Mark 1:40-45
2 Kings 5:1-14
Welcome to the ongoing story of Jesus in the book of Mark. Let me orient you for a moment: up to this point, Jesus has been baptized, tempted in the wilderness and has begun his ministry. He has gathered four disciples and is preaching, healing diseases, and casting out demons, in synagogues and in people’s homes. While he is garnering a reputation for being both a great teacher and healer, it’s not evident that anyone has really figured out who he is. While interest and crowds surround him, he has yet to cause major trouble . . . he’s still inconspicuous. He’s still safe.
In comes a man with leprosy. Though it’s easily treated today, leprosy is still a serious condition, especially in areas of deep poverty. It can cause permanent damage to the skin, nerves, eyes, and even necessitate the amputation of limbs. In Jesus’ time if one had it or touched someone who had it, this would make them ritually unclean or untouchable. Lepers were seen to exist between life and death: in a state of limbo, but they were also ritually separated from everyday existence. As an unclean person, you couldn’t hang out with other people, couldn’t enter many of the cities, and certainly could not set foot in a synagogue and these are all the things Jesus has been doing up to this point.
Let’s assume this man is a Jew who knows his religion’s stories. Jesus and his followers would certainly remember the story of Naaman that we heard earlier in 2nd Kings.
This story of healing also involves a leper, kings, and a prophet. It is also a story full of political implications. The King of Israel is suspicious. Rather than believing that this is a request for healing, he suspects a trick. Kings had near divine status, and for these two: the King of Syria and the King of Israel, their relationship was already one of conflict. So for the King of Israel to attempt to perform a healing miracle, it might seem that he would claim to be God, and thus more powerful than the King of Syria. The king of Israel says: “Am I God, to give death or life . . . Just look and see how he is trying to pick a quarrel with me.” The king of Israel takes this as a challenge and tears his clothes in anguish.
When the leper approaches Jesus, this story is already in the background. Jesus hasn’t yet been revealed as the true King of Israel or as God. But his ability to heal the leper, answers the old king’s question: “am I God, to give death or life?” Well, yes. The political implications are still in place: Jesus is a new authority, with divine claims, which will be a problem, both for the current religious leaders and the Roman authorities as well.
When the leper leaves him, Jesus issues a “stern warning” for the leper not to tell anyone—he wants no credit for this miracle. One of the things I enjoy about preparing a sermon, is digging into a text to find details that seem enlightening or even unusual. An alternative Greek reading for “stern warning” suggest that Jesus was also “disturbed” or “snorting.” Imagine Jesus so much more emotional than the calm warning—not just serious, but also upset, and perhaps so angry that some incoherent snort escaped his body. Jesus’ reaction indicates just how much trouble this news could cause him. We see at the end of the passage that he can no longer enter into the town, because of the widespread news, and people have to come out to the countryside to find him.
Another interesting possibility is that Jesus was angry at the very request. The NRSV says Jesus was moved by “pity” but the footnote says that “other ancient authorities say: anger” which may be more likely. Then the text would read, “moved by anger, Jesus stretched out his hand.” Anger leaves us with more questions: why was Jesus angry? Was he mad at the man? Mad at the disease itself? Or something else? What does it then mean for us, to ask Jesus healing, cleansing forgiveness, if it’s possible that Jesus may react to us out of anger. Same questions then: is Jesus mad at us? Mad at our sin? Or something else?
For this instance with the leper, it’s possible that Jesus is experiencing anger for all three reasons. He’s on a clear mission, to enter into towns and synagogues to spread his message. This man interrupts him, and in his healing does two things to Jesus: also makes Jesus ritually unclean and then results in widespread proclamation of Jesus’ miracles. So, Jesus, being human, could be ticked at the reason that his plans have changed. But being God, this seems a little too petulant.
In reason 2, Jesus certainly could be upset at the leprosy itself. Perhaps he sees this man-- his condition and his life of suffering and is angry that such a thing exists in God’s world. God certainly desires better for the world and is never pleased to see suffering in any form: whether it’s leprosy in India or AIDS in Africa.
Or maybe it’s reason 3: something else. The leper doesn’t really ask to be healed, he says to Jesus “If you choose, you can make me clean.” The leper assumes, correctly, that Jesus has the power to cleanse him. Is that a challenge? A humble submission? As in: if it be your will, you can heal me. . . . is it possible for Jesus to choose not to? Could he really refuse—and allowing the suffering to continue? And could the suggestion that he might not choose to heal this man actually cause him to be angry?
This could possibly be a reflection of the man’s faith. Or a character test for Jesus—I believe you have the power, I’m just not sure you have the decency. We hear similar sentiments around us, if God were really good, these things wouldn’t happen . . . our loved ones wouldn’t be sick, strangers wouldn’t go hungry, children wouldn’t die, planes wouldn’t fall out of the sky . . .
Jesus doesn’t choose to be loving and compassionate, because he embodies those things, he couldn’t choose NOT to be. We don’t ask Jesus to forgive us, as he chooses, but absolutely.
Jesus chooses to save us, to heal us, to forgive us,
Salvation is a type of healing: whether it’s from a disease or our human condition—whether or not it’s in the way that we expect.
Naaman expects Elisha to come to see him, to wave his arms around, and perform a great magic trick. He’s angry when Elisha tells him to go take a bath. Like the ruby slippers in the Wizard of Oz: It’s too simple, too obvious. Jesus heals the leper, but in anger, snorting out a warning not to tell anybody—but will later tell his disciples to tell the whole world about him.
Maybe some of us expect God will always heal us, always give us what we want because we believe, because we’re good, because we’re special. God doesn’t heal us of every physical ailment. We all get sick, we all suffer, we all eventually die. Jesus doesn’t change any of that.
The miracles that Jesus performs in the gospel, are largely temporary. The people that he heals, eventually get sick again, they eventually die. The fed get hungry again. The lasting effect is not the healing, but the motivation behind it.
Jesus will not choose not to save us in the way he wants to—from our own desires and expectations—from our own comfort—from our own sin—from our own selves.
Jesus will not choose not to reach out to us—
But will we choose to reach out to him?
God offers grace—in communion—Jesus invites everyone to the table, to see and taste his goodness—but we can choose not to come.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Authority
Mark 1: 21-28
Jesus has just left Zebedee, with James and John, and they’ve gone to the synagogue: Mark portrays Jesus as a great teacher: a rabbi who’s students don’t yet know that he’s not like any other rabbi.
We learn that Jesus is both a really good teacher: with authority that surpasses others, and who also has the power to back up his teachings. He speaks both for himself and for God.
Mark doesn’t tell us exactly what Jesus is teaching, but it’s quite possible that it’s the same message from Mark chapter 1: 14-15: The good news of God: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”
Immediately after Jesus begins teaching, he is challenged: a man with an unclean spirit goes after him.
It’s ironic that we find this unclean spirit in the synagogue: it’s a sign that there’s already trouble. This demon that Jesus finds is in temple, a church. Not on a street corner or in a bar, but in a sacred place: a reminder that evil can lurk anywhere, that the doors of a temple do not bless you as you walk in . . . we have unholiness in a holy place.
The man is one of those listening to Jesus, and maybe it’s this moment, of beholding the “holy one of God’ that he sees the change he needs to make—but the uncleanliness, part of his will isn’t going to let go, isn’t going to let him follow Jesus like James and John. Jesus is quick to recognize it and drive it out: he performs healing and liberation for this man, right under the nose of those he criticizes.
What if I told you that today, we’re also going to cast out demons. Would you all be up for an exorcism today?
According to ABC news, exorcisms are more popular in the US than they used to be. The Catholic church now has 10 official exorcists: 9 more than they had a decade ago . . . but it’s certainly not something they cover in seminary. The most I really know is from the movie, and I haven’t even seen all of it. I think of people convulsing and turning green. But it’s here, in Mark, and we’d do well to remember the existence of unclean spirits in whatever form they take.
One of the Desert Fathers—Abba Poemen lived the life of an ascetic, in the Egyptian desert, in the 3rd century. When asked if demons attack us he replied: “our own wills become the demons and it is these which attack us.” He thought that as long as we do our own will we are fine, but when we strive for that which is better, when we questions ourselves and what God wants of us, and turn towards God, that is when our struggles begin. This man might have seemed normal—he could slip into the temple unnoticed, but the message of Jesus calls to this man and the spirit isn’t pleased with the change.
There have been times when I have had to choose God over myself. These have been times that I believed in God’s existence: but doubted God’s goodness: thought that maybe God had set me up, was having a good laugh at my pathetic expense. I was getting closer to God: and further from my own will: and I felt my very being being ripped in two. The part of me that it’s charge of self-preservation was not pleased: it slid me into doubt. That part is getting weaker in me: the part that thinks God is really leading me to some lonesome valley of death, instead of carrying me through it. I still worry that God will cost me more than I’m willing to live without.
