a prophet. Like Moses, Jeremiah objects; unlike Moses, he runs out of objections pretty quickly. I’m only a boy, he says. But God replies, don’t say that! I will send you, and you will speak whatever I command you. [Note to those in my parish: God makes no reference to frontal lobe development.] Action swiftly follows words, for God touches Jeremiah’s lips and puts the words in his mouth. He got off easier than Isaiah, who had a hot glowing coal put on his lips.
“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you.” God knows Jeremiah better and more thoroughly that the prophet knows himself. That’s a promise that God makes to all of us, whether we like it or not. If you can make it through the thirteenth chapter of Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians without recalling every wedding at which you heard it read, without getting caught up in love, love, love, love, love, then you’ll hear those wonderful verses: “For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I am fully known.” This is the same state of being fully known that Jeremiah experienced, at the deepest and most intimate level. Most importantly, it is being accepted and loved at that level as well.
One of the works of Bernard of Clairvaux that I come back to again and again is “On Loving God” (De Diligendo Deo). In it he talks about the four degrees of love. The fourth degree, which few souls on this side of heaven attain, is loving oneself for the sake of God. It is to be totally immersed in God, to fully know as we are fully known. As Bernard says of such blessed people, “they are wholly immersed in that sea of eternal light and bright eternity.”
The danger in being so blessed – or in hearing voices – is that we can become transfixed on our vertical relationship with God. But that is not enough. We are called to love God and our neighbor. The relationship needs to be both vertical and horizontal. As Teresa of Ávila once wrote, no doubt thinking about her fractious convent, it’s a lot easier to tell if you’re growing in love of your neighbor than growing in love of God. It’s a lesson that’s hard to learn, and one that people don’t like to hear. Jeremiah was friendless because of his prophecies. Jesus was almost thrown over a cliff by the hometown crowd. Only that connection with God, that being fully known, kept them going. Sometimes it is only the promise of being full known, being fully loved, that will sustain us. “So faith, hope, love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.”
4 Epiphany: Jeremiah 1:4-10; Psalm 71:1-6; 1 Corinthians 13:1-13; Luke 4:21-30.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Making Comments
If you want to comment on any of these blog entries, it's easy. At the bottom of the entry you'll see # comments. Click on this and a comment page shows up. Type in your comment and preview it if you like. You can sign your name or use Anonymous. Before you can post the comment, you'll have to type the wavy letters in the space provided (which proves that there's a real human being involved). That's all there is to it! You might start a conversation or discussion. And the author (me) will know that someone in cyberspace is reading. I'm looking forward to seeing what you have to say!
Monday, January 18, 2010
We Are All One Body
Three views of the unity of people of faith are given to us this week. In Nehemiah all those who have returned to Jerusalem from exile are standing in the rebuilt city as Ezra reads the book of the law to them. It’s a book they no longer understand, so a group of translators with unpronounceable names interpret as Ezra reads. The law they hear is one of promise but also judgment, and they weep.
In his first letter to the Corinthians, Paul compares the church, the Body of Christ, to a human body. Just as no part of a human can go it on its own, or ignore the other parts, so the Body of Christ is made up of interdependent members. The Corinthians were a notoriously fractious group, and Paul is anxious to convince them that they really need one another. Immediately after Sunday’s passage comes the wonderful paean to love in chapter 13, which we’ll get to hear next week.
Finally, Jesus returns to his home and is invited to speak at the synagogue on the Sabbath. This won’t turn out too well, as we’ll also see next week, but for now everything is going smoothly. “Hometown Boy Makes Good,” the Nazareth Hawk Eye editor might be thinking.
Three views of people of faith, all of which interlock with one another. Unity is the common denominator in Nehemiah. All the people gathered together in the square. The ears of all the people were attentive as Ezra opened the book in the sight of all the people. They all stood up, they all said “amen, amen,” they all wept. The writer is stressing the corporate character of what went on. Is this hyperbole? Perhaps – although if you’ve seen images of Middle Eastern men bowing in unison in mosques, it may not be far from the mark.
