1 Samuel 15:34 -16:13
David’s anointing is full of pageantry and suspense—if it were happening today, I imagine something along the lines of the Bachelor and American Idol.
God’s priest and judge, Samuel invites Jesse and his sons and the elders of the city to a sacrifice. They all arrive, not realizing that this is no ordinary sacrifice—but instead the newest season of “Who Wants to Be The Next King of Israel?!”
After God’s displeasure with last season’s winner: Saul, God is looking for a new king. Unlike Saul’s choosing, this time is filled with more suspense as all 7 of Jesse’s sons are being considered.
Just as the love rarely lasts between the bachelor and his chosen bride, God has regretting choosing Saul and wishing to choose a new candidate. Not to be fooled this time, God has been acting on the sidelines, doing research, and cultivating a new king from among Jesse’s sons.
As the seven sons line up to be considered, Samuel represents God in choosing the appropriate new leader. He assumes, that it must be Eliab, the tallest and fiercest, but no, God has something more unusual in mind—after all Saul was also handsome and tall, and that didn’t work out to well—“I do not judge by appearances,” says God. And so Samuel approaches the next son: Abinidab—a bit shorter, but with a cheerful demeanor—and God says “no.”
On to Shammah—the best fighter in the family—but God says “no.”
And on it goes: past the strongest brother, past the brother with the best diplomatic skills, Past the craftiest brother, past the funniest brother, past the kindest brother, past that troublesome brother who everyone knows mom loves best.
Finally, all sons have been passed over without any sign of approval from God. Samuel is forced to ask Jesse: are you sure these are all your sons? And like the wicked stepmother having to fetch Cinderella for the prince, Jesse admits that there is a younger son, out tending the sheep—when David joins his brothers, the audience snickers—but as we’ve learned from Susan Boyle, appearances are not everything.
Remember, says God, I judge by the heart.
This brother: ruddy, handsome, with beautiful eyes-- “this is the one” God announces and Samuel anoints him—and David’s life of tending sheep is never the same.
What has led to this drama—why is God in search of a new king?
The Israelites are in transition: moving from a tribal society to a monarchy. Saul has been their first king—something of an experiment with whom God is no longer pleased.
God wasn’t really pleased when the Israelites starting begging for a king so they could “be like other nations.” Because their unique value came from being God’s chosen people, the people who were lucky enough to have Yahweh for their lord and king, the people who did not actually need a human king.
But they wanted one: the Moabites, the Amalekites, the Ammonites, the Philistines, all had one—a human king-in-the-flesh who could weld a sword in battle, attend councils, establish treaties.
Yahweh sent judges, priests, prophets, oracles to be human representatives. The Israelites wanted the validation of having a king, of being organized like nearby peoples, to feel more legit and equal—and as a side effect, to deny what made them special and different. They wanted to be like everyone else and they were “determined to have a king over us, so that we also may be like other nations, and that our king may govern us and go out before us and fight our battles.”
Even when Samuel warns them of the realities of kingdom life—that the king will take the best men, the best animals, the best of the harvest for himself and his inner circle—this was what they wanted.
Though reluctant, God chooses Saul—who turns out to make foolish choices, to make rash oaths, to not follow God’s orders. The breaking point for God, is when God orders Saul to utterly destroy the Amalekites in a form of divine punishment—and instead, Saul almost follows the command, but he takes the leader captive and lets his soldiers feast on the best of the livestock.
And God regrets making Saul king and provides a new king.
The world of 1 Samuel is different than our world—different rules, different customs, different understandings of God. We hear the easy explanation: the God of the Old Testament is vengeful and angry. The God of the New Testament is gracious and loving. As if the God of Jesus is not the same as the God of Abraham. As if the God of Christians is not the same as the God of Jews.
God demands the annihilation of the Amalekites as a form of justice. God does not delight in this human death, but deems it necessary based on their prior behavior.
“Thus says the Lord of hosts, I will punish the Amalekites for what they did in opposing the Israelites when they came up out of Egypt. Now go and attack Amalek and utterly destroy all that they have, do not spare them, but kill both man and woman, child and infant, ox and sheep, camel and donkey.”
This type of command is a ban: includes God’s judgment and the required sentence—which in this case includes all humans and animals.
All are to be destroyed and offered back to God as a sacrifice.
In an odd way the ban affirms the equality of all human life—no one person has any value over another—and is communal—all the people share the guilt—no innocent civilians or guilty soldiers. It also affirms that all life comes from God and that all life is a sacrifice to God.
The ban comes awfully close to the idea of ethnic cleansing—an uncomfortable thought following the shooting at the Holocaust museum earlier this week and the anti-Semitism that still abounds. Do scriptures like this legitimize some of the hatred for the Jewish people? In a Bible study, someone recently commented “there’s an awful lot about the Israelites in the Old Testament.” Well, of course. She wanted stories of other peoples too, but those are found in other books—this is a story written by one group of people for their own use—their own version of the story—not a global perspective, but a local and personal one.
This is our Bible too. These are our holy scriptures, these are words coming out of the Lord our God, our provider and protector, our rock and our comfort.
This is a God who requires justice when one nation oppresses another.
The God who has created all life and mourns all of it passing. The God who feels pain and sadness both for Stephen Johns and James von Brunn.