I met with a woman in a hospital in Atlanta, who had voices in her head that wanted her to kill her husband and she had tried. She was in agony, because she loved her husband and said he was such a good man. I don’t know what her diagnosis was or her treatment, but her brain was doing things to her, that were beyond her control. It seems like it’d almost be easier if someone could perform a ritual and relieve her, instead of the years of treatment she will likely endure.
A member of my family has a long complicated history of mental illness. She’s been diagnosed with different things, in and out of clinics, several suicide attempts: some that she remembers and some that she doesn’t . . . She’s been completely out of it, quiet and daydreaming, or sitting and acting like a child, but with the right combination of medicines she can be alert and happy.
I don’t mean to say that people with mental illnesses are possessed, just that perhaps that’s the kind of thing Mark is describing: the way that an addiction or chemical imbalance in the brain seems to hold a power and sway over us.
It’s irresponsible to say to someone that they just need an exorcism. We wouldn’t need 12 step programs if a simple prayer could do it. I think the ritual for an exorcism would still be in our hymnal.
Regardless, I know I’ve had experience with people who seemed: almost evil? Who had a certain gleam to their eye, who were doing terrible things: ruining lives, tearing apart families, and seemed not to care, seemed almost pleased with themselves . . . there is a reason we call these “the spiritual forces of wickedness” a reason we personify them in the form of demons. Because how else could people be so awful? And maybe it’s their experience, personality, or past, maybe it’s an addiction or compulsion, or maybe something more, far more sinister . . .
The point is: that in Mark: Jesus spends a great deal of time healing and casting out unclean spirits: he heals the sick, the lame: things like leprosy and blindness, diseases that affect the body, mostly. And then he casts out the unclean spirits: diseases that affect the mind: things like depression and addiction: things that keep our spirits from being whole and good, things that stand between us and God.
Whatever it is, Jesus is taking it on.
The first of his miracles:
The first of his healings:
Is to take on the spiritual type of healing.
Jesus has authority: when we follow Jesus, there’s trouble: there’s parts of us that may shriek with disdain for the light of God—parts of us that we have to test and question and overcome and cast out: or ask Jesus to cast out: We all have limitations, I’ll leave that up to you whether or not you call them demons.
Jesus has just left Zebedee, with James and John, and they’ve gone to the synagogue: Mark portrays Jesus as a great teacher: a rabbi who’s students don’t yet know that he’s not like any other rabbi.
We learn that Jesus is both a really good teacher: with authority that surpasses others, and who also has the power to back up his teachings. He speaks both for himself and for God.
Mark doesn’t tell us exactly what Jesus is teaching, but it’s quite possible that it’s the same message from Mark chapter 1: 14-15: The good news of God: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”
Immediately after Jesus begins teaching, he is challenged: a man with an unclean spirit goes after him.
It’s ironic that we find this unclean spirit in the synagogue: it’s a sign that there’s already trouble. This demon that Jesus finds is in temple, a church. Not on a street corner or in a bar, but in a sacred place: a reminder that evil can lurk anywhere, that the doors of a temple do not bless you as you walk in . . . we have unholiness in a holy place.
The man is one of those listening to Jesus, and maybe it’s this moment, of beholding the “holy one of God’ that he sees the change he needs to make—but the uncleanliness, part of his will isn’t going to let go, isn’t going to let him follow Jesus like James and John. Jesus is quick to recognize it and drive it out: he performs healing and liberation for this man, right under the nose of those he criticizes.
What if I told you that today, we’re also going to cast out demons. Would you all be up for an exorcism today?
According to ABC news, exorcisms are more popular in the US than they used to be. The Catholic church now has 10 official exorcists: 9 more than they had a decade ago . . . but it’s certainly not something they cover in seminary. The most I really know is from the movie, and I haven’t even seen all of it. I think of people convulsing and turning green. But it’s here, in Mark, and we’d do well to remember the existence of unclean spirits in whatever form they take.
One of the Desert Fathers—Abba Poemen lived the life of an ascetic, in the Egyptian desert, in the 3rd century. When asked if demons attack us he replied: “our own wills become the demons and it is these which attack us.” He thought that as long as we do our own will we are fine, but when we strive for that which is better, when we questions ourselves and what God wants of us, and turn towards God, that is when our struggles begin. This man might have seemed normal—he could slip into the temple unnoticed, but the message of Jesus calls to this man and the spirit isn’t pleased with the change.
There have been times when I have had to choose God over myself. These have been times that I believed in God’s existence: but doubted God’s goodness: thought that maybe God had set me up, was having a good laugh at my pathetic expense. I was getting closer to God: and further from my own will: and I felt my very being being ripped in two. The part of me that it’s charge of self-preservation was not pleased: it slid me into doubt. That part is getting weaker in me: the part that thinks God is really leading me to some lonesome valley of death, instead of carrying me through it. I still worry that God will cost me more than I’m willing to live without.
I met with a woman in a hospital in Atlanta, who had voices in her head that wanted her to kill her husband and she had tried. She was in agony, because she loved her husband and said he was such a good man. I don’t know what her diagnosis was or her treatment, but her brain was doing things to her, that were beyond her control. It seems like it’d almost be easier if someone could perform a ritual and relieve her, instead of the years of treatment she will likely endure.
A member of my family has a long complicated history of mental illness. She’s been diagnosed with different things, in and out of clinics, several suicide attempts: some that she remembers and some that she doesn’t . . . She’s been completely out of it, quiet and daydreaming, or sitting and acting like a child, but with the right combination of medicines she can be alert and happy.
I don’t mean to say that people with mental illnesses are possessed, just that perhaps that’s the kind of thing Mark is describing: the way that an addiction or chemical imbalance in the brain seems to hold a power and sway over us.
It’s irresponsible to say to someone that they just need an exorcism. We wouldn’t need 12 step programs if a simple prayer could do it. I think the ritual for an exorcism would still be in our hymnal.
Regardless, I know I’ve had experience with people who seemed: almost evil? Who had a certain gleam to their eye, who were doing terrible things: ruining lives, tearing apart families, and seemed not to care, seemed almost pleased with themselves . . . there is a reason we call these “the spiritual forces of wickedness” a reason we personify them in the form of demons. Because how else could people be so awful? And maybe it’s their experience, personality, or past, maybe it’s an addiction or compulsion, or maybe something more, far more sinister . . .
The point is: that in Mark: Jesus spends a great deal of time healing and casting out unclean spirits: he heals the sick, the lame: things like leprosy and blindness, diseases that affect the body, mostly. And then he casts out the unclean spirits: diseases that affect the mind: things like depression and addiction: things that keep our spirits from being whole and good, things that stand between us and God.
Whatever it is, Jesus is taking it on.
The first of his miracles:
The first of his healings:
Is to take on the spiritual type of healing.
Jesus has authority: when we follow Jesus, there’s trouble: there’s parts of us that may shriek with disdain for the light of God—parts of us that we have to test and question and overcome and cast out: or ask Jesus to cast out: We all have limitations, I’ll leave that up to you whether or not you call them demons.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Come and See
John 1: 43-51 (Psalm 139, Samuel 3:1-20)
It’s easy to get lost in the words. We hear a lot of them: our news channels are full to talking, but not enough substance to warrant 24 hours of coverage. I was shocked and appalled to see the lunch menus of Obama’s daughters reported as news. Lunch items for upper and lower elementary, and commentary on whether or not kids would eat things like tomato basil soup. I’m sure other things are going on in the world that we need to know about before a school cafeteria’s offerings. Beyond the superfluity of these words, there’s also the manipulation—just because it’s spoken aloud, on tv, or in the newspapers, doesn’t make it true—or even terribly meaningful. . . lost in a sea of words!
In the field of linguistics, there is a category of speech called “words that change the world.” This is for spoken phrases that change the reality of the world, even if it’s a small part. They are things like “I now pronounce you husband and wife” before the phrase the bride and groom are two single people, and afterwards they are a married couple. It’s like the naming of a child. Or the reading of a verdict. Part of the world has changed.
There are other words that change our lives, even if it’s not the words themselves that do the changing. A phone call. A doctor’s announcement. A complaint. Praise from a colleague. A note of support in difficult times.
In today’s reading, we have many such words and phrases that can change our lives.
“The word of the Lord was rare in those days,” we are told in Samuel, “visions were not widespread.” Surely, we can imagine such a time. It’s all that more spectacular when the Lord calls Samuel, by name. Again and again, until Samuel realizes that it’s God.
God calls to Samuel in the night to tell him: “I am about to do something in Israel that will make both ears of anyone who hears of it tingle.” Samuel goes on to become a great prophet whose words did not fall to the ground, but were purposeful and heard and did not fall on deaf ears.