Even in unity there is diversity, however, and where people are different, some will inevitably think that they are better and more indispensable than others. That’s the battle Paul was fighting in Corinth. By using the human body as a metaphor, he created an easily understood appeal for interdependence. In The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, Oliver Sacks writes about a neurological condition where parts of the body are no longer recognized as “self.” One man kept falling out of bed because he tried to throw his “alien” leg on the floor. I’m really glad that I’m not at a church that works that way!
The most wonderful verse in this week’s Gospel is, “The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on [Jesus].” That completes the view of people of Christian faith: eyes fixed on Jesus. With eyes fixed on Jesus, we truly see the Body of Christ. We see the Scripture being fulfilled in our hearing. We see how God has appointed apostles, prophets, teachers in the church, gifts of healing, forms of leadership, forms of assistance, and the like. We see each part of the church as self rather than aliens. We don’t all bow in unison – at least not Episcopalians! – yet the union and unity we share in Christ remains. In this month of parish annual meetings, that is something to celebrate.
Third Sunday after Epiphany: Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10; Psalm 19; 1 Corinthians 12:12-31a; Luke 4:14-21.
In his first letter to the Corinthians, Paul compares the church, the Body of Christ, to a human body. Just as no part of a human can go it on its own, or ignore the other parts, so the Body of Christ is made up of interdependent members. The Corinthians were a notoriously fractious group, and Paul is anxious to convince them that they really need one another. Immediately after Sunday’s passage comes the wonderful paean to love in chapter 13, which we’ll get to hear next week.
Finally, Jesus returns to his home and is invited to speak at the synagogue on the Sabbath. This won’t turn out too well, as we’ll also see next week, but for now everything is going smoothly. “Hometown Boy Makes Good,” the Nazareth Hawk Eye editor might be thinking.
Three views of people of faith, all of which interlock with one another. Unity is the common denominator in Nehemiah. All the people gathered together in the square. The ears of all the people were attentive as Ezra opened the book in the sight of all the people. They all stood up, they all said “amen, amen,” they all wept. The writer is stressing the corporate character of what went on. Is this hyperbole? Perhaps – although if you’ve seen images of Middle Eastern men bowing in unison in mosques, it may not be far from the mark.
Even in unity there is diversity, however, and where people are different, some will inevitably think that they are better and more indispensable than others. That’s the battle Paul was fighting in Corinth. By using the human body as a metaphor, he created an easily understood appeal for interdependence. In The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, Oliver Sacks writes about a neurological condition where parts of the body are no longer recognized as “self.” One man kept falling out of bed because he tried to throw his “alien” leg on the floor. I’m really glad that I’m not at a church that works that way!
The most wonderful verse in this week’s Gospel is, “The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on [Jesus].” That completes the view of people of Christian faith: eyes fixed on Jesus. With eyes fixed on Jesus, we truly see the Body of Christ. We see the Scripture being fulfilled in our hearing. We see how God has appointed apostles, prophets, teachers in the church, gifts of healing, forms of leadership, forms of assistance, and the like. We see each part of the church as self rather than aliens. We don’t all bow in unison – at least not Episcopalians! – yet the union and unity we share in Christ remains. In this month of parish annual meetings, that is something to celebrate.
Third Sunday after Epiphany: Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, 8-10; Psalm 19; 1 Corinthians 12:12-31a; Luke 4:14-21.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Fleeing by Night
A time-honored way to meditate on Scripture is lectio divina, a phrase often left untranslated because it is more than just divine or spiritual reading. It’s a way of savoring the language, reading slowly, allowing the words to sink in and roll around and resonate, to pause when something strikes you and then resume reading when the echoes die out. It’s hard work, especially for those of us who have trained ourselves to read quickly so that we can read much. Even under the best conditions I find myself whipping through verses so I can get on to the next project.
That’s why I like reading Scripture in another language. I’m forced to slow down. It does help at least to know what the words mean; lectio is not so effective with a Bible in one hand and a dictionary in the other. I’ve discovered that after I’ve worked my way through a bit of the Greek NT, I retain enough vocabulary to read the Gospel slowly and chew it.