They are both children of God, both sinners in need of forgiveness, and it’ll be up to God to figure out how to cleanse and reconcile both.
And we are left with the mystery of Yahweh: the mystery of God’s choice, the mystery of God’s plan, God’s presence, God’s justice, God’s hand in all our lives: the mystery of the scriptures: of Saul, the Israelites, the Amalekites, David, Jesus.
In choosing David: God goes with the youngest and smallest, the one tending sheep, an unlikely choice that surprises even Samuel, who after a long time of serving God should expect to be surprised.
For God is always on the side of the least, the oppressed, the underdog.
Like the mustard seed that grows into something large
Like the tiniest amount of faith giving us great courage
God brings great things out of small things
King David—will do no better, despite being a man “after God’s own heart” he will be a failure of a king and of a human being. Showing once and for all that God was right in not wanting to give Israel a human king. When Jesus walks on the earth, the people are still expecting a human ruler: one to overturn governments, to lead battles, to take prisoners, to make treaties. But instead, they get a strangely peaceful person who ultimately dies without ever assuming a throne: only crowned and robed as king in mockery.
We human beings always desire the physical, the visible—our God incarnate. Which we continue to celebrate in the tangible bread and wine—remembering the body and blood, celebrating the presence of Christ all around us.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Eve: Mother of All
Genesis 2: 7-9; 15-25
Many church services on Mother’s Day focus on the celebration of our mothers and stories of exemplary women in the Bible and in our lives. The very first woman, however, gets very little attention, especially on Mother’s day, and as the first mother, doesn’t she deserve some attention? At least a phone call or a letter?
Now, there’s a lot of stuff about Eve that we don’t find written in Mother’s Day cards. This is, after all, the woman who screwed everything up for us by introducing sin into the world. How are we to say “Thank you” to that? Do we buy her pink roses and bring her pancakes in bed?
Eve, is, of course, the first woman, the first wife, the first mother. Hers is the first story of a woman interacting with God and the earth, the first woman finding her way in this strange world.
She’s gotten a bad reputation, and we women have gotten a bad rep because of her. I’d like to take a closer look and see if perhaps she’s been blamed unfairly.
Because she is famous for that incident with the forbidden fruit, her legacy is not that of the beloved matriarch. She is not the revered essence of dignity, obedience, elegance, discretion. Her portraits are not demure and regal.
Let’s take a look at where our story starts to turn
[Read Genesis 3:1-8]
The text says that “the serpent was more crafty than any other wild animal the Lord God had made.” Two important notes here: the serpent is really smart and sneaky, AND is a creature that God has made. How many times have we heard that the serpent was really the devil? Note that the text, literally, has no mention of supernatural evil.
The snake is just a snake. But he also speaks in a language Eve can recognize. If this were the Bible according to Harry Potter, we could suggest that this is a form of parseltongue. If you’ve noticed in folklore or fairy tales, a talking animal is sometimes a trickster—a character who is meant to playfully, or perhaps malevolently, mess with the order, for the sake of stirring things up or making things interesting.
The snake may be clever, but he never lies—every word from his mouth is true. The snake speaks truth and entices the woman with wisdom. And changes the way the world works.
If we go with the idea that the serpent tricks Eve who then tricks Adam, we suggest that God is also a trickster: one who wishes to disturb the order of the world. Then God is to blame for sin as God gives the man the woman, and plants the tree with the fruit, and creates the serpent.
[read Genesis 3: 9-23]
This passage and common beliefs about it are so crucial for us because they outline the relationship between men and women, the relationship between human beings and the earth..
As Adam has dominion over creation, he also has dominion over Eve. Along this line of thinking, all men have dominion over all women. This idea is seen as the natural, created order. As the way God intends the world to be, no questions, no criticism. The subordination of women becomes a punishment.
Since Eve’s lips are the first to touch fruit she is the easiest to blame. Many theologians, writers, and persons of faith have suggested that Eve is to blame because she first eats the fruit, and then gives it to Adam to eat, bringing about the entire downfall of the human race down on her head, proving, for the very first time, that women are good for nothing but trouble. In Christian writings we find Eve’s action to be the foundation and justification for the secondary role that women have held in society for centuries. The fact that some of the early church leaders and modern theologians are quick to place such harsh blame on the woman demonstrates their allegiance to male-centered ideas. They are anxious to acquit Adam of his responsibility and eager to read negative ideas of gender into the text.
To demonstrate: In 1 Timothy 2, Paul writes: “I permit no woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she is to keep silent. For Adam was formed first, then Eve; and Adam was not deceived, but the woman was deceived and became a transgressor” (1 Tim 2: 12-14). Many church denominations today hold this verse as the main reason that women are not allowed to be ministers or have any leadership roles in the church.
Furthermore, Early church fathers, like St. Augustine Bishop of Hippo attacked Eve’s character. Augustine insisted that she used “feminine cajolery” to get Adam to eat the fruit. He claims that she tempted and corrupted and persuaded and cried and pouted and sided with the devil in order to get her husband banished out of the garden. She was a temptress. She was vain and proud. She wanted to be a goddess.
