One Book, Many Voices: Lectionary commentary from the Massachusetts Bible Society

Love is... (pt 2)

2011-07-05T18:45:00.000-07:00

Readings: Genesis 25:19-34, Psalm 119:105-112, Isaiah 55:10-13, Psalm 65:9-13, Romans 8:1-11, Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

Though he’s an ancestor of our faith and beloved to us by default, the barest truth regarding Jacob is that he was a bit of a rascal. Prone to sneaking his way to success, his story is peppered with instances of less than stellar ethical decisions, including the narrative we read this week.

Jacob and Esau were twins, though Esau, born (if by minutes) first, was culturally entitled to the birthrights of the eldest son. We’re told that Jacob resisted this even in the womb: he emerged into the world holding Esau’s heel, as if saying, “not so fast, brother!” (Genesis 25:26).

Jacob’s concern seemed to be what he would be denied; he displayed little linked, inherent appreciation for what he already had.

Jacob’s need to best Esau led to continual problems between the brothers. Our reading continues to a recounting of Jacob’s decision to trick Esau out of his birthright. Jacob waited for his exhausted brother to come in from the fields, hungry and weary, and then bribed him out of the first born position with the evening meal, a bowl of lentils (Genesis 25:34).

In effect, this left Jacob triumphant in his efforts. Practically, it also sullied his relationship with Esau, with whom he’d never enjoy perfect fraternal harmony again. In his fervor to come out on top in their family, Jacob ensured continual discord in it.

Jacob is not someone who we fully want to mimic. If we consider the results of his selfish, if wily, actions, we come to the realization that these are the inherited impulses of his which we have to resist.

We don’t really hear about what Esau feels, beyond his justifiable anger. In his shoes, how would we react?

He, the hard worker, the still less loved son, is continually bested by his mischievous younger brother; he repeatedly loses in their family, despite his certainly superior integrity. Indeed, he’s not even the focus in the biblical narrative which remembers him. Is his story the progenitor to our classic “good guys never win”?

My guess is that we’re not supposed to come up with an outlook so bleak. Perhaps we can read this tale as a cautionary one, particularly in regard to our personal values.

If, as the gospels suggest, we’re supposed to regard the human community as our family, and the parts of it as our brothers and sisters, then perhaps what we can take from Jacob and Esau is a degree of care when dealing with one another.

There’s nothing wrong with seeking the best conceivable life for ourselves. Jacob’s mistake was not that he wanted more; it was that he ultimately took more at the expense of his brother. He could not adopt the perspective that his own blessings were great; he had to, in order to feel secure about his own blessings, erode his brother’s blessings. This was Jacob’s great failing.

What would his family have been like had he not made such decisions? What sort of home would Leah and his children have been welcomed into had his methods not continually alienated others? Did not the costs outweigh the apparent “boons”?

It seems to me that Jacob’s shallow personal desires were akin to the seed sown among thorns (Matthew 13:22). His thirst was for a life that would be admired: for the best portion of his father’s house; for the prettiest partner; for the best portions of his father-in-law’s flock. At each turn, someone lost: Esau, Leah, Laban. And so the life he envisioned—happy, gilded, perfect—could never fully take root.

What if his desire had been guided by the full picture of what makes life good—by the understanding that our personal successes are always mitigated by the effects they have upon those around us?

Jacob’s pursuits echo rhetoric in our own time. Pursuit for wealth that does not consider those hurt in its pursuit; images of family which are only acceptable if they are better than other family images. Why do we need to justify our lives in accordance with our disapproval of the lives of others?

I think of the marriage debate; I think of the continual refrain, from some, that suggests that inclusive marriage—a redefinition in our laws which would make marital relationships accessible to all—corrupts the notion of marriage. As if family only has value if some are excluded from it. As if our margins, or the decision to leave some at the margins, makes the middle stronger, or better.

In our fervor to be worldly and to make our own relationships understood to be the best, we sometimes make these mistakes—and in so doing, in not electing to understand what is purest about those relationships, we toss our seeds among the thorns.

Marriage, like many voluntary relationships, is best because of its most gentle aspirations. Throughout the books of the Bible we read of the virtues of love: of selfless self-giving, of the care for another which, in turn, makes us internally richer, adds depth to our own lives, and to our relationships with the Holy.

We idealize marriage, when only one couple is our concern, as two becoming one; we think of married couples as new centers for the work of the Holy Spirit. Love transforms those beloved, and the glow spreads outward.

This is the dearest hope of the Bible when it speaks of love; and love is marriage’s best potential. It is, consequentially, confusing that any Christian would want to deny access to such relationships to anyone.

We, like Jacob and Esau, are born with certain predetermined blessings, amongst them our ability to grow into loving adults. The way this works in relation to gender varies, but most now understand gender preferences to be predetermined.

We love best as we are made to love, which makes inclusive marriage moves not only just, but essential. Our laws should enable the gifts of God to shine fully through us; and interpersonal relationships are an important facet of our potentialities.

Though New York state’s inclusive marriage laws will never have personal implications for me, I celebrate them. They opened a space for my brothers and sisters to pursue the fullest and best expressions of their hearts, regardless of orientation. I expect that the world will become a better place because of such measures—measures which struggle to understand, and take care with, the soil in which we plant our dearest ideas. I pray that other states will follow quickly behind.

We undermine ourselves if we seek to be too much like Jacob, if we forget that we are born with what we need to make our lives their own best possible versions. We get no further in the world by entering it holding fast to the heels of others—slowing one another down costs us as much as it costs those we cause to falter. We should, instead, enter it with our hands held high in gratitude, and should do all in our capacity to ensure that the path is cleared for others to celebrate their own blessings in the same measure.

Love is a gift which God left open to all; only we prevent its fullest expression.

Love is...

2011-06-28T21:37:00.000-07:00

Readings:Genesis 24:34-38, 42-49, 58-67; Psalm 45:10-17; Song of Solomon 2:8-13; Zechariah 9:9-12; Psalm 145:8-14; Romans 7:15-25a; Matthew 11:16-19, 25-30

Our week begins with marital verses. The chapters include both narratives and metaphors—from the story of Isaac and Rebekah’s marriage to comparisons of Israel to brides, wherein its relationship becomes as a marriage to God.

In a way, these readings fall into appropriate time. We emerge with them from June, which is, contemporarily, deemed “wedding month.” We are familiar with announcements and celebrations, are weighted down with words of flower arrangements and festivities.

We treat such occasions as epochs, and not unjustly so: two lives winding into one new life warrant a little poetic imagination.

But such occasions also sometimes carry the burden of expectations. Paul and his letter to the Corinthians are often invoked during wedding ceremonies, and so too are other biblical images, some which have a less comfortable inheritance.

Throughout the year, we encounter such verses: insistences that wives be obedient to their husbands. Glorification of wifely quietude.

Even readings like this week’s can prove a danger: in hasty hands, they can be made to suggest power structures which do not perfectly enable marital partnership, but rather set up something archaic, something against which we, in accordance with our values, struggle.

Abraham sends a servant to the land of his ancestors—the land of his fathers, the chapter says—to retrieve from amongst them a suitable wife for his son. And when the servant claps eyes on her, he claims her: he bejewels her, owning her for Isaac by proxy (Genesis 24:37-38, 47).

There exists, here, a residual sense of property exchange: of marriage being more like ownership than partnership.

Our reading from the Psalms might be made to reinforce this: it demands that the “bride”, presumably a metaphor for maiden Israel, “forget your people and your father’s house” in favor of becoming a queen, bejeweled before all the nations (Psalm 45:10). The bride seems to enter a new life herein, one in which what came before ceases to matter; what she becomes as the wife is endowed with the utmost value.

I have been thinking lately about what we expect of marriage. Most women I know balk at outward suggestions of “property” exchange. We are beyond the age of dowries, obviously. Fathers still give daughters away, but the action is now infused more with affection than anything else.

We choose to read from Corinthians at weddings because Paul encourages steadfast love within it; it sounds more like the partnership which we desire than do portions of his other letters which talk about marital submission.

Still, the message is mixed. The portions of Paul which we carefully avoid during June are brought to the attention of married partners when disharmony is reported—we act as though relationships are boats which should never be rocked. The effusive joy of “wedding season” is confused by conflicting attitudes toward marriage throughout the rest of the year.

We still do not make it easy for Christian women to confess marital unhappiness, even when their safety is at stake. We remain wary of divorce. We are dogged about the term “forever”, even in the face of distress. Discord exists between what we expect of marriage, and what we insist that individual people are entitled to, in terms of respect, in general.

This confusion only deepens if we allow ourselves to get moored in the culture of the scriptures, acting as though it ought to always be reified in our own time. Stories such as Rebekah’s retrieval, on Isaac’s behalf, as well as portions of Paul, can muddle our ideas about relationships, though they ultimately need not to.
What was expected of Abraham in ancient Mesopotamia does not exactly correspond to our own situations; Rebekah and Isaac don’t have a love story which necessarily begins as ours do. Nor do the relationships of Paul’s churches perfectly correspond to our own: Rome had its own mores, its own expectations.

And yet there are portions of all of these books with which we can identify. Rebekah might not enter Genesis perfectly—there is an underlying sense that she is more like her father’s “property” than she is an autonomous being, worthy, owing to her own human merit, of love and respect. Yet this subset of the tale runs out of steam quickly.

Rebekah is brought to Isaac—a prize to her triumphant. But the triumphant groom does not lord over her. Instead, our reading ends with this: “she became his wife; and he loved her” (Genesis 24:67).

The hope is in the conclusion, in the assurance that he loves her. Rebekah becomes a comfort to him. Their relationship becomes a mutual exchange. She becomes, in the words of Song of Solomon, beloved: someone upon whom he depends, as much as she depends upon him.

The scriptures are insistent about the nature of love, and none of their ideals focus upon power. It is selfless self-giving—loving another as we would wish to be loved. It has been articulated as self-emptying, of the abandonment of personal impulses in deference to another. It is an exchange. It is symbiotic.

How much better our world could be if we talked of marriage this way, and not just of the wedding. That too many expectations still arise from the uglier side is attested to by incidents of domestic violence, and by silence surrounding such difficult topics in “polite” Christian society. We recite Corinthians at the wedding—and then we fall silent.

We bemoan “mistakes” when they happen, but often too late, prompted by tragedy, impervious to daily necessity.

I’ve been thinking about relationships lately, worried by the ways in which they go wrong. I lost a beautiful friend, a bright Christian woman, this summer to domestic violence. She was fortunate enough to have supportive family, and a supportive church community, at her back as she combated her difficult situation, though ultimately this proved not enough.

I’ve been thinking about how I’ll speak of relationships now, having seen the worst end to one in which the woman wasn’t afforded her due respect. Too late, I crave the images of Paul’s letter to the Corinthians for my friend: never jealous, never petty, always kind. I crave them for all brave enough to forge marital relationships.

We don’t make much use of terms like property exchange during the “wedding season”; we pretend as though we’ve gotten beyond such things. Yet it seems that not enough respect is given between husbands and wives after the wedding lights dim. We forget to parlay the ceremony’s readings into our lives.

“And he loved her,” Genesis says. Such a quiet, simple statement; so succinct after the rambling story of how Isaac “met” Rebekah. And yet all of the work of a marriage lies therein—indeed, all of the work of any Christian, any believer.

He loved her.

I wish the hope, the confusion, the hard work and the joy of that line upon the marriages which began, are beginning, are midstream, are aging and are anticipated right now. The best lessons of our Bible are incumbent on such love. We are to struggle toward it, and to renew it continually once we’ve attained some measure of it.

He loved her; that remains the example which we’ll be better for trying to emulate. It stands at the heart of our faith.

Because I Have Loved You

2011-06-21T23:47:00.000-07:00

Readings:Genesis 22:1-14,Psalm 13, Jeremiah 28:5-9, Psalm 89:1-4, 15-18, Romans 6:12-23, Matthew 10:40-42

Our readings this week begin with the akedah, the story of the binding of Isaac. Not due to this story alone, Abraham stands as a paragon of obedience to God’s word.

While biblical scholars haggle over whether or not Abraham believed he would actually be required to sacrifice his son, the details of the story stand: the doting father, when asked by God to offer up his beloved son, without hesitation set out on a journey whose practical end was compliance.

The journey to Moriah took three days. For three days, Abraham and his son travelled to the mountain, the boy with the kindling for his own eventual burning on his back, the father weighted down by the implications of the horrible task at hand.

They woke on the third day, looked toward the horizon, and saw the mountain in the distance. The whole situation was hopeless and foreboding.

What impresses us is that Abraham seems never to waver. He’s cryptic about details when talking to Isaac and otherwise stoic through the whole of the mission. Though his soul must have been crying out for reprieve, he goes so far as to climb the mountain with his son, to bind the boy, and to raise the knife for the sacrifice.
Not until the angel cries “stop!” do we receive any indication that Abraham ever would have. He was poised, fully willing.

We comfort ourselves when reading this troubling story by assuming God never meant to let the sacrifice happen. Still, Abraham’s three days of torture, and Isaac’s own trauma, seem an unnecessary cruelty to inflict upon two human beings simply to test their obedience.

We hope the story is told as an allegory, a way to assert Abraham’s superior qualities whilst exaggerating the real details, but we have no way of knowing. We are left to admire the patriarch, the whole time quietly struggling not to bestow too much credit on him for his cofounding willingness. We respect him. We do not always know why.

We read Abraham’s story, and wonder. Would we? Would God ask it of us? What incredible sacrifices are solicited from us instead?

These readings collectively suggest that obedience to God’s word becomes a sacrifice in and of itself sometimes, in that it often requires relinquishing our attachment to personally beneficial reasoning. So the Psalmist is able to bemoan God’s hidden face while still discussing Divine generosity: the Psalm knows that God is good without pretending to understand how (Psalm 13:1, 6).

Similarly, Paul speaks of obedience as a kind of slavery, a life to which one gives oneself over at the cost of some autonomy where tasks like love are concerned (Romans 6:18). What God asks is not always easy: the task to love one another without condition itself is one which we, in our particular situations, often are left struggling against. Yet if we love God, we are to bind ourselves to it; we are to become servants to God’s will therein.

Sacrifices are easy enough only in theory; “love” is an easy word to make use of; but who hasn’t wished for reprieve when confronted with a “neighbor” who’s wronged them terribly? We accept and laud God’s word, but it’s human to tacitly hope that there are unspoken conditions, limitations which we’re not expected to love, or obey, beyond. Our readings struggle against that hope: obedience is to be absolute; it is to forego our personal, earthly desires.

In every age, believers are faced with the din of critical voices, voices which decry their obedience as foolhardy or antiquated, as silly and without merit. They flay believers with recollections of an unhappy history wherein God has not always rescued the godly from persecutions which occur despite their obedience.
They mock concepts like absolute love, burdening them with added conditions: are we to love dictators, murderers, thieves? The “yes” we borrow from our Bible only redoubles their scorn; obedience to it resists the “acceptable” limits of reason, and so they reject the obedience of the faithful.

In past ages, some not so distant, obedience has faced such contempt that it’s even been legislated against. Thus we have the examples of the Acts of the Apostles, and of Roman history, which indicate that Christians were persecuted for their beliefs.

We have too the history of anti-Semitism, wherein even Christians have sometimes been wont to forbid their Jewish brethren, by and bye, to be obedient to God’s word. At various times, it has been a dangerous thing to keep kosher, to observe the Sabbath, to celebrate a bris. Such things have been made illegal; they’ve been turned into markers, and used to justify the unspeakable.

We have, sadly, contemporary examples as well. In San Francisco, a group of activists is currently attempting to push through a law which would make circumcision illegal, punishable by fines and imprisonment.

Though these activists insist that their motivation exists wholly in the realm of human rights, it has recently come to light that one of their leaders is responsible for conceptualizing and circulating an anti-Semitic comic book which depicts mohels as monsters, and those who bar the covenantal tradition as saviors.

Despite this exposure of the nastier elements of their ideology, the group continues its campaign. They hold themselves up as enlightened and decry those who would be obedient to the tradition as “barbaric.” It has always been so, and has always so lacked substance.

Abraham was asked to do much which he did not understand. God asked that he become a wanderer, that he leave his home and move toward a land promised to his posterity. God asked that he sacrifice his son, eliciting his obedience without actually requiring that the task go through. God made a covenant with Abraham, and as a sign of it God established the bris, a ritual which would draw believers into the covenantal community on the eighth day of their lives.

God gave Abraham much room, and many ways, to be obedient; he did not provide corresponding whys. They are beyond our purview. We do not need them to justify our obedience. They are almost in the realm of “because I said so”; they are more nearly “because I have shown you so much love, and asked of you so little.”

We honor Abraham for his obedience this week in our readings, and must so honor those who continue to exemplify it. Obedience to God’s word, even if in areas which we think are replaced, for us, by our own “covenant” in Christ, is to be admired and applauded by all who believe. It’s something which we should always defend.

In San Francisco, the obedient are currently under fire. It is hardly the only city on Earth in which believers of various faiths face challenges, but it presents a particular opportunity for us to raise our own voices in defense of obedience.
Our Jewish neighbors, and our Muslim neighbors, are affronted by such laws, which would necessitate their disobedience to God in the name of obedience to a legislative body which is supposed to protect their religious rights.

Our gospel reading this week insists that those who love righteousness for
righteousness’ sake are beloved by God (Matthew 10:41). We don’t always understand righteousness as it’s been presented in the Bible; gracefully, we don’t need to.
God asked that we love one another. God asked the Jewish covenantal community to do this too, but also to perform other acts of obedience, of which the bris is one. Our gospels assure us that such obedience is righteous; we are to awe over, and protect the rights of, those who display it.

People of faith are all asked, in some measure, to travel to their own Moriahs. We face our own tests, and we confront the possibility of faltering each step of the way. Can we, ourselves, bring ourselves to bind that which we love? Can we do these things without asking why?

We hope, but never know, that a voice from Heaven will cry “stop!” at the opportune moment. We hope. Yet our job as people of faith is not to listen for the voice; it’s to do as we were asked. Because God loved us enough to make Divine and incredible sacrifices. Because God has asked, of us, so little in return.

Majestic is Your Name

2011-06-14T21:00:00.000-07:00

Readings: Genesis 1:1-2:4a, Psalm 8, 2 Corinthians 13:11-13,Matthew 28:16-20

We complex creatures, though created in God’s image, have sometimes indulged in the unfortunate habit of being wrong, of mistaking the purpose of our creation. The notion of dominion, in particular, has proven particularly irksome in our fallible hands.

We have interpreted the Genesis instruction that we “subdue” the earth to mean that we can bend it to our wills and whims (Genesis 1:29). We have not always paid homage to God’s creations; we have often humiliated them.

