Lent has always been a peculiar time for me. I have often resisted its call to self-denial. Perhaps that’s because I’ve tried to live a disciplined life for so long that I resent being told to increase the discipline. Perhaps it’s because I’m acutely aware of the times when I do not think of God first, and don’t want any more reminders. Perhaps it’s just plain human orneriness at being told what to do. For whatever reason, I often wished we could skip Lent entirely.
When I was younger and more determined to do things the “right” way, I discovered fasting as a Lenten discipline – literal fasting from food, not giving up TV or Facebook. It reliably gave me a pounding headache (I never drank enough water to avoid getting dehydrated) and meant that my family had to scrounge their own meals without the cook’s help. Sometimes fasting was spiritually rewarding, but usually I just got crabby. Then one year I had a prolonged enforced fast after major surgery – ice chips and IVs don’t count as food – and ever since, my body has objected to my earlier practice. I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing!
On Ash Wednesday, the prophet Isaiah told us what kind of fast God chooses: “to loose the bonds of injustice…to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin.” It’s a long list that makes refraining from food almost look easy. Isaiah was angry at the leaders who put on a show of fasting but then cheated others in their daily lives. The alternative he presents is a social agenda, if not a political platform.
Jesus uses even stronger language about how we should act. “If anyone wishes to follow after me,” he says, “let him disown himself and let him take up his cross and follow me.” As R. T France puts it, “such ‘self-denial’ is on a different level altogether than giving up chocolates for Lent.” Similarly, France says, “The metaphor of taking up one’s own cross is not to be domesticated into an exhortation merely to endure hardship patiently.” The context out of which Jesus speaks shows that he is referring to the possibility of actual death.
That is not the context in our country, thank God, but it does put Lenten practices into perspective. They are not private practices, done for our own edification and spiritual welfare, but rather aimed at increasing our love of God and neighbor. It’s not just about fasting; it’s about eating less and then giving away the money that would have been spent on food. It’s about taking on additional disciplines that help others, such as working in a food pantry or changing how we treat people. Putting God and others first is part of the path of self-denial.
Curiously, since I’ve become a priest I don’t find Lent so burdensome. I’m more a part of Lenten liturgies, over which I can exercise some control. (I still think The Great Litany is way too long, but I do what I can to mitigate that.) Holy Week is now energizing rather than enervating – by Easter Monday I’m not exhausted but joyous. I am also more tolerant of my failings, realizing that God does not ask for perfection. It is wholeness to which God calls us, the wholeness of a life lived through Jesus Christ, lived for the sake of the gospel. Yes, it does require a certain amount of discipline to live such a life. Yet I see Lent’s trajectory more clearly now, building through the betrayal and death of Jesus to the resurrection on Easter Day. With that joy as the ultimate goal, any burden of Lent becomes remarkably light. How could I not wish to take this journey once again?
[Lent 2: Mark 8:31-38. The translation of verse 34 is my own, retaining the masculine pronouns. The NRSV uses a plural number, removing gender, but I think there is more impact if the singular number is retained, an individual invitation from Jesus rather than a corporate one. The Ash Wednesday reading is from Isaiah 58:6-7, and the N. T. France quotes are from The Gospel of Mark, p. 340. I should also say that the language of self-denial can be destructive, especially for women, who historically have been taught to serve men rather than care for themselves.]
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Wilderness
I have often said that one of the wonderful things about a three-year lectionary is that one can return to the same readings at a different point of life, deepening one’s understanding. Sometimes they recur too soon for that to happen. Sunday is one of those times. We heard Mark’s account of the baptism of Jesus less than two months ago on the first Sunday after Epiphany, and here it is again on the first Sunday of Lent.
The context is different, however. Instead of stopping at the baptism, the reading continues with the Spirit driving Jesus into the wilderness. Unfortunately, this may trigger a response that stops careful listening: “I know this story; it’s about the temptation of Jesus.” But the temptation isn’t Mark’s focus at all. Unlike Matthew and Luke, there’s no dialogue between Jesus and Satan (or the devil). Instead, the focus is on Jesus being in the wilderness. It’s a dangerous place; Satan and the wild beasts are there. Some preachers want to turn this into the Peaceable Kingdom. They imagine the wolf lying down with the lamb and Satan subdued by Jesus. Having camped in wilderness, I’m less convinced. There were times when I would have liked to have had a few angels around. Wilderness is wild, after all!