Though Paul sees Eve as the first sinner, Eve is not so easy to blame. Remember, Eve and Adam do not have knowledge of good and evil at this point in the story. They don’t have the skills to understand disobedience until they eat the fruit. They are caught in a circle in which they cannot discern good or evil until they have committed the “evil” act. Given all of the wisdom that Eve has at the moment, she makes a perfectly sound decision. She does not act out of pride or vanity or out of a desire to “be like God.” Like the passage says, she took the fruit when she determined that “the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise.” She reaches the fruit in a desire for health and knowledge, things we generally identify as positive, not sinful.
Adam blames both Eve and God. He acts as if he were fine all by himself but then God created woman and all paradise is lost. Even though Adam was the only person present when God gave the command to avoid the tree of knowledge. God had not created or even imagined Eve. Adam does not protest when Eve gives him the fruit. Then Adam accuses God for giving him the woman. And God also curses the man “because you have listened to the voice of your wife.” We can hope that God is criticizing Adam for listening to another human voice instead of to the divine command, but the text isn’t clear.
The story of Genesis 3 does indeed explain the imperfection of the world, the pain, and the inequality of the sexes . However, that inequality has been present before the disobedience and the punishment, when woman was created secondly, as an unequal assistant to the man—After Adam has named and excercised authority over every living creature. After God has decided that a giraffe might not be a suitable mate afterall. The value of men over women appears right there within the garden walls as part of God’s created order. This makes it very difficult to argue for women’s equality from any Biblical perspective.
So what do we do now? Should we agree with Augustine and Paul that women are not nearly as good as men?
We can never separate our sacred scriptures from the cultural, political, social contexts that formed them over the centuries and finally wrote them down. Misogynistic ideals were already embedded in their culture, much like they are in ours. Ideas they already had about women dictated the portrayal of Eve as everything that was immoral, scandalous, and distrustful about women. Those cultural ideas were also present when this portion of Genesis was written.
We can agree with Genesis, Paul, Augustine and others and suggest that women are limited in authority, power, equality: that we are created to reflect the image of men more than to reflect the image of God. Or we can realize the hierarchy of power that permeates so many levels of reality, including the writing and organizing of the Bible.
Because we view men and women as fundamental opposites, so we view other members of our human family on a hierarchical scale. We can justify the position of some as superior simply by accident of birth. The split between genders demonstrates a deep divide in all humanity. We reach a new level of coexistence and wholeness as women come to be valued equally to men.
We can find both scriptures to relegate women to a lesser level of humanity, but also ones that elevate all human beings equally. We must hold all of this in tension and look for God in the midst of human words. If we go back a chapter in Genesis, we get to the first account of the creation of humanity. In this account, God creates men and women at the same time. God creates them in God’s image, blesses them, and declares this creation to be good: “So God created humankind in the divine image . . . male and female God created them.” Genesis 1: 27. If we flip way ahead, to Galatians 3:28, we read of the new reality in Jesus: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”
Thanks and Praise be to God.
Many church services on Mother’s Day focus on the celebration of our mothers and stories of exemplary women in the Bible and in our lives. The very first woman, however, gets very little attention, especially on Mother’s day, and as the first mother, doesn’t she deserve some attention? At least a phone call or a letter?
Now, there’s a lot of stuff about Eve that we don’t find written in Mother’s Day cards. This is, after all, the woman who screwed everything up for us by introducing sin into the world. How are we to say “Thank you” to that? Do we buy her pink roses and bring her pancakes in bed?
Eve, is, of course, the first woman, the first wife, the first mother. Hers is the first story of a woman interacting with God and the earth, the first woman finding her way in this strange world.
She’s gotten a bad reputation, and we women have gotten a bad rep because of her. I’d like to take a closer look and see if perhaps she’s been blamed unfairly.
Because she is famous for that incident with the forbidden fruit, her legacy is not that of the beloved matriarch. She is not the revered essence of dignity, obedience, elegance, discretion. Her portraits are not demure and regal.
Let’s take a look at where our story starts to turn
[Read Genesis 3:1-8]
The text says that “the serpent was more crafty than any other wild animal the Lord God had made.” Two important notes here: the serpent is really smart and sneaky, AND is a creature that God has made. How many times have we heard that the serpent was really the devil? Note that the text, literally, has no mention of supernatural evil.
The snake is just a snake. But he also speaks in a language Eve can recognize. If this were the Bible according to Harry Potter, we could suggest that this is a form of parseltongue. If you’ve noticed in folklore or fairy tales, a talking animal is sometimes a trickster—a character who is meant to playfully, or perhaps malevolently, mess with the order, for the sake of stirring things up or making things interesting.
The snake may be clever, but he never lies—every word from his mouth is true. The snake speaks truth and entices the woman with wisdom. And changes the way the world works.
If we go with the idea that the serpent tricks Eve who then tricks Adam, we suggest that God is also a trickster: one who wishes to disturb the order of the world. Then God is to blame for sin as God gives the man the woman, and plants the tree with the fruit, and creates the serpent.
[read Genesis 3: 9-23]
This passage and common beliefs about it are so crucial for us because they outline the relationship between men and women, the relationship between human beings and the earth..