Jesus tells Philip to “follow me” and he does. Philip tells Nathanael to “come and see.” He does and his world is changed. “When Jesus saw Nathanael coming toward him, he said of him, "Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!" Jesus tells Nathanael “you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.” Nathanael is obedient to Philips’ call to turn toward Jesus. Jesus then recognizes in Nathanael his worthy character, which he shares with Nathanael who is then further convinced that the king of Israel can really come out of Nazareth after all.The simple words: follow me, come and see, spoken as Jesus gathers his disciples.
Psalm 139: Even before a word is on my tongue, O LORD, you know it completely. We can disappoint God, but we cannot surprise God! The God who has known us before we were born.
We cannot escape—we can turn away, but God has a plan and a purpose, knows what’s going on, and is working to bring about good in the world—is working to redeem us—to sanctify us—to bring us into right relationship with God and with each other. There is hope in the God for whom darkness is not dark.
If we listen to prophetic voices in our time, we continue to hear the needed words of creation, epiphany, and hope.
Martin Luther King, Jr changed the world with his words. As both minister and political advocate. He could not believe that God would truly want such inequality and treatment for Americans of African descent.
Excerpt form his last speech, that he gave in Memphis for a workers’ strike, the night before he was assassinated. . . words that cover an historic sweep, and speak to us today some 40 years later:
“If I were standing at the beginning of time, with the possibility of general and panoramic view of the whole human history up to now, and the Almighty said to me, “Martin Luther King, which age would you like to live in?”—I would take my mental flight by Egypt through, or rather across the Red Sea, through the wilderness on toward the promised land. And in spite of its magnificence, I wouldn’t stop there. I would move on by Greece, and take my mind to Mount Olympus. And I would see Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, Euripides and Aristophanes assembled around the Parthenon as they discussed the great and eternal issues of reality.
But I wouldn’t stop there. I would go on, even to the great heyday of the Roman Empire. And I would see developments around there, through various emperors and leaders. But I wouldn’t stop there. I would even come up to the day of the Renaissance, and get a quick picture of all that the Renaissance did for the cultural and esthetic life of man. But I wouldn’t stop there. I would even go by the way that the man for whom I’m named had his habitat. And I would watch Martin Luther as he tacked his ninety-five theses on the door at the church in Wittenburg.
But I wouldn’t stop there. I would come on up even to 1863, and watch a vacillating president by the name of Abraham Lincoln finally come to the conclusion that the had to sign the Emancipation proclamation. But I wouldn’t stop there, I would even come up to the early thirties, and see a man grappling with the problems of the bankruptcy of his nation. And come with an eloquent cry that we have nothing to fear but fear itself.
But I wouldn’t stop there. Strangely enough, I would turn to the Almighty, and say, “If you allow me to live just a few years in the second half of the twentieth century, I will be happy.” Now that’s a strange statement to make, because the world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land. Confusion is all around. That’s a strange statement. But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars. And I see God working in this period of the twentieth century in a way that men, in some strange way, are responding—something is happening in our world. The masses of people are rising up. And wherever they are assembled today, whether they are in Johannesburg, South Africa; Nairobi, Kenya; Accra Ghana; New York City; Atlanta, Georgia; Jackson, Mississippi; or Memphis, Tennessee—the cry is always the same—“we want to be free.”[1]
And the final words of this speech, his last public words:
“I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn’t matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I’m happy, tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”[2]
In these days, when words from God seem rare . . .
When near messianic hopes are pinned on a very human president. When we face crisis and transition on so many levels which may mean changing the way we do business, changing the way we view ourselves, and stumbling in the dark, until we can find the light of a way forward. The path isn’t always clear and crystal cut, we sometimes must feel lost and scared, even when we’re moving ahead, following the divine spirit onward. As King says, sometimes only when it’s dark can we see the stars.
Whether you think that Tuesday is the culmination of great hope or a traffic nuisance, we are entering into a new era, we will all have to grapple with what that will mean for ourselves and our nation.
Whether we agree or not, I hope we can all pray for this transition, for our new leaders, and for the healing of our lands.
If we are to weather this storm, our hope lies, not in our financial securities, but in our commitment to God and to each other. In our ability to listen to the divine wisdom, to interpret it together, and hold tight to that which is good and true.
To come and see, to no longer hide in fear and darkness, but to come into the light of hope, to see what wondrous things God can do.
[1] King, Martin Luther. “I See the Promised Land” 1968
[2] “
It’s easy to get lost in the words. We hear a lot of them: our news channels are full to talking, but not enough substance to warrant 24 hours of coverage. I was shocked and appalled to see the lunch menus of Obama’s daughters reported as news. Lunch items for upper and lower elementary, and commentary on whether or not kids would eat things like tomato basil soup. I’m sure other things are going on in the world that we need to know about before a school cafeteria’s offerings. Beyond the superfluity of these words, there’s also the manipulation—just because it’s spoken aloud, on tv, or in the newspapers, doesn’t make it true—or even terribly meaningful. . . lost in a sea of words!
In the field of linguistics, there is a category of speech called “words that change the world.” This is for spoken phrases that change the reality of the world, even if it’s a small part. They are things like “I now pronounce you husband and wife” before the phrase the bride and groom are two single people, and afterwards they are a married couple. It’s like the naming of a child. Or the reading of a verdict. Part of the world has changed.
There are other words that change our lives, even if it’s not the words themselves that do the changing. A phone call. A doctor’s announcement. A complaint. Praise from a colleague. A note of support in difficult times.
In today’s reading, we have many such words and phrases that can change our lives.
“The word of the Lord was rare in those days,” we are told in Samuel, “visions were not widespread.” Surely, we can imagine such a time. It’s all that more spectacular when the Lord calls Samuel, by name. Again and again, until Samuel realizes that it’s God.
God calls to Samuel in the night to tell him: “I am about to do something in Israel that will make both ears of anyone who hears of it tingle.” Samuel goes on to become a great prophet whose words did not fall to the ground, but were purposeful and heard and did not fall on deaf ears.
Jesus tells Philip to “follow me” and he does. Philip tells Nathanael to “come and see.” He does and his world is changed. “When Jesus saw Nathanael coming toward him, he said of him, "Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!" Jesus tells Nathanael “you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.” Nathanael is obedient to Philips’ call to turn toward Jesus. Jesus then recognizes in Nathanael his worthy character, which he shares with Nathanael who is then further convinced that the king of Israel can really come out of Nazareth after all.The simple words: follow me, come and see, spoken as Jesus gathers his disciples.
Psalm 139: Even before a word is on my tongue, O LORD, you know it completely. We can disappoint God, but we cannot surprise God! The God who has known us before we were born.
We cannot escape—we can turn away, but God has a plan and a purpose, knows what’s going on, and is working to bring about good in the world—is working to redeem us—to sanctify us—to bring us into right relationship with God and with each other. There is hope in the God for whom darkness is not dark.
If we listen to prophetic voices in our time, we continue to hear the needed words of creation, epiphany, and hope.
Martin Luther King, Jr changed the world with his words. As both minister and political advocate. He could not believe that God would truly want such inequality and treatment for Americans of African descent.
Excerpt form his last speech, that he gave in Memphis for a workers’ strike, the night before he was assassinated. . . words that cover an historic sweep, and speak to us today some 40 years later:
“If I were standing at the beginning of time, with the possibility of general and panoramic view of the whole human history up to now, and the Almighty said to me, “Martin Luther King, which age would you like to live in?”—I would take my mental flight by Egypt through, or rather across the Red Sea, through the wilderness on toward the promised land. And in spite of its magnificence, I wouldn’t stop there. I would move on by Greece, and take my mind to Mount Olympus. And I would see Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, Euripides and Aristophanes assembled around the Parthenon as they discussed the great and eternal issues of reality.
But I wouldn’t stop there. I would go on, even to the great heyday of the Roman Empire. And I would see developments around there, through various emperors and leaders. But I wouldn’t stop there. I would even come up to the day of the Renaissance, and get a quick picture of all that the Renaissance did for the cultural and esthetic life of man. But I wouldn’t stop there. I would even go by the way that the man for whom I’m named had his habitat. And I would watch Martin Luther as he tacked his ninety-five theses on the door at the church in Wittenburg.
But I wouldn’t stop there. I would come on up even to 1863, and watch a vacillating president by the name of Abraham Lincoln finally come to the conclusion that the had to sign the Emancipation proclamation. But I wouldn’t stop there, I would even come up to the early thirties, and see a man grappling with the problems of the bankruptcy of his nation. And come with an eloquent cry that we have nothing to fear but fear itself.
But I wouldn’t stop there. Strangely enough, I would turn to the Almighty, and say, “If you allow me to live just a few years in the second half of the twentieth century, I will be happy.” Now that’s a strange statement to make, because the world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land. Confusion is all around. That’s a strange statement. But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars. And I see God working in this period of the twentieth century in a way that men, in some strange way, are responding—something is happening in our world. The masses of people are rising up. And wherever they are assembled today, whether they are in Johannesburg, South Africa; Nairobi, Kenya; Accra Ghana; New York City; Atlanta, Georgia; Jackson, Mississippi; or Memphis, Tennessee—the cry is always the same—“we want to be free.”[1]
And the final words of this speech, his last public words:
“I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn’t matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I’m happy, tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”[2]
In these days, when words from God seem rare . . .