Environmentalists have long and loudly bemoaned the manipulation of that verse. We have exercised our dominion by mining our lands for resources, bleeding them until they collapse, exhausted and anemic. The notion of “dominion” has felled forests and hills. It has enabled us to taint and otherwise alter our oceans and fresh waters in the name of progress. The idea of dominion over animal life, similarly, has led to willfully taken liberties which are hard to excuse.

And yet our readings this week highlight a further area of abuse: they align creation to God’s goodness, align existing in the Divine image to the spreading of the gospel truth. To be an evangelist, in the Gospel sense, means to spread God’s good news; this extends to the gift of creation, to the beauty in all formed by heaven’s hands, and to awe over those gifts and blessings. In the 8th Psalm, the psalmist, with wonder, says “when I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established; what are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?” (Psalm 8:4-5)

The offering of “dominion” to humankind was not the passing of a baton: God did not make us rulers over the earth, nor was true control over it relinquished. We were made, as many have suggested, its stewards. We are its tenants and the beneficiaries of its grandeur. We have the dominion, the power and the room to love it; we do not have the right to reduce it. The Psalm thus winds out of our consciousness this week not focusing on us, but on the whole of creation as a testament: “O LORD, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!” (Psalm 8:9)

To love God, we must honor what God made. The good news, and the challenge, is that this extends to ourselves. We were blessed with self-dominion: the grace of awareness, the ability to form a conscience guided by holiness, informed by wonder.
It extends, further, to one another. The gift of Christ was a reminder that we can live in radical community—that love can become a method by which we bind to one another, by which we strengthen and affirm our ties to the Holy. Paul enjoins “agree with one another, live in peace; and the God of love and peace will be with you” (2 Corinthians 13:11). Where we are conscientious, where we invite the Spirit and welcome grace, there is God. There our “dominion” comes to fullest fruition.

Alongside environmental injustices, therefore, we have to reckon the injustices which we visit upon one another. Environmentalists and animal activists have long denounced what we’ve done to the natural world in the name of dominion; our need to control and subdue one another has proven similarly disastrous. We raise ourselves unnaturally high and then forget to take care of our neighbors.

From Syria, we hear news of hundreds of innocents falling beneath a callous government which seeks to punish the population for breeding dissidents. Our president is pressed to declare war on Libya, where injustices against our neighbors are also rampant. The so-called “Arab Spring” is so colored by atrocities against mankind that the vibrant evocations of the name come to seem inappropriate. Life has become less, not more, verdant for so many who offended those in power simply by asking that their dignity be honored.

Here at home, we hurt each other, too. We restrict programs which aide those in need with arbitrary and humiliating new requirements, often in the name of respecting the limitations of our budget. We demonize our neighbors to the South, absurdly turning “immigrant” into a slanderous term, forgetting that we, ourselves, are a nation of immigrants. We allow fear to make us cruel.

Our women are subject to violence. There exist serious gaps in legal systems which could prevent it, but find themselves ill-equipped to actually do so. In all of this: we fail to respect the implications of the “dominion” which we were formed to exercise.

In our reading from Matthew, Jesus sends the disciples out to spread word of the Holy. He proclaims total authority in heaven and on Earth, and simultaneously enables them to proclaim this. As a grace. As a gift. As a continuation of creation.

“I am with you always, till the end of the age,” Jesus proclaims (Matthew 28:20). This serves as a clarification of the first chapter of Genesis: God, resting from the work of creating, gives human beings dominion not in God’s stead, but so they may understand, from a blessed perspective, the goodness of the gift. God stands them up before all created under heaven and declares, “this was for you.” God is with us always, until the end of the age.

To dishonor what God formed disgraces the gift of radical Divine love. When we are careless with the Earth, with its living creatures and with one another, we effectively forget these humbling and wonderful verses. We are careless with the Word when we are careless with creation.

We cannot claim, with integrity, to belong to God without also respecting the godly—a spectrum which encompasses all of creation. The gift begins and ends with us.

In Memory of

2011-06-07T19:59:00.000-07:00

Readings: Acts 2:1-21, Numbers 11:24-30, Psalm 104:24-34,1 Corinthians 12:3b-13, John 20:19-23

Conceptually, the Holy Spirit is enigmatic. Not until we discuss the specifics of the Spirit at work do we begin to understand the Pentecost: we less can explain Holy Spirit than we can the Spirit manifest.

We’ve all known people through whom we know God is at work. Acts of extraordinary generosity expose them, or instances of everyday and awesome kindness. There are those from whom the Spirit shines.

Paul said, “To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good” (1 Corinthians 12:7). God will work through some by making them prophets, through others by gifting with them with the ability to impart faith, or knowledge, or healing (1 Corinthians 12:6-10). Where the truth of the Holy shines most brilliantly through, there are the Spirit filled—those chosen by God to be as angels to us during our time here on Earth.

I was fortunate enough to see the Spirit at work through my friend Shannon, who had the ability to increase the faith and awe of others just by being who she was. I’ll always think of her presence in my life as a grace.

I met Shannon in college. My roommates and I sent an e-mail through the church listserv seeking a new housemate, and Shannon was our fortunate find. We loved her instantly. She was bubbly and kind, and when she spoke about God, her words were filled with a grace that humbled. Her days were infused with faith. She wanted to make the world better.

Shannon had a habit of forcing me to be a better Christian. During Lent, I got up early to make 8 a.m. Mass with her, driven mostly by the agreement we’d made to both go. She encouraged me to attend evening rosaries. We talked about God and the future of the Church, and Shannon’s insights were unflinchingly optimistic.

Inside of the pews, and outside of the church, her face tended to be incandescent: she was lit by her prayerfulness and her hope. I couldn’t always summon up faithful feelings beyond my cynicism, but it was as if Shannon didn’t know doubt.

None of this is meant to suggest she was superhuman. My friend also had an uncanny sense of humor, and probably made mistakes of which I am not aware. What I know is that, even when I disagreed with her, I couldn’t lose respect for her: her positions and opinions were never selfishly derived, which lent her, in all situations, moral credibility that couldn’t be pierced.

After college, Shannon became a mother, and began passing her verve for life onto her little girl. We stopped seeing each other daily, but I kept track of her as her days progressed. She continued work with Pure Fashion shows, which she’d always told me encouraged women to be cute and fashionable while still commanding the respect they were due as human beings. She reentered school. She welcomed a second beautiful, and beloved, baby into the world. She fell in love.

I’ll never doubt that the Holy Spirit was at work in my friend Shannon. By example, she encouraged me to be a better Christian and a more hopeful human being. She was the beacon of joy to counter doubt I felt in my spiritual life; she was the certitude that cancelled out confusion. Heaven was at work in Shannon. God was at home amongst us in her.

It is easy for us to spot the Spirit at work in such people and impossible to make sense of it when that light is snuffed out. Certainly the world is rife with God’s creatures, but we don’t often meet such shining examples of his work; losing one is a blow equal to the feeling of having God hide the Divine countenance from our sight (Psalm 104). If we come to know God through the works of the Spirit, how do we make sense of the loss of the Spirit-filled?

My friend Shannon was murdered this weekend. Her two babies lost a wonderful mother, and her friends and loved ones a source of great joy, love and spiritual sustenance. Nothing can be said to make sense of this. There is no positive spin; there is no appealing to fate; there is only the void. This world that she lit feels her loss.

In our grief we feel only her absence. It’s my hope, though, that someday her children will be blessed with stories of the beautiful life which Shannon led: of the work which she did, of the goodness she embodied, of her loving generosity, and of the gifts she worked diligently to give them. It’s my hope that they, too, will come to see that the Spirit was at work in Shannon, and that they’ll know that for a brief time, they were blessed by having her as a mother.

God was at work in my friend. I pray that God will continue to be.

Full of Grace

2011-05-31T22:28:00.000-07:00

Readings: 1 Samuel 2:1-10, Psalm 113, Romans 12:9-16, Luke 1:39-57

Mary, the mother of God, is upheld as a paragon of virtue. Across denominations, Christians ask for her prayers, honor her sacrifice, and encourage her emulation. We are asked to be like her, and yet the task seems impossible. A mother whose virtue risked malignment from her own community, she raised the child she was blessed with only to watch him die a horrible death for others.

She stands with the other women in our readings as one to whom we are less comfortable relating than we are awing in. Renderings of her often do not ask us to meet her eyes: she stares down benignly, or clasps the boy Jesus in her arms, or cradles the crucified son; she calmly gazes at her bleeding heart.

It is easy to understand why some have worried that the adoration of Mary moves toward deification; such virtue seems to transcend our humanity. In her shoes, would we not be resentful? Would we rage against God, refusing to hand our children over, refusing to stand demurely by while others presume things of us which cannot be borne out?

And yet Mary discusses her pregnancy with Elizabeth, herself carrying John the Baptist, as a blessing. She bravely walks into a future we might call unhappy, fully willing to be the mother of the boy Jesus, destined to die on our behalf.

She calls this a blessing, not a curse. In general selfishness, I sometimes think I could not do the same. I am sometimes happy not to have to meet her eyes, when the blessings I crave would bring happiness without the later dismay.

The women in our readings for the week all bring the parameters of “blessed” into such perspective. Their names, and the names of their children, are among the most evoked in human history. Yet for all of their notoriety, they far from had it easy.

In the second chapter of 1 Samuel, we encounter Hannah at a complicated moment in her life. After coming through the grief of being apparently barren, and having God answer her prayers by blessing her with a son, Hannah is compelled to fulfill her promise to God by delivering her son to the priest Eli, his own life now dedicated to priestly service.

Hannah loved Samuel dearly; he was the fulfillment of her most cherished hopes. Even his name evokes the fact that Hannah appealed to God for him. And still she’s hardly able to know her son before she must give him up.

Quite conceivably, Hannah could be prompted to grieve, or even to “forget” her promise, clinging to her son. The sacrifice she had promised to make seems of the sort that can overwhelm. And yet our passage is a prayer of thanksgiving, empty of mourning or regret.

Hannah does not rage against God for giving and then taking away. Instead, she exalts God. Though undoubtedly heart-rent, she expounds upon the gifts of heaven.

She rejoices that heartbreak can be reversed—that the hungry are eventually sated by God, that through the Divine, the barren bear children and the poor are brought to honor (1 Samuel 2:5, 8).

Hannah’s prayer concentrates on the fluidity of our situations. What pains us most is blessedly finite, thanks to God; if the unjust exist in comfort and enjoy apparent ease, Hannah knows that that, too, can be reversed.

Hannah is thus able to dedicate her most beloved son to God as she promised; her awe soothes the pain of separation, her gratitude outweighs the coming loneliness.

The prayer of the second chapter of 1 Samuel compels us to transcend our angst over moments of tribulation, as well as our doubt; it insists on lifting up news of God’s greatness, even in times when we’d rather concentrate on the ways in which we are tried.

From Hannah’s story we move into Romans 12, which also insists that all be steadfast in faith, regardless of transitory conditions. We are enjoined to love with sincerity, to trust in God without wavering and to be sympathetic to one another, in recognition of God’s equal love for each of us.

Romans doesn’t promise continual sunshine or otherwise perfect days. In fact, it takes troubled times for granted: weeping, suffering and persecution are all anticipated. To be loved by God is not to escape hardship; loving God isn’t fed by the evasion of difficulties.

In the first chapter of Luke, we meet both Elizabeth and Mary during their respective pregnancies. Mary is weathering slight scandal as she visits her aunt; though betrothed, her pregnancy had raised eyebrows.

Nor had Elizabeth, married for many years and perpetually childless, been expected to be a mother. Her pregnancy recalls Hannah’s: she, too, had thought herself barren; she, too, experienced late motherhood as a blessing.

She, too, would ultimately be asked to dedicate her son’s life to God. Mary, too, would have to relinquish her beloved son to God’s ultimate cause. Motherhood required much of these women.

Yet Mary says “my soul magnifies YHWH, and my heart rejoices in God my savior” (Luke 1:46-47). Her impulse is to praise God, not to snipe over coming hardships. She regards her child as a fulfillment, and as part of God’s great history of reversing misfortune: God has shown strength, has fed the hungry, has made Israel great.

Hannah, Mary and Elizabeth become the mothers of our faith. Their children each furthered God’s work on Earth, each made great sacrifices to bring the words and goodness of the Divine to fruition.

The humility and grace of the women who gave them life stand as examples for us. From those to whom much is given, so much is required: God’s conditionless love empowers us to love selflessly and without condition. There is a mystery to this which we cannot always unravel.

Understandably, we often stand uncomfortably before figures like Hannah, Elizabeth, and Mary. The great challenge of our faith, however, is that it compels us to join in on their prayers, to confront the possibility of giving praise when the reverse seems more natural. Loving God, in thanks for God’s love, purifies us of our worst impulses; it removes the sting of our pains. Or it can.

Our scriptures assure us that it will.

Tried as Silver is Tried

2011-05-23T23:45:00.000-07:00

Readings: Acts 17:22-31, Psalm 66:8-20, 1 Peter 3:13-22, John 14:15-21

At the dawn of the American Revolution, Thomas Paine observed “these are the times that try men’s souls.” Then, the relative calm of provincial colonial life had transformed into tumult. Peace people had taken for granted seemed fragile and happenstance.

Paine’s neighbors were “tried as silver is tried,” the fires of circumstance laid upon them until they were reduced to their “elements”; reconstruction took time, strife and considerable introspection (Psalm 66:10).

Such people are never ultimately alone; they stand in history with all of those who have been shaken, faced with tribulations, and asked, despite this, to come out whole.

This week, that burden falls heavily on our neighbors in Joplin, Missouri, where devastating tornadoes destroyed most of the town. The images we receive from the tragedies are horrific, and are too infrequently interrupted by stories of heroism or rescue. So many were lost. There is so little sense to it.

In the face of such circumstances, “faith” can come to seem a superfluous or unhelpful term. Faith didn’t prevent the disaster. Faith can’t provide those in need with food, or shelter, nor can it return loved ones who were senselessly lost. It seems callous for us to demand that faith live in Joplin today.

Such times are times which do try our souls. It seems almost easier to put the God-talk aside and get down to the basics: to place our hope in FEMA or groups dedicated to disaster relief, to direct our tithing to the Red Cross instead of the collection plate.

That impulse cannot, and should not, be undercut. That we want to help our neighbors is good. It is, in fact, an imperative of the gospels. We simply should reject the notion that we have to push God aside to do so.

One of the photos which came across the wire from a CNN reporter was of a church in Joplin which was destroyed by a tornado. Its walls are gone; its pews and appurtenances are rubble. All that remains erect is a cross, which stands brazenly against the devastated backdrop.

The image is compelling. It provokes us in multiple ways, evoking both our passage in Acts, which insists that God lives in no one place, and the John excerpt, which says that, even when we feel orphaned, Christ is coming out toward us.

Even when it appears that God has left, God approaches. Even when we feel terribly alone, God’s love stands with us.

Such assurances are hard to internalize in these times which try our souls. That’s okay. We shouldn’t denigrate ourselves for being unable to scream the gospel truths out at times when our throats have been worn raw from expressions of grief and need. Burdens are laid on our backs; we go through fire and water (Psalm 66:11-12). We don’t see the promised “spacious space” beyond this in the midst of our suffering; it may be so distant that we lack conviction in its deliverance.

We don’t need to be sure that relief is coming to enable it to come: “God has not removed God’s steadfast love from us” (Psalm 66:20).

Our expectations of love lead us to believe that it means freedom from pain. This is not always the case. If we expect that of God’s love, we wind up disappointed: this very fallible, beautiful world which God gifted to us is laden with waiting pains. It also has such boundless promise. Dark days see dawns, even when they seem to stretch on interminably. We know this, even if we, permissibly, forget it in the darkness.

God made this world and all that is in it, Acts tells us (Acts 17:24). That decision on the part of the divine isn’t aided or purified by our impassioned recognition of it: it is and always has been the case. It is a gift not deepened by our praise, not intensified by our shrines; Acts assures us that God does not need our supplications to feel justified to be gracious.

God knows that there are days in which we will “grope to find him [sic],” despite the nearness of Heaven to all of us. We sometimes cannot see beyond our troubled times. Groping is permitted; fumbling is allowed.

Loving God and doing good are meant to be mutually inclusive acts for people of faith, though they occur, practically, with varying pronunciation of their parts. In these troubled times, doing good can be the beacon; it can be what makes our communities strong.

Those of us left standing after the skies cleared over Joplin can do godly work without being sanctimonious. We can donate our time and our care, can send money and good wishes; we can be shoulders and support for those left in sudden need. We can mourn the senselessness of the events and hope for, and work toward, a more promising tomorrow. We can surge toward recovery. We can do this without ostensibly proclaiming God; doing it alone makes use of the gifts of Heaven.

God still stands in the midst of this; the promised “Advocate” is present when we opt to answer our inward compulsions to do well by one another (John 14:16-20). Our confidence is shaken but our abilities remain strong; if we make use of the best within us to help one another, conviction will follow in time.

A Way Free of Maps

2011-05-17T15:58:00.000-07:00

Readings: Acts 7:55-60, Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16, 1 Peter 2:2-10, John 14:1-14

Christianity is not for those without a sense of adventure.

There are people who would like to believe that Christianity offers blueprints to predictable lives. If we behave in specific ways and keep our heads down, we can know, with certainty, precisely what our rewards will be. We can know, for sure, where it is we’ll end up. Streets of gold and choirs of angels fill our heads; we fall into believing that it all is imminent.

Christianity isn’t the first religion to prompt such hopes. To some degree, believers have always sought a soft place to fall. They’ve craved the exchange of deeds done for rewards reaped.

We name what’s around the bend heaven; we call it the kingdom on earth. We think that the eschaton, the end times, the so called “judgment day,” will bring it about.

Jesus warned that we’d know neither the time nor the place; his return would come like a “thief in the night.” This cautionary note is one that many have chosen to disregard, so his return has been predicted on particular dates: two in the eighteen forties; one in the seventeenth century; scores more dates proclaimed. May 21, 2011 now makes the list.

Yet those who have marked their calendars have wound up disappointed. They have discovered what our readings this week remind us: what Christ initiated was unique and remains uncharted. It is not for the faint of heart.

Acts relates the story of the martyrdom of Stephen. The early Christian was a paragon of the religion’s virtues. Had careful practice been a guarantee of lived reward, he may have expected greater fortunes than he experienced. Instead, he delivered word of God’s grandeur to a crowd, and found them so unready to hear the message that they stoned him (Acts 7:58).

The story is not meant to be read morbidly, or as a warning. We are not meant to reject Stephen’s deeds, or see them as misplaced. What Stephen’s story teaches us is that expectations are easily disappointed.

1 Peter also focuses on the precipitous nature of hasty expectations. In its case, Jesus is the figure who defies expectations—“the stone which the builders rejected became the cornerstone,” the letter says. The letter interprets the crucifixion as the world’s rejection of Jesus, but says that, despite them, he is most precious in God’s eyes (1 Peter 2:4).