As Adam has dominion over creation, he also has dominion over Eve. Along this line of thinking, all men have dominion over all women. This idea is seen as the natural, created order. As the way God intends the world to be, no questions, no criticism. The subordination of women becomes a punishment.
Since Eve’s lips are the first to touch fruit she is the easiest to blame. Many theologians, writers, and persons of faith have suggested that Eve is to blame because she first eats the fruit, and then gives it to Adam to eat, bringing about the entire downfall of the human race down on her head, proving, for the very first time, that women are good for nothing but trouble. In Christian writings we find Eve’s action to be the foundation and justification for the secondary role that women have held in society for centuries. The fact that some of the early church leaders and modern theologians are quick to place such harsh blame on the woman demonstrates their allegiance to male-centered ideas. They are anxious to acquit Adam of his responsibility and eager to read negative ideas of gender into the text.
To demonstrate: In 1 Timothy 2, Paul writes: “I permit no woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she is to keep silent. For Adam was formed first, then Eve; and Adam was not deceived, but the woman was deceived and became a transgressor” (1 Tim 2: 12-14). Many church denominations today hold this verse as the main reason that women are not allowed to be ministers or have any leadership roles in the church.
Furthermore, Early church fathers, like St. Augustine Bishop of Hippo attacked Eve’s character. Augustine insisted that she used “feminine cajolery” to get Adam to eat the fruit. He claims that she tempted and corrupted and persuaded and cried and pouted and sided with the devil in order to get her husband banished out of the garden. She was a temptress. She was vain and proud. She wanted to be a goddess.
Though Paul sees Eve as the first sinner, Eve is not so easy to blame. Remember, Eve and Adam do not have knowledge of good and evil at this point in the story. They don’t have the skills to understand disobedience until they eat the fruit. They are caught in a circle in which they cannot discern good or evil until they have committed the “evil” act. Given all of the wisdom that Eve has at the moment, she makes a perfectly sound decision. She does not act out of pride or vanity or out of a desire to “be like God.” Like the passage says, she took the fruit when she determined that “the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise.” She reaches the fruit in a desire for health and knowledge, things we generally identify as positive, not sinful.
Adam blames both Eve and God. He acts as if he were fine all by himself but then God created woman and all paradise is lost. Even though Adam was the only person present when God gave the command to avoid the tree of knowledge. God had not created or even imagined Eve. Adam does not protest when Eve gives him the fruit. Then Adam accuses God for giving him the woman. And God also curses the man “because you have listened to the voice of your wife.” We can hope that God is criticizing Adam for listening to another human voice instead of to the divine command, but the text isn’t clear.
The story of Genesis 3 does indeed explain the imperfection of the world, the pain, and the inequality of the sexes . However, that inequality has been present before the disobedience and the punishment, when woman was created secondly, as an unequal assistant to the man—After Adam has named and excercised authority over every living creature. After God has decided that a giraffe might not be a suitable mate afterall. The value of men over women appears right there within the garden walls as part of God’s created order. This makes it very difficult to argue for women’s equality from any Biblical perspective.
So what do we do now? Should we agree with Augustine and Paul that women are not nearly as good as men?
We can never separate our sacred scriptures from the cultural, political, social contexts that formed them over the centuries and finally wrote them down. Misogynistic ideals were already embedded in their culture, much like they are in ours. Ideas they already had about women dictated the portrayal of Eve as everything that was immoral, scandalous, and distrustful about women. Those cultural ideas were also present when this portion of Genesis was written.
We can agree with Genesis, Paul, Augustine and others and suggest that women are limited in authority, power, equality: that we are created to reflect the image of men more than to reflect the image of God. Or we can realize the hierarchy of power that permeates so many levels of reality, including the writing and organizing of the Bible.
Because we view men and women as fundamental opposites, so we view other members of our human family on a hierarchical scale. We can justify the position of some as superior simply by accident of birth. The split between genders demonstrates a deep divide in all humanity. We reach a new level of coexistence and wholeness as women come to be valued equally to men.
We can find both scriptures to relegate women to a lesser level of humanity, but also ones that elevate all human beings equally. We must hold all of this in tension and look for God in the midst of human words. If we go back a chapter in Genesis, we get to the first account of the creation of humanity. In this account, God creates men and women at the same time. God creates them in God’s image, blesses them, and declares this creation to be good: “So God created humankind in the divine image . . . male and female God created them.” Genesis 1: 27. If we flip way ahead, to Galatians 3:28, we read of the new reality in Jesus: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”
Thanks and Praise be to God.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Shepherding Love
Psalm 23
1 John 3:16-24
If you’ve ever been to Israel or seen pictures, you know that their pastures are not bucolic scenes, but instetad hilly and rocky. The shepherds are not clean little children, but dirty and muscular. Their job is not a jaunt through the meadow or a nap under a tree. Instead, they toil long hours in the hot Mediterranean sun, chasing sheep and keeping them safe from predators and thieves.
Psalm 23 is one frequently memorized by our children, a Psalm that then resurfaces at many funerals. A psalm that guarantees safety for the soul of the deceased and comfort for those left behind to mourn. A good sending off and good care for the living—God walking with us through the valley of the shadow of death.
