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.

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.

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.

Earth Movers

When was the last time you read the apocryphal book of Baruch? Have you ever? Do you know who Baruch was? One of my many Jewish friends in high school was named Baruch. At the time I didn’t know that he was named for the prophet Jeremiah’s secretary, who had to write Jeremiah’s words down more than once because an angry king burned the scrolls.

I’ve always been a bit leery of the Apocrypha – if the Jews didn’t want that stuff in their Bible, why should we? So I was surprised to find echoes of Isaiah in Baruch, making hills low and filling up valleys so that the people of Israel could walk on level ground. And what beautiful imagery! “The woods and every fragrant tree have shaded Israel at God’s command…For God will lead Israel with joy, in the light of his glory.” It’s not nearly as familiar as Isaiah 40, which shows up in Year B’s Advent (and Handel’s Messiah), but still nice.

And it’s a good parallel to Luke’s description of earth moving in the Gospel for Advent 2. I finally had time to translate the Sunday Gospel from Greek, frustrating but well worth it (although it does make the parish administrator wonder about the exasperated muttering coming from my office). Luke is so careful to set his story in real time. No “once upon a time” for him! He also introduces us gradually to John the Baptist, who simply bursts on the scene in Mark.

The big word for John (or JBap, as we call him at home) is metanoia, usually translated as repentance. Curiously, it’s a word that hardly ever shows up in the Old Testament, and for the Greeks it had the rather mild connotation of changing one’s mind. For John, however, and for Jesus after him, it’s a life-changing conversion, a total turning toward God and away from sin, something that affects all of life and conduct. As we will see next week, with JBap that inner change must find outward expression in acts of love.

Metanoia with John is pretty stern stuff. It doesn’t seem to be tempered with mercy. Jesus, being fully divine as well as fully human, knew how to being God’s mercy into the picture. Even though they both had the same message of repentance, John’s is based on Law and Jesus’ is on the Gospel. And that makes all the difference. Ultimately, the message of Jesus is one of joy.

Recently I preached at an ecumenical Thanksgiving service at an Assembly of God church. Before I spoke, a young man witnessed to everyone how he had turned to Jesus from a life of alcohol and drugs. My message was not nearly as powerful as that. He had leveled mountains and filled valleys. I had moved a bit of dirt. Yet God was at work in both of us. Both of us had experienced an inward change; both were finding outward expressions of God’s grace. God was leading us both with joy, in the light of his glory. I think I’ll take repentance from Jesus any day.

Advent 2: Baruch 5:1-9; Song of Zechariah (BCP Canticle 16); Philippians 1:3-11; Luke 3:1-6. Most of what I learned about metanoia came from Geoffrey Bromiley’s one-volume abridgement of the Theological Dictionary of the New Testament.

Advent Reading

A dear priest friend once told me that he reads Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Letters and Papers from Prison every Advent. Having done so a couple of times, I know why – Bonhoeffer is wonderfully reflective and focused on the meaning of his Christian faith. Advent is a time of waiting, preparing us for encountering God through the birth of Jesus but also anticipating the end times. Bonhoeffer was also waiting for his end, which came shortly before his prison was liberated from the Nazis.

Bonhoeffer’s Life Together is also a good Advent read, a shorter book that I would recommend to anyone who lives in community (Christian, academic, or otherwise). A reviewer says that “it reads like one of Paul’s letters.” One of my favorite quotations from it is “A day at a time is long enough to sustain one’s faith; the next day will have its own cares.” I’d also recommend Margaret Guenther’s The Practice of Prayer, volume four in The New Church’s Teaching Series.

And there’s always the Daily Office as a daily discipline to start the new church year. On Advent 1 Year Two begins (BCP, p. 937). The Gospel reading in Matthew picks up where Year One ended, in chapter 21 with Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, but ends before Jesus is arrested. I can think of no better way to prepare for Christmas than to spend some time each day with Scripture, even if you choose not to do the rest of the office. As Bonhoeffer says, focus on the day at hand; let tomorrow worry about itself (Matthew 6:34).

Green World

If I write a lot about the natural world, it’s because it always has been part of my life, even when I was growing up surrounded by millions of people. The churchyard next to our house had just enough space for some grass and trees and a fish pond (which I fell into as a child, somehow not getting bitten by its resident snapping turtle). My parents liked Saturday walks and Sunday drives in the country, so I was immersed in the smells and sounds and sights of each season as it progressed.