Jesus’s story becomes one of reversals: messianic expectations are not met, yet he calls himself the messiah; those not popularly valued become, through him, most beloved in God’s eyes (1 Peter 2:10).

The gospel reading rounds out the mystery of these stories, when Christ informs the disciples that the path to the kingdom is not one he can chart for them. He can only tell them that he is the way; he cannot draw them a map. They seem to want one: “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?" they ask. (John 14:5)

His assurance is that we don’t need to anticipate the destination if we understand that he’s pointed us in the right direction. No maps or road signs; we don’t know when we’ll get there or what the destination is like. What we do know is that Jesus’ precepts are a step. Trusting in his word will prove more beneficial than an exhaustive account of the hows, and the wheres.

Assurances that Jesus will return on specific dates—May 21, 2011—should strike us as suspicious. They package the destination in a glossy, mystery-free manner; they suggest that the conclusion of the story, the end to which Christ is the way, is at hand. But they also forget the enigmatic nature of the scriptures.

They minimize the importance of Jesus as the way; they consider, primarily, end rewards.

Christians opt to begin down a path that presumes little about the destination, beyond that it will surprise. They throw maps out the window; they accept that they need only be guided by Jesus’ imperatives, which center around love. The journey, beyond that, is an adventure without burdens; it’s one that we can trust in and relish. We cannot anticipate the intricacies of the end; yet that’s the beauty, and not the burden, of God’s gifts.

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Shepherd of Sheep

2011-05-11T16:55:00.000-07:00

Readings: Acts 2:42-47, Psalm 23, 1 Peter 2:19-25, John 10:1-10

There is a midrash which relates the story of two rabbis walking through the countryside. One of these, as the day progressed, continually pointed to plots of land to comment, “That farm was mine once, but I sold it to devote myself to the study of Torah.” Or “That orchard.” By nightfall it had become apparent that this rabbi had once been very rich, but now retained none of his earthly holdings.

The second rabbi, realizing this, began to weep. His companion asked him why. “What about your security, your later years?” the crying rabbi wondered.

But the first rabbi scoffed. “I sold what it took six days to create and attained what took forty days and forty nights to reveal,” he said.

We don’t have much admiration for ascetics any longer. The mark of one’s earthly success does tend to exist somewhere in the realm of possessions. We share the concerned rabbi’s discomfort, falling into panic or despair when it occurs to us that we may not have enough.

Yet the gospel imperative has always been to be like the second rabbi: unconcerned with things worldly, absorbed in communion with revelation and in righteous living. We know that possessions are transient; we believe that what God gave and continues to give, in the instance of the Messiah, in the visitations of the Holy Spirit, is eternal and of limitless value.

Our readings this week return us to the idea of righteous living, and pull no punches in doing so. The passage from Acts is one bound to cause controversy in our sensitive days: it relates the story of the early Christian community, and reveals an economic plan of the sort that would certainly make many of our fellow citizens tremble. After all, the news that “all who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need” sounds suspiciously like voluntary distribution of wealth (Acts 2:44-45).

Would the early Christians find dissidents among the most vocal protestors of our day, perhaps facing comparisons to those whose names have been reviled in Tiananmen Square? Or, a better question: would they have cared? The need-based-distribution in Acts reflects a core set of values: things do not matter, and while bodily needs must be addressed, our ultimate aim is God. They relinquished their possessions to follow the risen Christ because they recognized that life had more to offer than the attainment of stuff.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” declares the 23rd psalm. Its images are pastoral and its faith is in a God who ultimately provides. We deceive ourselves if we believe that still waters and green pastures are things we must chase after—as if eternal comfort can be bought at the rough price of an escape vacation to lush and verdant locales. Such places, the first rabbi reminds us, took six days for God to create; but the revelation of God’s word, the divine plan for our salvation, took 40 nights on Sinai, and an incarnation, to attain.

The first jubilant weeks of Easter are over, and we must descend from our high to the work of living as Christians again. Christianity is a system which we cannot cheat: when we promise to share, but withhold, God sees it, as is colorfully illustrated by Acts’ story of the couple who retains some of their property following a lie and to disastrous ends. God knows. There is no sneaking in; there in no holding off on relying on God, no basking in plentiful comforts of which God remains unaware.

Jesus speaks metaphorically of himself in John 10:1: “Very truly, I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit.” He asserts that he is the gate, and that the sheepfold consists of God’s people. A trespasser, he assures us, will be recognized. And so his way demands that we openly meet our best potentials, though such tasks rarely sound fun and hardly promise to be easy. And yet their reward is green pastures; their result is loving community; the image they project is of a happy and fulfilled people of God.

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Love and Dignity

2011-05-04T00:22:00.000-07:00

Readings: Acts 2:14a, 36-41, Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19, 1 Peter 1:17-23, Luke 24:13-35

A whispered suggestion came to the disciples, a rumor that Jesus had risen from the dead.

They would not believe it. “We had hoped that he would be the one to redeem Israel,” they said, and the tense was weighted with regret (Luke 24:21).

The disciples were in a pitiful state. They had shadowed Jesus faithfully throughout his ministry, fueled by anticipation: that he would fulfill the messianic prophecies, that he would turn the world on its ear.

Instead, he died.

On the third day after, they received Mary’s news of his rising. And yet they stood about, looking sad (Luke 24:17). These were not days in which people thwarted death, they thought; these were days in which people betrayed one another, and in which the innocent were crucified.

So they said to the risen Christ when he met them on the road.

Were they a foolish generation, or nondescriptly human? How are we to respond to them, standing oblivious before God?

Jesus revealed himself by layers once he was resurrected. He first directed the disciples’ attention to their own arrogance: “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!” (Luke 24:25)

He next spoke to them in familiar ways, interpreting scripture as they walked together down the road, their rabbi, their teacher. And still they did not see.

It was not until he sat down with them and broke bread—“do this in remembrance of me!,” he had said—that their sight finally unclouded.

We can choose to dismiss them absurd; that interpretation is available. How could they not recognize him? But it’s probably more fruitful to work toward seeing--to do what we can to understand what is before our own eyes.

Our generation is foolish, too. We are haughty about what we think we know: we are speedy to moralize and quick to condemn.

Sometimes, we are right. We are very aware of some evils. We are quick to call them out. Terrorist actions, despots, third world poverty and inequalities: we see their flaws quite clearly.

But we also tend to treat evil as a virus to which we are immune. Such promises were never made: to love Jesus is not to become a redoubtable being.

We learn this from the disciples, as they grapple with the aftermath of the crucifixion. It is apparent in their confusion, just as it becomes apparent in our own: what we’ve signified as wrong in the behavior of others, we sometimes forget to remain free from ourselves.

Do we cheer in the streets when we hear news of a death? Do we gather at national sites and raise our voices to thank God for such “blessings”? Do we do this and still expect to remain credible in our faith?

We were disgusted to see footage of people celebrating abroad when the towers fell ten years ago. We sat steeped in our grief, counting our losses neighbor by neighbor, mourning those thousands of intrusions upon human dignity.

We became enraged with the perpetrators. We did not understand how anyone could celebrate the violent end of a human life. We still do not understand.

We know why we called the instigators “enemies”—they reviled the selfless love which is the vitality of our value system, which is the foremost imperative of Christ. We knew what their behavior should have been. Despite this detour, this unexpected “triumph for justice,” I’m sure we know what ours should be now.

We cannot allow our judgment to be clouded, even when we linger in our sadness on unanticipated roadsides. We must be better than the impulses which arise when we are grieved or provoked.

Easter is not just a gift, it is a charge. It is a call to exemplify “genuine mutual love, lov[ing] one another deeply from the heart” (1 Peter 1:22). We are asked to run the full gamut of our purest emotions in these days: to go from grief to celebration, to be brought lowly by Jesus’s death and then be raised to inestimable heights by his resurrection.

God so loved the world that Christ became human. The best of our potentialities were realized in Jesus. He was dignity, personified. Because there are always some among us who do not honor that, he was put to death on a cross. And because perfect dignity cannot be destroyed, God gave him new life.

We do not honor God by celebrating violent death. We cast our lot with the Romans of the Easter tale when we do so. There is little heroic about publicly rejoicing over cruelties visited upon our enemies.

Equivocation over the value of human life always begins this way: we find someone unlovable, someone who has displayed a penchant for evil, and we destroy them. We show no mercy, because they did not show any. We stand triumphant over the results.

Yet “one” is always a starting point. We forgive ourselves for not mourning a person who we’ve declared unmournable. But if we don’t recognize the horror and desperation—the inhumanity—of such choices, we begin down a path which does not lead to good, and which certainly avoids godliness.

We can look toward the risen Christ, or lose ourselves in the yawning abyss. Love characterizes one; dispassion and indifference, the other. The whole of scripture has preferenced love. If we linger too long in its opposite, we risk obscuring God’s grace.

There is nothing to celebrate this week which does not have its center in the example of Jesus. We have not stunted evil by killing someone for whom it was a tool; we may even have flirted with it by making a show of his death. There was no “victory for human dignity”; “human dignity” is a hollow concept if we do not allow that it exists in us all.

Even when we deny it in ourselves. Despite our best efforts at its obfuscation. No matter how caustic and relentless the attacks upon it. It is the light we should adjust our eyes to see; it is the truth that Jesus tried, again, to bring to our attention during that stroll down a Jerusalem road.

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Here I Am

2011-04-27T02:40:00.000-07:00

Readings: Acts 2:14a, 22-32, Psalm 16, 1 Peter 1:3-9, John 20:19-31

What was different about the risen Christ?

We can infer from the gospels that there was something unfamiliar in his appearance. Last week, Mary Magdalene met him outside of his tomb and mistook him for a gardener. Not until he spoke did she recognize him, and then came the joy of being unexpectedly reunited.

This week we recall his encounter with the disciples, who similarly do not seem to know him at first. He greets them, but not until he offers a sign—the wounds of crucifixion—does the light of recognition dawn on them.

Jesus walks about in anonymity. A resurrected messiah, we know, would have been wild news—people would have wanted to see him. Certainly the crowds would have exceeded those he drew before, even when performing miracles. But the risen Christ is obscure.

Even Thomas, an apostle, does not believe the news. His brethren assure him, in their excitement, that they have seen Jesus, that he has been among them again; but Thomas scoffs, saying, ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe" (John 20:25).

This seems a gruesome request. But then, Thomas has been asked to wrestle with an unprecedented idea: that death might be reversed.

Jesus is understanding; he responds to Thomas’s insistence upon tactile proof. Put your hand in my side, if you must; he says. It’s me. And Thomas knows him.

There’s something different about the risen Jesus. Those who walked with him before do not know him until he declares himself. They do not doubt him once he is revealed; but they are hapless until the anonymity is peeled back.

This seems, to me, to be such a powerful injunction to be kind to those who walk among us. It is disquieting that the apostles saw him without seeing him; if they, who had known him in life, were so sightless before him in his new life, how are we, who see him only in the gospels, to recognize him?

Jesus said, “What you do to the least of those among you, you do to me.” He suggested he could be sought in the meek, in those brought low by their circumstances, in the hungry and in the searching. In the eyes which we often avoid meeting, there he is. In the lonely corners we do not visit, he waits.

I read a story this week about a young girl who was taunted and physically abused in public because of her appearance. This young twenties person was shifting between genders, and something about that piqued her torturers; they decided to assault her. To teach her a lesson? To put her “in her place”? Such acts defy reason. We are so illogically prompted to be cruel to one another.

The mystery of Easter is this: Jesus was crucified. Jesus is risen. Jesus walks the world again. We do not see him when we look for the man who healed, who walked on water, who fed the masses and defied Roman authority; that figure has departed us forever.

But what about those from whom we shrink? In the teenager reviled by their peers for daring to be who they are internally compelled to be: can’t we look for Christ there? In the face of the girl who was beaten, do we sense a glimmer of recognition?

The lesson of this season is that God does not abandon us to our fallible flesh. The world, post-resurrection, is a dress rehearsal, is an unset stage awaiting the last revelation. What we do in this moment has bearing on that; we have to ready our eyes to see.

Through our faith, we anticipate clear sight: “Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy” (1 Peter 1:8). By acts of loving kindness to those we encounter, we attest our belief.

Hands which need to feel torn flesh belong to those who have not yet seen. Hands which reach out to greet those who seem, at first, just strangers, trust in the resurrection. We give our love to others knowing that it will someday come back to us, that Christ will someday from them say, “Here I am.”

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"I have seen the Lord!"

2011-04-20T19:46:00.000-07:00

Readings: Jeremiah 31:1-6, Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24, Colossians 3:1-4, John 20:1-18, Matthew 28:1-10

Some two millennia ago, Mary of Magdala took a Sunday morning stroll to the tomb of her rabbi, the man they’d called “messiah”.

She walked through the streets of Jerusalem before the sun rose, John tells us, to get there. Maybe grief had jarred her from her sleep; maybe she’d never managed to capture sleep at all. The gospels don’t offer many details. We only know that she was suffering from the loss of him, as were all the disciples.

Perhaps she wanted to pay her respects. Perhaps she wanted to sit outside the tomb and question God: Why? Whatever her aim, she found that the bleak calm of the pre-dawn was shattered when she discovered that the stone which was used to seal the tomb had been rolled back.

The Gospel of John suggests that she ran to the disciples to beg their advice and supervision before proceeding. Other gospels present the moment differently: she and a companion are met by an angel alone, without the male disciples intervening. Whatever the case, Mary found herself before the open and empty tomb, and the whys? in her head were forced to morph.

It is Mary who is first privy to the miracle of Jesus’ resurrection. The gospels, again, present the miracle with variations: in John, she encounters the risen Jesus but does not recognize him; in Matthew, an angel announces his resurrection and fills her with fear.

And then she experiences the first post-resurrection dawn: Jesus speaks her name, and she knows. Or: Jesus stops her flight, greets her, and she knows. Light enters earth once again.

This is the wonder of Easter. On the Friday of Jesus’ death, the hopes of all the apostles seemed hopelessly disappointed. Messiahs were not supposed to die; they were supposed to radically, politically and noticeably transform the earth. Yet he left in his wake a still tumultuous Rome, a world still plagued by persecutions and injustices, and followers who were, quite frankly, stumped.

And yet the deed had been done; Christ, the anointed one, had initiated a period of new life, a new kingdom of God. Mary of Magdala was the first to be gifted with a viewing of it that Sunday morning; each Easter subsequent, our eyes have searched for it, too. We wake up and wait for God to call our names. We hold our breaths, anticipating Jesus’ coming in glory.

How far are we beyond Rome? Our kingdoms still disappoint us. This Easter morning, peace will elude so many people. As war rages on in Libya, as shots continue to ring out in the direction of Syrian and Yemenis protestors, peace will seem a distant prospect. Japan will still be struggling to recover from a devastating earthquake and nuclear leaks. Egyptian women will still be wondering how it is that they, though they thought they’d secured their freedom by participating, frequently at the fore, in this year’s protests, have once again been relegated to second class citizens. Our gulf will still be polluted and the people who depend on it will remain out of work. Cubans will have traded dictators. Tibet will still not be free.

The earth will spin to face the sun on Sunday, and light will fall across the regions slowly, and so many will not know it as peace-filled dawn. So many will not see immediate evidence of the kingdom of God.

And yet, the mystery for us is, each year in succession: he has risen. Indeed, Christ has risen. Death was defied. Something new began.

We are promised peace in God’s kingdom, and are still waiting for clarification on how that will come. Two thousand years have taught us, as three days taught the disciples, that there will be nothing conventional or predictable about God’s ultimate gift. We do not get peace here because he died; we are charged to work for it because of his precepts. Our wars and troubles are, to the degree which we create them, our responsibility; our souls are his.

We come to church together on Easter to celebrate Jesus’ new life. We come anticipating new life in Jesus. We gather in the pews because a new light has dawned. We wait for the risen God to call our names. We trust that he will.

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Let Us Rejoice

2011-04-13T00:16:00.000-07:00

Readings: Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29, Matthew 21:1-11

I’ve done some meditation lately around the prodigal son. His story is an interesting one: blessed with an abundance of wealth, he foregoes prudence and elects to gallivant about, indulging every whim and, promptly, depleting his gifts. He winds up destitute, alone, and far from home.

This parable of Jesus’s has always been a source of hope to me. The prodigal assesses his situation and elects to return home. He cannot possibly do so with much expectation; in fact, when he arrives at his father’s house, he begs even a lowly position. But his father, overjoyed to see him again, embraces him, draws him in, and throws a banquet in his honor.

My door is always open, I have imagined Jesus saying. Though we exhaust years resisting God’s love and generosity, it remains always available to us, if we but ask. Home in God is, indeed, a radical kind of home.

It strikes me this week how different Jesus’ return to his own earthly home was. By the time he returns to Jerusalem, he and the apostles have been all around Israel, they witnessing his great acts, he performing miracles and teaching. His fame precedes him into the city. He may have had every reason to expect a grand reception. And, indeed, he initially receives one; the gospel tells us that the crowd spread their cloaks on the road before him, made his path laden with palm branches, and exalted him as he rode in. These reverent acts seem much deserved; unlike the prodigal, he has not embarrassed his father’s household. Rather, he has made its name great.

And yet, for Jesus there is no fatted calf. There is no banquet. There is no happily ever after. Shortly after his arrival in the city, he is betrayed and murdered. The results of that have reverberated through our theology down through the ages.

One could claim that my distress over considering these stories side by side arises only because I’ve misunderstood them. The moral of the parable of the prodigal son is not that we deserve to be welcomed home no matter our transgressions; it is rather a story that praises the son’s eventual humility, the father’s boundless generosity and which cautions against the brother’s jealousy. Obviously, Jesus’ story is neither a painful lesson that, no matter how boundless our virtues, we are not guaranteed an easy go; his story, theologians have taught us, relates more to incarnation, atonement, and grace.

All of this is true. But beyond these truths are internalized readings; and, in connection to the approaching holidays, I can’t help but think about how both stories have much to say about the fragile nature of returning home.

We are, obviously, expected to be more like the father of the prodigal than we are to be like the Roman community which demanded the homecoming Jesus’ crucifixion. The scriptures enjoin us to maintain an open door, as well as an open heart. Jesus’ spirit is a generous one; he operates in a mode of grace. If we wish to call ourselves Christ-like, so too must we be generous, and channels for grace.

But these stories also have something to say about what we expect from one another. To enter a former home, or the home of another, cloaked in deference belies our equal dignity as co-humans; it inhibits hospitality for all involved, which does damage that requires correcting. If we are invited in to another’s space, it seems best to enter with an open spirit, relegating to back burners questions of whether we have earned such hospitality. Love, under heaven, is something that perhaps none of us have earned, but which the story of Jesus tells us we all deserve.

