Mark 1:9-15
The season of lent is our journey in the wilderness. Faith is an ongoing journey and Lent meets many of us, right where we usually are, on our spiritual quests for the divine, as we try to reconcile ourselves: our lives, our desires, our motives with God’s.
If we think we’ve arrived, if we think we know who God is and exactly what God wants from us, then this Lenten journey may hold some surprises.
Ever pithy, the gospel of Mark tells us that Jesus was in the wilderness, tempted by Satan, with wild beasts, and Angels who waited on him. And that the Spirit led him there.
Before his sojourn in the wilds, Jesus is baptized. We revisit the baptism of Jesus because Lent was originally, first and foremost, a season of preparation for baptism. For those initiates who were to be baptized on Easter, their three years of preparation culminated in a fast with the entire congregation who would renew their own vows on Easter.
Jesus’ baptism is a moment, both of initiation and clarity. The Spirit’s revelation of his divine identity rips through the heavens.
Just as his baptism reveals Jesus’ divine nature, his temptation reveals his human nature. The Spirit descends upon him “like a dove” and then drives him into the wilderness.
These 40 days solidify the identity and vocation of Jesus. He goes in with the Spirit, to find Satan, wild beasts, and angels. Fortunately, for us, Jesus passes through the time of trial and emerges to begin proclaiming “the good news of God.”
The wilderness is his place of discernment, his education, his seminary, his anointing, his commissioning, his ordination. The place where he finds himself and finds the courage to be himself: to be the divine son of God, to except God’s mantle, and turn in ministry to all the world.
Jesus’ time in the wilderness lasts 40 days. This length of time is a sacred period, found throughout the Hebrew Bible. The flood in Genesis lasts for 40 days and 40 nights. Moses spends 40 days with God on Mt. Sinai. The Hebrew slaves roam in the desert for 40 days. Elijah traveled 40 days to Mount Horeb, where like Moses, he received a word from God.
For these fathers of Israel, these periods were holy and uncertain. Times of humility and trust, danger and blessing, fear and amazement. It is no small thing to spend time in the company of God.
In the wasteland, Jesus reenacts the journey of Noah and his family on the ark, of the Israelites release from slavery and wanderings. He meets God as did Moses and Elijah. He lives out part of the stories of his people. He takes into himself the covenantal promises of God after the flood and relives the trauma of slavery. He remembers their past in order to enter into their future. To be their full liberation, to understand their need
for rebirth.
For us, like for Jesus, these days are a time of soul searching and turning again toward God. For taking a hard look at our selves and our lives. Our history and our future. Who we have been and who we are becoming.
As we enter into our period of wandering, we must discern where our wilderness is, watch for temptations, our wild beasts, and our angels.
A couple of weeks ago, our Together on Wednesday group took a trip up to Christ Church and walked their labyrinth.
The labyrinth is a complexly designed path of turns and circles. It’s like a maze, except that there are no choices or dead ins, there is one way to walk into the center and that same way leads you back out. In Christian practice, the labyrinth is very much a metaphor for the spiritual journey. It can be used in place of walking a pilgrimage journey or as a practice of penitence. The one at Christ church is a canvas mat with the paths printed on it. It fills a large room and about 12 of us walked it at the same time, though at different paces.
While all of our experiences were different and unique, they were also similar. We experienced both peace and anxiety on the journey, the desire to slow it down or hurry it up—the feeling like we’d never get to the center, and surprise when we found ourselves at the end. We noticed that we were a community on this journey, sometimes walking side by side, sometimes nearly colliding and sharing space, and sometimes far away, off on our own with our backs turned.
The beauty of the labyrinth is that it is impossible to get lost. We travel it to come closer to God—to quiet ourselves—to focus on the experience—to open ourselves to God—whether we hear God’s voice, or draw closer to God in the silence. It’s a commitment, to walk the whole way without giving up and cutting across lines. But there’s the promise too, that we will find our way to the center and find our way back out.
The advice for walking the labyrinth is the same as journeying during Lent. Travel purposefully. Observe the process. Be attentive. Find the path by walking it.
We join in solidarity with all the pilgrims before—with slaves and prophets. With those who have wandered in the desert, climbed mountain tops, weathered the storms, and have found God—because God was with them, all along.
With Noah in the covenant of a rainbow, with Elijah in the still, small voice after the whirlwinds, with Moses in the commandments, with the people of Israel in the manna—with Jesus in the angels.
We travel on our own paths and also together, as a community.
I don’t know what directions your individual journeys will take: what you will discover about God and about yourself, just as I don’t know what I will discover. As we journey, we may find temptations and wild beasts—there may be dragons in our labyrinth afterall. It can be a frightening journey. We may have to change, we may have to give something up, we will likely be uncomfortable.
