Before R’s parents reached the age where they don’t travel much, they used to visit us a couple of times a year. They drove a big old gas-guzzler, so they couldn’t do a round trip from Chicago without having to fill up their gas tank. My father-in-law was always determined to find a gas station that sold “pure gas” – which meant no ethanol. In a state like Iowa with ethanol subsidies and lots of corn, that was hard to find. For months afterward, whenever we compared our gas prices with Chicago’s, he would say “Is that for pure gas? I only use pure gas.”
Purity is not something I normally associate with gasoline, although perhaps I should; occasionally cut-rate stations illegally water down their gas to sell it more cheaply. Purity in food is a more common goal. We all want to be sure that our food doesn’t have any “unexpected” ingredients. Yet food purity is not just about what’s in it; there can be a moral quality associated with how it is produced. If you doubt that, ask someone who is about to buy free-range chicken if they’ve ever tried potted meat food product. (Yes, such a thing exists. I admit that one of my favorite foods, Philadelphia scrapple, is not far from it.)
The Apostle Paul had the moral quality of food in mind when he wrote his first letter to the Corinthians. Paul wasn’t concerned about the diet or living conditions of the food animals; he focused on the meat’s origin. In first-century Corinth, most meat came from animals sacrificed in pagan temples. Because temple dining areas, like modern parish halls, could be rented out for secular occasions, banquets might be held right next to where idols were worshipped. This scandalized some Christians who may have only recently converted from paganism.
Paul’s argument with the Corinthians was not so much about the meat’s ritual purity – he knew that idols do not have any real existence – but rather with those who cared nothing for anyone who might be offended. The “strong” ones thought themselves better than the “weak” ones because they had “knowledge” that the idols were nothing. They had impurity of motive. Rather than show off their knowledge, Paul wrote, they should refrain from eating such meat if it wounded the conscience of a fellow Christian.
Jesus dealt with a different kind of purity when a man with an “unclean spirit” crashed a synagogue service and accosted him. Typically for the Gospel of Mark, the spirit called Jesus the Son of God; no human will do so until after the crucifixion. Jesus rebuked the spirit and it convulsed the man, finally coming out. Today we would have a more naturalistic explanation for what happened, even though we still might say that the man was “out of his mind.” The success Jesus had amazed all who were present. They knew that there was some new power in the neighborhood, although they never did quite figure out what it was. This was only the first of many times that Jesus would purify someone considered unclean. With him, purity was contagious instead of the other way around.
My father-in-law wasn’t particularly interested in spirits or who cared about what he ate. He just knew he didn’t want any ethanol in his gas tank. I’m glad we don’t have that particular conversation any more, and I’m glad that there are agencies like the FDA to keep an eye on the food we eat. Yet I have to remind myself to be aware of how others interpret what I do, especially those things that are of little concern to me but may weigh on the consciences of others. And I especially have to work on discerning spirits, to know what comes from the Spirit of God and what does not. Both of those are essential to the life of faith. And both are a whole lot more important than what kind of gas I put in my car.
[Epiphany 4: 1 Corinthians 8:1-13; Mark 1:21-28. I recognize that connecting gasoline with these readings is a stretch, but we are having our annual parish meeting this Sunday, and I could not resist the temptation to use the title “Pure Gas.”]
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Believe in the Good News
Mention the prophet Jonah and many people think of a whale. (He actually was in the belly of a fish.) Hardly anyone remembers his message. We get to hear it Sunday: he calls on the city of Nineveh to repent. Jonah’s preaching was so successful that everyone put on sackcloth – even the cattle, an amusing detail omitted from the reading. Because of that, God “changed his mind about the calamity” he was planning. God’s purpose did not change: God still desired repentance, that everyone would turn toward God.
The Apostle Paul thought there wasn’t much time left to repent. He lived with the daily expectation of the return of Christ, and counseled others to do the same. His expressed that hope in ways that seem foreign to us. All of his examples are to act as though you’re not doing what you’re doing, like living as though not married or mourning. Today we would use different language: live lightly, or with detachment. The basic idea is the same, however; one’s relationship with Christ should be primary.