What stopped me this week were two words: pheuge and nuctos: flee by night. “Arise” says the angel to Joseph in a dream. “Take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt.” And arising, he took the child and his mother by night and went to Egypt. Unlike Luke’s angel, who calmed everyone after his frightening appearance, the angel in Matthew’s story creates fear, so much so that Joseph runs away at night with mother and child in tow. No bucolic stable scene with sleepy lambs and adoring shepherds here. Just wild-eyed fear. Herod’s about to kill all the infants in a vain attempt to eliminate the competition. (We won’t actually hear those gruesome verses on Sunday.)
So fear shows up right at the birth of the Savior of the world. Perhaps that’s appropriate; fear dominates much of our lives, also. Every time a person botches an attempt to blow himself up there’s havoc for millions of air travelers. Hand sanitizers are routinely used in households with babies and there are now anti-MRSA sprays for pets. Never mind that immune systems need challenges to develop fully, and that indiscriminate use of anti-microbials promotes bacterial resistance. We’re afraid. Fear sells newspapers, boosts ratings, wins elections.
Joseph’s fear was real, and as Herod’s subsequent actions proved, it was justified as well. Joseph was so afraid that even after Herod died he zipped right through Judea to Galilee in order to avoid Herod’s son. One gets the impression that Joseph was happy to reach an obscure hamlet where no one would find them. Of course, all that would change once the baby grew up, but by that time Joseph seems to have disappeared from the scene.
Fear is not and never is the last word because of that baby, even if fear surrounded his first weeks. And it should not be the last word for us, either. God calls us to hope, not fear. The letter to the Ephesians prays that God may give us a spirit of wisdom and revelation so that we may know the hope to which God calls us, “what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe.” Joseph didn’t live to see that. But we have. Shouldn’t we be living in that hope rather than fleeing by night? Shouldn’t we be listening to the angel who said, “Do not be afraid”?
Christmas 2: Jeremiah 31:7-14; Psalm 84; Ephesians 1:3-6, 15-19a; Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23.
That’s why I like reading Scripture in another language. I’m forced to slow down. It does help at least to know what the words mean; lectio is not so effective with a Bible in one hand and a dictionary in the other. I’ve discovered that after I’ve worked my way through a bit of the Greek NT, I retain enough vocabulary to read the Gospel slowly and chew it.
What stopped me this week were two words: pheuge and nuctos: flee by night. “Arise” says the angel to Joseph in a dream. “Take the child and his mother and flee to Egypt.” And arising, he took the child and his mother by night and went to Egypt. Unlike Luke’s angel, who calmed everyone after his frightening appearance, the angel in Matthew’s story creates fear, so much so that Joseph runs away at night with mother and child in tow. No bucolic stable scene with sleepy lambs and adoring shepherds here. Just wild-eyed fear. Herod’s about to kill all the infants in a vain attempt to eliminate the competition. (We won’t actually hear those gruesome verses on Sunday.)
So fear shows up right at the birth of the Savior of the world. Perhaps that’s appropriate; fear dominates much of our lives, also. Every time a person botches an attempt to blow himself up there’s havoc for millions of air travelers. Hand sanitizers are routinely used in households with babies and there are now anti-MRSA sprays for pets. Never mind that immune systems need challenges to develop fully, and that indiscriminate use of anti-microbials promotes bacterial resistance. We’re afraid. Fear sells newspapers, boosts ratings, wins elections.
Joseph’s fear was real, and as Herod’s subsequent actions proved, it was justified as well. Joseph was so afraid that even after Herod died he zipped right through Judea to Galilee in order to avoid Herod’s son. One gets the impression that Joseph was happy to reach an obscure hamlet where no one would find them. Of course, all that would change once the baby grew up, but by that time Joseph seems to have disappeared from the scene.
Fear is not and never is the last word because of that baby, even if fear surrounded his first weeks. And it should not be the last word for us, either. God calls us to hope, not fear. The letter to the Ephesians prays that God may give us a spirit of wisdom and revelation so that we may know the hope to which God calls us, “what are the riches of his glorious inheritance among the saints, and what is the immeasurable greatness of his power for us who believe.” Joseph didn’t live to see that. But we have. Shouldn’t we be living in that hope rather than fleeing by night? Shouldn’t we be listening to the angel who said, “Do not be afraid”?