But there are also the assurance of angels. And the assurance that our spiritual journey begins and ends with God. God call us out of ourselves, to come and out to the desert, God will go with us, guide us, and lead us home.
We know that Lent will lead us to the cross and then to resurrection, that we go with God and God goes with us, and God is at the end of the journey. And though its not a journey of comfort, there is assurance, because the cross won’t kill God in the end.
Lent ultimately ends with Easter. Jesus survives the wilderness and the cross and the world is a better place because of that.
Listen to this Lenten poem by Jan Richardson:
I am not asking you
to take this wilderness from me,
to remove this place of starkness
where I come to know
the wildness within me,
where I learn to call the names
of the ravenous beasts
that pace inside me,
to finger the brambles
that snake through my veins
to taste the thirst
that tugs at my tongue.
But send me
tough angels,
sweet wine,
strong bread;
just enough.
Amen.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
There Your Heart Will Be Also
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
Lent is a time of turning toward God, a time of examining one’s life and planning toward the future. Lent is a journey. A journey that ultimately will take us to Easter. But before we get there, before we get to the celebration, we have to go to the cross. And before the cross, we have to travel in the wilderness for 40 days with Jesus.
What will we find on this journey? We have no answers yet. On Ash Wednesday we can only ask the question.
Part of getting back to God is to become as we all once were: vulnerable and powerless before the almighty. A striping away of all the extras . . . of all the treasures on earth.
Lent is a time for repentance. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, “Repentance is an absolute, spiritual decision made in truthfulness. Its motivations are remorse for the past and responsibility for the future.”
Remorse for the past and responsibility for the future. Could this possibly apply to us?
This lent we find ourselves in unprecedented times. Our whole country is figuring out what it means to live in these financial times: In fact, across the globe, all of those who are accustomed to money and financial power are figuring out what it means to live with less: less money, less security. Those who have always lived in impoverished nations already know what it is to do without, what it means not to rely on financial markets.
There is talk, in our nation, of repentance: of remorse for the past and responsible plans for the future. But there is also much blame, much doubt, much pessimism, and still, much greed. It is still remarkable, nevertheless, to hear criticism of greed and calls for responsibility and accountability in the market place. Many of us are indeed cutting back either because we want to heed the call to live simpler lives or because we can no longer retain the standard of living we once had. Some of us choose to repent, and others of us are forced into this attitude of penance.
Jesus tells us not to store up treasures on earth—not to consume ourselves with consuming material wealth. There’s a great distinction between goods and people. While not all material effects are bad, their purpose is to serve human needs, to give us nourishment, and shelter, even to help us celebrate in joy. But we are not meant to serve them: we are not here to have more “things” to have bigger and better, faster and fancier. Nor is our purpose to work so that others may enjoy the finer things, nor to infringe on the quality of life for others. We must consider the whole human cost of our lifestyes as well as the cost to ourselves.
Our recent downturn has demonstrated more clearly than perhaps ever before, just how interconnected, how interdependent we are with others around the globe. When one system fails, it causes many others to collapse. Perhaps this will cause a blow to our independence, a blow to our individualism, so that we may remember that we are all connected. And maybe we’ll remember that we can be connected in good ways too: in strength, beauty, kindness, grace, peace, love.
For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
Our treasures must be those things that last: our hearts must live in treasures that cannot be taken from us and things that we cannot take with us. They must also not be the types of things that keep us from this journey of lent: that weigh us down and tether us tightly. We must be able to travel light.
As outlined in our gospel reading: we have three modes of travel for this season: almsgiving, prayer, and fasting. Give of your resources: your money, your time, your abilities, but not so as to earn praise from others, but in secret. Perhaps for us, this means an increase in financial giving, perhaps it means cutting back on one thing to be able to give more to something else. Maybe it means finding what we really need to live, instead of relying on the things that we think we need, and giving the rest to God.
Prayer. Again, not loudly or boastfully, but with humility, in secret. Our prayers this season are for repentance, for God to show us our sins and shortcomings, for God to show us who we are really meant to be, to help us find that way forward.
Fasting, not to receive pity for your piety, and certainly not to loose a few pounds. But fasting that reminds us that we truly hunger for God, that we rely on God for our very sustenance, that we do not live by bread alone, but by the word of God. In a land of abundance that we experience what it feels like to deny ourselves something, to know what it feels like for those who don’t have enough, to be in solidarity with the hungry, and to give praise to God when we have the food to end our fast.
For these things we will find reward on God’s terms. Done for the wrong reasons—for praise or material gain, we will gain nothing, no treasures in heaven, no spiritual depth, no riches for our hearts. For the season of Lent, none of us are forced to repent. We don’t have to go on this journey with Jesus to the cross. We can certainly say no. We can refuse the ashes of mortality and finiteness, humility and dirt.