When near messianic hopes are pinned on a very human president. When we face crisis and transition on so many levels which may mean changing the way we do business, changing the way we view ourselves, and stumbling in the dark, until we can find the light of a way forward. The path isn’t always clear and crystal cut, we sometimes must feel lost and scared, even when we’re moving ahead, following the divine spirit onward. As King says, sometimes only when it’s dark can we see the stars.
Whether you think that Tuesday is the culmination of great hope or a traffic nuisance, we are entering into a new era, we will all have to grapple with what that will mean for ourselves and our nation.
Whether we agree or not, I hope we can all pray for this transition, for our new leaders, and for the healing of our lands.
If we are to weather this storm, our hope lies, not in our financial securities, but in our commitment to God and to each other. In our ability to listen to the divine wisdom, to interpret it together, and hold tight to that which is good and true.
To come and see, to no longer hide in fear and darkness, but to come into the light of hope, to see what wondrous things God can do.
[1] King, Martin Luther. “I See the Promised Land” 1968
[2] “
Monday, December 29, 2008
Cheap Grace
Luke 2: 22-40
Here we are with Christmas all over. Here we are with the life of Christ just beginning. After all of the prophesies and waiting, all of the angels and the shepherds, Jesus is born and thriving. And his parents are beginning the hard task of raising a child. Luke writes that they are being good, dutiful parents. They’ve brought their baby home and have brought him their first son to be presented at the temple. They are following the ritual law that Jesus will fulfill. The presence of Jesus in the temple does not go unnoticed. Two people identify him as the Messiah. One man and one woman, both “great in age.”
As a society, we don’t deal with aging well. After about age 21 birthdays are no longer occasions to be celebrated. If my dad overhears someone gripping about an upcoming birthday, he always says “well, it’s better than the alternative.” And some people get around this by turning 29 or 39 or 49 over and over again.
We also do things and buy things to avoid looking or acting older. Our pharmacy shelves are filled with anti-wrinkle creams and products for youthful rejuvenation. Not to mention botox and plastic surgery. As a society, we fear growing older. And unfortunately, we do not honor and respect our elders.
Luke honors two—does not lament their age, or pity them, but praises their wisdom and faithfulness. Simeon is a man, on whom rests the Holy Spirit. He comes to the temple this particular day because the Spirit guides him. Had he not listened to this prompting and staid home, he would have missed seeing the Messiah. He sees the child, holds the child, and says great and terrible things about him: Jesus is the fulfilling of God’s salvation, but also the falling and rising of many, a sign to be opposed. It’s good news, overall, but not terribly cheerful.
Simeon, upon seeing the child Messiah, does not lament his own life. He does not ask for further longevity, he says “now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word.” A man who faces his death with full confidence and no fear. This is basically the same brave sentiment from Mary that we heard last Sunday: “here am I, the servant of the Lord, let it be to me according to your Word”
Luke is telling his story with those faithful, humble, pure-of-heart people. Simeon, who knew that he would see the Messiah before his death, now faces that death in peace. Perhaps a lesser person would have bargained for more time, as if Jesus were a wish-granting genie, but not Simeon, he has peace in God both in life and in death.
One of the characteristics of the book of Luke is his mention of women. Sometimes his is called the “gospel of women” because women are mentioned so frequently. While Luke does mention 10 named women, he mentions 133 named men. While 10 is great, it’s no match to 133.
He pairs stories of men with stories of women. We start off with Zechariah and Elizabeth. Later, there’s the healing of the centurion’s servant, then the widow’s son. The masculine story of the lost sheep is followed by the story of the woman and the lost coin. Luke also pays a lot of attention to widows. So it’s no surprise, that the story of Simeon is followed with the story of Anna as complement. Note; this does not make Luke a feminist gospel. The inclusion of women may hint at inclusion of women in the Christian community, but this is not a standard of equality. Though he includes women, even by name, which is unusual, he still characterizes them based on their relationships to men and gives them less power and autonomy. Luke identifies Anna through the naming of her father and tribe. He then discusses her husband and identifies her as a long-term widow. Though she also speaks of the child, we do not get to hear her words, even though we hear Simeon’s. Simeon, too, we learn, has been blessed by the Holy Spirit, and while Anna is a prophet, Luke does not include the Spirit in her description. It’s hard to tell exactly what’s going on with Anna. She’s a prophet who never left the temple, but worshipped with fasting and prayer night and day. She sounds rather extreme and perhaps a little batty. Like she might be a lone woman who’s set up camp in the temple and then starts blabbering about Jesus. We don’t know because Luke doesn’t tell us that the Spirit was upon her, that the Spirit led her to the temple and to Jesus, or that she was righteous and devout.
At the time that Luke’s gospel was written, there were various communities of women, particular older widows, who formed religious orders in places like Qumran, like a Jewish form of nuns. Anna may have been part of a like community, or a “consecrated widow” serving the temple through ministry and prayer. Anna is likely, not just an older woman with nothing to do but loiter in the temple. She is the honored prophet and widow who carries out the work of God in the temple.
But whatever else, Anna is not pitied for her old age. Luke honors her both for being a widow and for being of “great age.” Both she and Simeon demonstrate wisdom and devotion. Like the shepherds, they are not confused by a messiah who shows up as a baby. They understand that this is their salvation, their redemption, and their hope.
In this instance, we begin to learn the implications for Jesus’ coming. Now that the redeemer has come, we can settle in to what that will mean. The light is here, the baby is born, peace and justice may roll down like waters. The words of joy roll in. But this redemption comes with a price. It’s not all joy.
After Simeon praises God for this light and revelation, he turns to Mary. He acknowledges the great hope of the event, but then has a word for the mother. Simeon says: "This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed--and a sword will pierce your own soul too." Not exactly the words she might have wanted to hear about her new baby boy. Your baby boy, so cute, and fresh, and squishy, with the cheeks that no one can resist, will be opposed. And a sword will pierce your own soul. Parenting is never easy. But here’s Mary, who so willingly gave her life to God, to be blessed with such a son, a son to bring healing and wholeness to the world, but will also bring division, and certain pain for you.
Mary, so willingly, said “let it be unto me according to your word.” Opening herself up to whatever God might have in mind, even accepting that this child will bring her great pain and heartache.
Jesus is a litmus test for falling and rising. A truth serum. A line drawn in the sand. There are those who recognize him and those who do not.
Wonder and mystery, the holy chaos of this infant God.
In the temple, Jesus, the Incarnation, becomes public, legal fact.
This is cause for both praise and caution. This grace comes with a cost: opposition and swords. It is not “cheap.” It will cost a mother and father their son. It will cost us our complacency and comfort. For anyone, who thinks that Jesus is for the feint of heart, Dietrich Bonhoeffer once called this “cheap grace.” He says: Cheap grace is the deadly enemy of our Church. We are fighting today for costly grace.... Such grace is costly because it costs a man his life, and it is grace because it gives a man the only true life. It is costly because it condemns sin, and grace because it justifies the sinner. Above all it is costly because it cost God the life of his Son: "ye were bought at a price," and what has cost God much cannot be cheap.
God’s grace goes before us and with us. It went with Simeon and Anna as they saw the truth of Jesus.
Behold. Jesus has come. He will grow and become strong, filled with wisdom, with the favor of God upon him.
May we have such favor. May we be strong and wise. May God fill us with grace. May we see Jesus. May we open ourselves up to God, to be available and willing according to God’s Word.
Here we are with Christmas all over. Here we are with the life of Christ just beginning. After all of the prophesies and waiting, all of the angels and the shepherds, Jesus is born and thriving. And his parents are beginning the hard task of raising a child. Luke writes that they are being good, dutiful parents. They’ve brought their baby home and have brought him their first son to be presented at the temple. They are following the ritual law that Jesus will fulfill. The presence of Jesus in the temple does not go unnoticed. Two people identify him as the Messiah. One man and one woman, both “great in age.”
As a society, we don’t deal with aging well. After about age 21 birthdays are no longer occasions to be celebrated. If my dad overhears someone gripping about an upcoming birthday, he always says “well, it’s better than the alternative.” And some people get around this by turning 29 or 39 or 49 over and over again.
We also do things and buy things to avoid looking or acting older. Our pharmacy shelves are filled with anti-wrinkle creams and products for youthful rejuvenation. Not to mention botox and plastic surgery. As a society, we fear growing older. And unfortunately, we do not honor and respect our elders.
Luke honors two—does not lament their age, or pity them, but praises their wisdom and faithfulness. Simeon is a man, on whom rests the Holy Spirit. He comes to the temple this particular day because the Spirit guides him. Had he not listened to this prompting and staid home, he would have missed seeing the Messiah. He sees the child, holds the child, and says great and terrible things about him: Jesus is the fulfilling of God’s salvation, but also the falling and rising of many, a sign to be opposed. It’s good news, overall, but not terribly cheerful.
