Hebrews 5:5-10, Psalm 51, Jeremiah 31:31-34
Submission, obedience, suffering. These are the prominent traits of Jesus in this scripture. He was submissive to God the father, he learned obedience through suffering and became a complete person. As such, he is the source of our salvation if we are obedient to God the Christ, to our everlasting high priest.
This is our difficult task: to believe in the goodness of God, when nothing else seems good. To love God fully when we do not fully love ourselves. To live a life that God is proud of, when we do not feel proud of ourselves, when we struggle with who the world requires us to be with little room for grace and compassion, reconciling who we are deeply as people of faith and as people of the world .
In Psalms, the speaker cries out for God to restore him, to cleanse him from his iniquity, and to put a new spirit within him. In other words, forgiveness and transformation of the heart.
We have almost a response to this request In Jeremiah, it is the language of broken covenant and the need for a new one: written on their hearts: I will be their God, they will be my people. Like the previous covenants, it’s a binding contract between God and the people, each with a promise to uphold. The major lesson: the people almost always fail, but God remains committed, even to the extent of creating new arrangements, new ways for the people to be faithful.
According to Irenaeus: “the glory of God is humanity full alive.” Knowing we couldn’t quite achieve this on our own, as evidence by the slew of broken covenants in the Hebrew Bible, God sent us someone to walk the same paths, endure suffering, and never compromise himself, to show us what it is to be fully alive. Because Jesus remains submissive and obedient, he lives a perfect life: one that is wholly faithful to his identity as a child of God.
Circumstances in our lives sometimes make it impossible to behave as true children of God and to treat other human beings the same way. My stint in the coffee shop business required me to try to sell pieces of cheesecake to customers who might already be struggling with their weight and their wallet, who may have already ordered their days worth of calories in a frappuccino. I didn’t feel good about myself in times like that. It’s hard to be completely at ease with your life when the dollar, the sale is more important than the human being.
I recently spoke with a colleague in another denomination who had just found out that her pension is, in part, funding genocide. She’s now racked with guilt and trying to figure out how to change the investment system. Though innocent and unintentional, she’s not proud of her life before God.
Our sinfulness keeps us from living complete lives: keeps us from our true selves, keeps us from God. Because when we really find God, we really find ourselves, as the people we were meant to be.
We all end up falling short, unable to keep up our end of the deal with God, but God will remember our sins no more.
We have a generous, relentless God, always seeking new ways to connect to us
Jesus offered his obedience even until death, the extent that he is willing to give up his own life to show us how to grow through suffering, how to be saved through our obedience to God.
And as someone who is so complete, is our example to follow: salvation in becoming obedient to God, in becoming exactly who we were designed to be, in discerning out true identity.
To trust God perfectly—to remember that God has our best interests at heart, and we have the responsibility and privilege to live as complete human beings; not plagued by sin and self-doubt
We don’t get to live a selfish life, greed, self-centered. But authentic, meaningful. Not easy, will cause hardship, pain, even death. But to live a life with few regrets, knowing you did your absolute best to live as a faithful child of God, listening to God’s still small voice within your own heart, reading that promise written their, crying out for your loved ones and for the world, praying for a better world, working towards that better world and life for all people, Our lives are worth saving. We are worth saving. That’s what Jesus is for: not a blood offering to appease an angry God, but an offering of love, perfect through suffering and obedience.
Suffering is a given: it’s what you do, how you handle it that makes the difference: Jesus remains steadfast, he doesn’t turn on God, he doesn’t run, he stays to the very end, and becomes complete.
Jesus suffered, not just in his physical torture and death. He offered prayers and supplications, with cries and tears, not on his behalf, but for the people. Jesus suffered every time he saw someone who was sick, hungry, bleeding, dying. He suffered every time he was needed to heal, cast out demons, or raise someone from the dead. He suffered when he saw the amount of sadness, loneliness in the world, and could do so very little to help when he was refused, when he was misunderstood, when he was hated, when he was arrested.
He wasn’t submissive to an abusing Creator God. He wasn’t obedient to a suicidal order. He looked into the face of suffering and never wavered his course, even when that path led to his own death.
