“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.
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.
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