And yet the other side of this is that temperance is still required. To bustle back home with an inflated sense of self, expecting to have our path marked by flower petals and bordered by grateful hosts, is as irresponsible as instantaneous deference. It leaves us vulnerable to volatile situations which humility might illuminate; it, too is a barrier to hospitality. Learning this lesson does not imply blaming Christ for his fate; the gospels tell us that Jesus’s knowledge transcended our own, and so he did not enter Jerusalem, or any situation, unaware of impending situations. We receive Jesus’ grace but not his foresight. What he could anticipate, we cannot.

What both of these stories lack, and which makes homecoming, in theory, so worthwhile, is mutual trust. The prodigal, because he has not earned a warm reception, does not trust his father to give it; the Roman community, though Jesus has proven himself worthy of a hearty welcome, refuses to trust in his goodness enough to get it. While the prodigal son has the fortunate surprise of being granted unearned and conditionless love, Jesus falls victim to Rome’s suspicion. Their stories are extremes; but they also highlight the dangers of refusing intimate connections with others.

And so I offer an Easter prayer—for all of us, wherever we may find ourselves: may our tables be open, may access to them be freely and lovingly offered. And may our entrance into other circles be easy; may we find others as welcoming as we strive to be. May we exemplify grace. In no way can I imagine more thorough rejoicing; how better to convey our gladness in God.

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You Shall Live

2011-04-05T21:22:00.000-07:00

Readings: Ezekiel 37:1-14, Psalm 130, Romans 8:6-11, John 11:1-45

It’s like a scene out of H.G. Wells. An army long reduced to dust is reconstituted at the mere utterance of a prophet. From ashes they rise; bone fuses to bone, sinew follows atop, until the former fleshly figure is restored. At the command of a deity, winds rush through them, and again they are animate.

Our wonder redoubles: this is not science fiction, but the vision of a prophet. It is not a vision of what could be if the laws of nature could be subdued or suspended; this is a real look at what God can do, in any here and now.

What Ezekiel speaks of is not possible; it strains credulity. That belief in the word of God alone could reverse the effects of death seems a stretch to us, in a world so used to the horrors of death that news of it becomes almost banal. God raises the dead? Fine. Then where is the hand of the Divine upon communities in Haiti, in Japan, in Libya?

Did God not make promises through Ezekiel that God’s yet to make good on? Did Ezekiel not channel the Divine’s words: “‘and you shall know that I am the LORD, when I open your graves, and bring you up from your graves, O my people. I will put my spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you on your own soil; then you shall know that I, the LORD, have spoken and will act,’ says the LORD”? We wait to see it; we are impatient.

But perhaps we look forward to the wrong miracle. In Ezekiel, the vision is of the world’s graves opening at once, and of all humankind marching forth animate once more, revitalized by God. And that would be a sight, indeed. Yet the miracle foreseen is not of the many called forth; the miracle anticipated is God’s undoing of what we thought to be final, and irreversible. The unspoken awe in Ezekiel is of a God who can, out of the bleakest conditions, draw forth perfect life.

“You’ll know that I am God,” the Divine says in Ezekiel. Not when whole armies of our forbearers literally march forward into Israel, but when death, which still strikes us as the most final and irreversible of human conditions, is, despite expectations, reversed.

In John, this death is literal: Jesus raises Lazarus from the grave. Lazarus shakes of his shroud and returns to his daily activities. The ground doesn’t shake beneath the footfalls of all Israel’s deceased. Only one man is brought forth. One. Neither is he crowned in glory or given a place of prominence; he simply returns to the life he lived before.

Yet for his family, and for those who witness the miracle, this is all that is needed. Jesus reverses their despair; he fills their hearts with hope. God can repair anything; God can transform what is dire into what is grand, and instantaneously.

We want a sign; we want to know God’s greatness as Lazarus did, as Ezekiel expected to. Perhaps we yearn for the restitution of those cut bitterly down: we pray for God to take away the realities of war, and of natural disasters. Or maybe we want the gospel’s miracle: we want to keep our one, want just one interjection of God’s hand in our affairs to show us that our prayers are heard.

Who are the Lazarus’s of our world? Before our vision flit innumerable figures who seem caught up in the flow of fate, and on whose behalf we hope for interjection. Who is raised from the world’s worst ‘deaths’? Whose situations are transformed?

My own prayer this week is that Iman al-Obeidi will receive a little Lazarus treatment. Her story already defies what is standard. She’s cried out in Libya, naming and denouncing unspeakable violence visited upon her by a few who manipulated power. Her voice demands morality, and righteousness, and justice, out of an environment which otherwise seems to be, currently, an ethical vacuum.

Her story, amid the turmoil in Libya, might have been quickly hushed up, or led to her own punishment or shaming. Yet she has not been hustled away; she continues to cry out, she continues to fight against her own dehumanization, and she pushes for freedom.

Iman al-Obeidi is in a tug-of-war, caught between distressed and unforgiving social mores, and the dignity and resuscitation she knows she is inherently owed. So far, impossibly, her humanity is winning out: she has not slipped from the world’s sight into darkness, but continues to loudly and visibly appeal on her own behalf.

She has already survived the unspeakable; she persists despite continual indignities visited upon her by public officials. We can extend our empathy in human solidarity: her last days have been a nightmare, and we know that what she’s been through cuts many people off from who they used to be. Such things form gulfs that seem irreparable. Iman has, so far, resisted such ends.

She fights for life. She struggles to regain herself—the Iman she knew before, a home and family from which she is temporarily kept apart, the basic, the everyday. She is warring for the right to be. And I join so many others in praying that she wins.

It looks as though she might. And if she succeeds—if she finds her way home, if she escapes social reduction—we can see God in that. We may count it as an answered prayer. Flesh back on bones, or normalcy back to those who’s boundaries have been trespassed; our prayers ask for the actualization of seeming impossibilities.

Our readings tell us that prayers are heard; they assure us that God can do anything. But they also reveal the confounding nature of miracles, in that what is miraculous is usually unexpected. We cannot dictate how God works in the world. We can only know that God does work in it, and that when the Divine moves, the results are guaranteed to astound.

Heaven has always managed to put Wells, and the best of his colleagues, to shame. We await the next installment of the saga; our breath is baited, our eyes strain to see.

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I once was blind

2011-03-30T01:38:00.000-07:00

Readings: 1 Samuel 16:1-13, Psalm 23, Ephesians 5:8-14, John 9:1-41

We human beings have not infrequently been certain that we’ve got it all figured out. We find ourselves defining the inscrutable: categorizing things as good and bad, desirable or not, praiseworthy or contemptible. Certain qualities of each are outlined. We stick to those with remarkable alacrity—at least, until we decide to redefine them.

As common as false understandings of our reality are counter stories which contest them. In the seventies, one manifestation was Marlo Thomas’s “Free to Be You and Me” project, which sought to counter dualisms which placed man above woman, rich above poor, et cetera. Against popularly propagated fairy tales which suggested that one’s highest aspirations should be to find a prince and settle down, Thomas offered figures like Atalanta, a princess who wanted to be a scholar, a woman who wanted to be independent. The overarching message of “Free to Be You and Me” was that good is a more complex concept than we have traditionally allowed it to be.

Marlo Thomas’s project was stunning and important. It was conceptually also less than new. Where troublesome dualisms exist, counter-stories crop up to combat them. Examples of this are ancient: while some will always be content to view the world from an either/or perspective, others, perhaps even particularly among the religious, know that reality, like the God behind it, is more complex.

God is great; and yet to say that God is great imposes any number of connotations. By declaring God great, we imbue God with certain expectations, and burden God’s creation similarly. The same is true with much that we uphold as virtuous and desirable; we think we know what to expect of that which we align with grandeur. But as our chapters this week remind us: all things great defy our expectations and have the potential to surprise us in their full revelation, and this is especially true of what is God’s.

1 Samuel deals with kingship. More specifically, it deals with the throne in Judah, with the king in Jerusalem, with the anointed one, or messiah, on Israel’s throne. It recounts the story of the selection of the second king, one often thought of as Israel’s greatest: David himself. But what is interesting about 1 Samuel is that it introduces a David who predates the marvels and highs of his years as the monarch. We do not meet a man of great stature, an imposing or particularly impressive figure; he is not a prince decked out in princely attire. Rather, the David we meet is a mere shepherd. He’s so far from threatening that Saul doesn’t even enter the tale to express concern over maintaining the throne against him.

1 Samuel reduces messianic expectations to their barest form. Israel would later anticipate a great ruler of the late David variety: powerful, of great military prowess, visibly capable of protecting and upholding the nation. But in 1 Samuel God warns that such qualities are, at best, peripheral: “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him; for the LORD does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the LORD looks on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). However opulent David’s kingship became, however innumerable his kingly victories, we sense that his importance was never tied into his impressive position in the world; it was rather something central to his being, some inner inclination, some interior depth only he and God could comprehend. His “successes” as a monarch become almost secondary.

Who was the David who God selected to be anointed? Less the trickster who bested Uriah; less the weapon savvy boy who defeated Goliath. The David God loved did these things, of course; but the David God loved was first and foremost a tender of sheep, a “ruddy [boy], [who] had beautiful eyes, and was handsome” (1 Samuel 16:12). He was simple, good, and unexpected.

If 1 Samuel reminds us not to seek great world figures out in expected places, it also reminds us that those who enjoy blessings in life do not necessarily do so as a reward for implicit virtues. Assuming that happiness and comfort are deserved, and tribulations likewise, has been another misstep in religion. From biblical times through the dissemination of the “Protestant work ethic,” the myth that we reap the rewards and just desserts of our deeds in this life has been a sometimes failing within Christian life.

In John, we find the gospel writer indicting some Pharisees for such mistaken beliefs. Are the blind born blind because they are sinners, and those with sight given sight because they are good? Of course not, Jesus rebuffs. Not only God, but humanity, is more complex than that reduction.

Jesus, on the Sabbath, encounters a man who has been blind all of his life. His neighbors have further afflicted him with suspicion: his blindness is understood as a punishment, either for his own sins or because of his parents’. But Jesus says that his condition cannot be so easily understood: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him” (John 9:3). Just as we feel inclined to declare his blindness proof of either God’s inscrutability or injustice—what benevolence is implied by a God who does such a thing to an innocent man just to prove a point?—Jesus spits in the dirt, forms mud, rubs it on the man’s eyes and cures him.

Jesus calls himself the light of the world; he is certainly this man’s light (John 9:5). The man goes from being scorned as a certain sinner, to being in perfect control of his senses, and perfectly able to testify on Jesus’s behalf; he becomes, automatically, a figure of importance in his community. “Here is an astonishing thing!” he says, “Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a person born blind. If this man were not from God, he could do nothing” (John (9:31-32).

Jesus gives him new life; more than this, because of what he had suffered, the formerly blind man is able to appreciate life and its gifts in a way those around him cannot.

And what of those who could see all along? Jesus reveals that it is they, because they take their blessing for granted, who have actually always been blind. He uses certain Pharisees as an example. They cannot understand why he has healed a man on the Sabbath. They cannot understand why he appears to reject God’s rules. But Jesus says: “I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind” (John 9:39).

He says this to those who think that the injunction against Sabbath work outweighs the good of healing the afflicted; they ask, “Surely we are not blind, are we?” (John 9:40) But Jesus finds their discomfort with his act proof enough that they are: “If you were blind, you would not have sin. But now that you say, ‘we see,’ your sin remains.” You can see and be sightless; you can blind yourself to God by presuming to claim you’ve comprehended God’s ways. To have power is not proof of God’s favor; to be afflicted and yet trust in God—to maintain that ability to trust in God beyond reason—may be.

These are stories of reversals and divine surprises, and they may well serve as a reminder to us not to get complacent when it comes to understanding God and God’s ways. We should take care to avoid absolutes, to praise what is outwardly impressive as proof of God’s favor, to condemn that which seems different as necessarily bad.

If those who God anoints were found among shepherds and stone smiths, as each of this week’s messianic characters respectively were, than looking for God’s guidance from those who sit on thrones and live in high houses alone must certainly suspect. We must turn our eyes to all. We must believe that God’s beauty does not exclusively shine out from those who have had an easy life. God comes via the humble; God’s voice is on the lips of the meek. When whole communities are condemned as bad or sinful because they have not had it easy, we must understand that participating in that condemnation is not God’s work; refuting it is.

We have to also avoid discourse which equates creature comforts alone with blessings. If when we say our evening prayers, we find ourselves listing material things most among our praises or wants, there may be some convolution at work. Those who Jesus called blind in John had things; what they lacked was the ability to see beyond them to God. The greatest imaginable blessing, it seems, is standing in God’s light. To live life with ease is not proof of God’s love; to face difficulties is not proof of his rejection.

There are those among us who say that God hates some people, or another. We should read their injunctions alongside John, and see what happens when we compare them to those who are willfully blind. We should stand those called “hated” up alongside Jesus, who “breaks rules” by healing on the Sabbath: is the good of his mercy not similar to the good of their love? Aren’t love and mercy at the heart of all “rules”?

There are those who claim that natural disasters are acts of divine judgment. We should similarly read those claims against the ridicule coming from the blind man’s neighbors: was he blind because he sinned? Because his parents did? Can we not assume that greater burdens, then, are as disassociated from our deeds?

Our world is much more inscrutable than we’d like to believe. The Bible underscores this, though there are some among us who would claim that its worldview is simple, and attached to either/ors. Yet so much is still a mystery, and we risk blinding ourselves to the enigmatic divine by reducing all of it to so very little.

The greater task, and the more worthwhile one, is to dare to struggle to see: to locate God in humble places; the observe God’s grace at work where we have not always thought to look for it. Faith, in this way, is not a resting place but a constant search; we need only to adjust our eyes to the road.

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Hope does not Disappoint

2011-03-22T23:14:00.000-07:00

Readings: Exodus 17:1-7, Psalm 95, Romans 5:1-11, John 4:5-42

Texts like these, which place a high premium on faith, can be dangerous. I submit that we’re meant to read them as didactic, but not in a prescriptive way: God does not intend for us to doggedly wait at the edge of dehydration for water to be drawn forth from a rock; nor are we meant to rely on Jesus as our only source of refreshing draughts.

God “has our backs,” so to speak, but only insofar as we have enough faith in heaven to do what is requisite and bring our own health about. The stories of Moses and Jesus are successful because their miracles work: Moses offers drink to all in the exodus community; Jesus convinces a Samaritan woman that he is the Jewish messiah and the one true source of “living water.” But it seems certain that these pursuits are successful because of the trust, in God, of those who invoke them.

When Moses dies, Exodus says of him that none have arisen like him, before or after. He who God rescued from death. He who was called upon to incite plagues and free Israel from bondage. He who sat with God on Mt. Moriah and received the law. He who parted the sea. He who drew water forth from a rock.

Moses’s biography is rife with miracles. Certainly Exodus still understands that his grandeur is contingent upon the favor and interaction of God; praising him always involves praising the God behind him. Moses was no magician. He was an Israelite who listened to God, and who fulfilled God’s requests; because he listened, great things happened for all of Israel.

There is a midrash which treats the parting of the Sea of Reeds as a miracle of faith. This retelling says that Moses struck his staff upon the waters as God had commanded, but that nothing happened. As Egypt was fast on Israel’s heels, Moses struck the water again, but again to no avail. The midrash says that it was not until an ordinary Israelite, staffless and noncommissioned as a prophet, waded into the sea trusting God’s promise that the miracle was effected. This Israelite was incautious; no dipping of toes or testing of waters marked his act, but simply a push ahead, until the water covered him, until at last God relented and let the people through. The moral? Have faith without signs. Know without seeing. Do, knowing that it will matter.

Moses’s staff, which was stripped of authority in that midrash, appears in Exodus 17 lauded as the staff that split the sea; it is herein used to bring water forth from a rock. Again, this act’s efficacy relies on the faith of one Israelite, herein Moses. Logic defies any declaration that such behavior works for sating thirst. The people have no reasonable reason to trust it, except insofar as God has said that this is how they’ll find their nourishment.

All of Israel was adrift in the desert, and with nothing to drink (Exodus 17:1). Its people despaired of their situation: out of slavery into certain, anguished death in the desert!, they complained (Exodus 17:3). Moses carried their complaints to God. God promised to stand before the rock at Horeb and, upon Moses’s striking it with the staff, draw enough water forth from it to quench the thirst of all the people.

So Moses does; so it is (Exodus 17:7). Living water flows forth at the will of this invisible, present, active God. The people are “saved.”

The Gospel of John also engages the notion of thirst and spiritual quenching. The miracle in exodus was rendered in literal terms: the bodies of the Israelites needed to be sustained, and this is what the miracle accomplishes, moreso than feeding faith. John is reticent to make such commitments: his chapter speaks both of bodily thirst, as Jesus beseeches the Samaritan woman to address his at the well, and spiritual thirst, which is more metaphorical and to which, the Gospel suggests, faith in Jesus is the answer (John 4:7, 14).

The Jesus in John almost disregards bodily thirst as ultimately important, seeking instead to establish that Jesus himself is the response to all true human need: “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again,” he says of the well water, “but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life" (John 4:13-14). Jesus nearly mocks the notion that the water he’s requested of the Samaritan woman can sustain in the way his own “living water” does: he, the messiah, alone can inspire the spirit and truth amongst a worshipful crowd; he, alone, can proclaim all truth (John 4:23, 25).

Such different insights! Read in tandem, these texts could be made to inform improper understandings of one another. In Exodus, the water Moses called forth strengthens the people bodily, and enables them to continue along their journey to promised Israel. In John, the Jesus who gives water via his spirit is less concerned with sustaining the body than he is in maintaining a direct line to God. Miracles feed the body; the messiah feeds the soul. The non-miraculous figures in both chapters benefit from the faith which draws spiritual and bodily satiation forth. God provides. God is trusted to.

I think it is best to defy reading these texts as if they belong to a contiguous narrative meant to validate the person of Jesus as the Christ. Exodus teaches us that, even when we’re in dire straits, God stands before us and answers our needs. John seems to imply that God accomplishes this most in the person of Jesus, who is aware not only of the thirsts of the body, but of those of the soul. Both belong to a story about what God has bestowed upon the world. Christians locate the greatest manifestation of this in Jesus, but how unfortunate it would be to allow our fervor over him to diminish our awe over other miracles.

“Trust.” “Faith.” What simple values are drawn forth from these miracle stories, these tales of theological clarification. And yet inspiring both virtues seems to be at the heart of each of the stories, so that adding Romans to their midst produces this insight: “we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us” (Romans 5:3-5). Our greatest needs are to be embraced as opportunities for God to act in our lives.