It’s true that Jesus suffered and died. It’s true that God didn’t step in and intervene and prevent that death. It’s true that it’s because of a sinful humanity that Jesus was tortured and killed. But it’s not true that this is what God needed or wanted.
Perhaps he knew that his death would demonstrate quit clearly the depths of human depravity, in killing off the one person who could save them all.
And that in rising again, in returning to heaven, he’d be able to continue that healing work, for all peoples and all times, not just Hebrews living 2000 years ago.
Over and over, a God of love, who shows us different ways to live, the better way: as people of God, the simple promise that if we obey God, God will hear us. Thanks be to God.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Temple Overhaul
John 2: 13-22
Jesus is complex: he’s human and can be love and angry—even angry because he’s loving. This is a story for his “angry side.” Jesus: brandishing a whip, overturning tables, spilling money everywhere! Our Prince of Peace and nonviolence making a public scene.
Matthew, Mark, and Luke tell the same story, but they put it in a different place. In those gospels, the temple cleansing happens towards the end of Jesus’ ministry and serves as the catalyst for his arrest: proof that he is a dangerous threat to the religious and political establishment.
In John, however, this event happens early on. It’s not a catalyst, but a moment of self-identifying clarity for Jesus. It is also an opportunity for allude to his eventual death and resurrection, which is why we’re reading this text now, during Lent. It’s a revelation of other ideas as well: Jesus points to his death and resurrection as proof of who he is: the sign of his authority is that he will rise again. The temple equals Jesus’ body, as the locus for worshipping and experiencing God on earth—God’s dwelling place within a particular human body.
But because Jesus will rise from the dead and leave earth, the temple will then remain: in the Body of Christ, which is commonly known as the Church. The faith community now becomes the locus for God on earth, whether or not they have a temple, tent, or building with which to shelter God.
The gospel of John was written after 70 CE, after the temple in Jerusalem was destroyed. And so Jews and Christians alike were struggling with what to do, now that there is no temple. Rabbis were reconfiguring a faith that no longer required a particular physical building and Christians were arguing for a different understanding. God dwells in Christ’s body, we are the body of Christ, therefore God dwells within our community.
Some interpret Jesus’ action as criticism for a corrupt temple system, that the practice of selling animals, of exchanging money, was unclean, but this is a part of the ritual, a part of the necessary sacrifice that the faithful perform during Passover. Jesus’ act is not just criticizing temple practicing, but is a direct assault on the entire temple system. What we begin to see is a battle: a battle between Jews and Christians: a battle for God.
It’s not unusual for a “new” way to try to claim to be superior to the “old” way: For a Jesus community to want to distinguish itself from Jewish ones.
A quick obersvation of Judaism holds that this religion has a lot of rules and requirements: certain ways to eat, certain ways to dress, certain ways to put your shoes on. It can be argued, that Jesus takes away the need for such rules, that having Jesus means it doesn’t matter what you eat. But that doesn’t mean that God isn’t still present in stricter ways of living or that Christianity doesn’t have rituals.
It’s not that ritual isn’t meaningful. Rituals give meaning and order to a person’s life. AJ Jacobs wrote a wonderful book that I recommend to all of you: it’s called The Year of Living Biblically and it documents his year of attempting to follow every single rule in the Bible. In following the rules and rituals, he finds that they are quite meaningful, he remembers to be thankful for little things, he remembers that all of life is sacred, and he finds that there can be a certain freedom from choice. That certain rules can save you “from a lot of thinking” and free you up to think of other things.
Rules can give clear ways of obeying God—clear paths to righteousness—but if we forget about God, if we forget that its God behind the rules, then the rituals become empty and meaningless—if God shows up, as God does in Jesus—and breaks the rules (because God can) and we forget that God is beyond the law . . . God doesn’t fit in our boxes, we can’t put God in a cage and pretend we’ve got it all figured out.
God is bigger than our churches, broader than our faith, and seems to enjoy a good surprise.
God can live and breath in ritual and God can live and breath in the communal life—God can do both at the same time, but it doesn’t work when the ritual is meaningless and empty, when its done only as the means in itself, when the performer doesn’t really know why or doesn’t care.