It’s a Psalm that has much to say about God: as a shepherd, one who is deeply involved and active in our lives: guiding and rescuing, providing food, shelter, comfort, and even rewarding us in front of our enemies—the relentless God who chases after us and hooks us by our necks, dragging us back into the fold.
It all has much to say about us, the human sheep: It’s not the most flattering comparison since sheep are not known to be clever, to say we are dimwitted and dumb, that we are not bright, and that we need a shepherd lest we wander aimlessly away and fall off a cliff or get eaten by wolves. We are in need of someone to guide us, to lead us, to even rescue and redeem us—for someone who can set this all right can fix all our brokenness.
The other evening, a couple of us had an interesting encounter, with a man, who must have taken solace knowing he was speaking to a pastor and a church-goer. The conversation started out simple enough, small-talk mostly, but quickly developed into something more as the man shared about his family and about his three children and the difficulty he had in raising them. He spoke of a son who he hasn’t seen in 17 years, his pain over this lost child, and his fervent hope that God will bring him back like the prodigal son, like the lost sheep. As a human parent, he’s pretty helpless.
Ours is a broken world—there is pain and sadness everywhere for everyone—no one is exempt.
Of course, there are other beautiful Psalms, but this one gets so much more attention: collectively we seem to like this one better. We may like it, because it’s simply God and us. It’s very self-vindicating, just God and me: God feeding me, giving me water, finding a place for me to take a nap, holding my hand, and guiding me safely. Maybe we like it, because we’re isolated, alone with God in the pasture. No other people are present, except for the enemies and they are finally getting to see, once and for all, that God was always on our side no other sheep to compete with: God finally saying, see, I always did like this sheep the best—as we secretly suspected all along. Not so fast.
In the gospel of John: Jesus says: I am the good shepherd: and we find a new layer in the image of God as Shepherd.
The Lord is now not only a shepherd as he guides and protects, but is also a good shepherd because he lays his life down.
In the epistle, we follow this sacrificial concept: and now the individualization of Psalm 23 explodes: because Jesus lays down his life for his sheep, we are to “lay down our lives for one another” to help others as we can—for those who “have” to assist those who “have not.”
We cannot waste this gift of the grace of God—we are not, afterall, alone in the pasture with God, but living in a world full of people, all of whom God loves and longs to include in the divine flock.
The writer of 1 John says “little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.” Your words are nothing compared to what you can do.
As a faith community, we are struggling with how to pair our inward spiritual growth with the outward mission of the church, which is to transform the world in Jesus’ name.
Our preschool is but one small way that we can help care for the children in our community: by offering our resources, our building, our church, for a safe, faith-filled preschool experience: to offer hospitality to the children and their families. We are proud to be able to celebrate this ministry this morning.
As Christ offered himself unto death for oursakes, so we must offer ourselves unto death for others. Christ centered his life around other people, on their needs, on their bodies, on their souls, and so we must do the same: focus on the world around us, and we’ll discover that we’re taking care of ourselves in the process
We, who experience the love of God—who abide in God’s love, have a responsibility to the world (to go and do likewise), to not recline in the love of God, to not only concentrate on ourselves and what God is doing for us.
Our task is to believe in Christ and love one another. Love God, love neighbor—what else is there?
While Psalm 23 may be safely insular, John expands that concept
No longer merely a privatized God who is only concerned for our souls, nor a domesticated God who is only concerned for me, not a nationalized God who is only concerned for one group of people.
We have Christ: to show us what it means to be both sheep and shepherd: as both frail human and almighty god.
Jesus is our shepherd who guides and protects us, And the lamb of God symbol of salvation and obedience. Thanks be to God.
1 John 3:16-24
If you’ve ever been to Israel or seen pictures, you know that their pastures are not bucolic scenes, but instetad hilly and rocky. The shepherds are not clean little children, but dirty and muscular. Their job is not a jaunt through the meadow or a nap under a tree. Instead, they toil long hours in the hot Mediterranean sun, chasing sheep and keeping them safe from predators and thieves.
Psalm 23 is one frequently memorized by our children, a Psalm that then resurfaces at many funerals. A psalm that guarantees safety for the soul of the deceased and comfort for those left behind to mourn. A good sending off and good care for the living—God walking with us through the valley of the shadow of death.
It’s a Psalm that has much to say about God: as a shepherd, one who is deeply involved and active in our lives: guiding and rescuing, providing food, shelter, comfort, and even rewarding us in front of our enemies—the relentless God who chases after us and hooks us by our necks, dragging us back into the fold.
It all has much to say about us, the human sheep: It’s not the most flattering comparison since sheep are not known to be clever, to say we are dimwitted and dumb, that we are not bright, and that we need a shepherd lest we wander aimlessly away and fall off a cliff or get eaten by wolves. We are in need of someone to guide us, to lead us, to even rescue and redeem us—for someone who can set this all right can fix all our brokenness.
The other evening, a couple of us had an interesting encounter, with a man, who must have taken solace knowing he was speaking to a pastor and a church-goer. The conversation started out simple enough, small-talk mostly, but quickly developed into something more as the man shared about his family and about his three children and the difficulty he had in raising them. He spoke of a son who he hasn’t seen in 17 years, his pain over this lost child, and his fervent hope that God will bring him back like the prodigal son, like the lost sheep. As a human parent, he’s pretty helpless.