We see that illustrated when Jesus calls his first disciples. He finds two sets of brothers – Simon Peter and Andrew, and later James and John, the sons of Zebedee – and calls them away from their livelihood and their families. They immediately go with him to become “fishers of people.”
Their departure happens so abruptly that interpreters are tempted to suggest some previous encounter with Jesus. There’s a hint of that in John’s Gospel, but Mark is intent on showing just what it means to be a disciple of Christ. It means leaving everything behind. Perhaps in his enthusiasm Mark overstated his case. Peter still visits his mother-in-law, some disciples still own boats, and there’s a post-resurrection scene (also in John’s Gospel) where the foursome has returned to fishing.
How do putting on sackcloth, living as though you’re not doing what you’re doing, and leaving everything behind become the good news of God? They are tied together by the message of Jesus: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” “To declare that God’s kingship has come near is to say that God is now fulfilling his agelong purpose,” as one commentator puts it. It’s the purpose seen in Jonah, drawing all people toward God. Paul wants everyone to live within that time of fulfillment, God’s time, eternity breaking into human time. Experiencing the kingdom in the person of Jesus is what causes Simon, Andrew, James, and John to leave everything behind and follow.
The kingdom of God has indeed come to us through Jesus Christ. It is already here, but not yet fully arrived, waiting for the return of Christ. “Already/not yet” is the central paradox of the kingdom of God. Where does that leave us? In the in-between time. Everything has changed because of Jesus, yet life still looks the same and time seems no different. It is only through the eyes of faith that we see a different world dwelling in eternity. It is that vision of the good news that enables us to live lightly, to live in hope, to live in the knowledge that new life comes to us through Jesus Christ.
[3 Epiphany: Jonah 3:1-5, 10; 1 Corinthians 7:29-31; Mark 1:14-20. The commentary quotation is from The Gospel of Mark by N.T. France.]
The Apostle Paul thought there wasn’t much time left to repent. He lived with the daily expectation of the return of Christ, and counseled others to do the same. His expressed that hope in ways that seem foreign to us. All of his examples are to act as though you’re not doing what you’re doing, like living as though not married or mourning. Today we would use different language: live lightly, or with detachment. The basic idea is the same, however; one’s relationship with Christ should be primary.
We see that illustrated when Jesus calls his first disciples. He finds two sets of brothers – Simon Peter and Andrew, and later James and John, the sons of Zebedee – and calls them away from their livelihood and their families. They immediately go with him to become “fishers of people.”
Their departure happens so abruptly that interpreters are tempted to suggest some previous encounter with Jesus. There’s a hint of that in John’s Gospel, but Mark is intent on showing just what it means to be a disciple of Christ. It means leaving everything behind. Perhaps in his enthusiasm Mark overstated his case. Peter still visits his mother-in-law, some disciples still own boats, and there’s a post-resurrection scene (also in John’s Gospel) where the foursome has returned to fishing.
How do putting on sackcloth, living as though you’re not doing what you’re doing, and leaving everything behind become the good news of God? They are tied together by the message of Jesus: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” “To declare that God’s kingship has come near is to say that God is now fulfilling his agelong purpose,” as one commentator puts it. It’s the purpose seen in Jonah, drawing all people toward God. Paul wants everyone to live within that time of fulfillment, God’s time, eternity breaking into human time. Experiencing the kingdom in the person of Jesus is what causes Simon, Andrew, James, and John to leave everything behind and follow.
The kingdom of God has indeed come to us through Jesus Christ. It is already here, but not yet fully arrived, waiting for the return of Christ. “Already/not yet” is the central paradox of the kingdom of God. Where does that leave us? In the in-between time. Everything has changed because of Jesus, yet life still looks the same and time seems no different. It is only through the eyes of faith that we see a different world dwelling in eternity. It is that vision of the good news that enables us to live lightly, to live in hope, to live in the knowledge that new life comes to us through Jesus Christ.
[3 Epiphany: Jonah 3:1-5, 10; 1 Corinthians 7:29-31; Mark 1:14-20. The commentary quotation is from The Gospel of Mark by N.T. France.]
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Come and See
Ever since R and I became priests, we’ve been more careful about accepting an invitation to a Saturday night event. It didn’t used to matter if we wanted to sleep in Sunday. Now we have to get up no matter what, and I like to be as wide awake at 8 a.m. Sunday as the people in church.