Christmas 2: Jeremiah 31:7-14; Psalm 84; Ephesians 1:3-6, 15-19a; Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Magnificat
Languages fascinate me because they reveal how people think, and what is important to them. The Inuit, for instance, have many words for snow because it is a major part of their lives, and subtle differences in frozen water tell them a lot about current conditions. Learning both Greek and Hebrew was a real eye-opener for me. Not only did I have more direct access to the Bible, but I finally began to understand the differences between the two cultures. Biblical Hebrew is structurally simple with a limited vocabulary that is very earthy and concrete, the language of herders and farmers. Greek is far more complex and subtle, befitting a people who lived and breathed philosophy. Latin is complex, too, but more legalistic and less philosophical.
In my second year of Hebrew studies, the instructor had us translate a chapter of Genesis a week. So when I first looked through the Septuagint, the second-century B.C. Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, it was all wrong. How could Genesis ever be authentic in Greek? Sadly, I put the book back on the shelf. The Septuagint is a valuable source for understanding subtleties of interpretation that can’t be revealed in Hebrew, but I’m just not interested in being that scholarly. If I’m going to pull my hair out translating, I’d rather lose it for the original language.
This past week I translated Luke 1:39-55 from Greek, a passage that includes the song of Mary called the Magnificat. And it was all wrong. It needs to be in Latin, at least, if not Elizabethan English. Mary probably spoke Aramaic, but that would be worse. Here we have a problem that has nothing to do with the original language, but rather familiarity. I should have figured that “My soul doth magnify” would only work with Magnificat anima mea, something I have sung numerous times. The Greek translates to “My self/inmost life enlarges/praises.” Try to set that to music, J.S. Bach!
So language not only reveals how we think; it limits it as well. The Roman church never could figure out why the Greeks were all worked up over whether the Son was homoousios or homoiousios to the Father. Isn’t “of one being” (consubstantialem) good enough? Does it matter that I hear the Magnificat in Latin? No, as long as I don’t get so wrapped up in languages that I miss the heart of it, the world turned upside down. When Mary sings, the arrogant are scattered, rulers are thrown down, the rich are sent packing empty-handed – and the humble are lifted up and the hungry are filled. God’s name is holy, and God’s mercy goes on forever. Fortunately for us humans, that’s the same no matter what language we speak.
Advent 4, Year C: Micah 5:2-5a; Canticle 15 (the Magnificat); Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-55.
In my second year of Hebrew studies, the instructor had us translate a chapter of Genesis a week. So when I first looked through the Septuagint, the second-century B.C. Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, it was all wrong. How could Genesis ever be authentic in Greek? Sadly, I put the book back on the shelf. The Septuagint is a valuable source for understanding subtleties of interpretation that can’t be revealed in Hebrew, but I’m just not interested in being that scholarly. If I’m going to pull my hair out translating, I’d rather lose it for the original language.
This past week I translated Luke 1:39-55 from Greek, a passage that includes the song of Mary called the Magnificat. And it was all wrong. It needs to be in Latin, at least, if not Elizabethan English. Mary probably spoke Aramaic, but that would be worse. Here we have a problem that has nothing to do with the original language, but rather familiarity. I should have figured that “My soul doth magnify” would only work with Magnificat anima mea, something I have sung numerous times. The Greek translates to “My self/inmost life enlarges/praises.” Try to set that to music, J.S. Bach!
So language not only reveals how we think; it limits it as well. The Roman church never could figure out why the Greeks were all worked up over whether the Son was homoousios or homoiousios to the Father. Isn’t “of one being” (consubstantialem) good enough? Does it matter that I hear the Magnificat in Latin? No, as long as I don’t get so wrapped up in languages that I miss the heart of it, the world turned upside down. When Mary sings, the arrogant are scattered, rulers are thrown down, the rich are sent packing empty-handed – and the humble are lifted up and the hungry are filled. God’s name is holy, and God’s mercy goes on forever. Fortunately for us humans, that’s the same no matter what language we speak.
Advent 4, Year C: Micah 5:2-5a; Canticle 15 (the Magnificat); Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-55.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Unquenchable Joy
“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:4-7).