Ours is a broken world—there is pain and sadness everywhere for everyone—no one is exempt.
Of course, there are other beautiful Psalms, but this one gets so much more attention: collectively we seem to like this one better. We may like it, because it’s simply God and us. It’s very self-vindicating, just God and me: God feeding me, giving me water, finding a place for me to take a nap, holding my hand, and guiding me safely. Maybe we like it, because we’re isolated, alone with God in the pasture. No other people are present, except for the enemies and they are finally getting to see, once and for all, that God was always on our side no other sheep to compete with: God finally saying, see, I always did like this sheep the best—as we secretly suspected all along. Not so fast.
In the gospel of John: Jesus says: I am the good shepherd: and we find a new layer in the image of God as Shepherd.
The Lord is now not only a shepherd as he guides and protects, but is also a good shepherd because he lays his life down.
In the epistle, we follow this sacrificial concept: and now the individualization of Psalm 23 explodes: because Jesus lays down his life for his sheep, we are to “lay down our lives for one another” to help others as we can—for those who “have” to assist those who “have not.”
We cannot waste this gift of the grace of God—we are not, afterall, alone in the pasture with God, but living in a world full of people, all of whom God loves and longs to include in the divine flock.
The writer of 1 John says “little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.” Your words are nothing compared to what you can do.
As a faith community, we are struggling with how to pair our inward spiritual growth with the outward mission of the church, which is to transform the world in Jesus’ name.
Our preschool is but one small way that we can help care for the children in our community: by offering our resources, our building, our church, for a safe, faith-filled preschool experience: to offer hospitality to the children and their families. We are proud to be able to celebrate this ministry this morning.
As Christ offered himself unto death for oursakes, so we must offer ourselves unto death for others. Christ centered his life around other people, on their needs, on their bodies, on their souls, and so we must do the same: focus on the world around us, and we’ll discover that we’re taking care of ourselves in the process
We, who experience the love of God—who abide in God’s love, have a responsibility to the world (to go and do likewise), to not recline in the love of God, to not only concentrate on ourselves and what God is doing for us.
Our task is to believe in Christ and love one another. Love God, love neighbor—what else is there?
While Psalm 23 may be safely insular, John expands that concept
No longer merely a privatized God who is only concerned for our souls, nor a domesticated God who is only concerned for me, not a nationalized God who is only concerned for one group of people.
We have Christ: to show us what it means to be both sheep and shepherd: as both frail human and almighty god.
Jesus is our shepherd who guides and protects us, And the lamb of God symbol of salvation and obedience. Thanks be to God.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Resurrection
Mark 16:1-8
And thus ends the original book of Mark. Later editors felt the need to add more, but the oldest manuscripts end with these verses—and it seems intentional to end in such an unfinished way, because the gospel is never truly finished--
Here we are with three women, an empty tomb, a divine messenger, and the strangest of all: that Jesus isn’t here because he’s risen, and he’s gone to Galilee.
On top of it all, the women are afraid: filled with fear, amazement and terror—not serenely rejoicing in their newfound salvation, not pleased to be serving a risen Lord, not proclaiming a new song to the nations—instead, they are silently running away.
What’s even crazier is that this news comes first to women. All four gospels tell the story of women at the garden tomb. It’s always Mary Magdalene, sometimes alone, sometimes with other women. In 1st century Judaism, women were not actually allowed to be witnesses. In the course of Jesus’ arrest and execution, the men have fled. Peter has denied Jesus. They’ve shown themselves to be vulnerable humans who panic in the face of fear. But the women have watched all of this from a safe, respectable distance. Mark tells us that women have ministered to and with Jesus all along and that many others had come with Jesus to Jerusalem.
The women were there, they were watchful, they prepared spices to care for their beloved rabbi just one last time. Despite the fact that Jesus speaks of being raised and rebuilt several times, it’s clear that no one really expected this to happen—he’s dead and gone and all their hopes are dashed.
And now imagine, as they are trembling with grief, going to the tomb, going through the ritual of burial and preparation, moving and staying busy, hoping the awful truth won’t sink in, hoping against hope that he really isn’t dead . . . and when they get there, the body is gone, they wonder if this is the right place, the right garden, a cruel trick, a mistake . . . after all, when someone dies we wish that she would miraculously come back, we wish that his death was just a dream—a hallucination. But Jesus really did die, they saw him, lifeless and gone, and now this news: he is not here, his is risen, he has gone on before you.
What does this mean exactly? There’s much debate about what Jesus’ resurrection is and what it means for us. Because Jesus’ body is gone, we know that this is a very physical event. In other gospels Jesus does eat and drink, but is also sometime unrecognizable and can pass through locked doors. This is a transformation of the raw physical matter of Jesus’ body into something that is very much the same and yet also very different.
There are various logical explanations out there: one is that Jesus didn’t really die, he faked it or passed out, and then just came too later. Another is that the disciples stole his body. Another is that the disciples experienced the spiritual presence of Christ and talked about it almost as though it was physical.
As for the resuscitation idea: there’s a pretty good chance that Roman soldiers would have made sure he was good and dead. Also, his disciples find Jesus to be utterly transformed, glowing and healed, not half-dead and barely clinging for life.