All of us accept or decline invitations for a variety of reasons, not just what we’re doing the next day. Does it sound like fun? Will friends be there? How much will it cost? Do I have something to wear? (Not often a reason on my list!) It also depends on whether one is spontaneous or someone who has to get used to the idea of being with a bunch of people.
Sunday we’ll hear a story of invitation. Jesus had spent a day recruiting disciples from John the Baptist, including Andrew – who first went and found his brother Simon Peter. The next day Jesus went to Galilee and found Philip, another hometown boy. When Jesus said “Follow me” to him, Philip tracked down his friend Nathanael. Then things got interesting.
“We’ve found him,” Philip told Nathanael. “The one Moses and the prophets talked about – Jesus of Nazareth.” Nathanael didn’t like the sound of that. He wasn’t about to get taken in. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” he asked.
At that point Philip could have gotten into an argument with Nathanael. He could have tried to convince him that Jesus really was the one. Instead, he issued a simple invitation: “Come and see.”
Intrigued, Nathanael went along. When they arrived, Jesus acted like he had known him all along, having spotted him under a fig tree. Nathanael was astonished. “You are the Son of God!” he exclaimed. “You are the King of Israel!”
I imagine a smile creeping over Jesus’ face. “You believe because I said that I saw you under a fig tree? Just wait – you’ll see greater things that these!” Ironically, we don’t know what greater things Nathanael saw, because he promptly drops out of sight.
The fact that Nathanael quickly disappears is a clue that more may be going on here than a simple story about a disciple. His name means “God gives” or “God has given,” so he may be a stand-in for all of the disciples God gives to Jesus – including you and me. Jesus’ description of him as an Israelite in whom there is no deceit recalls the great trickster Jacob (who was renamed Israel). It was Jacob who had the vision of angels ascending and descending on a ladder to heaven. Now those same angels are ascending and descending on Jesus.
Come and see. A simple invitation instead of an argument, and Philip transformed Nathanael’s life. Is there someone you know who is waiting to hear “Come and see,” someone who needs a life transformed? This invitation doesn’t require special clothes or a late-night party or the right kind of people. All it requires is a willingness to walk with someone on their journey, to bring them to the One who already knows them, so that they, too, can worship the Son of God.
[Epiphany 2: John 1:43-51.]
All of us accept or decline invitations for a variety of reasons, not just what we’re doing the next day. Does it sound like fun? Will friends be there? How much will it cost? Do I have something to wear? (Not often a reason on my list!) It also depends on whether one is spontaneous or someone who has to get used to the idea of being with a bunch of people.
Sunday we’ll hear a story of invitation. Jesus had spent a day recruiting disciples from John the Baptist, including Andrew – who first went and found his brother Simon Peter. The next day Jesus went to Galilee and found Philip, another hometown boy. When Jesus said “Follow me” to him, Philip tracked down his friend Nathanael. Then things got interesting.
“We’ve found him,” Philip told Nathanael. “The one Moses and the prophets talked about – Jesus of Nazareth.” Nathanael didn’t like the sound of that. He wasn’t about to get taken in. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” he asked.
At that point Philip could have gotten into an argument with Nathanael. He could have tried to convince him that Jesus really was the one. Instead, he issued a simple invitation: “Come and see.”
Intrigued, Nathanael went along. When they arrived, Jesus acted like he had known him all along, having spotted him under a fig tree. Nathanael was astonished. “You are the Son of God!” he exclaimed. “You are the King of Israel!”
I imagine a smile creeping over Jesus’ face. “You believe because I said that I saw you under a fig tree? Just wait – you’ll see greater things that these!” Ironically, we don’t know what greater things Nathanael saw, because he promptly drops out of sight.
The fact that Nathanael quickly disappears is a clue that more may be going on here than a simple story about a disciple. His name means “God gives” or “God has given,” so he may be a stand-in for all of the disciples God gives to Jesus – including you and me. Jesus’ description of him as an Israelite in whom there is no deceit recalls the great trickster Jacob (who was renamed Israel). It was Jacob who had the vision of angels ascending and descending on a ladder to heaven. Now those same angels are ascending and descending on Jesus.