Rather than presenting a peaceable kingdom or dwelling on the temptation of Jesus, Mark is setting the stage for all that will follow. Throughout his Gospel there is increasing conflict between Jesus and those in power, especially the religious authorities. Parallel to this earthly conflict is a cosmic one between good and evil personified as Satan and demons. It is the demons who identify Jesus as the Son of God, even as he silences and casts them out. The wilderness experience is preparing Jesus for the dangers to come.
It isn’t very popular to talk about evil, especially when it involves Satan and demons. Yet I don’t think it is possible to explain the great evils of human history, including 9/11 and some of the responses to it, without seeing the presence of an external evil greater than what humans can generate of their own free will. Mark makes the point that this battle is not just between good and bad people, that if we all just tried harder everyone could get along. He says it’s much more than that. It reaches cosmic proportions. At the same time, we can’t grant evil too much power. God is clearly sovereign. Satan tempts Jesus, but does not prevail.
How do we translate Mark’s worldview into our own? For one thing, we need to recognize the existence of evil greater than any one of us. Whether we personify that evil as Satan or not doesn’t matter, although I do think that it is easier to fight something when we can put a name to it. As Peter puts it, evil “prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.”
Fortunately, it’s rare for someone to fall right into great evil. Usually it’s taking many small steps away from God that eventually add up. That’s why we constantly need repentance and reorientation. The Lenten practices of prayer, fasting and spiritual reading help us to get our priorities straight, back on the road toward God.
I haven’t done any wilderness camping for years. Somehow sleeping on the ground has lost its appeal! Yet I still remember what it’s like to hear sounds in the dark, hoping that my food is strung high enough so the bears won’t get it. The memory of that very human fear connects me with Jesus in the wilderness – and reminds me that life is not benign. It does make a difference which way we go, which way we choose to turn, which trail we take. One leads to darkness and death; the other leads to light and life. Let Lent give you a chance to get back on the right track.
[Lent 1: 1 Peter 3:18-22 (although I quoted 5:8); Mark 1:9-15.]
The context is different, however. Instead of stopping at the baptism, the reading continues with the Spirit driving Jesus into the wilderness. Unfortunately, this may trigger a response that stops careful listening: “I know this story; it’s about the temptation of Jesus.” But the temptation isn’t Mark’s focus at all. Unlike Matthew and Luke, there’s no dialogue between Jesus and Satan (or the devil). Instead, the focus is on Jesus being in the wilderness. It’s a dangerous place; Satan and the wild beasts are there. Some preachers want to turn this into the Peaceable Kingdom. They imagine the wolf lying down with the lamb and Satan subdued by Jesus. Having camped in wilderness, I’m less convinced. There were times when I would have liked to have had a few angels around. Wilderness is wild, after all!
Rather than presenting a peaceable kingdom or dwelling on the temptation of Jesus, Mark is setting the stage for all that will follow. Throughout his Gospel there is increasing conflict between Jesus and those in power, especially the religious authorities. Parallel to this earthly conflict is a cosmic one between good and evil personified as Satan and demons. It is the demons who identify Jesus as the Son of God, even as he silences and casts them out. The wilderness experience is preparing Jesus for the dangers to come.
It isn’t very popular to talk about evil, especially when it involves Satan and demons. Yet I don’t think it is possible to explain the great evils of human history, including 9/11 and some of the responses to it, without seeing the presence of an external evil greater than what humans can generate of their own free will. Mark makes the point that this battle is not just between good and bad people, that if we all just tried harder everyone could get along. He says it’s much more than that. It reaches cosmic proportions. At the same time, we can’t grant evil too much power. God is clearly sovereign. Satan tempts Jesus, but does not prevail.