We are not meant to stand at the edge of the Sea of Reeds, waiting; we are asked to dive in and trust that God will save. We would be misguided to stand at the well and shrug off Jesus’s assertions that he is a messiah simply because the messianic hopes have not been realized; we are asked to believe, and to share our belief. We are not meant to bemoan the needs of our bodies; we are meant to relinquish those needs to God, trusting that none are so great that Heaven cannot, or would not, respond to them.

Water does not always flow at Horeb. The messiah does not always sit at our wells, offering proofs that he is so. The spaces where we need sometimes do not seem to fill in. And yet, we wait. And we trust. And in the meantime, we do. We ackowledge that God saw fit to put water at places other than just Horeb, and we seek it out. We hope that God wrote divine truth on our hearts so that we can trust ourselves to know without hearing. We believe that no need is so great that it cannot be met. We use our faculties, ackowledging them as gifts.

We trust. We do. And God will.

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You Can't Always Get What You Want

2011-03-09T00:25:00.000-08:00

Readings: Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7, Psalm 32, Romans 5:12-19, Matthew 4:1-11

A column appeared in the New York Times this week from a professor in Oman, a country which, like many Middle Eastern nations, is experiencing citizen unrest. Yet it was unlike accounts from neighboring nations, where the resistance of despots and tyrants led to rejoicing; rather, the writer suggested that his neighbors were out of touch, and were demanding of their leadership petty conveniences which they did not legitimately require.

“We have love for our Sultan,” the writer said, “who brought us out of darkness and honored our rights.” In the streets, the citizens have nonetheless demanded capriciously more; and though their requests seemed to have arisen not out of need, and increasingly were voiced without dignity, the Sultan appeased them. The author of this article was left incensed and embarrassed. Why protest a rule that lacks injustice?

The concept of wanting more than what we have, even in periods of plenty and grace, is familiar to our readings, and to the season of Lent itself. This is a time in which we’re supposed to be especially attuned to the nature of obedience to God; we’re meant to cultivate gratitude and to fast from what is superfluous. To obey, and self-deny, all in order to move closer to the divine.

The concept of obedience lacks obvious appeal. Rules have the dual effect of rendering what they’re built around both forbidden and tantalizing. The truism that we want what we cannot have can be amply backed: we see narratives proving it in the Bible; we’re all too familiar with instances of craving what’s unavailable in our lives, and in the lives of others around us.

Disobedience is a tricky vice, because it is both seductive and stunting. The impulse toward it grows in the spaces which keep us isolated in our humanity, which prevent us from reaching our divine potential. The story of Adam’s disobedience in the garden is as much our story. It bespeaks one human constant. Desire then, as now, seems to sprout with the introduction of a “no.”

It would be too easy to valorize obedience simply by saying that rules exist “for our own good.” That has not always been the case in human history, and we certainly find the biblical rule maker frequently inscrutable. The Hebrew Bible contains 613 mitzvoth, commandments, and while some of them seem to ensure our betterment, the “why?” behind many is not self-evident. The scholar Abraham Joshua Heschel is among many who have asserted that the why is not the point; understanding follows obedience, rather than being its cause.

Our two primordial figures in Eden were placed in a garden replete with sources of sustenance—life was theirs beyond their asking, given without even reference to the worth of the recipients. Eden was unearned; it was a gift. All that was required of them was that they avoid feeding of one tree: “You may freely eat of every tree of the garden; but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die” (Genesis 2:16-17). God does not justify this rule, but simply assures that severe consequences would follow the breaking of it.

The “no” appealed to Adam and Eve as persuasively as the serpent. Their desire did not arise out of need; it was born out of curiosity. What might the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil be like? Would the taste of it thrill? What experiences could it impart? Could it make of them gods?

Curiosity was too much for them. They fell quickly from innocence to guilt. And as much as we empathize when we recall the thud, their story is also an appropriate cautionary one for our entrance into Lent. Obedience prepares and strengthens us; it’s the antidote to unnecessary shame and confusion. Obscuring God by following impulses can cause only discord and separation.

What do we want that does not correspond to need? What obscures our views? Man’s rules are not the same as God’s, and we cannot escape the reality that, by maintaining only the imperative to love, our theologies transform obedience into a murky concept.

By helping our neighbors, we obey God; by living in accordance with concern for others, and for ourselves as the recipients of Jesus’s message. Great care seems to indicate obedience. Perhaps when unjust structures are toppled, we reclaim some of our innocence; perhaps we honor it with kind words.

If our first lesson for Lent is to try to obey, our second, heralded by the gospel reading, is to resist grand temptations. Our forty day fast in preparation for Easter recalls Jesus’s temptation in the desert; we effectually stand with him by way of our own ritual self-denials. And yet our temptations are not precisely the same: no one encourages us to make bread of stones, or jump from high places expecting to remain intact, or offers us kingdoms (Matthew 4:3, 6, 9). We have to more carefully discern what is to be resisted.

Jesus resisted the temptations presented to him by recalling the surpassing grandeur of God’s promises: God’s word sustains more than magical bread; God’s love is innate, and is not to be tested; and love of God has preeminence over love of the worldly (Matthew 4:5, 7, 11). The measure by which all temptations are to be measured is obedience alone, simple obedience made easy by confidence in God’s word. We must not overstate our needs; God provides. We must not attempt to beg miracles out of the Divine; they prove nothing which is not already assured. God is great. We stand in amazement at how much we do not need.

Now is a more than appropriate time to reconsider the source of our wants and needs. Streets of gold and unremittent decadence are not Lenten preoccupations; rather, simplicity characterizes these days, a stripping away of all deemed distractionary, all which inhibits our pursuit of godly ways. When life is good, it warrants upward praise; and, in light of God’s love, so much of life is better than we’re willing to see.

Love of others is a primary obedient act. It is as important that we direct our lives in consideration of this with renewed eagerness in coming days. It’s equally important that we avoid distracting ourselves with temptations which, for all their glitter, cannot hope to equal love and its greater implications. When the Sultan is good to his people, it makes little sense to defy him; monarchical language is often applied to God in the Bible, and we have no doubt that God is good. Our lives, then, should be more properly directed by gratitude for what has been given—not only in the gift of God’s son, but in every moment filled with graces untroubled.

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Burdened and Blessed

2011-03-01T20:17:00.000-08:00

Readings: Exodus 24:12-18, Psalm 2, Psalm 99, 2 Peter 1:16-21 and Matthew 17:1-9

What does it mean to be chosen by God?

This is the last week before the return of the Lenten season. For forty days, we’ll be asked to dwell with this question in particular connection to the Trinity’s Son. Our focus shifts: from incarnation to atonement. The great gift of God’s love culminates in God’s self-sacrifice.

In our readings this week, multiple mysteries are chronicled and, to some degree, are left without solutions. God causes a column of fire to appear on Sinai, calling Moses forth; Moses enters a cloud and does not emerge for forty days (Exodus 24:18).

As with Jesus’s time in the desert, Moses’s forty days before God remain largely a mystery. We are told that, in this period, he received the law. We assume that much more than this occurred, but it remains concealed.

We know only that the strain and wonder of sitting so intimately with God for so long initiated a lasting transformation in Moses. From the time he left the cloud, and for the remainder of his life, he had to be veiled; the sight of him, of a man burdened, or blessed, with residual holiness, was deemed too much for the people of Israel.

Or maybe it was simply too difficult for Moses to bear. He was never a fan of the ostentatious; he begged that God choose someone else to fulfill his prophetic duties. Heavy of mouth, heavy of tongue, he claimed: I’m not the one you want for this. But the burden and the blessing were his. Whether he’d desired it or not, Moses’s transformation on Sinai was bestowed upon him, and it eternally set him apart.

A burden, and a blessing. If Moses had not been chosen to go before God, to endure and emerge from those forty days bearing revelatory gifts, we would not have the law. Our understanding of God’s relationship to humanity would be incomplete. Israel could not have wholly understood itself. And yet for Moses, these blessings have great costs: never again would he be in perfect company with mankind.

Those who have stood before God are changed. Those who have heard God’s voice are different. We receive their news with spiritual hunger, take it in out of a desire to know God, but if we ask ourselves the question of whether we need to stand with Divinity as the prophets have done in this life, our answers may unsettle us. Do we want to know so much that we crave, with knowledge, the irruption it brings?

Jesus redoubles the enigma of humans-before-God. Not only one chosen to stand in God’s presence, Jesus is said to himself be God enfleshed. The Gospel of John renders him as the Word which was with God, always, which had a hand in creation, which is the hope of the world. With the exception of the Transfiguration, this being man-and-God instead of man before God had the effect of normalizing Jesus’s outward humanity; but what was inward, what was divine, remained undetectable to curious human eyes.

Jesus knew God always. The strain of having to face Heaven, in a variety of situations, did not force him to begin his human life again. He was formed differently; what mere men could not endure without being visibly taxed, Jesus was formed to endure.

And because the outward sign of divine contact was something that Jesus could choose to assume, rather than something he was forced to bear: Jesus, unlike the prophets, could choose where, and how, his connection to Heaven became outwardly manifest; he could selectively determine who it was that witnessed it.

In our Gospel reading for the week: his viewership is sparse. Three alone watch as, upon a mountain, Jesus’s whole countenance transforms: all he wears turns white, and light emanates forth from him (Matthew 17:2). Even more so than the miracles, this is an outward sign of his inward divinity. It’s a moment in which they’re forced to confront, beyond doubt and equivocation, the reality that Jesus was something entirely different from who, and what, they were.

Jesus’s Transfiguration was amplified by the moments-later appearance of Moses and Elijah. He now stood before three of his disciples with the greatest prophets of earlier ages. They knew that he was different; their familiarity with what differentiation cost Moses and Elijah afforded them greater clarity regarding what may have been next for Jesus.

If he was a prophet, much would be asked of him; much would be given through him; and, most troublingly, there would be no comfortable place for him in common society.

Perhaps out of pity, or out of fear for Jesus, Peter offered to build Jesus and the other prophets dwelling places on the mountain (Matthew 17:4). Presumably, they could use such spaces either as havens for the receipt of prophecy, or as a home apart, or as both; Peter offered a form of protection for these blessed, chosen figures.

Before that offer could be confronted, more mysteries were revealed. Jesus was different; his difference was akin to that of the prophets; but he was not a prophet alone.

The witnesses to the transfiguration, having accepted that the light of Heaven was in Jesus, having seen the great prophets of old standing beside him, were now triply challenged with the emergence of a voice from the skies, one which demanded that they acquiesce to one last divine mystery: that Jesus was God’s only child (Matthew 17:5). They’re asked to stand witness to this revelation, but also to keep it secret until “after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead” (Matthew 17:9).

The greatest mysteries remained to be revealed: the man they now knew as the Child of God had yet to retreat to the desert and be tested, to ride into Jerusalem, and to face a tribunal and an execution. They had no sense of any this yet. They knew only that God was with them, and that the implications would be vast. Great blessings were on the horizon; but for the prophet and Son who had been revealed, great burdens were similarly inevitable.

We are not asked to meditate too thoroughly upon our own self-worth in connection to coming atonement. That flesh is weak and beyond perfection is a given; if we could magically make ourselves worthy of God, there would be no need of prophets, and no endless sin to atone for. Moses is given over to God, and what he delivers is a grace to us; so too is Jesus. We have much to be grateful for.

And still: it does not hurt to take time to reflect, and to stand in gracious deference to the considerable sacrifices human beings, and beings both divine and human, have made in order to offer us a glimpse of God’s love. Without them, what would we know? And to be them: how great a tribulation?

God’s ways remain a mystery. We are assured that Heaven’s love for us is great. We have only to accept the burden of proof with gratitude.

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From Libya to Lilies of the Field

2011-02-22T22:04:00.000-08:00

Readings: Isaiah 49:8-16a, Psalm 131, 1 Corinthians 4:1-5, Matthew 6:24-34

At moments, this week’s readings feel like a prayer for today.

We believe: we have the right to live in a world which acknowledges and honors the dignity of all human beings. This belief arises from the same place which feeds our faith in God. It’s woven into us, it seems; it sustains us, and translates into compelled action when we’re most in need.

It is also foundational to democracy, and expresses the dearest hopes and visions of the monotheistic traditions. In the States we’ve called that dignity a grace, and an inalienable one: our founding documents credit the creator with instilling our human drive to pursue full lives, full enjoyment of our liberties, and happiness. We accept freedom as a given, and here, we’ve frequently been fortunate enough to enjoy it.

The global events of the last month serve as a reminder that there are still those who would deny that all are endowed with dignity, or that political systems should be constructed in a way which honors them. Our attention has been repeatedly drawn to the reality that tyrants still abound. But the reactions of our brothers and sisters in the world community to their various oppressions have also renewed the idea that our drive to be free is innate.

In Tunisia, first, oppressive regimes were protested; then Egyptians awed the world by collectively and forcefully protesting their dictator out of office. Shows of support in Tehran evolved into protests on behalf of the Iranian people themselves; and now, in Libya, we see another brutish leader begin to fall. Our mutual humanity compels our celebration for those who now, because of their own persistence and principles, have new possibilities before them. In the Middle East and Africa, in places which mere weeks ago acknowledged no inborn human excellence, the citizenry have become effulgent. They humble us all.

Our readings in scripture this week exalt them, among all who have ever been shackled by arbitrary systems, alongside all who have ever preferenced defending the human spirit above everyday concerns. We celebrate what’s happening across the globe; the word of God celebrates all such movements with us.

In Isaiah, YHWH says, in some favorable time, “I have answered you [supplicating people]”(Isaiah 49:9). That answer came in the form of freed prisoners, people plucked from the darkness; the spiritually hungry were enabled to “feed along the ways all the bare heights…their pasture;” we are assured that “they shall not hunger or thirst, neither scorching wind nor sun shall strike them down, for he who has pity on them will lead them, and by springs of water will guide them” (Isaiah 49:9-10).

The pitying person has entered history in a number of forms. Jewish Messianic hopes look forward to this figure, and have seen hints of it in various great historical figures. These weeks in the East, pitying people rose up amongst the people, and soon outnumbered the tyrants by many—people have been led into freedom with themselves as guides, their own human ingenuity to thank. And we certainly know that, in the distant past and now with us always, that pitying freedom-giver was Christ himself.

We are all God’s, Isaiah tells us, and the Divine does not forget its children: “I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands” (Isaiah 49:15-16). That we are God’s and that God loves us does not always translate into history in the ways we might hope; seas are not always parted for the oppressed, nor does manna always fall from Heaven to feed the hungry. But we’re not forgotten; God desires our freedom, even when we must use what has been given to us to pursue it ourselves. And God looks forward to these days of great success, and rejoices in them: “Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth; break forth, O mountains, into singing!” (Isaiah 49:13)

We’re learning from our brethren, and also from the scriptures. What has happened in Egypt, in Tunisia, in Iran and in Libya could not have occurred without human initiative. None of the movements has been entirely without its troubles, and some have been lost along the way; we can mourn that while simultaneously standing in deference before the strikingly simple beauty of vast groups of people asserting their rights to be recognized and respected.

The media have made us privy to various awesome sites from these protests and movements, which at the same time seem to remain unplagued by the unnecessary: like lilies of the field, like birds of the air, these groups of people have shelved concerns about creature comforts and appurtenances in favor of dealing with what’s immediate (Matthew 6:28, 26).

The gospel reading assures us that no being can serve two masters, a truth any person who strives to be free knows fully (Matthew 6:24). The regimes which are falling across the globe might have remained, if citizens beneath them had valued maintaining the unhappy status quo above human dignity; they continue to fall because people are serving, instead, freedom. They fall because the human impulse is toward grace and not false servitude.

The inclination toward grace, which is embraced as we struggle for freedom, seems to be spreading rapidly without abating. It’s skipping from nation to nation, and it’s something to behold. Our readings anticipate such flourishings as a consequence of God’s great love, and celebrate them at length; they choose such godliness above the “wealth” of temporal holdings.

We’re prevented, by space and other factors, from joining directly in the protests, but we can continue to awe, with the scripture as our cantor or the leader of our prayers, and to offer what support we can.

We can offer to our distant brothers and sisters the small gift of our remembrance, and the benefit of our prayers. We can, from the humble position of our different situations, say with the Psalmist: “O Lord, my eyes are not raised too high…I do not [pre]occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me…But I have calmed and quieted my soul” (Psalm 131:1). What the protestors are accomplishing is its own gift; it reminds us that God did, indeed, make a great world, one which, though frequently muddled by misfortune, nonetheless has the potential to be the dwelling place of greatness.

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"Si, se puede!" (It can be done) -Cesar Chavez

2011-02-15T20:36:00.000-08:00

Readings: Leviticus 19:1-2, 9-18, Psalm 119:33-40, 1 Corinthians 3:10-11, 16-23, Matthew 5:38-48

I sometimes find myself confused by the popular political rhetoric, which seems to suffer from a lack of self-awareness. We’re probably all familiar with the claims we Americans like to make about ourselves and our nation, among them the popular declaration that we’re a centrally Judeo-Christian nation. Unfortunately, this designation is pointed to with the most fervor not when we’re promoting issues of justice, but when we’re striving to make our image more exclusive.

We’re made to live in fear of prayer being taken out of school, told that it’s foundational despite its relatively new introduction into public education realms. We’re asked to consider what life would look like if we took God’s name off of our currency, removed a line from the pledge, or extracted Decalogue effigies from our courthouses. When people protest such exclusive iconography, daring to suggest that it flies in the face of truly democratic ideals, they’re subject to scorn, or even denounced as harbingers of the apocalypse.

People truly want to believe we’re a Christian country. But why does it seem that people only want to make this claim in order to draw lines in the sand: to limit marriage, to prevent mosques from being built, to force the recitation of a name that all people do not know? Do we truly believe such behavior pleases God, or is a benefit to heaven? And why is it that the desire to see the stars and stripes as a Christian banner seems to fade when the issue at hand is not a stamp on a bill, but the well-being of our neighbors?

We cannot claim to be Judeo-Christian if we’re willing to eschew the values which really are in scripture. One which appears in both of testaments today is that of care for our neighbors, clearly seen among foreigners. Across both traditions, the holy books demand that we care for the foreigners in our midst: Leviticus 19 counts among God’s mitzvoth the imperative to feed our guests, declaring “you shall not strip your vineyard bare, or gather the fallen grapes of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the alien” in the name of God (Leviticus 19:10).

The word “alien” is a very specific one within Hebrew; there can be no doubt that this evokes concern for those foreign to Israel, visitors from abroad. The chapter goes on to demand that God’s people not profit from the blood of their neighbors, and, critically, that they love them as equal to themselves (Leviticus 19:16, 18).