Come and see. A simple invitation instead of an argument, and Philip transformed Nathanael’s life. Is there someone you know who is waiting to hear “Come and see,” someone who needs a life transformed? This invitation doesn’t require special clothes or a late-night party or the right kind of people. All it requires is a willingness to walk with someone on their journey, to bring them to the One who already knows them, so that they, too, can worship the Son of God.
[Epiphany 2: John 1:43-51.]
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Beginnings
Ever since I first learned to read Genesis in Hebrew, the third verse of chapter one leaps out at me. In our English translation we read, “Then God said, ‘Let there be light’; and there was light.” In the original Hebrew, “let there be light” and “there was light” are exactly the same letters. In other words, God’s speech is God’s action. “Light!” is actual light. If we consider that God’s speech is that same Word who became incarnate as Jesus Christ, we see how the evangelist John could say that through this Word all things were created. Not only that, but the “wind” from God sweeping over the face of the waters at creation can also be translated “spirit.” Here, right at the very beginning of everything, the Trinity is already present.
Sunday’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles presents another activity of the Holy Spirit. In Ephesus, the apostle Paul runs into some believers who had been baptized, but in the tradition of John the Baptist. Paul knew that John had pointed beyond himself to Jesus, but these disciples had not caught that movement. They had repented of their sins, but that was it. So when Paul (re?) baptized them in the name of Jesus and laid his hands on them, “the Holy Spirit came upon them, and they spoke in tongues and prophesied.”
My clergy text study group got so hung up on the reference to speaking in tongues that they couldn’t move on. It didn’t much bother me. I had to acknowledge long ago that there are elements of faith that are beyond understanding, and manifestations of the Spirit that cannot be explained rationally. It’s a mistake to limit God to what we can explain, just as it is a mistake to pick any one manifestation of the Spirit and make it a test of true faith (as Pentecostals do with speaking in tongues).
Mark’s Gospel gives us the context for Genesis and Acts. John the Baptizer appears in the wilderness, wild-eyed and hairy, with locust legs hanging out of his mouth. No wonder the whole countryside turned out to see him! Already he is pointing toward the one coming after him, the one who is more powerful, who baptizes with the Holy Spirit. Sure enough, Jesus himself shows up to be baptized by this wild man. As Jesus comes up out of the River Jordan, the heavens split open and the Spirit comes down on him “like a dove.” Then a voice speaks from the rip in heaven: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”
Once again, as at creation, the Trinity is there. This time Word has become flesh, however, so there is Word on earth and Word with God, and Spirit moving between God and Word, between heaven and earth. God’s speech is now incarnate in human form. When Jesus speaks, things happen; when Jesus touches, the blind see and the lame walk. And the Holy Spirit? From a wild wind sweeping over dark waters, to the power of tongues and prophecy, it has become a tame dove. It makes me wonder if the Spirit, too, had to be emptied like the Word at the Incarnation.
God’s speech, God’s creative activity, came and dwelled with us. God still comes to us through Jesus Christ every time we hear the Word, every time we eat bread and wine at the Eucharist. That same Word that created light now brings us light. It breaks open the heavens so that we, too, can hear that voice: “You are my beloved; with you I am well pleased.”
[Epiphany 1, the Baptism of our Lord: Genesis 1:1-5; Psalm 29; Acts 19:1-7; Mark 1:4-11.]
Sunday’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles presents another activity of the Holy Spirit. In Ephesus, the apostle Paul runs into some believers who had been baptized, but in the tradition of John the Baptist. Paul knew that John had pointed beyond himself to Jesus, but these disciples had not caught that movement. They had repented of their sins, but that was it. So when Paul (re?) baptized them in the name of Jesus and laid his hands on them, “the Holy Spirit came upon them, and they spoke in tongues and prophesied.”
My clergy text study group got so hung up on the reference to speaking in tongues that they couldn’t move on. It didn’t much bother me. I had to acknowledge long ago that there are elements of faith that are beyond understanding, and manifestations of the Spirit that cannot be explained rationally. It’s a mistake to limit God to what we can explain, just as it is a mistake to pick any one manifestation of the Spirit and make it a test of true faith (as Pentecostals do with speaking in tongues).