Simeon, upon seeing the child Messiah, does not lament his own life. He does not ask for further longevity, he says “now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word.” A man who faces his death with full confidence and no fear. This is basically the same brave sentiment from Mary that we heard last Sunday: “here am I, the servant of the Lord, let it be to me according to your Word”
Luke is telling his story with those faithful, humble, pure-of-heart people. Simeon, who knew that he would see the Messiah before his death, now faces that death in peace. Perhaps a lesser person would have bargained for more time, as if Jesus were a wish-granting genie, but not Simeon, he has peace in God both in life and in death.
One of the characteristics of the book of Luke is his mention of women. Sometimes his is called the “gospel of women” because women are mentioned so frequently. While Luke does mention 10 named women, he mentions 133 named men. While 10 is great, it’s no match to 133.
He pairs stories of men with stories of women. We start off with Zechariah and Elizabeth. Later, there’s the healing of the centurion’s servant, then the widow’s son. The masculine story of the lost sheep is followed by the story of the woman and the lost coin. Luke also pays a lot of attention to widows. So it’s no surprise, that the story of Simeon is followed with the story of Anna as complement. Note; this does not make Luke a feminist gospel. The inclusion of women may hint at inclusion of women in the Christian community, but this is not a standard of equality. Though he includes women, even by name, which is unusual, he still characterizes them based on their relationships to men and gives them less power and autonomy. Luke identifies Anna through the naming of her father and tribe. He then discusses her husband and identifies her as a long-term widow. Though she also speaks of the child, we do not get to hear her words, even though we hear Simeon’s. Simeon, too, we learn, has been blessed by the Holy Spirit, and while Anna is a prophet, Luke does not include the Spirit in her description. It’s hard to tell exactly what’s going on with Anna. She’s a prophet who never left the temple, but worshipped with fasting and prayer night and day. She sounds rather extreme and perhaps a little batty. Like she might be a lone woman who’s set up camp in the temple and then starts blabbering about Jesus. We don’t know because Luke doesn’t tell us that the Spirit was upon her, that the Spirit led her to the temple and to Jesus, or that she was righteous and devout.
At the time that Luke’s gospel was written, there were various communities of women, particular older widows, who formed religious orders in places like Qumran, like a Jewish form of nuns. Anna may have been part of a like community, or a “consecrated widow” serving the temple through ministry and prayer. Anna is likely, not just an older woman with nothing to do but loiter in the temple. She is the honored prophet and widow who carries out the work of God in the temple.
But whatever else, Anna is not pitied for her old age. Luke honors her both for being a widow and for being of “great age.” Both she and Simeon demonstrate wisdom and devotion. Like the shepherds, they are not confused by a messiah who shows up as a baby. They understand that this is their salvation, their redemption, and their hope.
In this instance, we begin to learn the implications for Jesus’ coming. Now that the redeemer has come, we can settle in to what that will mean. The light is here, the baby is born, peace and justice may roll down like waters. The words of joy roll in. But this redemption comes with a price. It’s not all joy.
After Simeon praises God for this light and revelation, he turns to Mary. He acknowledges the great hope of the event, but then has a word for the mother. Simeon says: "This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed--and a sword will pierce your own soul too." Not exactly the words she might have wanted to hear about her new baby boy. Your baby boy, so cute, and fresh, and squishy, with the cheeks that no one can resist, will be opposed. And a sword will pierce your own soul. Parenting is never easy. But here’s Mary, who so willingly gave her life to God, to be blessed with such a son, a son to bring healing and wholeness to the world, but will also bring division, and certain pain for you.
Mary, so willingly, said “let it be unto me according to your word.” Opening herself up to whatever God might have in mind, even accepting that this child will bring her great pain and heartache.
Jesus is a litmus test for falling and rising. A truth serum. A line drawn in the sand. There are those who recognize him and those who do not.
Wonder and mystery, the holy chaos of this infant God.
In the temple, Jesus, the Incarnation, becomes public, legal fact.
This is cause for both praise and caution. This grace comes with a cost: opposition and swords. It is not “cheap.” It will cost a mother and father their son. It will cost us our complacency and comfort. For anyone, who thinks that Jesus is for the feint of heart, Dietrich Bonhoeffer once called this “cheap grace.” He says: Cheap grace is the deadly enemy of our Church. We are fighting today for costly grace.... Such grace is costly because it costs a man his life, and it is grace because it gives a man the only true life. It is costly because it condemns sin, and grace because it justifies the sinner. Above all it is costly because it cost God the life of his Son: "ye were bought at a price," and what has cost God much cannot be cheap.
God’s grace goes before us and with us. It went with Simeon and Anna as they saw the truth of Jesus.
Behold. Jesus has come. He will grow and become strong, filled with wisdom, with the favor of God upon him.
May we have such favor. May we be strong and wise. May God fill us with grace. May we see Jesus. May we open ourselves up to God, to be available and willing according to God’s Word.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
I finished reading all of those books I mentioned a few posts ago. The Shack continues to pop up in my life. Members of both sides of my family are reading it. I love it. I cringed at a few parts, but by chapter 4 or 5 I was completely hooked. I’ve never read a fictional portrayal of the persons of the Trinity before. I thought it was magnificent and certainly helps make a confusing concept so much clearer. I also felt very safe and happy as I was reading.
I am twittering. Or tweeting. I’m not sure. I’m exploring Twitter and the world of “micro-blogging.” Do you want to Twitter with me?
I’m preaching on Luke next sermon. Luke 2: 22-40. This is when Jesus is blessed in the temple and Simeon and Anna recognize him as the Messiah. Any thoughts?
I need to finish my Christmas shopping. I really can’t believe that Christmas is next week. This really has been a time when I don’t feel like buying gifts or really receiving them. I just want to relax and see my family.
This past Sunday at church was really wonderful. Our usual Sunday stuff went smoothly. Brunch with the young adults was nice. The Advent Lessons and Carols was simply inspired. The young adult Bible study was lovely.
I’m looking forward to an evening of cooking stew and keeping warm. I hope you keep warm too.
I am twittering. Or tweeting. I’m not sure. I’m exploring Twitter and the world of “micro-blogging.” Do you want to Twitter with me?
I’m preaching on Luke next sermon. Luke 2: 22-40. This is when Jesus is blessed in the temple and Simeon and Anna recognize him as the Messiah. Any thoughts?
I need to finish my Christmas shopping. I really can’t believe that Christmas is next week. This really has been a time when I don’t feel like buying gifts or really receiving them. I just want to relax and see my family.
This past Sunday at church was really wonderful. Our usual Sunday stuff went smoothly. Brunch with the young adults was nice. The Advent Lessons and Carols was simply inspired. The young adult Bible study was lovely.
I’m looking forward to an evening of cooking stew and keeping warm. I hope you keep warm too.
Full Disclosure
John 1:6-8, 19-28
Shawn and I watched the movie Elf last night. I know this is a favorite for some of us around here and I’d like to explore the whole concept of the “Christmas Movie.”
The Christmas Movie, has become quite the phenomenon. When I was a kid, it seemed like there were about 3 of these movies: The Grench, Rudoph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and Frosty the Snowman. These movies are now lost among the hundreds of Christmasy movies and shows that come through the TV. They seem to all end up depicting the same scenes, despite their variances in plots and mishaps: maybe he was left home while the family went to Europe, maybe she kidnapped her date for family Christmas, maybe he’s losing the light competition to his neighbor, maybe that obnoxious brother has parked his RV in the driveway, maybe he’s killed Santa Claus and now has to BE Santa Claus. You know, everyday stuff.
In the end, the movie is always about love and family. The girl gets the guy, the child and parents are reunited, the feuding brothers call for a truce. Everyone exchanges gifts, and eats large turkeys, while the snow falls softly outside and for a moment all is calm, all is bright. For these shows, things become possible at Christmas, like in no other time. People tell the truth, they help each other, the lost return home, the prisoners are set free, wars cease. All kinds of miracles happen—Christmas miracles.
I picked movies to talk about our cultural ideas of Christmas. I’m guessing we’re all smart enough to know the difference. To not think that Santa might really pull through this time with that wish we’ve always had. But there’s still something about it all that holds sway with me. I feel the nostalgia creeping up in the fall, the second I start to smell cinnamon candles in the grocery story. It hits me when I see a snow flurry, hear a particular song, think of a Christmas Eve candlelight service, or a beautiful tree. The first time I saw this sanctuary all decorated, it caught my breath. Because Christmas is coming. In all of its glorious, magic, feel-good possibilities.
When we meet John the Baptist in today’s scripture, he is busy. He is crying in the wilderness, he is preparing the way, he is baptizing with water, he is testifying to the light, to the coming Messiah.