The Israelites knew what it was like to live as foreigners in a strange nation. Perhaps in these moral precepts we can hear echoes of the pains they suffered under unwelcoming communities: inability to properly celebrate their religious traditions; relegation to the most obscured factions of society; the mark of “other”, somehow emblazoned upon them abroad, so that they’re never really integrated, never really given a seat at their neighbor’s tables. It’s easy to understand why, after the Exodus, they’d find these Levitican laws particularly poignant: having suffered as immigrants, how could they ever justify causing an immigrant to suffer?

Our gospel reading shares this awareness. The word of Jesus, as given in Matthew, also is compelled by the notion that selfless love is supreme. We give it without demanding equal measure; we love others to acknowledge their equal dignity. And so if someone asks of us our coat, we are to give them coat and cloak; if someone begs from us, we are not to refuse (Matthew 5:40, 5:42). We’re to give as is requested of us, and then go beyond.

These verses address only what is asked of us; they do not address the unasked of, or basic justices. But they certainly expect us to anticipate those needs and address them with the same fervor. Love is to become second nature.

This extends to expanding our notion of “neighbor,” stretching our notions of the word to include not only those with whom we’re familiar, but all, and everywhere: “And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same?” (Matthew 5:47) A Christian family does not exclude; all belong to it, including those who we don’t initially think to welcome. In fact, we’re perhaps to be particularly attentive to their inclusion; leaving some at the margins because of limited imaginations is not acceptable.

These are, as is said, truly “Judeo-Christian” principles. We are to feed the foreigner; letting a foreigner go hungry defies God’s law. We’re to love them. We’re to make sure our societies are not constructed in a way which leads to profiting from their misfortune. We’re to see that their basic needs are met. We are, in the end, to see "aliens" as neighbors, refusing to give the term “alien” power; we are to make them family.

And so I wonder how sincere the pundits are when they insist that we remain true to our Judeo-Christian principles, while in the same breath insisting we further alienate already marginalized people. If “Judeo-Christian” defines our value system: we could not continue with the immigration policies which are becoming pervasive, and steadily worse.

I beg attention to the scriptures, read in a world that purports to take them seriously. This week in Arizona, a public official proposed modifying the legal system to make immigration status checks requisite at hospitals. The implications of this are obvious. A mother should not be made to choose between rushing her ill child to the emergency room and facing deportation, or gambling with her child’s health; a person should not be made, moreover, to make that choice even if “only” they are at stake. A law like this would necessarily have blood on its hands, but seems to be moving forward because the blood at stake is “only” that of the Other, the foreigner, the “criminal.” From a truly Judeo-Christian perspective, this is unintelligible.

So are all other modifications of law which seek to alienate: compulsory identification checks which arbitrarily only affect those who “look” foreign; promotion of linguistic exclusion backed by the state; erasure of figures who promote immigrant rights from our histories; erasure of faces that look Other from our personal perspective.

We profit from the blood of our neighbors when we stifle attempts to make immigrant worker rights more just, or amnesty more difficult to attain. We refuse to love when we preference, above compassion, the argument that “they should just come here legally,” ignoring how difficult a demand that is, and how infrequently a timely option.

If we want to value legality over love of our neighbors, we have that option. But we simultaneously have to realize that choosing to do so is at odds with the scriptures. It is not a Judeo-Christian choice. If we want to claim to be a nation that loves God: we need to evaluate the choices we make in the name of “preserving” our nation more critically.

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Fire and Water

2011-02-07T08:31:00.000-08:00

Readings: Deuteronomy 30:15-20, Sirach 15:15-20, Psalm 119:1-8, 1 Corinthians 3:1-9, Matthew 5:21-37

When running for president, Jimmy Carter once confessed that, while he’d never bodily cheated on his wife, he was guilty of lusting in his heart. This came to light in an interview he did with Playboy, and opened him up to a steady string of quips and jokes that has never quite abated: in connection to the magazine, or perhaps just in general, people found this declaration to be quaint, even puritan. But Carter wasn’t going far off the books in drawing this distinction; in fact, he drew the notion of lust as adultery directly from scripture.

Carter knew then, and has amply proven since, that despite the grandeur of his career he’s only ever been just human. He thought himself qualified for the highest office in the nation; but he also considered himself a Christian, and drew from that association a need for deep humility, and a recognition that trying hard doesn’t always result in moral perfection. We learn from our readings today that, as Carter reminded us, it’s not enough to have avoided the deed; we have to expunge the desire from our consciousness.

We’re driven by seemingly different theological realities: we’re given gospel imperatives to clothe ourselves in humility and strive for moral perfection; simultaneously, the example of Jesus as the only living being who has ever achieved perfection, and who derived it from his divine nature and hardly from his humanity, assures us that we’re destined not to get there in our lifetime. Atonement became necessary because humanity could not; God did for us what we proved incapable of doing ourselves.

So, what are these verses and their repeated dualities? Are they invitations to throw up our hands in despair over our inherent depravity and give up trying? Are they an excuse for checking out of moral discussions and doing what we will, because Jesus has done the hard work for us anyway? Some have interpreted them so; there are Christian traditions which have believed that Jesus’ erasure of sin was so total that nothing we do, even decidedly negative things, can have the slightest impact: salvation is assured despite us.

But we’ve always wanted, in general, to believe something more complex—that the gift of atonement is not despite us, but wholly for us: a gift of grace so thorough that attempting to deserve it threatens the fragility of its beauty, and risks obscuring God’s great love. Whether we deserve what God gives is a moot question—we know we cannot; whether we can bring ourselves to live in grateful light of it is the more rewarding, and complex, task.

So we’re showered with dualities this week, as a reminder. Deuteronomy gives us the classic, life and death: “If you obey…by loving the LORD your God and walking in [God’s] ways,…then you shall live and become numerous; but if your heart turns away…you shall perish,” we’re told, in the shadow of Sinai, with the glorious history of the exodus looming (Deuteronomy 30:16, 18). We know that this dual image is more than what it starkly denotes: at Sinai and beyond, human beings have proved themselves never entirely collectively capable of either always obeying, or even always loving, God. We’re human creatures; we cannot generate perfection; even when we try our hardest, we don’t make it entirely there.

Deuteronomy knows that moral perfection isn’t a summit that humans can reach, and mark; it locates success in the climb. At every turn, Deuteronomy says, life and death, blessings and curses are before us; are job at every moment is to choose life, and choose life, and choose it again. And the Torah knows that we will sometimes falter, but does not suggest that a stumble is eternal; there still remains the task of the next turn, to choose again.

Sirach fleshes out these complexities by offering that God, though in divine wisdom knowing that we’ll sometimes falter, gives no one permission to sin; the choice between “fire and water” is available, but we’re expected to choose water, to choose that which feeds a life in God (Sirach 15:20, 16). When we manage to choose it, we briefly transcend the fleshly existence Paul talks of—water represents the realm of God, obscurity and moral thirst is the realm of humans (1 Corinthians 3:3). And Matthew explores how complex the choice is: not always black and white, the nuances of our choices are innumerable and sometimes difficult to discern, so that adultery is not, as Carter intimated, simply one kind of thing, but is even implicit in the movement towards a kind of thing; so that swearing falsely doesn’t happen simply when the words leave your mouth, but begins when it occurs to a person simply to swear by anything (Matthew 5:27,28, 34).

Simultaneous to the introduction of any choice are the twin births of choosing righteously, and choosing brokenly; we can choose brokenly, the option is always there. Part of our job as Christians is to discern the correct option, and embrace it; but faith alone is not a guarantee that we’ll be able to do this inerrantly. The Bible serves as a guide, but believing that we’re always perfectly familiar with its guidance reflects arrogance bound to trip us up.

It is sometimes painful to admit that our politicians have the ability to, on occasion, utter truths. It seems to contradict what we’ve come to expect of their jobs; it defies the cynicism we’ve come to find implicit in political discussions. But all of us, in all positions, remain only human; presidents, like us all, have choices before them, between fire and water, between stoking poor inclinations and putting them out. Carter repeated an important truth in the Christian story in his infamous interview, and it’s one that has deserved its repetition; not because it exposed him as a curiosity or an anomaly, but because it exposed him as a Christian, as a person trying. It’s not our place to judge how successful he’s been at those pursuits; we have only to remember that the intricate obedience he alluded to is something we, too, should pursue.

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Light of the World

2011-02-01T18:32:00.000-08:00

Readings: Isaiah 58:1-9a , Psalm 112:1-9,1 Corinthians 2:1-12, Matthew 5:13-20

A priest is excommunicated for marrying and abandoning his chastity vows, while a pocket history emerges of a priest whose sins were covered.

A group with “Church” prominently in their name responds to a shooting which the nation called tragic by protesting at a young victim’s funeral, using scripture to assert that the act was divine retribution for any number of unconnected “errors”.

Discontented bishops from alternate denominations reunite, finding common ground in their want to preserve “tradition” by excluding some from Christian community.

Someone from one religion stones another because of a perceived abomination; someone from a religion beats another within their religion for an assumed breech with faith.

We hear such stories exhaustingly often. We hear the people who make such decisions defending them by quoting the Bible, or other holy texts; we hear them say they aren’t at fault, they’re just protecting the law, just upholding God’s word. And at times, because of them, the idea of Christianity as a just religion becomes difficult to prove.

But our readings this week remind us that such readings of the scriptures are neither natural nor pious. Whether you consider the Bible the unfiltered word of God or an account of God’s interactions with the world, there’s a disconnect when someone attempts to utilize the divine story to quash and humiliate others, or to, with great aplomb and self-righteousness, put people in their place. It’s upsetting to note how infrequently we hear references in the public discourse to God’s word which are comforting or which encourage love; instead, it’s “God hates--!” or “God is coming to judge you!” or “God’s word condemns the following people.” Why don’t we report verses like those in this week’s readings to one another? When did we stop wanting to proclaim the good news?

In Matthew, Jesus enjoins us not to let our verve, or the “saltiness of our salt,” fade away; rather, we’re to be a burning light for all the world, are to evidence God’s love: “let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven” (Matthew 5:16). We are to be good, we are to be righteous, we are never to discourage observing the “letter of the law”—but we know that the heart of the law, in Jesus’ understanding, is pure, agenda-free love for one another.

When we observe people behaving cruelly to others in the name of God’s love, it probably strikes us as false; it certainly isn’t coherent in light of Jesus’ message. What light, what burning truth, is detectable in “hate the sin, love the sinner” equivocations? Jesus doesn’t ask us to be a “sort of” light, and in fact tells us not to dim the light of love with obstructions—Matthew 5:15--; he demands that we love boldly, that we shine in plain view. Doing that requires shelving what we presume to know about other people’s relationships with God; it requires allowing spiritual privacy.

Our Isaiah passage perhaps articulates this best. In it, the prophet responds to the inquiries of those who ostentatiously yield to the law and wonder why they aren’t reaping rewards for those “good” deeds: “Look, you serve your own interest on your fast day, and oppress all your workers.

Look, you fast only to quarrel and to fight and to strike with a wicked fist. Such fasting as you do today will not make your voice heard on high” (Isaiah 58:3-4). Obedience for show is empty; shouting about righteousness without confronting actual injustices leaves one at a spiritual impasse. Do we allow our neighbors to starve, beg and scrape while we campaign, instead, to outlaw “behavior” we don’t like, or “choices” we don’t understand? If we do: how can we claim to be doing God’s work?

Isaiah, knowing that empty obedience is not faithful, but a vice, clarifies what the law actually requires. Fast days don’t exist so that we can individually prove how tough we are, or so that we can brag about how much we “give up” to God; fasting, Isaiah says, isn’t about the fasting individual at all. We forget our insular needs and are to concentrate on a whole people: “Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?” (Isaiah 58:6-7)

It would be so wonderful if we could enact this, particularly in light of approaching Lent, during which Christian communities actively encourage fasting with increased volume. More powerful than denying ourselves meat or other amenities would be making sure that someone who needs food has it; more powerful than hours prostrate in prayer would be participation in movements which seek justice for the marginalized. There’s certainly profundity in giving ourselves over, lovingly, to God, and in self-denying to do so; but beyond the personal and the private is a dimension wherein we could do the same God-focused work to the benefit of others. That’s the space the scriptures encourage us to occupy.

To an extent, the clamoring crowds of those who do hurtful things in God’s name are right: our world is rife with spiritual dangers. But it seems that we’re most at peril when we preemptively determine that those dangers lie strictly on the shoulders of others, that because we are “saved” we know better than to do ill. The opposite seems true: believing that because we love God we don’t err against God blinds us to the realities of God’s people still in need. We need to examine issues we can affect with heightened concentration: if our neighbor’s can’t afford medical services, what does their suffering cost God? If our neighbors are reviled and belittled for loving people we would not choose, how does that limit the notion of heavenly love? What do tyrants abroad do to God’s communities; what does prejudice here cost them?

There are no easy answers, and we have to be wary of people who attempt to give them. The constant struggle to do what is right, to seek and mirror God’s light, is the hardest requirement incumbent upon Christians. It necessitates “fasting” from our personal inclinations and placing love above judgment, so that we can truly respond to the needs of others and be “like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail,” whose “light shall break forth like the dawn” (Isaiah 58:11, 8). We have to simultaneously reject the claims of those who call themselves God’s own but encourage petty cruelties and constantly refine our own sensibilities; we have to argue for justice and be justice, too. No small task; certainly no containable one.

What the scriptures knew of true light is this: contained and limited, it burns out quickly; tended and fed, it grows and illuminates, and eventually attracts the attention it warrants.
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"Long is the way, and hard..."

2011-01-26T00:13:00.000-08:00

Readings: Micah 6;1-8; Psalm 15; 1 Corinthians 1:18-31; Matthew 5:1-12

We’re caught in a funny period in the Christian year, somewhere between the elation of Christmas and the epiphany, and the wonder that comes with Lent and preparation for God’s Easter sacrifice. Our readings this week culminate in the Beatitudes, which anticipate the coming kingdom of God for the blessed, whose ranks are detailed. In fact, all of our readings seem very concerned with detailing who is properly God’s: who receives God’s love, those for whom the promises of heaven are made. The Beatitudes leave much room for inclusion, though the way is hard. They anticipate God’s love for those who exemplify the virtues Jesus enumerates. They exist in sometimes confusing contrast to our other readings, which sometimes seem less concerned with troubling the question of those who belong to God than they are involved in closing ranks and determining who does not.

For me, these texts offer an important reminder. Though Jesus came into history and offered all a view of Heaven, and of eternal salvation in God, what we know to be true in faith is still tempered by what remains enigmatic. Jesus offers us, through the Gospels, a number of irrefutable, absolute truths; but he also remains partially a mystery. The whole truth, the whole picture, we’re made to believe, won’t be revealed until time comes to an end. I believe we’re less meant to relish that end than we are to revel in the mystery, implementing the virtues the scriptures encourage for their own sake, and not because they’re going to bring about the kingdom.

Do the readings bear this out? Absolute conclusions seem elusive. We could as easily read them as a unit, and see all the exclusions in the earliest readings as disclaimers: blessed are some, and we know who is not among that ‘some’. But it strikes me as equally valid to consider the possibility that the places where the texts seem at odds represent actual discord between them, and that rather than being a scriptural inconsistency, this reflects the eternal mystery of divine love.

Micah speaks of a controversy between God and God’s people, and means the people of Israel. It reminds us of the works of God which underlie the covenant: “I brought you out from the land of Egypt,” God recalls, “and redeemed you from the house of slavery; I set before you Moses, Aaron and Miriam” (Micah 6:4). The texts proceed to say that these grandiose gifts—of freedom, of love that moves kingdoms, of prophets—can never be justified by equal deeds, of which humans are incapable. Rather, we’re enjoined to respond to them humbly, recognizing that they’re a grace: “what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with…God?” (Micah 6:8) Faith, in Micah, seems best displayed by accepting grace quietly, rather than through ritual gestures, which hardly seem to make awe requisite.

The following verses seem to set a trap: Psalms both continues the theme that the humble belong to God and sets up a paradigm wherein some are outright excluded from God’s presence; and Corinthians seems to make near enemies of those who have failed to make humility the rule, and in fact attempts to name them in groups. These are curious lead ups to the Beatitudes. But we could also read the exclusion in Psalms as a choice, in that none seem permanently barred from “dwelling on [God’s] holy hill” or “abiding in [God’s] tent”’; entrance to both is granted when people speak truth, revile cruelty, and protect the innocent. Dwelling forever with God requires intentionality, and that can be developed, it seems, by any who hear and comprehend the Scriptures.

And of Corinthians, we might remember that Paul himself sometimes displayed an unfortunate habit for trying to unravel the mystery prematurely: for anticipating the kingdom as imminent, for stockpiling only enough counsel to last until then. He thinks “God’s people,” and imagines a new, primarily Gentile nation, a new gathering of people who freshly understand God’s word, but he forgets situation, location and the possibility that truths remain which are yet to be revealed. Paul condemns where he came from, and locates that place among “Jews seeking signs and Greeks seeking wisdom,” but we’d be mistaken to believe that those exclusions are absolute. Perhaps there are aspects of the divine which Paul felt his former communities were incapable of comprehending; and yet we know that the path highlighted in Micah is the same we’re encouraged to follow again through the Beatitudes.

Paul requires elaboration. Corinthians declares that “Christ crucified [is] a stumbling block,” but in actuality the stumbling block seems to be in assuming that this part of the story is the whole story, or even that this one part has been wholly understood. Christ is not a rigid figure, and does not meditate upon themes of exclusion; that doesn’t seem to be what we’re meant to take from this week’s gospel, or from Paul’s epistle. The truth is that, if God chose “what is foolish in the world to shame the wise… chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong,” we have to locate our faith in the grey areas. Spending time delineating who belongs to the kingdom, and who does not, becomes futile; Christ’s love is never in question, but how we approach it may be; and all we can know is that receiving the grace of salvation is entirely personal, and entirely dependent upon our own humility.

If we attempt to dole out numbers for the kingdom, we assume the position of the wise; if we offer absolute declarations regarding who is God’s and who is not, we presume a certain “strength”. We should take from Paul that both decisions require leaving God’s path. Those who think themselves wise remain to be humbled; those who think themselves mighty await undoing by the meek. Arrogance makes little room for grace, and there’s not much spiritual about what is considered static.

It seems to me that the lesson of these early readings is that approaching the kingdom of God is much less about ascending over other humans than it is about humbling ourselves to take it on. Movement toward God seems, here, not to be an upward climb as much as a steady kneel.

We reach the Beatitudes; they shine a light on the way. Jesus numbers the apparently lowly, those whose lives are a kneel and not a climb: the meek, the poor in spirit, the mourning, the hungering, the persecuted, the pure, the peacemakers. They seek no fame and they resist our naming them; naming them is not our job; it seems certain that the work of any Christian is not to point them out, but to find one’s place among them. To be God’s, to be filled with God’s love and mercy, we need to accept these worldly-small but incredibly complicated, even taxing, positions. We learn that to be “little” is to be blessed; to lead “quiet” lives of faith and humility is to be chosen. These are apparent reversals; they’re both mysterious and enticing.