Mark’s Gospel gives us the context for Genesis and Acts. John the Baptizer appears in the wilderness, wild-eyed and hairy, with locust legs hanging out of his mouth. No wonder the whole countryside turned out to see him! Already he is pointing toward the one coming after him, the one who is more powerful, who baptizes with the Holy Spirit. Sure enough, Jesus himself shows up to be baptized by this wild man. As Jesus comes up out of the River Jordan, the heavens split open and the Spirit comes down on him “like a dove.” Then a voice speaks from the rip in heaven: “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”
Once again, as at creation, the Trinity is there. This time Word has become flesh, however, so there is Word on earth and Word with God, and Spirit moving between God and Word, between heaven and earth. God’s speech is now incarnate in human form. When Jesus speaks, things happen; when Jesus touches, the blind see and the lame walk. And the Holy Spirit? From a wild wind sweeping over dark waters, to the power of tongues and prophecy, it has become a tame dove. It makes me wonder if the Spirit, too, had to be emptied like the Word at the Incarnation.
God’s speech, God’s creative activity, came and dwelled with us. God still comes to us through Jesus Christ every time we hear the Word, every time we eat bread and wine at the Eucharist. That same Word that created light now brings us light. It breaks open the heavens so that we, too, can hear that voice: “You are my beloved; with you I am well pleased.”
[Epiphany 1, the Baptism of our Lord: Genesis 1:1-5; Psalm 29; Acts 19:1-7; Mark 1:4-11.]
Thursday, December 29, 2011
What's in a Name?
The ancients thought that to know someone’s name was to have power over them. That is beautifully illustrated in the wonderful story of Jacob wrestling with the angel in Genesis 32. When Jacob refuses to let the man go unless he is first blessed, the man asks him his name. “Jacob,” he replies – and is promptly given a new name, Israel (one who strives with God). Yet when Jacob in turn asks the name of the man with whom he has been wrestling all night, the man refuses, saying “Why do you ask?” Here the power relationships are quite clear: the man (angel? God?) has power enough to rename Jacob, but will not let a human have power over him.
This all sounds a bit quaint. Yet there’s a sense of vulnerability when a stranger knows one’s name. Just try walking up to someone who has not met you and calling him or her by name! There will be a look of confusion, possibly fear, followed by “How did you know my name?” and likely a request for yours. Names have power.
Sunday will be the Feast of The Holy Name of Jesus, as the church calls January 1. (The church’s new year began the first Sunday of Advent, remember?) It’s a Christian celebration based on an old Jewish tradition: the circumcision and naming of baby boys eight days after birth. Blessedly, we no longer use the old name for the day (the Circumcision of Christ).
Names have meaning as well as power. Jesus was a common name at the time Christ was born, just like Jesus (hay-ZOOS) is among Hispanic families today. It is equivalent to the Jewish name Joshua (or Yeshua), meaning “The Lord saves.” Not a bad choice for someone who was going to be the world’s salvation! That salvation appears to be in the background in both Matthew’s and Luke’s accounts of the birth of Jesus, where it is overshadowed by the appearances of Magi and angels.
Paul’s letter to the Philippians gives the significance of the name of Jesus, at which every knee should bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord. Many commentators believe that Paul was quoting an early Christian hymn, which itself quoted Isaiah 45:23. Just the name will evoke humility and a confession of praise. This Name has power over us; we do not have power over it.
The power of the Name shows up in the Acts of the Apostles. Peter heals a man crippled from birth by invoking the Name (3:6) and gets arrested for his trouble. Paul casts out spirits using the Name (16:18). Only believers could use the Name’s power, however; when “some itinerant Jewish exorcists” used it, the man they were trying to exorcise overpowered them all and sent them packing, “naked and wounded” (19:16).
Some Christians still use the name of Jesus, repeated quietly over and over, as a form of contemplative prayer. It seeps down into the heart until every stroke beats “Jesus.” Others bow their heads at every mention of Jesus. Both of these are quintessentially Anglican actions, embodying what we believe.