How do we translate Mark’s worldview into our own? For one thing, we need to recognize the existence of evil greater than any one of us. Whether we personify that evil as Satan or not doesn’t matter, although I do think that it is easier to fight something when we can put a name to it. As Peter puts it, evil “prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.”
Fortunately, it’s rare for someone to fall right into great evil. Usually it’s taking many small steps away from God that eventually add up. That’s why we constantly need repentance and reorientation. The Lenten practices of prayer, fasting and spiritual reading help us to get our priorities straight, back on the road toward God.
I haven’t done any wilderness camping for years. Somehow sleeping on the ground has lost its appeal! Yet I still remember what it’s like to hear sounds in the dark, hoping that my food is strung high enough so the bears won’t get it. The memory of that very human fear connects me with Jesus in the wilderness – and reminds me that life is not benign. It does make a difference which way we go, which way we choose to turn, which trail we take. One leads to darkness and death; the other leads to light and life. Let Lent give you a chance to get back on the right track.
[Lent 1: 1 Peter 3:18-22 (although I quoted 5:8); Mark 1:9-15.]
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Dazzling White
We have a curious collection of readings this Sunday. One is an elaborate story about how Elijah is taken up in a whirlwind. Another is Mark’s version of the Transfiguration of Jesus. In the middle is a short section from Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians, which begins, “Even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing.” After reading those other two passages, I started wondering if I was perishing. They certainly seemed veiled to me! So I decided to look at them more closely.
Elijah and Elisha and the whirlwind is a fine example of Jewish story-telling. We’re told right at the beginning what this story will be about, which keeps our focus through all of its twists and turns. It’s almost amusing the way Elisha follows Elijah from place to place like a young puppy. Several times, groups of prophets come out to meet them, reinforcing the plot line: this is the day that Elijah will depart. Each time Elisha tells the prophets to hush up. Then the two travel somewhere else to repeat the whole process. Finally Elijah realizes that this isn’t working. So he offers to grant a final wish to Elisha, who asks for something that only God can give – a double share of Elijah’s spirit. As they go on talking, a chariot of fire with horses of fire sweeps in and carries Elijah off in a whirlwind.
It’s a marvelous story, especially when the lector can keep Elijah and Elisha straight. Its whole effect is to heighten Elijah’s importance. He was so beloved of God that he did not die, but was bodily taken up into heaven. In later writings, Elijah came to symbolize prophecy like Moses symbolized the Jewish Law or Torah. So it is no wonder that he appeared with Jesus on the mountain of the Transfiguration.
The Transfiguration story seems to be less of a tale and more of an attempt to describe an actual event that was beyond human experience. It, too, is introduced with an expectation of something extraordinary. Six days earlier Jesus had told the crowd, “There are some standing here who will not taste death until they see the kingdom of God has come with power.” The writer, Mark, appears to intend the Transfiguration as a foretaste of that power. For Peter, James, and John, the experience was overwhelming. They were terrified. Peter babbled on about building shelters for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah, as though they needed some protection from the elements. Instead, they were enveloped in a cloud and heard a voice thunder through: “This is my beloved Son; listen to him!” Then it was all over, and they were alone with Jesus.
From this distance of time we have no way of knowing exactly what happened on that mountain. All we know is that there was something beyond human comprehension, barely describable by words. If it was a demonstration of the power of the kingdom, it makes sense that it could not be encompassed by human thought.
Was it truly veiled, though? Yes, in the way Paul described in his first letter to the Corinthians: “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I am fully known.” But this is a different kind of veiling from what Paul described in his second Corinthian letter, which we will hear Sunday. In that letter he wrote about those whose eyes were fixed on the idols of this world, such as money or sex or power. They were so blinded that they could not see the light of Christ. Paul called everyone to look clearly toward Christ, toward understanding. He knew from his own experience that one can get so caught up in what he thinks is true to completely miss the Truth.
“We do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord,” Paul wrote. That’s the key. If we proclaim Christ, not ourselves or the gods of this world, then we are not perishing. Then God will shine in our hearts with the light of knowledge of the glory of Jesus Christ. May we always walk toward that light and listen to that voice from the cloud, so that we, too, may dwell with Jesus.