Our traditions, our practices, our customs, our rituals and rules of community life all need to be examined, challenged, to be sure they are not empty vessels of preference, but actually help us to connect to God—to remember who we are as the body of Christ.
There was an article in the Washington Post recently on a new monastic community in the District. It’s a group of young adults, recent college graduates, who instead of taking on high profile careers have decided to live together, to live like Jesus in the 21st century. They live in neighborhoods and conditions that make their parents nervous, and they help the poor. They deliver food, help kids get into good schools, visit in the prisons, they offer Christ in whatever ways they can to a hurting community. They love people who have never been loved, who are suspicious, but accept that Jesus is pretty cool, that these Christians mean them no harm. For this community, they wanted more than what they had learned in church, wanted more than to just live a noble life, but wanted to really embody the life of Jesus.
It’s a life that is not in keeping with the status quo. They are breaking society’s rules and expectations. They live in high tension with their surrounding culture, with how they were raised and taught, but they have imagined a new way of living life in God. A way to be faithful that changes everything
Jesus came to show a new way of living.
He asked that we have the capacity to change,
To understand new, fresh ways of experiencing God.
Not everyone finds God in the rituals, in the practice of doing, in the ancient traditions—
We need both: the ties that bind us to the past, that bind us the historic church and bind us to Jesus.
Its why, 2000 years later, we gather on Sunday mornings to share the bread and wine of communion.
Its why we light candles, and sing, and pray, and read the word, even those things have been done before Christ walked on the earth, and we find God in these corporate practices.
But we do not only find God here, not only on Sunday mornings, not only within the walls of a church.
We find God out in the world,
We find God in ourselves
We find God in each other
We find God in complete strangers
Because Jesus walked among us
Because Jesus wore flesh
Because Jesus was God incarnate: God in a human body, with a human life
God gave us life and shares it with us in all our glory and terribleness
And we are a human community, with the divine presence of Christ
Because Jesus lived like us
Because he showed us a life that was worth living
A life that put flesh on the Word of God: since he is the Word of God made flesh
We can also live a different life
One that is not empty of meaning.
In another season of Passover:
Before the Zeal for God’s house consumes him and takes his life,
Before Jesus’ body is whipped with a chord, just as he brandished his whip in the temple,
Before Jesus’ blood soaks into the earth and he utters his final cry,
He shared a Passover meal with his companions.
Jesus is complex: he’s human and can be love and angry—even angry because he’s loving. This is a story for his “angry side.” Jesus: brandishing a whip, overturning tables, spilling money everywhere! Our Prince of Peace and nonviolence making a public scene.
Matthew, Mark, and Luke tell the same story, but they put it in a different place. In those gospels, the temple cleansing happens towards the end of Jesus’ ministry and serves as the catalyst for his arrest: proof that he is a dangerous threat to the religious and political establishment.
In John, however, this event happens early on. It’s not a catalyst, but a moment of self-identifying clarity for Jesus. It is also an opportunity for allude to his eventual death and resurrection, which is why we’re reading this text now, during Lent. It’s a revelation of other ideas as well: Jesus points to his death and resurrection as proof of who he is: the sign of his authority is that he will rise again. The temple equals Jesus’ body, as the locus for worshipping and experiencing God on earth—God’s dwelling place within a particular human body.
But because Jesus will rise from the dead and leave earth, the temple will then remain: in the Body of Christ, which is commonly known as the Church. The faith community now becomes the locus for God on earth, whether or not they have a temple, tent, or building with which to shelter God.
The gospel of John was written after 70 CE, after the temple in Jerusalem was destroyed. And so Jews and Christians alike were struggling with what to do, now that there is no temple. Rabbis were reconfiguring a faith that no longer required a particular physical building and Christians were arguing for a different understanding. God dwells in Christ’s body, we are the body of Christ, therefore God dwells within our community.
Some interpret Jesus’ action as criticism for a corrupt temple system, that the practice of selling animals, of exchanging money, was unclean, but this is a part of the ritual, a part of the necessary sacrifice that the faithful perform during Passover. Jesus’ act is not just criticizing temple practicing, but is a direct assault on the entire temple system. What we begin to see is a battle: a battle between Jews and Christians: a battle for God.