In the words of Joel:
"Yet even now, says the LORD, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing. Return to the LORD, your God, for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing. Spare your people, O LORD, and do not make your heritage a mockery, a byword among the nations. Why should it be said among the peoples, 'Where is their God?'"
Let it not be said of us: where is their God.
Amen.
Lent is a time of turning toward God, a time of examining one’s life and planning toward the future. Lent is a journey. A journey that ultimately will take us to Easter. But before we get there, before we get to the celebration, we have to go to the cross. And before the cross, we have to travel in the wilderness for 40 days with Jesus.
What will we find on this journey? We have no answers yet. On Ash Wednesday we can only ask the question.
Part of getting back to God is to become as we all once were: vulnerable and powerless before the almighty. A striping away of all the extras . . . of all the treasures on earth.
Lent is a time for repentance. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, “Repentance is an absolute, spiritual decision made in truthfulness. Its motivations are remorse for the past and responsibility for the future.”
Remorse for the past and responsibility for the future. Could this possibly apply to us?
This lent we find ourselves in unprecedented times. Our whole country is figuring out what it means to live in these financial times: In fact, across the globe, all of those who are accustomed to money and financial power are figuring out what it means to live with less: less money, less security. Those who have always lived in impoverished nations already know what it is to do without, what it means not to rely on financial markets.
There is talk, in our nation, of repentance: of remorse for the past and responsible plans for the future. But there is also much blame, much doubt, much pessimism, and still, much greed. It is still remarkable, nevertheless, to hear criticism of greed and calls for responsibility and accountability in the market place. Many of us are indeed cutting back either because we want to heed the call to live simpler lives or because we can no longer retain the standard of living we once had. Some of us choose to repent, and others of us are forced into this attitude of penance.
Jesus tells us not to store up treasures on earth—not to consume ourselves with consuming material wealth. There’s a great distinction between goods and people. While not all material effects are bad, their purpose is to serve human needs, to give us nourishment, and shelter, even to help us celebrate in joy. But we are not meant to serve them: we are not here to have more “things” to have bigger and better, faster and fancier. Nor is our purpose to work so that others may enjoy the finer things, nor to infringe on the quality of life for others. We must consider the whole human cost of our lifestyes as well as the cost to ourselves.
Our recent downturn has demonstrated more clearly than perhaps ever before, just how interconnected, how interdependent we are with others around the globe. When one system fails, it causes many others to collapse. Perhaps this will cause a blow to our independence, a blow to our individualism, so that we may remember that we are all connected. And maybe we’ll remember that we can be connected in good ways too: in strength, beauty, kindness, grace, peace, love.
For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
Our treasures must be those things that last: our hearts must live in treasures that cannot be taken from us and things that we cannot take with us. They must also not be the types of things that keep us from this journey of lent: that weigh us down and tether us tightly. We must be able to travel light.
As outlined in our gospel reading: we have three modes of travel for this season: almsgiving, prayer, and fasting. Give of your resources: your money, your time, your abilities, but not so as to earn praise from others, but in secret. Perhaps for us, this means an increase in financial giving, perhaps it means cutting back on one thing to be able to give more to something else. Maybe it means finding what we really need to live, instead of relying on the things that we think we need, and giving the rest to God.
Prayer. Again, not loudly or boastfully, but with humility, in secret. Our prayers this season are for repentance, for God to show us our sins and shortcomings, for God to show us who we are really meant to be, to help us find that way forward.
Fasting, not to receive pity for your piety, and certainly not to loose a few pounds. But fasting that reminds us that we truly hunger for God, that we rely on God for our very sustenance, that we do not live by bread alone, but by the word of God. In a land of abundance that we experience what it feels like to deny ourselves something, to know what it feels like for those who don’t have enough, to be in solidarity with the hungry, and to give praise to God when we have the food to end our fast.
For these things we will find reward on God’s terms. Done for the wrong reasons—for praise or material gain, we will gain nothing, no treasures in heaven, no spiritual depth, no riches for our hearts. For the season of Lent, none of us are forced to repent. We don’t have to go on this journey with Jesus to the cross. We can certainly say no. We can refuse the ashes of mortality and finiteness, humility and dirt.
In the words of Joel:
"Yet even now, says the LORD, return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; rend your hearts and not your clothing. Return to the LORD, your God, for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and relents from punishing. Spare your people, O LORD, and do not make your heritage a mockery, a byword among the nations. Why should it be said among the peoples, 'Where is their God?'"
Let it not be said of us: where is their God.
Amen.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
If You Choose
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.
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.
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.
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