[Last Epiphany: 2 Kings 2:1-12; 2 Corinthians 4:3-6; Mark 9:2-9.]
Elijah and Elisha and the whirlwind is a fine example of Jewish story-telling. We’re told right at the beginning what this story will be about, which keeps our focus through all of its twists and turns. It’s almost amusing the way Elisha follows Elijah from place to place like a young puppy. Several times, groups of prophets come out to meet them, reinforcing the plot line: this is the day that Elijah will depart. Each time Elisha tells the prophets to hush up. Then the two travel somewhere else to repeat the whole process. Finally Elijah realizes that this isn’t working. So he offers to grant a final wish to Elisha, who asks for something that only God can give – a double share of Elijah’s spirit. As they go on talking, a chariot of fire with horses of fire sweeps in and carries Elijah off in a whirlwind.
It’s a marvelous story, especially when the lector can keep Elijah and Elisha straight. Its whole effect is to heighten Elijah’s importance. He was so beloved of God that he did not die, but was bodily taken up into heaven. In later writings, Elijah came to symbolize prophecy like Moses symbolized the Jewish Law or Torah. So it is no wonder that he appeared with Jesus on the mountain of the Transfiguration.
The Transfiguration story seems to be less of a tale and more of an attempt to describe an actual event that was beyond human experience. It, too, is introduced with an expectation of something extraordinary. Six days earlier Jesus had told the crowd, “There are some standing here who will not taste death until they see the kingdom of God has come with power.” The writer, Mark, appears to intend the Transfiguration as a foretaste of that power. For Peter, James, and John, the experience was overwhelming. They were terrified. Peter babbled on about building shelters for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah, as though they needed some protection from the elements. Instead, they were enveloped in a cloud and heard a voice thunder through: “This is my beloved Son; listen to him!” Then it was all over, and they were alone with Jesus.
From this distance of time we have no way of knowing exactly what happened on that mountain. All we know is that there was something beyond human comprehension, barely describable by words. If it was a demonstration of the power of the kingdom, it makes sense that it could not be encompassed by human thought.
Was it truly veiled, though? Yes, in the way Paul described in his first letter to the Corinthians: “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I am fully known.” But this is a different kind of veiling from what Paul described in his second Corinthian letter, which we will hear Sunday. In that letter he wrote about those whose eyes were fixed on the idols of this world, such as money or sex or power. They were so blinded that they could not see the light of Christ. Paul called everyone to look clearly toward Christ, toward understanding. He knew from his own experience that one can get so caught up in what he thinks is true to completely miss the Truth.
“We do not proclaim ourselves; we proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord,” Paul wrote. That’s the key. If we proclaim Christ, not ourselves or the gods of this world, then we are not perishing. Then God will shine in our hearts with the light of knowledge of the glory of Jesus Christ. May we always walk toward that light and listen to that voice from the cloud, so that we, too, may dwell with Jesus.
[Last Epiphany: 2 Kings 2:1-12; 2 Corinthians 4:3-6; Mark 9:2-9.]
Thursday, February 2, 2012
She Began to Serve Them
Many years ago, when R and I lived in North Carolina, one of my uncles died in retirement in Virginia. My parents were still alive then and planned to attend the funeral. However, it was winter and they were driving from Pennsylvania. A terrible ice storm blew in and they decided not to risk it. Because I lived closer I went anyway, managing to arrive after several hours of skidding along highways in our little blue Volkswagen. Perhaps that was training for eventual life in Iowa!
When I arrived, my aunt’s small apartment was already full of relatives. She was immediately solicitous – I must have looked pretty spooked after the harrowing ride – and I knew instinctively that in her grief she needed the distraction of looking after someone. So I accepted all of her offers of food and drink and even agreed to stay with her that night. I could tell that she deeply appreciated having someone around during that difficult time.
For a woman of my aunt’s generation, serving others (especially men!) was the expected thing to do. It could bring normalcy to a time of great distress. That’s how I interpret the curious episode we will hear in this Sunday’s Gospel reading. Jesus goes to the house of Simon and Andrew, where Simon’s mother-in-law is lying in bed with a fever. Jesus is told about it, and immediately goes to see her. He takes her hand, lifts her up, and she is healed. At once she heads to the kitchen and starts serving them. It is all so very domestic.