Always one of my favorite passages, this one took on even more meaning for me five years ago when my oldest brother chose it for his funeral – and asked me to preach. That someone would want it at his funeral says a lot about the strength and joy and perseverance of faith of that person. The same can be said about St. Paul, who wrote it while he was in prison. His letter to the Philippians not only reveals his abiding love for them, but also how much Jesus Christ had transformed him from a man breathing threats and murder to someone who lived and breathed the love of Christ.
How different John the Baptist seems! “”You brood of vipers!” was his greeting to those who came out to see him. “Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?” Trembling, people came up and asked what they should do to avoid the terror he predicts. His responses are all economic: share what you have, don’t cheat, don’t blackmail, don’t shake people down. Be content with your wages. And if you think my message is hard, there’s one coming with an even harder message. He’ll baptize you with fire, not water, and if you end up being chaff, the fire will be unquenchable (“asbestos” in Greek). This is called “proclaiming good news to the people.” Hah! If that’s good news, who wants any part of it? For the cold and hungry and cheated it’s great news, but what about everyone else? Are they chaff?
Recently a new clergy study group formed to look at the weekly lectionary readings. It’s a good mix of Lutherans and Methodists with a couple of others (UCC and me). I think denominations exist because of the many ways in which humans experience God. Some people live more in their heads, favoring intellectual analysis. Some are practical, wanting applications to everyday life. Some are experiential. Anglicanism, having a big tent (or at least trying to), can encompass all of these. I did notice that when I went on a bit about the incredible and overflowing joy that flows out of Paul’s letter to the Philippians, no one said “Yes, yes!” but merely observed that it was a good text to create joy in a community.
So there you have three approaches: the peace of God that surpasses all understanding, a brood of vipers, or a useful text. Which do you choose? Only one speaks to my heart, and that is the first. I will take John’s “asbestos,” but attach it to another word: unquenchable joy. That is what faith in Jesus Christ brings, a faith well known to St. Paul and to my brother, Dick. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.
Advent 2: Zephaniah 3:14-20; Third Song of Isaiah (Canticle 9 in the BCP); Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:7-18.
Always one of my favorite passages, this one took on even more meaning for me five years ago when my oldest brother chose it for his funeral – and asked me to preach. That someone would want it at his funeral says a lot about the strength and joy and perseverance of faith of that person. The same can be said about St. Paul, who wrote it while he was in prison. His letter to the Philippians not only reveals his abiding love for them, but also how much Jesus Christ had transformed him from a man breathing threats and murder to someone who lived and breathed the love of Christ.
How different John the Baptist seems! “”You brood of vipers!” was his greeting to those who came out to see him. “Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?” Trembling, people came up and asked what they should do to avoid the terror he predicts. His responses are all economic: share what you have, don’t cheat, don’t blackmail, don’t shake people down. Be content with your wages. And if you think my message is hard, there’s one coming with an even harder message. He’ll baptize you with fire, not water, and if you end up being chaff, the fire will be unquenchable (“asbestos” in Greek). This is called “proclaiming good news to the people.” Hah! If that’s good news, who wants any part of it? For the cold and hungry and cheated it’s great news, but what about everyone else? Are they chaff?
Recently a new clergy study group formed to look at the weekly lectionary readings. It’s a good mix of Lutherans and Methodists with a couple of others (UCC and me). I think denominations exist because of the many ways in which humans experience God. Some people live more in their heads, favoring intellectual analysis. Some are practical, wanting applications to everyday life. Some are experiential. Anglicanism, having a big tent (or at least trying to), can encompass all of these. I did notice that when I went on a bit about the incredible and overflowing joy that flows out of Paul’s letter to the Philippians, no one said “Yes, yes!” but merely observed that it was a good text to create joy in a community.
So there you have three approaches: the peace of God that surpasses all understanding, a brood of vipers, or a useful text. Which do you choose? Only one speaks to my heart, and that is the first. I will take John’s “asbestos,” but attach it to another word: unquenchable joy. That is what faith in Jesus Christ brings, a faith well known to St. Paul and to my brother, Dick. Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.
Advent 2: Zephaniah 3:14-20; Third Song of Isaiah (Canticle 9 in the BCP); Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:7-18.
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