The simple truth of our readings for the week is that they aren’t meant to leave us feeling comfortable and assured; they’re designed to unsettle. We’re approaching Lent swiftly, a time of preparation in which we’ll remember Jesus’s own humble preparations for his ultimate sacrifice. It’s a period of denial, of asceticism, of an emptying of Self into God. The correlating work which we have to do is entirely about humility, about the situations praised in the Beatitudes. The great gift of Lent paves the way for the heavenly kingdom; the mystery of it looms, burns brightly and defies explication. What we know from the teachings of Jesus, what we gain from this week’s readings, is that growing great in Jesus is no key; the key lies in knowing to be grateful for all which we still don’t know, and in the beauty of the perfect humility of accepting grace.

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called Immanuel...

2010-12-14T13:04:00.000-08:00

Readings: Isaiah 7:10-16; Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-25

No story begins so humbly as that of God’s incarnation.

An engaged girl of probably meager origins and of marriageable age, which two thousand years ago probably meant an early teen, conceives a child, but not with her fiancée. There’s potential for scandal. Her fiancée, not wanting to humiliate her but needing to be “honorable” within his social context, plans to quietly disassociate himself from her. The girl risks disgrace. But into the story is introduced a figure in a dream who assures the girl’s fiancée that he hasn’t been betrayed, that, in fact, his fiancée carries a child of the Holy Spirit, and that she accordingly fulfills an old prophecy—that a young girl would conceive and bear a son, and call him “Emanuel” (Isaiah 7:14, Matthew 1:23).

With the exception of the dream: the story doesn’t sound like a likely setting for the entrance of a person meant to be the hope for all of humanity.

Perhaps our readings this week revolve around precisely that: divine defiance of expectations. Our passage from Isaiah, long interpreted as a prediction of the arrival of Jesus, mentions the child called Immanuel as a coming sign of God: “Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign. Look, the young woman is with child and shall bear a son, and shall name him Immanuel” (Isaiah 7:14).

This sign lacks the grandeur of other signs, those found in eschatological predictions and elsewhere, those which carry with them hints of the miraculous as evidence of holiness. There appears nothing grand or awe-inspiring about a pregnant young woman. But Isaiah also says that this child, who will dine on curds and honey, would grow to “refuse evil and choose good,” even in a period of great political distress (Isaiah 7:15). “Immanuel” would be a person who, with apparently superhuman consistency, would always choose the hard and righteous path.

Ahaz, in Isaiah, didn’t wish to trouble God for even this small sign: he was enjoined to ask of God a great sign, but declares “I will not ask, and I will not put the LORD to the test” (Isaiah 7:12). Isaiah, apparently sympathizing with Ahaz, declares that Israel shouldn’t weary God with demands for evidence of God’s interest; the only sign to be offered is that of the child borne of a child who will grow to be principled beyond expectation. No grandeur; no fireworks; no miracle, really, unless we’re to cynically declare that principled people are so rare as to become equal to miracles.

Our Psalm reading entreats God for grand signs, of precisely the sort which Ahaz avoided asking for. “Let your face shine, so that we may be saved,” it repeatedly asks, and reminds God that, without the visible presence of God, the people have been wont to drink their tears, and consume their sorrows (Psalm 80:19, 7, 5). The promise of a virtuous child borne of a young girl doesn’t seem a measured response either to these complaints, or to the requests they give way to. Yet Isaiah, though familiar with Israel’s tribulations, predicts that the child will be the sign. The whole sign.

Romans imbues Isaiah’s prophecy with certain characteristics which it doesn’t seem to obviously hold, among them the notion that the child will be descended from the line of David, and that he’ll be a powerful figure. We find Paul conflating noble Immanuel with messianic notions which don’t seem inherent to the Isaiah prophecy. We find him turning the child into a majestic figure, the virtuous boy into a prince among men.

How do we want to look at Jesus? We hold that he is our salvation; we catalogue and cherish his many great deeds and lessons as evidence of his greatness. We believe that he is the son of God. And yet we do all of this remembering his humble origins. We view him without needing to place a crown upon his head; he requires no such validation. We remember him without desiring that he should have overturned whole kingdoms; he was great without such temporal victories.

Instead our focus is upon his birth. We turn our eyes to his mother Mary, the otherwise ordinary young girl who we now treat with reverence and longing, because God chose her as God’s own mother. Though a child, she accepted the decree of an angel and became pregnant with a gift of the Holy Spirit, risking almost certain social irruption to do God’s bidding. Loving God, she risked her entire reputation and position. She gave birth to a child of mysterious origins, one who would become the sign of God predicted in Isaiah, one who would eventually offer hope, and salvation, to all of humanity.

Those who still had their eyes to the sky awaiting magnificent signs might have missed the one sign that superseded all others, the sign who was Jesus; looking for conventional grandeur, of the impressive sort which catches the attention of all, they might not have noticed the boy born of a virgin, raised to eschew all evil and exemplify all good, who grew into a person worthy of being called God’s son.

Our readings remind us that humble origins don’t guarantee a humble existence. God showed God’s face to humanity through the person of Jesus—through one guy in one historical place, whose mother seemed an ordinary enough woman of faith, who was raised by a stone smith while his actual paternity remained “unknown.” God chose him as the entry point into our world; he chose a young girl to give him life, and humble disciples to eventually give his teachings life beyond his own death. God armed him with a simple message: that love of our neighbors is at the heart of the law. God made that the compass by which good could be discerned from evil (Isaiah 7:16).

Perhaps we focus upon Mary and the manger in this season to remind ourselves to look for God in unexpected places. Not in palaces or wearing silken roves; not paving our lands with roads of gold and infusing our lives with wealth and comfort. God instead entered our world through a child, and made gifts through him of wisdom and grace. The awesomeness of this was not of an ostentatious sort. The awesomeness of this was that it happened through people who we might think of as “just anyone,” in a time that was essentially “just anytime.” The sign was that God came to us on God’s terms; the suggestion is that it could happen again, anywhere and through almost anyone. God might arrive through any of us. We can look for God everywhere, and find the divine easiest to detect when we stop expecting divinity to come within certain parameters. God knows no limitations and bends to no social conventions.

God is beyond us, but is also in an ordinary young Jerusalem girl, and is in the ear of her concerned fiancée. God’s signs are great, but greatness includes the wonder of an apparently ‘ordinary’ child growing to be compassionate and a healer, a moralizer and a savior. God’s domain remains mysterious and eventual, but it is also always here and everywhere, and God can choose to become apparent through it anytime.

Our readings this week remind us that even the spaces where we forget to look for God are God’s spaces, and that even those people who we forget to think of as God’s are God’s people. God’s own willingness to be humble, shown by God’s becoming like us and loving us always, is the true “miracle” of the Gospels, is the revelation of divinity in an unexpected place. Through the girl Mary we begin to glimpse eternity. Into a stable enters our whole hope.

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Sparks in the Darkness

2010-12-07T22:25:00.000-08:00

Readings: Isaiah 35:1-10; Psalm 146:5-10; Luke 1:46b-55; James 5:7-10; Matthew:2-11

Our readings this week are filled with images which we’re made to find wondrous, occurrences and people who we’re encouraged to think of as extraordinary. In the deserts of Canaan: flowers spring into bloom. In seats of high power: the mighty are brought low. Jesus praises John the Baptist as the best to ever walk among humans, and yet: we’re told he’s nothing like those in Heaven. Desperate situations are reversed, and grandeur even beyond imagination is spoken of as real.

Much of what is detailed exists outside of current time. These things are written of with utter confidence and faith, but also are spoken of as coming, are in gestation and as yet unseen; nothing has come into fruition yet. We’re meant to be inspired. We're asked to believe in the awesome power of God, who alone can bring about such things, and also to know that behind the even the most obvious-seeming situations, there’s potential for great transformation.

Our readings, coming to us during Advent, are likely meant to spark multiple responses. They're evocative, and in layered ways.
On one level, there's the example of Jesus himself. The mild irony of Jesus speaking, in the Gospel, of John the Baptist as the greatest man ever born of a woman is, of course, that we are aware that the distinction more clearly belongs to Jesus (Matthew 11:11). Perhaps Jesus gives the honor to John because John is still merely born of humans, whereas Jesus’ own background is both human and divine; and yet the Incarnation still depends upon Jesus being born among human beings, and of a human mother. God is drawn out of humanity. All of our future hope is concentrated upon one moment, upon the subject of a humble birth in a nondescript place in the desert. The miracle, the wonder of that, cannot be underestimated. It’s greater still than phenomena like burning sands becoming pools, or dumb tongues bursting into joyous song (Isaiah 35:7, 6).

But more personally, readings like these prompt us to demand great things of ourselves. Along with the standard examples of reversals of vices and virtues and their standard costs and rewards—the proud scattered; the humble fed; the despairing sated—illustrations such as lame creatures suddenly leaping, and holy pathways being laid out leading to God on which no unfit feet will travel, lead us to wonder about the untapped resources within ourselves.

We are enjoined to be patient and to strengthen our hearts for the coming of the Lord (James 5:8). We are told that happiness comes to those who place their hope in God (Psalm 146:5). We are made to rejoice in the salvation offered through Heaven (Luke 1:47). Via all of this, we become like the desert crocuses of future Zion, which, Isaiah tells us, will bloom in abundance, and (an odd image) rejoice in joy and singing (Isaiah 35:2).

The attribution of such very human (non-floral) characteristics to inanimate living things suggests to us a hidden layer to the images: humanity behind them; the potential for miraculous human transformation. Behind the mundane is grandeur. Behind the façade of limited human capacities is the reality that our potential is limitless. Behind our everyday responsibilities is the enormous and divine task with which we are charged: to become as magnificent as sating streams in the desert, as gardens bursting into bloom on the arid sand. We’re meant to bring beauty into being, even where it seems unlikely to take root.

The Advent season usually comes across to most of us as an excellent opportunity to be on our best behavior. We shelve some of our vices or lazier inclinations, become extra-generous; we increase our donations to churches, or perhaps buy gifts for strangers.We're less reticent to make donations when they're asked of us. We resume correspondence with those who we otherwise rarely talk to, sending kind words and overdue hellos. We try a little harder.

These seem to us measured responses to the miracle of Christmas, somewhat adequate ways to express our gratitude for what God did for us through Christ. And acts of kindness are, indeed, great things. But prompted like this, having become so rooted in our annual routines, they fail to parallel the fantastic images we find in our readings. God loves our little kindnesses--they cannot be validly decried; but he also equips us for so much more.

As we delve further into Advent, and draw closer to commemorating that desert birth eons ago, we should explore the ways in which we might, ourselves, seek greater majesty beyond our regular deeds. We can adopt good behaviors which are temporarily outside of our ordinary processes; but what can we do that more nearly approaches miraculous? What can we seek in ourselves that doesn’t seem readily available or likely? What unimagined resources can we try to tap into, and what magical fruitions can be drawn forth? And how can we do this continuously, beyond the Christmas season?

We should always be mindful both of our unimagined and fantastic potential, and of the necessity of maintaining mindfulness always. A desert spring which bursts forth for a moment and then recedes wouldn’t be a miracle that makes the pages of prophecy; it would be a mere anomaly, a tease (Isaiah 35:2). Our deeds should be better than that. A John the Baptist who retreated from his wilderness ministries to a royal palace to don soft robes would not have found his name at home on the lips of Jesus; there’s no comfortable rest to reward us now for being 'good' on some days (Matthew 11:8). The Holy Way Isaiah speaks of is no occasional road (Isaiah 35:8). We aren’t promised easy; we aren’t told to awe over sometimes-behaviors.

Our readings this week ask us to look beyond. They also assure us that, if we do, we’ll encounter things unimagined, things which take our breath away—things that even wait to be discovered in ourselves.

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Unlike Any Other

2010-11-29T20:42:00.000-08:00

Readings: Isaiah 11:1-10; Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19; Romans 15:4-13; Matthew 3:1-12

The great British novelist Salman Rushdie once claimed that the retired gods of the pantheon, or other foregone gods of polytheisms, remain more appealing than any divine being hailed by a monotheism. As a reason, he said that the many-gods reflected relative humanity: sometimes they displayed questionable proclivities, or tendencies to falter; they seemed to be absolutely, consistently fallible. But singular gods, he said, including presumably the Christian God, “moralize”; a one god is not “fun,” exactly, or, in Rushdie’s understanding, relatable.

Yet we might instead say that our God has lasted (where others could not) precisely because of God’s transcendence. The many-gods of old might have been more “relatable”, but being human-like also means being subject to life within a span. They were also like us in that they could not last; there’s no god among the Greek pantheon, for example, who could claim our love in the way that God does. Our early Advent readings this week remind us of why.

We’ve never wanted our God to be “like” us: subject to faltering and mistakes, prone to anger or pettiness. The God we love is a figure we aspire to be like, maybe. Our God is one who warrants our love precisely because all of our faults wash away in the figure of God: human imperfections don’t exist in heaven. What is able to remain is divinity, a creator who loves us; a figure who doesn’t exactly moralize, but who instead, in godly love, inspires us to aspire to be more god-like. Such aspirations don’t imply reaching for great power, or grandeur above others; it’s what’s “moral” in God that we love and want to emulate.

The prophet Isaiah anticipated a salvation figure arising among men who was almost god-like. Some have called this anticipated person the messiah. Isaiah offers some bold specifics, including the Israelite house—the house of Jesse—from which this future figure would come (Isaiah 11:1). But other qualities are drawn more generally, and with a much more hopeful stroke: the spirit of God would rest in this person; they would be a person who would fight, with diligence, on behalf of justice for all who are oppressed; their advent would mark, also, the advent of the end of all strife, the coming of a period in which “the wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard…lie down with the kid” (Isaiah 11:2, 4, 6). The age which this person would usher in was anticipated as one in which all kingdoms would bend ears to hear the word of God, to walk in God’s ways and do righteous deeds. A perfect imprint of God, this “shoot from the house of Jesse” would then not alienate us, but by their very presence make us better, make us want to be godly.

We know how Isaiah has been interpreted; in it, the churches have been inclined to see an anticipation of Christ. That’s why Isaiah comes up in our Advent readings, in the season during which we look forward to the “birth of Christ” part of the Christian story. Whether this interpretation is strong or not almost does not matter: Isaiah has seasonal relevance because, in the person of Jesus, all of these grand qualities came into being. Jesus encouraged justice; Jesus encouraged peace; Jesus did his best to incline the world’s ears toward God.

The 72nd Psalm we receive with the same breathless awe, seeing in the future it anticipated the Christian future. The God we want, the Jesus we love, is one of whom we say, both with longing and confidence, “may [God] judge your people with righteousness…defend the cause of the poor…give deliverance….[and] crush the oppressor” (Psalm 72:2-4). We want that, and believe that, God will nourish us like a gentle rain; we believe that a godly age would be marked by a flourishing of peace, by a joyous calm among the nations (Psalm 72:5, 7). Much different from the gods humanity once believed in: the God we know and love is not arbitrary in dolling out demands and decrees, but rather constant in peace and equanimity. This is who we anticipate. This is who we adore.

Romans sees Jesus as the fulfillment of the Hebrew Bible prophecies, anticipating in the flourishing of Christ’s kingdom all of the wonders which that Bible spoke of. Jesus is the one who leads to the “glorification of God,” who “became a servant” to bring to fruition the “promises to the patriarchs” for the world, entirely (Romans 15:12, 9, 8). Our gospel reading, too, anticipates rather than involves the person of Jesus: John the Baptist informs those who question him that a person is coming who “is more powerful…he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire” (Matthew 3:11).

We expect our God to be great; we love God partially because, through the person of Jesus and the mystery of incarnation, the divine was able to prove that divinity IS great. We know this because of Jesus, who fulfilled all of the lofty goals of the prophets: who cleared a path for people to treat each other well, for justice to take root, for human good will to be the guiding principle of all behaviors.

God is not, in fact, unappealing because God is moral, or even moralizing; rather, the gods who did not last, the phantasms who lived in stories and passed away with the closing of ancient empires, are unappealing for worship because they didn’t bother to be moral, or to moralize, or to offer any sort of guiding rule to better our humble human lives. Perhaps we think of them now and again, when we need to tell a rich and engaging story; perhaps the line from Matthew which says that “every tree…that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire” recalls them for us (Matthew 3:10). Those gods were interesting, but fruitless; so our God is humbling, and awesome, and we’re called to be the fruit which the divine bears.

Our advent readings are a reminder of God’s greatness, and of the wonder of the person of Jesus. They’re perhaps even “moralizing” words, as they encourage us to walk in ways which suggest godly ways. They speak of a perfected world in which God’s people play a significant part, and they know all of us to be those people, and demand of all of us those high deeds. They don’t expect us to do them out of deference, or obligation; rather, the terms in which the gospel and biblical morals are drawn make us, in their beauty, almost want to be more moral, more God-like. “God-like” stirs in us something primordial, something eternal and joyous; “gods-like” never could, and so the thought of it faded into myth.

We’ve entered a season of anticipation. Plenty around us will cynically claim that the holiday season no longer carries this, that “god is dead” within it; but as we encounter Advent passages, we know that this isn’t true. We look forward, with longing, to warm family gatherings; we include, in our shopping lists, strangers and families in need; we make peace with those we’ve maintained subtle feuds with; and all of this hints to the coming kingdom. God flourishes within our seasonal behavior. God becomes apparent in the places and spaces wherein we remember to look for what is fantastic about Heaven, and all its luminaries. God is; God remains; and the wonder of that doesn’t diminish, but only grows stronger as we await the rebirth of Jesus.

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As in Heaven

2010-11-22T13:34:00.000-08:00

Readings: Isaiah 2:1-5; Psalm 122; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24:36-44

It’s easy to get caught up in the rhetoric which surrounds us…easy to invest in social and political positions which don’t entirely mesh with our religious commitments. It’s easy, too, to place our daily needs above the needs of our spirits, to make concessions which we wouldn’t make standing before Christ, to choose a compromised position which makes all momentarily feel simpler.

The manifestations of choosing the easy way are many, and we’re certainly all guilty of it at points. Perhaps we sit on the sidelines of fights for social and economic justice, finding the actions which activists take too idealistic, too stringent to fold easily into our own lives. Perhaps we participate in political polemics which villainize some in ways which claim to protect the rights of others. Perhaps we stand silently by while others are hurt, or face derision, or tread through “dark nights of the soul.”

After all, what does it matter if some face temporary tribulations, or if systems are unfair, or if some are still marginalized, or if skirmishes occur in distant corners of the globe; what ultimate significance do such things carry if we’re all promised heaven in the end? What more can be asked of us than that we do our best to behave well in an imperfect world?