In our wider culture, Christmas is about Christ only in name. Even the local Christian radio stations talk more about listeners’ “favorite xmas memories” which are things like “decorating cookies with my mom” “finding the tree with my dad,” “snow.”
Nothing that sounds like the true meaning of the coming of an Incarnational God in the body of a human baby boy. It all sounds more like traditional family values and Northern weather.
Instead we have this strange, overly sentimental holiday which might have more to do with getting us all through the depressing slump of winter than anything else. A holiday in which we honor the celebrations instead of the true event. The way we might celebrate a wedding, more than a marriage.
And then we come to church, and it’s all ruined. We hear about buying less and giving more, about sacrifice and courage in the face of fear and change. We talk about Jesus. And we don’t sing Christmas carols. We’re not buying poinsettias. We honor the waiting, the coming before we honor the presence. To that end, Christmas is just the beginning. It’s the birth of God Among Us. Not the day that it all is unwrapped, opened, and then quickly put away.
The thing I love about cultural Christmas, is the hope and joy. And maybe not everyone needs Jesus for that, but I do. And maybe Christmas ought to be just about Christ. And the Winter Festival of Hope and Joy can be for everyone else.
I wonder if our churches haven’t become more like Christmas and less like Christ. I wonder if we haven’t replaced Christ with warm, accommodation, if we have become culturally comfortable instead of radically disreputable.
John the Baptist is radical. He lives on the fringe of society and preaches an urgent message of quick repentance. He baptizes with water, as part of a cleansing ritual of purification in the face of the end times. Jesus comes to baptize with water and the spirit, as the Son of God.
To those who interrogate him, John tells them who he is not and who he is. He is not the Light. He is the voice crying in the wilderness. John knows his reason for existence, his purpose, and the one whose way he is preparing. As we prepare for Christmas this Advent, do we know for whom we are preparing? Are we repenting?
Like John, we are to testify to the light. Not the trappings of the holiday, but the light that it’s supposed to celebrate. Not the sentimental light, not twinkly lights, but true blazing light. Not light that sparkles politely in the night. The light that ends all darkness. The light of a baby who turns out to be God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, lying in a dirty trough, tiny, helpless, and squalling. What can we do with that other than drink another cup of eggnog?
From the very beginning, God chooses to be in the suffering. God doesn’t come as an earthly king, not into a rich family, not to experience the luxuries of wealth, but the realities of poverty, dirt, and hard work. The incarnation reveals exactly what kind of God we’re dealing with. A God who comes to us as both God and Human Being. Who comes as a baby—helpless and dependent—unable to do anything but the most basic of creaturely functions. And born into a poor family at that, with young, unmarried parents, who couldn’t find a decent hotel to stay in.
The baby grows up to become a man, who, like John the baptizer, is not always someone we’re comfortable with. But someone we’re supposed to testify about.
Words like witness and testimony have become like the bogeyman in many of our churches. We don’t witness to Jesus, or testify about our faith, because then we sound like THOSE Christians: the pushy kind, those who debate people on the street, who say things like “if you were to die tomorrow, where would you spend eternity?”
Instead, I think we need to reclaim those words. Instead of thinking of winning a debate, of converting another person as a competition, in the purest sense, testimony just means telling our story. It means witnessing to the light of Christ in our lives, whether or not we are convincing. It doesn’t mean memorizing scripture to be able to proof text it in a theological street fight.
We all need to be able to tell our story, of how we got here, and not just how we came to be at Washington Street, whether it’s been 40 years or 30 minutes, but how we understand the pull that God has on us, the claim that Jesus has on our lives, the Holy Spirit that we feel moving.
I’ve had to tell my story a lot, and it’s never been in a church service. It’s usually with a group of other preachers, and we call it “THE CALL STORY.” It’s deeply personal, but it’s fair game in almost any gathering that we will tell of our callings. Even these aren’t necessarily about how or why we’re Christians, just how or why we think we should be ministers. The Christian part goes something like this” Well, I was raised in the church and as a I grew up, I found that I still found my faith in church teachings.” Everyone nods knowingly and we go on to talk about family reactions and so forth.
John came to testify to the light. I am not the light. I have no confusion that I am anyone’s savior, but the more I see and experience of humanity, I realize that we are deeply, deeply in need of a redeemer. It makes sense to me that a divine “thing” would have created this world and everything in it, that it didn’t happen by accident, however it happened. But that belief doesn’t make me a Christian. It just means I’m not an atheist.
With all our pain and brokenness, it’s hard to breath sometimes, just thinking about it all. We are not all fine on our own, even with a loving God somewhere, it’s not enough. When God the Word came to live on the earth as Jesus, God validated us in a wholly unique way. God said not only have I created you, but I am one of you too. God came and validated and honored our existence and our life: our joys and our pains, the full spectrum of all that it means to be a human person. When he died, he just went that much further, to share death, the immortal God, sharing in death and suffering, and then he vanquished that death once and for all.
And that’s the kind of God I believe in. The kind that lived in a human body, and allowed himself to break in order to save the world.
The hope and joy of the season, radiate from and point back to the hope and joy and promise of Jesus. It’s kind of nice to see everyone embracing these and striving for happiness and joy and merriment. But it’s also sad, like in so many instances, we cherish and celebrate the effects of something, instead of the actual thing. Perhaps it’s because the party, the celebration is much more fun then the actual event, then the actual caring and raising of a baby. Or we don’t know what to do with Jesus. It’s nice when he’s a baby even if it’s weird that he’s also God. But he’s manageable, small, and sweet. But he grows up, lives a strange life, and dies a gruesome death. We don’t get to keep the Christmas Jesus, the tiny omnipotent baby God. Our sweet images of baby Jesus will soon be replaced by an embarrassingly skinny, rib showing, half-naked man nailed to a cross. Then that will be replaced by an even stranger image of a scarred man dressed in white ascending into heaven. Maybe Santa Claus and flying reindeer really do make more sense.
Shawn and I watched the movie Elf last night. I know this is a favorite for some of us around here and I’d like to explore the whole concept of the “Christmas Movie.”
The Christmas Movie, has become quite the phenomenon. When I was a kid, it seemed like there were about 3 of these movies: The Grench, Rudoph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and Frosty the Snowman. These movies are now lost among the hundreds of Christmasy movies and shows that come through the TV. They seem to all end up depicting the same scenes, despite their variances in plots and mishaps: maybe he was left home while the family went to Europe, maybe she kidnapped her date for family Christmas, maybe he’s losing the light competition to his neighbor, maybe that obnoxious brother has parked his RV in the driveway, maybe he’s killed Santa Claus and now has to BE Santa Claus. You know, everyday stuff.
In the end, the movie is always about love and family. The girl gets the guy, the child and parents are reunited, the feuding brothers call for a truce. Everyone exchanges gifts, and eats large turkeys, while the snow falls softly outside and for a moment all is calm, all is bright. For these shows, things become possible at Christmas, like in no other time. People tell the truth, they help each other, the lost return home, the prisoners are set free, wars cease. All kinds of miracles happen—Christmas miracles.
I picked movies to talk about our cultural ideas of Christmas. I’m guessing we’re all smart enough to know the difference. To not think that Santa might really pull through this time with that wish we’ve always had. But there’s still something about it all that holds sway with me. I feel the nostalgia creeping up in the fall, the second I start to smell cinnamon candles in the grocery story. It hits me when I see a snow flurry, hear a particular song, think of a Christmas Eve candlelight service, or a beautiful tree. The first time I saw this sanctuary all decorated, it caught my breath. Because Christmas is coming. In all of its glorious, magic, feel-good possibilities.
When we meet John the Baptist in today’s scripture, he is busy. He is crying in the wilderness, he is preparing the way, he is baptizing with water, he is testifying to the light, to the coming Messiah.
In our wider culture, Christmas is about Christ only in name. Even the local Christian radio stations talk more about listeners’ “favorite xmas memories” which are things like “decorating cookies with my mom” “finding the tree with my dad,” “snow.”
Nothing that sounds like the true meaning of the coming of an Incarnational God in the body of a human baby boy. It all sounds more like traditional family values and Northern weather.
Instead we have this strange, overly sentimental holiday which might have more to do with getting us all through the depressing slump of winter than anything else. A holiday in which we honor the celebrations instead of the true event. The way we might celebrate a wedding, more than a marriage.
And then we come to church, and it’s all ruined. We hear about buying less and giving more, about sacrifice and courage in the face of fear and change. We talk about Jesus. And we don’t sing Christmas carols. We’re not buying poinsettias. We honor the waiting, the coming before we honor the presence. To that end, Christmas is just the beginning. It’s the birth of God Among Us. Not the day that it all is unwrapped, opened, and then quickly put away.
The thing I love about cultural Christmas, is the hope and joy. And maybe not everyone needs Jesus for that, but I do. And maybe Christmas ought to be just about Christ. And the Winter Festival of Hope and Joy can be for everyone else.