The disciples never really expected Jesus to rise again. They were confused every time he spoke of it, and are surprised when it actually happens. The enthusiasm and wide spread telling indicate that something happened, something real, that is far beyond conspiracy.
Which leads us to the spiritual experience. This one seems more plausible, after all, that’s our experience of the risen lord today. We don’t physically see Jesus, but experience him in a spiritual sense.
A resurrection of the physical body carries on the validating work of the incarnation. It was Plato who really pushed the idea of escaping the body, and divided the soul from the body, the body as weak, inferior, dirty. But God affirms our bodies, both in original creation, and through the incarnation. It’d be inconsistent for God to affirm Jesus’ human body and then have him escape it in the end.
God is Incarnational, affirming our bodily existence, even beyond death.
In this way, God overturns the human, social order of the world.
In affirming that Jesus is Lord, we affirm that Caesar is not, that no other earthly rulers are Lord and master over us. The Roman government, the Jewish high priests, are all powerless, the one thing they could do is kill Jesus, and, in his rising, they have no satisfaction of execution.
NT Wright, in Surprised by Hope, writes: “And this is the point where believing in the resurrection of Jesus suddenly ceases to be a matter of inquiring about an odd event in the first century and becomes a matter of rediscovering hope in the twenty-first century. Hope is what you get when you suddenly realize that a different worldview is possible, a worldview in which the rich, the powerful, and the unscrupulous do not after all have the last word. The same worldview shift that is demanded by the resurrection of Jesus is the shift that will enable us to transform the world.”[1]
This is good news for the disciples who flee for their lives: Jesus offers them a second chance, especially to Peter, forgiveness, and the chance to learn again what true discipleship means, now, with the ultimate fear of death removed.
We are not likely to be executed for our faith Roman-style, we are not persecuted or shunned, only mildly embarrassed for our faith. But we all fear death, even if we are not constantly threatened by a ruling government. Our lives are in ruin and decline: whether its to sin: to greed and selfishness, to idolatry and covetousness, to addiction and loneliness . . . We are all dying be it from disease, from chronic illness, from cancer, from old age, from the relentless passing of time.
We live with the illusion that the world is getting better, we are curing disease, we are advancing in technology, peace, democracy, we can eradicate hunger and poverty and end the war on drugs—we are moving onward and upward—always improving.
But as soon as we make a new discovery, or find a new solution, there are hundreds of more problems that still exist, or even worse, crop up because of the new solution.
If we feed one person, we discover that there are more who are hungry. If we end one war, another one begins. If we cure one disease, we discover a new one.
Somewhere along the line we will realize that science, technology, medicine, government will not save us: will not create a new earth and a new humanity.
We are constantly in need of resurrection: of recreation and transformation. It’s all beyond us. God is our hope for salvation and recreation.
Think for a moment of something in your life that needs resurrection. Maybe a relationship or situation, an illness, some sort of problem that doesn’t have a solution.
Now try to imagine that fixed, that relationship reconciled, that illness healed, that problem solved . . . not how it would happen or what you should do . . . just imagine it repaired, rebuilt, made right, restored and transformed . . . but in such a way that it is nearly unrecognizable: the people, the substance is the same, but its nature is completely altered and perfected.
I pray that God is at work in this way in all of our lives, in our families, in our friendships, in our community, in our employment, in our church, in our nation, in our world . . .
The resurrection is absolutely crazy, irrational, outside of precedence and scientific possibility: and that is exactly the point. God exists outside of our expectations. God can act in ways we can’t even imagine or hardly believe—the resurrection is supposed to be beyond belief and expectation, and even a little terrifying.
Our story doesn’t end here. It is now up to us, to journey back to Galilee with Jesus, to tell the Good News of a risen savior and to minister in his name to a broken world.
We go with the assurance that Christ has gone on before us and will be with us for all time. THANKS BE TO GOD.
[1] NT Wright: Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church. 2008.
And thus ends the original book of Mark. Later editors felt the need to add more, but the oldest manuscripts end with these verses—and it seems intentional to end in such an unfinished way, because the gospel is never truly finished--
Here we are with three women, an empty tomb, a divine messenger, and the strangest of all: that Jesus isn’t here because he’s risen, and he’s gone to Galilee.
On top of it all, the women are afraid: filled with fear, amazement and terror—not serenely rejoicing in their newfound salvation, not pleased to be serving a risen Lord, not proclaiming a new song to the nations—instead, they are silently running away.
What’s even crazier is that this news comes first to women. All four gospels tell the story of women at the garden tomb. It’s always Mary Magdalene, sometimes alone, sometimes with other women. In 1st century Judaism, women were not actually allowed to be witnesses. In the course of Jesus’ arrest and execution, the men have fled. Peter has denied Jesus. They’ve shown themselves to be vulnerable humans who panic in the face of fear. But the women have watched all of this from a safe, respectable distance. Mark tells us that women have ministered to and with Jesus all along and that many others had come with Jesus to Jerusalem.
The women were there, they were watchful, they prepared spices to care for their beloved rabbi just one last time. Despite the fact that Jesus speaks of being raised and rebuilt several times, it’s clear that no one really expected this to happen—he’s dead and gone and all their hopes are dashed.