Perhaps that’s the point. Previously Jesus had cast out an unclean spirit in a very dramatic and public way in the synagogue. This healing is quite different, much more private, using touch rather than words. In fact, everyone in Mark who is sick is healed by touch, whereas those whose unclean spirits shout at Jesus have the demons cast out of them through words. The difference is magnified in Sunday’s story by its simple, homey ending. One gets the feeling that if this had been England, Simon’s mother-in-law would have made them all tea.
Word gets out, and soon a steady stream of people come to be healed by Jesus. Finally he’s able to get a few hours sleep. But he’s up again long before daylight and goes out to a deserted place to pray. When his disciples finally find him, he’s ready to move on to the next town – not to heal but to preach, to proclaim the kingdom of God, “for that is what I came out to do.” It’s a kingdom where they deaf hear, the lame walk, and feverish mothers-in-law find the strength to make dinner. It’s a place where miracles happen – but the miracle may be as simple as freeing someone to live their everyday life once again.
Recently one of my cousins remarked on the kindness that I showed his mother on that day so long ago. I was astonished that he thought it memorable. It just seemed like the right thing to do. In a way it was a miracle, a miracle that I arrived safely, a miracle that God gave me the grace to know what to do. For my aunt it was a miracle too, a small bit of normalcy in the midst of upheaval. God gives joy in small ways as well as grand ones. So it doesn’t surprise me in the least that a healed woman should get up and serve the healer in gratitude.
[Epiphany 5: Mark 1:29-39.]
When I arrived, my aunt’s small apartment was already full of relatives. She was immediately solicitous – I must have looked pretty spooked after the harrowing ride – and I knew instinctively that in her grief she needed the distraction of looking after someone. So I accepted all of her offers of food and drink and even agreed to stay with her that night. I could tell that she deeply appreciated having someone around during that difficult time.
For a woman of my aunt’s generation, serving others (especially men!) was the expected thing to do. It could bring normalcy to a time of great distress. That’s how I interpret the curious episode we will hear in this Sunday’s Gospel reading. Jesus goes to the house of Simon and Andrew, where Simon’s mother-in-law is lying in bed with a fever. Jesus is told about it, and immediately goes to see her. He takes her hand, lifts her up, and she is healed. At once she heads to the kitchen and starts serving them. It is all so very domestic.
Perhaps that’s the point. Previously Jesus had cast out an unclean spirit in a very dramatic and public way in the synagogue. This healing is quite different, much more private, using touch rather than words. In fact, everyone in Mark who is sick is healed by touch, whereas those whose unclean spirits shout at Jesus have the demons cast out of them through words. The difference is magnified in Sunday’s story by its simple, homey ending. One gets the feeling that if this had been England, Simon’s mother-in-law would have made them all tea.
Word gets out, and soon a steady stream of people come to be healed by Jesus. Finally he’s able to get a few hours sleep. But he’s up again long before daylight and goes out to a deserted place to pray. When his disciples finally find him, he’s ready to move on to the next town – not to heal but to preach, to proclaim the kingdom of God, “for that is what I came out to do.” It’s a kingdom where they deaf hear, the lame walk, and feverish mothers-in-law find the strength to make dinner. It’s a place where miracles happen – but the miracle may be as simple as freeing someone to live their everyday life once again.
Recently one of my cousins remarked on the kindness that I showed his mother on that day so long ago. I was astonished that he thought it memorable. It just seemed like the right thing to do. In a way it was a miracle, a miracle that I arrived safely, a miracle that God gave me the grace to know what to do. For my aunt it was a miracle too, a small bit of normalcy in the midst of upheaval. God gives joy in small ways as well as grand ones. So it doesn’t surprise me in the least that a healed woman should get up and serve the healer in gratitude.
[Epiphany 5: Mark 1:29-39.]
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Pure Gas
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.”]
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.”]
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.]
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