I wonder if our churches haven’t become more like Christmas and less like Christ. I wonder if we haven’t replaced Christ with warm, accommodation, if we have become culturally comfortable instead of radically disreputable.
John the Baptist is radical. He lives on the fringe of society and preaches an urgent message of quick repentance. He baptizes with water, as part of a cleansing ritual of purification in the face of the end times. Jesus comes to baptize with water and the spirit, as the Son of God.
To those who interrogate him, John tells them who he is not and who he is. He is not the Light. He is the voice crying in the wilderness. John knows his reason for existence, his purpose, and the one whose way he is preparing. As we prepare for Christmas this Advent, do we know for whom we are preparing? Are we repenting?
Like John, we are to testify to the light. Not the trappings of the holiday, but the light that it’s supposed to celebrate. Not the sentimental light, not twinkly lights, but true blazing light. Not light that sparkles politely in the night. The light that ends all darkness. The light of a baby who turns out to be God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, lying in a dirty trough, tiny, helpless, and squalling. What can we do with that other than drink another cup of eggnog?
From the very beginning, God chooses to be in the suffering. God doesn’t come as an earthly king, not into a rich family, not to experience the luxuries of wealth, but the realities of poverty, dirt, and hard work. The incarnation reveals exactly what kind of God we’re dealing with. A God who comes to us as both God and Human Being. Who comes as a baby—helpless and dependent—unable to do anything but the most basic of creaturely functions. And born into a poor family at that, with young, unmarried parents, who couldn’t find a decent hotel to stay in.
The baby grows up to become a man, who, like John the baptizer, is not always someone we’re comfortable with. But someone we’re supposed to testify about.
Words like witness and testimony have become like the bogeyman in many of our churches. We don’t witness to Jesus, or testify about our faith, because then we sound like THOSE Christians: the pushy kind, those who debate people on the street, who say things like “if you were to die tomorrow, where would you spend eternity?”
Instead, I think we need to reclaim those words. Instead of thinking of winning a debate, of converting another person as a competition, in the purest sense, testimony just means telling our story. It means witnessing to the light of Christ in our lives, whether or not we are convincing. It doesn’t mean memorizing scripture to be able to proof text it in a theological street fight.
We all need to be able to tell our story, of how we got here, and not just how we came to be at Washington Street, whether it’s been 40 years or 30 minutes, but how we understand the pull that God has on us, the claim that Jesus has on our lives, the Holy Spirit that we feel moving.
I’ve had to tell my story a lot, and it’s never been in a church service. It’s usually with a group of other preachers, and we call it “THE CALL STORY.” It’s deeply personal, but it’s fair game in almost any gathering that we will tell of our callings. Even these aren’t necessarily about how or why we’re Christians, just how or why we think we should be ministers. The Christian part goes something like this” Well, I was raised in the church and as a I grew up, I found that I still found my faith in church teachings.” Everyone nods knowingly and we go on to talk about family reactions and so forth.
John came to testify to the light. I am not the light. I have no confusion that I am anyone’s savior, but the more I see and experience of humanity, I realize that we are deeply, deeply in need of a redeemer. It makes sense to me that a divine “thing” would have created this world and everything in it, that it didn’t happen by accident, however it happened. But that belief doesn’t make me a Christian. It just means I’m not an atheist.
With all our pain and brokenness, it’s hard to breath sometimes, just thinking about it all. We are not all fine on our own, even with a loving God somewhere, it’s not enough. When God the Word came to live on the earth as Jesus, God validated us in a wholly unique way. God said not only have I created you, but I am one of you too. God came and validated and honored our existence and our life: our joys and our pains, the full spectrum of all that it means to be a human person. When he died, he just went that much further, to share death, the immortal God, sharing in death and suffering, and then he vanquished that death once and for all.
And that’s the kind of God I believe in. The kind that lived in a human body, and allowed himself to break in order to save the world.
The hope and joy of the season, radiate from and point back to the hope and joy and promise of Jesus. It’s kind of nice to see everyone embracing these and striving for happiness and joy and merriment. But it’s also sad, like in so many instances, we cherish and celebrate the effects of something, instead of the actual thing. Perhaps it’s because the party, the celebration is much more fun then the actual event, then the actual caring and raising of a baby. Or we don’t know what to do with Jesus. It’s nice when he’s a baby even if it’s weird that he’s also God. But he’s manageable, small, and sweet. But he grows up, lives a strange life, and dies a gruesome death. We don’t get to keep the Christmas Jesus, the tiny omnipotent baby God. Our sweet images of baby Jesus will soon be replaced by an embarrassingly skinny, rib showing, half-naked man nailed to a cross. Then that will be replaced by an even stranger image of a scarred man dressed in white ascending into heaven. Maybe Santa Claus and flying reindeer really do make more sense.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Irresponsible Privilege
Matthew 25: 14-30
Perfectionism just thrives inside the beltway. If you look around this room, I bet you’ll spot many perfectionists in our midst. At the root of this all, is the fear of failure. If we’re not perfectionists, we may still be ridden with self-absorption and anxiety, with the persistent thought that we’re not good enough. Not good enough parents, not good enough for the job we really want, not good enough to find someone to spend the rest of our lives with, not good enough to be and do all that we’ve ever wanted. Or all that God has ever wanted for us. That is if God really is a loving supportive God, and not the demanding punitive one.
For the first slaves in our story, self-esteem is a not an issue. They receive their tasks, tailored to each one’s ability, and go about fulfilling their work. The last slave, however, is overcome by fear: he fears this master who is ruthless, who reaps what he does not sow. He wouldn’t be able to do the job anyway, so why try? Better to bury the talents so they will at least be safe. In the end, when confronted by the master, the slave doesn’t blame himself, he points his finger at the master, for being a cruel man who would never have been satisfied anyway. Maybe this is an accurate depiction of an assertive and creative God, or maybe it’s a fearful projection. It’s not his fear that matters, but his inaction in the face of it.
We are made in the image of a God who loves us. Our being begins and ends with God, how could we not value who we are?
The talents, whether we think of them as money or abilities are resources: God-given resources that the can be put to good use in service of the Commonwealth of God. We are responsible for our collective values, decisions, and stewardship. Like those slaves, we are both entrusted and accountable with much of sacred value.
The mistake for the third servant is the assumption that he had anything in the first place. The only thing he had of value belonged to the master and he sat on it, as if it were really his. No glory came out of it. What do we have that doesn’t ultimately belong to God? And who are we to squander that gift?
This idea of wasting God’s gifts reminds me of a poem by Marianne Williamson:
Our deepest fear
Is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear
Is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light,
Not our darkness,
That most frightens us.
We ask ourselves,
Who am I to be brilliant,
Gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small doesn’t serve the world.
There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking
So that other people
Won’t feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest
The glory of God that is within us.
It’s not just in some of us;
It’s in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,
We unconsciously give other people
Permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.
We are entrusted with the glory of God, for the love of God. This isn’t glory so that we can outdo others, it’s glory and liberation for everyone. That we can glorify God through ourselves. Not that we can love only ourselves, that we can get over ourselves enough to love God and others. We don’t have to waste time wondering if we’re good enough, but we get out there and actually do something.
The talents come to represent power for the slaves. For those who invest well, they are given more. In this same story in the gospel of Luke, the productive ones are given more cities to rule. God has given us each a measure of power and influence in our own lives.
Now before you go off to take over the world, let’s think about what these means. If God gives us power that we are to invest and not squander, what does that mean? How do we use this power for good and not to co-opt others?
It’s easy for most of us to deny that we have any power or gifts: that we have nothing to bring to God’s kingdom, but ourselves. We may feel poor in earthly power, there’s a long list of people who have more.
The real truth is that every person in this room is powerful. As individuals, families, and congregation gathered here for worship: we have a lot of power. We need to use that to be involved in God, and not give in to the apathy of “there’s nothing I can do.”
The Carpenter’s Shelter, just up the street, provides many services for the city’s lost: the homeless, the hungry, the needy. The people who run the shelter and those who volunteer have a lot more power in the world than those who come seeking help. Generally, these are the people society who can hold a job, pay for their own housing, buy cars and groceries, balance their income, and invest wisely. They are self-sufficient citizens. The people who come seeking help have very little power in the world. For whatever circumstances in their lives, they are not able to play the game of life in America without guidance.
For this situation, it would be all too easy, for the powerful to help the needy without changing the hierarchy of power. Never ending hand-outs and bailouts would keep the helpless helpless.
In the shelter’s early years, its dedicated workers noticed that many folks who staid in the shelter and then left, would end up at the shelter again. Perhaps they had trouble keeping their job and paying the rent, or for some, the shelter was the safest home they had ever known. The Carpenter Shelter now provides an extensive list of programs that help people find jobs and keep them, helps them find and secure affordable housing, helps them get into college, helps in ways that break the cycle of dependency. Currently, for every 100 people who pass through their shelter, 90 never have the need to return. The shelter workers have not buried their talents, but have invested them in the people that they serve. They have used their power to empower others. They have used their privilege responsibly.