It’s not unusual for a “new” way to try to claim to be superior to the “old” way: For a Jesus community to want to distinguish itself from Jewish ones.
A quick obersvation of Judaism holds that this religion has a lot of rules and requirements: certain ways to eat, certain ways to dress, certain ways to put your shoes on. It can be argued, that Jesus takes away the need for such rules, that having Jesus means it doesn’t matter what you eat. But that doesn’t mean that God isn’t still present in stricter ways of living or that Christianity doesn’t have rituals.
It’s not that ritual isn’t meaningful. Rituals give meaning and order to a person’s life. AJ Jacobs wrote a wonderful book that I recommend to all of you: it’s called The Year of Living Biblically and it documents his year of attempting to follow every single rule in the Bible. In following the rules and rituals, he finds that they are quite meaningful, he remembers to be thankful for little things, he remembers that all of life is sacred, and he finds that there can be a certain freedom from choice. That certain rules can save you “from a lot of thinking” and free you up to think of other things.
Rules can give clear ways of obeying God—clear paths to righteousness—but if we forget about God, if we forget that its God behind the rules, then the rituals become empty and meaningless—if God shows up, as God does in Jesus—and breaks the rules (because God can) and we forget that God is beyond the law . . . God doesn’t fit in our boxes, we can’t put God in a cage and pretend we’ve got it all figured out.
God is bigger than our churches, broader than our faith, and seems to enjoy a good surprise.
God can live and breath in ritual and God can live and breath in the communal life—God can do both at the same time, but it doesn’t work when the ritual is meaningless and empty, when its done only as the means in itself, when the performer doesn’t really know why or doesn’t care.
Our traditions, our practices, our customs, our rituals and rules of community life all need to be examined, challenged, to be sure they are not empty vessels of preference, but actually help us to connect to God—to remember who we are as the body of Christ.
There was an article in the Washington Post recently on a new monastic community in the District. It’s a group of young adults, recent college graduates, who instead of taking on high profile careers have decided to live together, to live like Jesus in the 21st century. They live in neighborhoods and conditions that make their parents nervous, and they help the poor. They deliver food, help kids get into good schools, visit in the prisons, they offer Christ in whatever ways they can to a hurting community. They love people who have never been loved, who are suspicious, but accept that Jesus is pretty cool, that these Christians mean them no harm. For this community, they wanted more than what they had learned in church, wanted more than to just live a noble life, but wanted to really embody the life of Jesus.
It’s a life that is not in keeping with the status quo. They are breaking society’s rules and expectations. They live in high tension with their surrounding culture, with how they were raised and taught, but they have imagined a new way of living life in God. A way to be faithful that changes everything
Jesus came to show a new way of living.
He asked that we have the capacity to change,
To understand new, fresh ways of experiencing God.
Not everyone finds God in the rituals, in the practice of doing, in the ancient traditions—
We need both: the ties that bind us to the past, that bind us the historic church and bind us to Jesus.
Its why, 2000 years later, we gather on Sunday mornings to share the bread and wine of communion.
Its why we light candles, and sing, and pray, and read the word, even those things have been done before Christ walked on the earth, and we find God in these corporate practices.
But we do not only find God here, not only on Sunday mornings, not only within the walls of a church.
We find God out in the world,
We find God in ourselves
We find God in each other
We find God in complete strangers
Because Jesus walked among us
Because Jesus wore flesh
Because Jesus was God incarnate: God in a human body, with a human life
God gave us life and shares it with us in all our glory and terribleness
And we are a human community, with the divine presence of Christ
Because Jesus lived like us
Because he showed us a life that was worth living
A life that put flesh on the Word of God: since he is the Word of God made flesh
We can also live a different life
One that is not empty of meaning.
In another season of Passover:
Before the Zeal for God’s house consumes him and takes his life,
Before Jesus’ body is whipped with a chord, just as he brandished his whip in the temple,
Before Jesus’ blood soaks into the earth and he utters his final cry,
He shared a Passover meal with his companions.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Wilderness
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.
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.
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] “
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)