I was fortunate enough to enter a profession that paid me to take walks in the woods. Yet I quickly discovered that many of my students didn’t have a lot of outdoor experience unless they grew up on a farm or were avid hunters. They could not read the sky or see differences in plants or find tracks until I taught them how. And then a new world opened up, and they started telling the same stories about me that I had told about my botany teacher: “He can pick up a dead stick in winter and tell you what it came from!”

This loss of natural knowledge is a great loss, one that some find alarming. For people of faith, it can make the Bible that much more obscure. Some references are universal: surely everyone knows that when “the fig tree and all the trees…sprout leaves…summer is near.” But what about all of those wonderful references to the living world in Psalm 104? Or Jesus’ references to signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars? If we do not know what the sun, moon, and stars usually do, how can we read them?

This Sunday we begin another church year, another year of telling the story of God’s love for us. For me, at least, the experience of that love has come through living things as much as it has come through people. My Green Bible highlights Jesus’ comments about signs in the sky, but not the trees sprouting leaves. Why not? Apparently these trees did not illustrate the Green Project’s “core mission.” Fortunately for us, trees do appear to have been part of God’s “core mission” of creation, God’s ongoing and intimate relationship with the world that Jesus came to redeem. “Remember, O Lord, your compassion and love,” the psalmist writes, “for they are from everlasting…All the paths of the Lord are love and faithfulness to those who keep his covenant and his testimonies.”

Someone asked me in church if I’m going to put suggestions for Advent spiritual disciplines on this blog. I’m still chewing on that. For now, at least, I commend to you Jesus’ admonition to “be alert at all times.” Be alert to the natural world around you, but also be alert to what weighs you down, “the worries of this life,”, so that you may know that joy and peace of God that passes all understanding. Search for the place deep within where God comes to you in peace. Watch the sky. Listen to the crows. Prepare yourself once again for Jesus to be born in your heart.

Advent 1: Jeremiah 33:14-16; Psalm 25:1-9; 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13; Luke 21:25-36.

The Sun Rising on a Cloudless Morning

Nearly every morning since we moved into our new house last July, I have arisen a great while before day so that I could finish prayers in time to see the sun rise. I walk up our street, turn the corner, and enter a bike path that goes due east over a highway and into the fields beyond. On the very clearest mornings I see something I first experienced at sunrise on Lake Michigan: the horizon where the sun will first appear gets intensely clear. In Chicago I could see individual waves miles from shore; in Iowa each distant tassel of corn becomes clear and sharp. Then suddenly there is a sharp flash of light, and a new day has begun.

Some of the clearest mornings come after a storm has passed through, when the clouds have been swept away and all that is left is the wet land. The sun is more welcome on such days, brighter, more intense. Those are the days I think of when I read in the First Book of Samuel, “One who rules over people justly, ruling in the fear of God, is like the light of morning, like the sun rising on a cloudless morning, gleaming from the rain on a grassy land.” A just ruler brings brightness and clarity to the people, the brightness of God.

Few, if any, rulers fulfill that promise. Those in whom we may put our faith at one time (such as Hamid Karzai of Afghanistan), we later come to doubt. Many of our Presidents have undoubtedly ruled in the fear of God, but even those who say that they are led by God find that what they have done creates more murkiness than clarity. It just isn’t that easy. The “last words of David” found in Samuel’s book are more hope than reality.

That is why we put our hope in Jesus Christ. Only in Jesus do we find that sharply revealing light, the sword that divides soul from spirit, joint from marrow (to mix metaphors). That is why the writers of the New Testament saw Jesus as the ideal and final king, and why many Christian churches celebrate Christ the King Sunday on the last Sunday of the Pentecost season.

It some circles it is no longer fashionable to speak of Christ the King; it is too imperialist, or undemocratic, or whatever. These same circles choose not to interpret the Hebrew Bible in the same way that the first Christians did, seeing glimmers and foreshadowing of the coming of Jesus. I do have some sympathy with that; Jews have been interpreting their Scriptures longer than Christians have, and we need to honor that. But what Christian hears in Psalm 132 “A son, the fruit of your body will I set upon your throne” and does not quickly move past Solomon to think of a messianic king, he whose appearance is foretold in those same Hebrew Scriptures? Who does not think of the Messiah revealed to us as Jesus Christ?

Only Jesus can rule as God would rule, with the utter clarity of the sun rising on a cloudless morning. Only Jesus can illuminate the smallest movements within our souls, bringing them to light. Only Jesus can testify to the truth that comes from God. “To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father, to him be glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen.”

Last Pentecost: 2 Samuel 23:1-7; Psalm 132; Revelation 1:4b-8; John 18:33-37.