Think about verse 29: “For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away” (Matthew 25:29). In the midst of November, we find ourselves making our lists: our wish lists and our shopping lists: in the midst of thankfulness for what we have we face the excess consumerism of the Christmas season. We temper this with our charitable giving: so both our consumerism and our charity reach new heights. But we don’t hear as much about social change. Our Christmas consumerism and charity are all about this moment, but not usually about lasting changes.
VOICE stands for Virginians Organized for Interfaith Community Engagement. You’ll be hearing more about VOICE in the coming months, as we plan and dream about the future of the mission here at WSUMC.
VOICE represents a collection of faith communities: Christian, Jewish, Muslim, people of different backgrounds and economic levels all united around the common cause of improving life, based on the challenge to care for all of God’s children. They seek to work with the government to change policy, to help create more affordable housing, immigration reform, and affordable medical care.
They are faith communities who are coming together: combining their power and their influence to get the attention of elected officials: to work for the greatest needs of the Northern Virginia area. They are combining their power to help those without power.
The Rainbow Fish has everything when it comes to beautiful scales, but no friends. He gives away his scales, and so he looses, he only has one instead of many, but his scales are distributed among all of he new friends, and he has more than he ever had before. He loses most of his scales, but he becomes rich in friendship and love.
Love is one of those “talents” that easily multiplies the more it is given away. We can never run out of love. The more we love others, the more love we receive. Loving someone else means not being afraid: it means investing ourselves, our gifts, and abilities, in the world: in the lives of other people, and not hoarding everything to ourselves because we’re afraid we may have nothing to offer.
Jesus invested his whole life in the world. He gave us everything he had. On the night before he was arrested, he shared a simple meal with the few that he had entrusted to be a community of God in the world. They were a group of people, many of whom buried their talent in the face of fear, but who came to have enough faith in themselves and God to carry out Jesus’ work.
Jesus took food from the table: common, ordinary food and told another story with it. He picked up a loaf of unleavened bread, the kind their ancestors had eaten in Egypt, a bread already rich in redemption and said “it’s as if this were my body and its broken for you, that you may live, remember me when you eat it.” And he took a cup of wine, made from grapes and vines, grown out of God’s good earth and said “it’s as if this were my blood that is shed for you that you may have eternal life in God, think of me when you drink it.”
Perfectionism just thrives inside the beltway. If you look around this room, I bet you’ll spot many perfectionists in our midst. At the root of this all, is the fear of failure. If we’re not perfectionists, we may still be ridden with self-absorption and anxiety, with the persistent thought that we’re not good enough. Not good enough parents, not good enough for the job we really want, not good enough to find someone to spend the rest of our lives with, not good enough to be and do all that we’ve ever wanted. Or all that God has ever wanted for us. That is if God really is a loving supportive God, and not the demanding punitive one.
For the first slaves in our story, self-esteem is a not an issue. They receive their tasks, tailored to each one’s ability, and go about fulfilling their work. The last slave, however, is overcome by fear: he fears this master who is ruthless, who reaps what he does not sow. He wouldn’t be able to do the job anyway, so why try? Better to bury the talents so they will at least be safe. In the end, when confronted by the master, the slave doesn’t blame himself, he points his finger at the master, for being a cruel man who would never have been satisfied anyway. Maybe this is an accurate depiction of an assertive and creative God, or maybe it’s a fearful projection. It’s not his fear that matters, but his inaction in the face of it.
We are made in the image of a God who loves us. Our being begins and ends with God, how could we not value who we are?
The talents, whether we think of them as money or abilities are resources: God-given resources that the can be put to good use in service of the Commonwealth of God. We are responsible for our collective values, decisions, and stewardship. Like those slaves, we are both entrusted and accountable with much of sacred value.
The mistake for the third servant is the assumption that he had anything in the first place. The only thing he had of value belonged to the master and he sat on it, as if it were really his. No glory came out of it. What do we have that doesn’t ultimately belong to God? And who are we to squander that gift?
This idea of wasting God’s gifts reminds me of a poem by Marianne Williamson:
Our deepest fear
Is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear
Is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light,
Not our darkness,
That most frightens us.
We ask ourselves,
Who am I to be brilliant,
Gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small doesn’t serve the world.
There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking
So that other people
Won’t feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest
The glory of God that is within us.
It’s not just in some of us;
It’s in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,
We unconsciously give other people
Permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.
We are entrusted with the glory of God, for the love of God. This isn’t glory so that we can outdo others, it’s glory and liberation for everyone. That we can glorify God through ourselves. Not that we can love only ourselves, that we can get over ourselves enough to love God and others. We don’t have to waste time wondering if we’re good enough, but we get out there and actually do something.
The talents come to represent power for the slaves. For those who invest well, they are given more. In this same story in the gospel of Luke, the productive ones are given more cities to rule. God has given us each a measure of power and influence in our own lives.
Now before you go off to take over the world, let’s think about what these means. If God gives us power that we are to invest and not squander, what does that mean? How do we use this power for good and not to co-opt others?
It’s easy for most of us to deny that we have any power or gifts: that we have nothing to bring to God’s kingdom, but ourselves. We may feel poor in earthly power, there’s a long list of people who have more.
The real truth is that every person in this room is powerful. As individuals, families, and congregation gathered here for worship: we have a lot of power. We need to use that to be involved in God, and not give in to the apathy of “there’s nothing I can do.”
The Carpenter’s Shelter, just up the street, provides many services for the city’s lost: the homeless, the hungry, the needy. The people who run the shelter and those who volunteer have a lot more power in the world than those who come seeking help. Generally, these are the people society who can hold a job, pay for their own housing, buy cars and groceries, balance their income, and invest wisely. They are self-sufficient citizens. The people who come seeking help have very little power in the world. For whatever circumstances in their lives, they are not able to play the game of life in America without guidance.
For this situation, it would be all too easy, for the powerful to help the needy without changing the hierarchy of power. Never ending hand-outs and bailouts would keep the helpless helpless.
In the shelter’s early years, its dedicated workers noticed that many folks who staid in the shelter and then left, would end up at the shelter again. Perhaps they had trouble keeping their job and paying the rent, or for some, the shelter was the safest home they had ever known. The Carpenter Shelter now provides an extensive list of programs that help people find jobs and keep them, helps them find and secure affordable housing, helps them get into college, helps in ways that break the cycle of dependency. Currently, for every 100 people who pass through their shelter, 90 never have the need to return. The shelter workers have not buried their talents, but have invested them in the people that they serve. They have used their power to empower others. They have used their privilege responsibly.
Think about verse 29: “For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away” (Matthew 25:29). In the midst of November, we find ourselves making our lists: our wish lists and our shopping lists: in the midst of thankfulness for what we have we face the excess consumerism of the Christmas season. We temper this with our charitable giving: so both our consumerism and our charity reach new heights. But we don’t hear as much about social change. Our Christmas consumerism and charity are all about this moment, but not usually about lasting changes.
VOICE stands for Virginians Organized for Interfaith Community Engagement. You’ll be hearing more about VOICE in the coming months, as we plan and dream about the future of the mission here at WSUMC.
VOICE represents a collection of faith communities: Christian, Jewish, Muslim, people of different backgrounds and economic levels all united around the common cause of improving life, based on the challenge to care for all of God’s children. They seek to work with the government to change policy, to help create more affordable housing, immigration reform, and affordable medical care.
They are faith communities who are coming together: combining their power and their influence to get the attention of elected officials: to work for the greatest needs of the Northern Virginia area. They are combining their power to help those without power.
The Rainbow Fish has everything when it comes to beautiful scales, but no friends. He gives away his scales, and so he looses, he only has one instead of many, but his scales are distributed among all of he new friends, and he has more than he ever had before. He loses most of his scales, but he becomes rich in friendship and love.
Love is one of those “talents” that easily multiplies the more it is given away. We can never run out of love. The more we love others, the more love we receive. Loving someone else means not being afraid: it means investing ourselves, our gifts, and abilities, in the world: in the lives of other people, and not hoarding everything to ourselves because we’re afraid we may have nothing to offer.
Jesus invested his whole life in the world. He gave us everything he had. On the night before he was arrested, he shared a simple meal with the few that he had entrusted to be a community of God in the world. They were a group of people, many of whom buried their talent in the face of fear, but who came to have enough faith in themselves and God to carry out Jesus’ work.
Jesus took food from the table: common, ordinary food and told another story with it. He picked up a loaf of unleavened bread, the kind their ancestors had eaten in Egypt, a bread already rich in redemption and said “it’s as if this were my body and its broken for you, that you may live, remember me when you eat it.” And he took a cup of wine, made from grapes and vines, grown out of God’s good earth and said “it’s as if this were my blood that is shed for you that you may have eternal life in God, think of me when you drink it.”
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