Yes, it may seem odd to have a day dedicated to a name when everyone else is celebrating the New Year. But that Name is above all other names. It has power to heal, power to transform, power to make us into the people whom God knows us to be. When we know the Name of Jesus, we don’t have power over him; he has power over us. Would that everyone knew that Name!
[Feast of the Holy Name: Numbers 6:22-27; Psalm 8; Philippians 2:5-11; Luke 2:15-21.]
This all sounds a bit quaint. Yet there’s a sense of vulnerability when a stranger knows one’s name. Just try walking up to someone who has not met you and calling him or her by name! There will be a look of confusion, possibly fear, followed by “How did you know my name?” and likely a request for yours. Names have power.
Sunday will be the Feast of The Holy Name of Jesus, as the church calls January 1. (The church’s new year began the first Sunday of Advent, remember?) It’s a Christian celebration based on an old Jewish tradition: the circumcision and naming of baby boys eight days after birth. Blessedly, we no longer use the old name for the day (the Circumcision of Christ).
Names have meaning as well as power. Jesus was a common name at the time Christ was born, just like Jesus (hay-ZOOS) is among Hispanic families today. It is equivalent to the Jewish name Joshua (or Yeshua), meaning “The Lord saves.” Not a bad choice for someone who was going to be the world’s salvation! That salvation appears to be in the background in both Matthew’s and Luke’s accounts of the birth of Jesus, where it is overshadowed by the appearances of Magi and angels.
Paul’s letter to the Philippians gives the significance of the name of Jesus, at which every knee should bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord. Many commentators believe that Paul was quoting an early Christian hymn, which itself quoted Isaiah 45:23. Just the name will evoke humility and a confession of praise. This Name has power over us; we do not have power over it.
The power of the Name shows up in the Acts of the Apostles. Peter heals a man crippled from birth by invoking the Name (3:6) and gets arrested for his trouble. Paul casts out spirits using the Name (16:18). Only believers could use the Name’s power, however; when “some itinerant Jewish exorcists” used it, the man they were trying to exorcise overpowered them all and sent them packing, “naked and wounded” (19:16).
Some Christians still use the name of Jesus, repeated quietly over and over, as a form of contemplative prayer. It seeps down into the heart until every stroke beats “Jesus.” Others bow their heads at every mention of Jesus. Both of these are quintessentially Anglican actions, embodying what we believe.
Yes, it may seem odd to have a day dedicated to a name when everyone else is celebrating the New Year. But that Name is above all other names. It has power to heal, power to transform, power to make us into the people whom God knows us to be. When we know the Name of Jesus, we don’t have power over him; he has power over us. Would that everyone knew that Name!
[Feast of the Holy Name: Numbers 6:22-27; Psalm 8; Philippians 2:5-11; Luke 2:15-21.]
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The Word Became Flesh
Christmas falls on a Sunday this year. There will almost certainly be people at the Christmas Day service, even if they were in church on Christmas Eve the night before. So I will get to preach on the prologue to the Gospel of John on Christmas itself, rather than the first Sunday after Christmas. The latter works well enough – Luke’s more familiar narrative always shows up Christmas Eve, and the Sunday after that can be a time to step back and reflect on what it all means, which is what John’s prologue does. But how does one reflect in the midst of the event itself? When people are expecting to hear about a sweet baby in a manger, will they be willing to go back to the beginning of time?
En archē ēn ho logos, John writes. In the beginning was the Word. This was the first Greek I ever translated, way back in high school, and it still resonates with all of the echoes of the years since. John isn’t speaking about just any beginning. It was the beginning, even though that definite article never appears. The Word was there, right from the start, there with God. Everything was made through the Word, because when God spoke that Word, things happened. When God spoke “Light!” light happened. And the light still shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
At the time the evangelist John was writing, there seemed to be some confusion about John the Baptist. Was he the light? We know from Paul’s letters that disciples of the Baptizer were about, and the evangelist takes pains to clarify that he was not the one. John witnessed to the One, but he wasn’t it. Even the family into whom the Word was born was confused. Only through the will of God did clarity come, not through any human power.