And now imagine, as they are trembling with grief, going to the tomb, going through the ritual of burial and preparation, moving and staying busy, hoping the awful truth won’t sink in, hoping against hope that he really isn’t dead . . . and when they get there, the body is gone, they wonder if this is the right place, the right garden, a cruel trick, a mistake . . . after all, when someone dies we wish that she would miraculously come back, we wish that his death was just a dream—a hallucination. But Jesus really did die, they saw him, lifeless and gone, and now this news: he is not here, his is risen, he has gone on before you.
What does this mean exactly? There’s much debate about what Jesus’ resurrection is and what it means for us. Because Jesus’ body is gone, we know that this is a very physical event. In other gospels Jesus does eat and drink, but is also sometime unrecognizable and can pass through locked doors. This is a transformation of the raw physical matter of Jesus’ body into something that is very much the same and yet also very different.
There are various logical explanations out there: one is that Jesus didn’t really die, he faked it or passed out, and then just came too later. Another is that the disciples stole his body. Another is that the disciples experienced the spiritual presence of Christ and talked about it almost as though it was physical.
As for the resuscitation idea: there’s a pretty good chance that Roman soldiers would have made sure he was good and dead. Also, his disciples find Jesus to be utterly transformed, glowing and healed, not half-dead and barely clinging for life.
The disciples never really expected Jesus to rise again. They were confused every time he spoke of it, and are surprised when it actually happens. The enthusiasm and wide spread telling indicate that something happened, something real, that is far beyond conspiracy.
Which leads us to the spiritual experience. This one seems more plausible, after all, that’s our experience of the risen lord today. We don’t physically see Jesus, but experience him in a spiritual sense.
A resurrection of the physical body carries on the validating work of the incarnation. It was Plato who really pushed the idea of escaping the body, and divided the soul from the body, the body as weak, inferior, dirty. But God affirms our bodies, both in original creation, and through the incarnation. It’d be inconsistent for God to affirm Jesus’ human body and then have him escape it in the end.
God is Incarnational, affirming our bodily existence, even beyond death.
In this way, God overturns the human, social order of the world.
In affirming that Jesus is Lord, we affirm that Caesar is not, that no other earthly rulers are Lord and master over us. The Roman government, the Jewish high priests, are all powerless, the one thing they could do is kill Jesus, and, in his rising, they have no satisfaction of execution.
NT Wright, in Surprised by Hope, writes: “And this is the point where believing in the resurrection of Jesus suddenly ceases to be a matter of inquiring about an odd event in the first century and becomes a matter of rediscovering hope in the twenty-first century. Hope is what you get when you suddenly realize that a different worldview is possible, a worldview in which the rich, the powerful, and the unscrupulous do not after all have the last word. The same worldview shift that is demanded by the resurrection of Jesus is the shift that will enable us to transform the world.”[1]
This is good news for the disciples who flee for their lives: Jesus offers them a second chance, especially to Peter, forgiveness, and the chance to learn again what true discipleship means, now, with the ultimate fear of death removed.
We are not likely to be executed for our faith Roman-style, we are not persecuted or shunned, only mildly embarrassed for our faith. But we all fear death, even if we are not constantly threatened by a ruling government. Our lives are in ruin and decline: whether its to sin: to greed and selfishness, to idolatry and covetousness, to addiction and loneliness . . . We are all dying be it from disease, from chronic illness, from cancer, from old age, from the relentless passing of time.
We live with the illusion that the world is getting better, we are curing disease, we are advancing in technology, peace, democracy, we can eradicate hunger and poverty and end the war on drugs—we are moving onward and upward—always improving.
But as soon as we make a new discovery, or find a new solution, there are hundreds of more problems that still exist, or even worse, crop up because of the new solution.
If we feed one person, we discover that there are more who are hungry. If we end one war, another one begins. If we cure one disease, we discover a new one.
Somewhere along the line we will realize that science, technology, medicine, government will not save us: will not create a new earth and a new humanity.
We are constantly in need of resurrection: of recreation and transformation. It’s all beyond us. God is our hope for salvation and recreation.
Think for a moment of something in your life that needs resurrection. Maybe a relationship or situation, an illness, some sort of problem that doesn’t have a solution.
Now try to imagine that fixed, that relationship reconciled, that illness healed, that problem solved . . . not how it would happen or what you should do . . . just imagine it repaired, rebuilt, made right, restored and transformed . . . but in such a way that it is nearly unrecognizable: the people, the substance is the same, but its nature is completely altered and perfected.
I pray that God is at work in this way in all of our lives, in our families, in our friendships, in our community, in our employment, in our church, in our nation, in our world . . .
The resurrection is absolutely crazy, irrational, outside of precedence and scientific possibility: and that is exactly the point. God exists outside of our expectations. God can act in ways we can’t even imagine or hardly believe—the resurrection is supposed to be beyond belief and expectation, and even a little terrifying.
Our story doesn’t end here. It is now up to us, to journey back to Galilee with Jesus, to tell the Good News of a risen savior and to minister in his name to a broken world.
We go with the assurance that Christ has gone on before us and will be with us for all time. THANKS BE TO GOD.
[1] NT Wright: Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church. 2008.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Perfect Trust
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.
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.
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.
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