Kai ho logos sarx egeneto kai eskēnōsen en hēmin. And the Word became flesh and dwelled among us. All of the fullness and permanence of God emptied to become a fragile human. The Greek word for “dwelled” literally means to live in a tent – showing just how impermanent the Word became in human form. This is truly the mystery of the Incarnation.
How does one describe this mystery? Luke does it with archangel visits and angelic choirs singing to terrified shepherds. Matthew does it with dreams and star-drawn magi from a far-off land. John walks straight into the mystery and emerges on the other side with simple words that belie the depth of what he has heard. The Word became flesh. That’s a spine-tingling and eye-watering statement. It’s more than baby’s breath or royal gifts. It’s who we are as Christians.
The Word became flesh and dwelled among us, full of grace and truth. There’s enough grace for all of the world’s sins, more truth than every lie, more light than the darkness can overcome. Those few who come to church on Christmas morning will be the lucky ones. That day we will all be witnesses to the light, witnesses to the mystery of our salvation.
[Christmas Day: John1:1-14.]
En archē ēn ho logos, John writes. In the beginning was the Word. This was the first Greek I ever translated, way back in high school, and it still resonates with all of the echoes of the years since. John isn’t speaking about just any beginning. It was the beginning, even though that definite article never appears. The Word was there, right from the start, there with God. Everything was made through the Word, because when God spoke that Word, things happened. When God spoke “Light!” light happened. And the light still shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
At the time the evangelist John was writing, there seemed to be some confusion about John the Baptist. Was he the light? We know from Paul’s letters that disciples of the Baptizer were about, and the evangelist takes pains to clarify that he was not the one. John witnessed to the One, but he wasn’t it. Even the family into whom the Word was born was confused. Only through the will of God did clarity come, not through any human power.
Kai ho logos sarx egeneto kai eskēnōsen en hēmin. And the Word became flesh and dwelled among us. All of the fullness and permanence of God emptied to become a fragile human. The Greek word for “dwelled” literally means to live in a tent – showing just how impermanent the Word became in human form. This is truly the mystery of the Incarnation.
How does one describe this mystery? Luke does it with archangel visits and angelic choirs singing to terrified shepherds. Matthew does it with dreams and star-drawn magi from a far-off land. John walks straight into the mystery and emerges on the other side with simple words that belie the depth of what he has heard. The Word became flesh. That’s a spine-tingling and eye-watering statement. It’s more than baby’s breath or royal gifts. It’s who we are as Christians.
The Word became flesh and dwelled among us, full of grace and truth. There’s enough grace for all of the world’s sins, more truth than every lie, more light than the darkness can overcome. Those few who come to church on Christmas morning will be the lucky ones. That day we will all be witnesses to the light, witnesses to the mystery of our salvation.
[Christmas Day: John1:1-14.]
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Virgin Birth
Years ago I took a course from a Catholic woman theologian, a rare breed. Think about what it must be like as a female theologian in a male-dominated church! During the course, she made a comment that has stayed with me: the feminine ideal that the male hierarchy holds up to Roman Catholic women is an impossibility: a virgin mother, Mary. It was an illuminating statement that revealed much about the current state of Catholicism.
It is not enough that the Bible records one virgin birth, that of Jesus. Roman doctrine interprets Mary’s statement in Luke that she “has not known a man” as a declaration of lifelong celibacy. The various references in Scripture to Jesus’ brothers and sisters are then said to mean cousins. The end result is the Blessed Mary, Ever Virgin, a model no mother can follow.
But enough Protestant rant. What about that first virgin birth, that of Jesus? It, at least, is attested by Scripture. Yet is the idea of the miraculous conception of Jesus at all tenable anymore? Should it be taken literally? Metaphorically?
Luke doesn’t seem to hint that his story should be taken at anything but face value. Commentators have worked hard to show that it was pasted together from various sources, or that it has pagan antecedents, or that it is really “just a story” invented to make Jesus more exalted. One gets the distinct impression that they have already made up their minds about its veracity, and then proceed from their assumption that it can’t possibly be true.
Yet what if it is true? To the people around him, Jesus Christ was unlike any other person they had ever encountered. Something extraordinary had come into the world with his birth, something so beyond human comprehension that human language was not up to describing it. Like John, the author of the book of Revelation, Luke had to put into words an idea that could not be bound by words, the Word of God himself. Luke wanted to be sure that we knew that this child to be born was divine as well as human, and he expressed that in the best way he could.
The virgin birth is not an incidental matter; where one comes down on that reveals a lot about what one believes about the divinity of Christ. But getting all wrapped up in the virgin birth takes us away from the main thrust of the story. The angel Gabriel’s annunciation to Mary follows on the heels of a similar prophecy about Jesus’ cousin, John the Baptizer. When John’s father, Zechariah, doubts Gabriel, he is struck dumb. When Mary doubts, she gets a fuller explanation. It’s a good thing Gabriel lets her keep her tongue. She still has to say, “Yes.”
“Here am I, the servant of the Lord,” is what Mary actually says. “Here am I.” That’s the response of Abraham, of Moses, of Isaiah, of all the great ones who have been given a commission from God that they think they can’t possibly fulfill. “Here am I.” It’s a statement of submission to God’s will, a statement of trust in something incomprehensible. It is not an agreement to submit to all authority, as is sometimes placed on women through Mary.
Mary can be a model for all of us – but not a model of mere submission or virginity. Instead, she is the God-bearer, the Theotokos of the Greek Church, one who shows us all how to say “yes” to God and thus bear God within us. We do that neither literally nor metaphorically, but in a way that is beyond words. Only after saying “Here am I” do we begin to get a glimpse of that power, that light, that love which can be born within us, just as it was within Mary so long ago.
[Advent 4: Luke 1:26-38.]
It is not enough that the Bible records one virgin birth, that of Jesus. Roman doctrine interprets Mary’s statement in Luke that she “has not known a man” as a declaration of lifelong celibacy. The various references in Scripture to Jesus’ brothers and sisters are then said to mean cousins. The end result is the Blessed Mary, Ever Virgin, a model no mother can follow.
But enough Protestant rant. What about that first virgin birth, that of Jesus? It, at least, is attested by Scripture. Yet is the idea of the miraculous conception of Jesus at all tenable anymore? Should it be taken literally? Metaphorically?
Luke doesn’t seem to hint that his story should be taken at anything but face value. Commentators have worked hard to show that it was pasted together from various sources, or that it has pagan antecedents, or that it is really “just a story” invented to make Jesus more exalted. One gets the distinct impression that they have already made up their minds about its veracity, and then proceed from their assumption that it can’t possibly be true.
Yet what if it is true? To the people around him, Jesus Christ was unlike any other person they had ever encountered. Something extraordinary had come into the world with his birth, something so beyond human comprehension that human language was not up to describing it. Like John, the author of the book of Revelation, Luke had to put into words an idea that could not be bound by words, the Word of God himself. Luke wanted to be sure that we knew that this child to be born was divine as well as human, and he expressed that in the best way he could.
The virgin birth is not an incidental matter; where one comes down on that reveals a lot about what one believes about the divinity of Christ. But getting all wrapped up in the virgin birth takes us away from the main thrust of the story. The angel Gabriel’s annunciation to Mary follows on the heels of a similar prophecy about Jesus’ cousin, John the Baptizer. When John’s father, Zechariah, doubts Gabriel, he is struck dumb. When Mary doubts, she gets a fuller explanation. It’s a good thing Gabriel lets her keep her tongue. She still has to say, “Yes.”
“Here am I, the servant of the Lord,” is what Mary actually says. “Here am I.” That’s the response of Abraham, of Moses, of Isaiah, of all the great ones who have been given a commission from God that they think they can’t possibly fulfill. “Here am I.” It’s a statement of submission to God’s will, a statement of trust in something incomprehensible. It is not an agreement to submit to all authority, as is sometimes placed on women through Mary.
Mary can be a model for all of us – but not a model of mere submission or virginity. Instead, she is the God-bearer, the Theotokos of the Greek Church, one who shows us all how to say “yes” to God and thus bear God within us. We do that neither literally nor metaphorically, but in a way that is beyond words. Only after saying “Here am I” do we begin to get a glimpse of that power, that light, that love which can be born within us, just as it was within Mary so long ago.
[Advent 4: Luke 1:26-38.]
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