This week’s readings shun such middling positions. They all hold precious the notion of a coming, perfected kingdom of God, in which injustices will surely be done away with, in which people will live in peace and harmony, but they far from suggest that we should pencil that unknown date into our calendars as, simultaneously, the day on which we ought to begin behaving in a godly manner.

Heaven doesn’t abrogate now; it doesn’t render all of the ills of this age insignificant. And we’re assured that sitting back and waiting to be delivered, rather than doing the work of preparing God’s way now, would prove a mistake in the end: we leave our spiritual “homes” unlocked to moral intrusion if we opt to anticipate forever rather than involving ourselves with improving now. This is articulated best in Matthew’s famous verses, which inform us that “if the owner of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have stayed awake and would not have let his house be broken into; therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour” (Matthew 24:43-44).

What does Matthew mean by the imagery of the thief in the night? The parallel to Jesus, coming as the Son of Man, seems to be that we can’t anticipate a “when” for his arrival, so safeguarding selectively doesn’t work. What’s required is moral diligence—not even anticipating Jesus’s return as imminent and therefore something we should bend our lives to, but anticipating it as a reality, as something that began to be realized at the moment of his assumption. The imperatives of the gospels aren’t distant imperatives; they’re required of us now. We already have to gird ourselves against invaders who would tell us that our immediate needs are more important. Our primary “immediate need” is to be Christ-like, to work toward realizing improved situations now.

We can derive suggestions from our readings for living in a way that mimics the heavenly realm. Isaiah tells us that when God’s house is built, all nations will stream towards it; that globally, all peoples will bend their ears toward God and let the divine dictates become their own, and that they’ll “beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks,” so that all instruments which aided discord among them will become instruments of peace and mutual flourishing (Isaiah 2:4). If this is NOT simply an ideal to be waited for, we can assume the work of realizing it now. We can stop pretending nationality is a definitive human quality; we can treat people as people, and forego anger in favor of fidelity, mutual care and kindness, even intimacy. In the States, doing so would have immediate implications upon how we treat our immigrant communities; abroad, it would require of us greater vocality when people are oppressed by other people. Difficult work, certainly, but if we read the Bible as truth: godly work.

The 122nd Psalm speaks of the whole community—by which we can presume the psalmist means Israelites alone, or read Christianity into that grouping, or, more pertinently, read “our” as inclusive of all—standing at the city gates and doing good. This may be intentionally vague; good encompasses so much in God’s law. But what is certain is that all are involved, the work does not fall upon a select few, and the anticipated kingdom isn’t considered complete without the full participation of this enigmatic community. They should “give thanks to the name of God,” they should “pray for peace” and seek justice—and that ‘they’ is Jerusalem, and if we take ourselves to participate in Jerusalem, that ‘they’ becomes ‘us’ (Psalm 122:4, 6, 5). We are they who must “seek [God’s] good” (Psalm 122:9); by doing so, we begin to realize the eventual participation of all.

Romans speaks of coming into godly living in metaphors of arising from a deep sleep—as if we’re only fully conscious, only fully alive and active, when we do the work which God requires, love in the ways God asks us to love, work in the ways God asks us to work: “let us live honorably as in the day, not in reveling and drunkenness, not in debauchery and licentiousness, not in quarreling and jealousy” (Romans 13:13). Paul requires, in this letter, that we abandon fleshly notions. This would require shelving and forgetting all preoccupations which tell us that we don’t have to do what is right YET—that we don’t have to fight for the rights of others today, that working on behalf of peace and justice is not work we have to do right now. Romans assures us that “salvation is nearer to us” when we forget the things which we allow to become more important than God, and God’s word, and instead put God first (Romans 13:11).

We don’t want to risk sleeping through the realization of all of God’s dreams and anticipations for us; we don’t want to fail to become the people God formed us to be because we’re too busy doing our stuff, and are not quite ready, in the meantime, to do the hard work of being Christians, of being fully “Christ-like.” If we wait, we leave the door untended; we invite thievery into our hearts without, maybe, being conscious of the invitation. We risk losing access to, or perspective of, what is good by choosing to put off “good” until a later date.

The work we have to do, then, is that of diligently watching the “door”—of making sure that sin isn’t allowed to permeate the world we hope to make God’s home. Sin cannot enter in if we refuse to sit idly by while things are widely done which we know to defy God’s will. We’re to clothe and feed the needy—let’s begin by doing that now. We’re to welcome foreigners among us—let’s extend that invitation immediately. We’re to view “us” as a term which excludes none—let’s stop pretending that Christianity is exclusive, that it can be isolated either among pockets of people or in select activities (at designated times) in our lives. Being Christian means assuming tremendous responsibilities—let’s not wait to do that work.

We should be ready for heaven when it comes, and not because we’ve spent our lives dreaming of it. Rather, we should be ready for heaven when it comes because we’ve spent our whole lives making heaven real among us, bringing it to light by the deeds that we do and through the love that we offer to all. Heaven should feel like home because we’ve lived it.

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Light of our Lives

2010-11-15T21:49:00.000-08:00

Readings: Jeremiah 23:1-6; Luke 1:68-79; Psalm 46; Colossians 1:11-20; Luke 23:33-43

Our readings this week act as a meditation on the radical availability of God, first made visible by the relationship of the divine to the people of Israel, then evinced by God’s incarnation in the person of Jesus. Let these chapters serve as a counter to anyone who wants to argue that God is a distant, uninterested figure. To the contrary: the suggestion is that God is not only interested in, but is deeply engrossed in our lives, and that history winds toward a moment in which we’ll all be drawn back into divinity. The preparations for this reunion, we’re told, began even before we did.

In the Jeremiah reading, the metaphor of God’s people as sheep, with God as the shepherd, is used. There is divine assurance that any person who wrongs God’s people does so in a necessarily limited sense. All ills inflicted upon them are ultimately thwarted; God’s people, no matter how tried, no matter how tormented, will ultimately find their salve in being drawn back into God’s company. Via Jeremiah, God says, “I myself will gather the remnant of my flock out of all the lands where I have driven them, and I will bring them back to their fold, and they shall be fruitful and multiply” (Jeremiah 23:3).

Following is the anticipation of the return of a Davidic king, a messiah who will seek justice for all God loves. These promises, in consideration of what the nation was facing, can leave one breathless at their breadth, at the seeming audacity of what they propose: it would be no small feat to collect, from all ends of the Earth, the Israelites of the Diaspora. Some sheep, some of the people, we might otherwise think, seem certain to be lost—the thought of so many, across such an expanse, and with individual wills, seems to work against the idea of total return. And yet Jeremiah assures us: each and every soul will return. All will fold back into the community which they inherently belong to—God’s community, Israel.

Colossians arises in a different historical situation, but faces, similarly, the threat of fracture: the burgeoning Christian communities are saddled with the difficult task of defining their “borders,” of determining what Christian means, who it includes and who, ultimately, it excludes. Are they a continuation of the people of Israel, a branch of that family, or something radically different, promised decidedly different relationships to God? And, a more pressing question: what happens to this delicate, still ill-defined community when it faces, wholesale, persecution from nations which won’t wait for it to define and secure itself before undermining it?

Paul is addressing communities which anticipate very real, and very potentially divisive, circumstances. And yet he assures us, as did the author of Jeremiah, that whatever happens to God’s people in the short term, in the long term they’ll all be gathered to God. Through the person of Jesus, in whom all are justified, Paul says that “God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace” (Colossians 1:20).

So both books, from both testaments, assure communities which feel themselves to be God’s communities, even perhaps in an exclusive way, of their eventual total assumption into God. Yet we can’t help notice, from a critical distance, that the two communities are, in actuality, at least a little different. Does this call into question the exclusivity of either?

This perhaps leads us to an interesting realization: God undertook specific and particular relationships with these particular communities, imbued with intimacy and familial love; but the particularity of those relationships does not amount to exclusivity. Rather, that both communities are engaged, and that both engagements are real and assured, indicates that God’s particular love for us extends beyond subtle definitions: it is available to all, who can call themselves almost anything without compromising that love.

Luke finds that the relationship of Christians to God is a continuation of the covenantal relationship of God to Abraham, saying that the promises made to him were, in fact, made to us as well, and that “us” is inclusive. “By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,” the Gospel says; all who are God’s, all who face the pains of humanity—in the end, a radical all (Luke 1:78). It’s therefore understandable that God is celebrated everywhere, and is manifested everywhere: “Be still, and know that I am God! I am exalted among the nations, I am exalted in the earth” (Psalm 46:10).

Both Jeremiah and Colossians give us a correct picture of who will be gathered back to God; both could be misread as envisioning a somewhat exclusive eternity; but both actually anticipate a wider salvation, one which is available to all mankind. God’s love, manifested in special ways in the Israelite and Christian communities, isn’t given to them alone; it’s an effusive love, a ubiquitous love, one which seeks and finds all.

God’s love is radically available, and radically assured. We can note in Jeremiah that the sheep whom God shepherds don’t collect themselves back to him, necessarily; even if they stray, God collects them back, taking the care and time to seek, and find, each one. How does God know which belong to the divine, we might wonder, if we don’t yet understand that all are God’s.

But we can intuit, and assume: just as we take pride in the beautiful and unique things we do, just as we thrill in or maker’s marks upon our own works (in the corner of our paintings, in our fingerprints upon the meals we make for families and loved ones, in our names scrawled across the back of hard-earned checks), God must delight in seeing the divine light given into each and every being made by Heaven’s hand. God knows us because we are God’s; and all are God’s, regardless of individual self-identifications.

Our Gospel reading puts us at the foot of the cross. Jesus is surrounded by persecutors who revile him, and who, by his death, appear to have won. But Jesus takes pity: “forgive them, for they know not what they do,” he prays (Luke 23:24). He’s mocked, he’s cast in with criminals; he’s taunted with demands that he save even those who persecute them, if he’s so able. Jesus both answers these derisions and doesn’t.

He doesn’t address the rabid crowd directly; he prays on their behalf, though, and he anticipates their return, which is alluded to when the criminal beside him comes to the realization that Jesus is divine. To him, Jesus promises “today you will be with me in Paradise” (Luke 23:43). And we know, in view of all of our readings, that that “today” is as every day, just as the criminal is like every individual who has faltered and fallen down; we’re all people who haven’t exactly earned God’s love. We’re sinners, we’re fallible and imperfect; but even in our imperfections, we’re beloved, and given to anticipate paradise.

God loves radically. God invests his love in particular places; God’s love is simultaneously invested everywhere. God forges complex relationships with individuals; God seeks complex relationships with all. And when we begin to realize this, we come to understand that, if we’re ourselves like the sheep waiting to be brought back into the fold, so are the people next to us—they, too, are justified by God’s love. The light of God is in us as we love; the potential for it rests in our neighbors, too, and in their neighbors. And when God eventually calls—when the work of shepherding us back begins—the divine mark in all will come to light, and we’ll all shine in synchronicity.

God’s radical love, if it’s radically and everywhere accepted, will lead to a beauty and a harmony in creation that we can hardly anticipate.

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A New Heaven, a New Earth

2010-11-08T21:08:00.000-08:00

Isaiah 65:17-25; Isaiah 12; Malachi 4:1-2a; Psalm 98; 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13; Luke 21:5-19

Faith, the inner inclination toward God, the choice to believe, may happen in a flash or develop over time. It’s a feeling, a tendency, an inner movement. But we frequently find that, after the initial moment of epiphany or the first measured decision to believe, faith is something which must be cultivated by continual, conscious action. That action is the basis of our religion, of the moral and ethical organization in our lives which ties us to the holy: to God, His son, and to the Holy Spirit.

Religion is revolutionary. Entering into it is transformative. Our readings for the week certainly exemplify this. They speak of the ruptures and renewals which characterize religious life. The effects of entering into religious traditions, which within Judaic and Christian circles are built upon a notion of communion and relationship with God, are nearly always extreme. Thus Isaiah is able to speak of an eschatological future which is simultaneously a metaphor for entrance into religious tradition: “I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; the former things shall not be remembered or come to mind,” God says through the prophet (Isaiah 65:17). Living in faith means entering into just such a new world, wherein all is considered possible, all possibilities are imbued with purest hope, and hope is sustained by faith.

The biblical promises and potentialities given through God can initiate a kind of euphoria, can lead us to delight in the possibilities of the kingdom of God. God speaks of that kingdom in the highest, most idealized terms: it’s a place without distress, a place of perpetual youth, and a place wherein death has been conquered by life. People who enter into the kingdom live long, are continually sated, and are able to enjoy innate intimacy with God: “before they call I will answer, while they are yet speaking I will hear,” God says (Isaiah 65:27).

It’s probable that Isaiah didn’t have only a distant future in mind. The relationship between God and Israel was predicated upon a number of covenantal “conditions,” which existed almost as a map to living wholly in relationship to the divine. If those in the earthly kingdom were able to direct their lives with covenantal and Torah prescriptions in mind, the heavenly kingdom would be, to a degree, actualized, or at the very least mimicked, on earth. In this new kingdom, in the new and perfected Jerusalem, God will rejoice “and delight in [his] people; no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it, or the cry of distress” (Isaiah 65:19). Such predictions are common throughout scripture, and yet continually enticing: a world so free of distress and so bursting with joy would, indeed, strike us as a “new” world.

The scriptures do not, and could not, suggest that religious transformation is solely characterized by the new ease of living with God and in God’s image. There’s certainly delight to be found there. But the journey from living without God to living in him is hardly a brief one, and it’s certainly not one we make simple. Even as we hunger for the fulfillment of prophetic promises, we sometimes resist the work required to move toward them. Faith, and religious life, is disruptive; it requires rejecting the empty promises of secular circles, of the world which doesn’t feel inclined toward God. It does not aspire to ultimacy, neither does it exhaust much time imagining ultimacy at all. But because all promises have their glitter, rejections of worldly visions don’t always naturally take root, or appeal to us easily.

Our readings from the gospel and Paul remind us that choosing to live in God is not always a choice the world understands. Jesus does not promise a graceful or pain-free transition from worldly living to Christian living. To the contrary: he assures his followers that “[non-believers] will arrest you and persecute you; they will hand you over to synagogues and prisons, and you will be brought before kings and governors because of my name” (Luke 21:12). Societies, he warns, tend to rally against religious living; they tend to want to dismiss and repress it. And he warns that it’s not a condition limited to particular times. To be faithful is to set oneself up as different, to proclaim aspirations beyond the world’s immediate inclinations.

Jesus assures his listeners that even families are not safe from the disruption which moving into faith initiates. Rather, believers will find themselves “betrayed even by parents and brothers, by relatives and friends; and…some [will be put] to death” (Luke 21:16). They’ll be hated and despised; all daily pleasantries previously taken for granted will no longer be available.

Our readings vacillate between these two poles, both assuring us that believers will enjoy unimaginable delights, and that the radical decision to believe will lead to strife, grief and innumerable disruptions. And yet they both articulate the same truth. When we decide to believe, and when we elect to form our lives around that belief, our former lives do, indeed, pass away; they dissipate into a now unavailable space. And that can be difficult; it can mean losing familiar access to the people who don’t accompany us. But what awaits us on the other side—the delight of living in radical communion with God, in intimate relationship to heaven and ultimate truth—is itself a new world, and can mend whatever pains are initiated by the disruptive decision to believe. God both requires us to break our hearts a bit, allowing the old to pass away, and promises to fill them with the light of total truth which comes in knowing him. He requires us to leave behind that which is not of him; he also promises us new and limitless homes.

Religious life is a choice. It’s a movement from the comfortable uncertain to radical, unfamiliar spaces of divine truth. Tears may fall along the way; change is never easy. But the space beyond them, the infinite vistas of eternity, are promised as a space wherein tears have no place, wherein life is spent as it was meant to be: in loving God, and in the gift of being perfectly loved by him in return.

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Here and There

2010-11-01T20:48:00.000-07:00

Readings: Haggai 1:15b-2:9; Psalm 145:1-5, 17-21; Psalm 98; Job 19:23-27a; Psalm 17:1-9; 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17; Luke 20:27-38

There exists a reality beyond what’s immediate and most apparent. The scriptures speak of it repeatedly, from apocalyptic writings of the prophets to Jesus’s own discourses in the gospels; as time beyond this time, as the truth beyond current events. Frequently this is how the biblical authors confronted situations which might otherwise lead to despair: they sought reason to rejoice and take comfort, even when circumstances didn’t make it easy.

I know plenty of people who have faced difficulties in their own lives, or who have witnessed tribulations in the lives of those around them. The burdens we bear don’t always undergird the idea of a loving God. When all is going well, it’s easy to invest in concepts of benevolence: the sun shines on us, and it’s easy to feel blessed. But what about dark days? As someone I know articulated it recently, “how can I believe in God when…?” We can fill that “when” in as we choose. When wars follow one another in endless succession. When natural disasters claim the lives of innocents. When bad things do, indeed, happen to good people, and with alarming frequency. If there’s a God and that God loves us, why doesn’t He stop it all? Where is our peace?

Responses which guarantee that God does love, and is invested, probably don’t always strike us as sufficient. We want something more immediate, something more obvious, than the assurance that God is with us in our pain. We want concrete solutions. Yet the scriptures don’t conflate God’s love with the granting of all our wishes. They promise an eventuality wherein pain no longer exists, wherein petty unpleasantries cease to rule us; but that eventuality is always either in a future spot, or is to be found in inner sanctuaries, in a spiritual peace and confidence which must be cultivated.

In Haggai, the prophet is positioned in a historical place wherein waiting ruled. The exiled Judeans had been permitted to return to the land following the fall of the first Temple, and had been granted a mandate to rebuild. During the time of the prophet, that rebuilding had yet to be completed. Yet the prophet knew the time approached: “greater will be the future glory of this house than the former”, the people are assured, and in the meantime, “‘I am with you,’ sa[id] the Lord of hosts…’my spirit continues in your midst’” (Haggai 2:9, 4, 5). Even when the land is stark and the promises of the past seem to have been broken, God persists. What is immediate is symbolic; the grandeur of God’s love defies circumstances.

Job, too, anticipates a future season, enigmatically speaking of a time wherein “after my skin has been… destroyed, …in my flesh I shall see God” (Job 19:26). This seems contradictory—how can Job see God in the flesh if his earthly body has been destroyed? But the joy Job anticipates, the moment of revelation, has nothing to do with earthly bodily existence; no matter what Job endures on Earth, he can look forward to a heavenly existence which makes earthbound concerns seem miniscule, even like conceit.

Again and again, we hear echoes of these promises for the future. The seventeenth psalm is given in a period of persecution, yet through despair, the psalmist asks that God “keep me as the apple of [his] eye, hide me in the shadow of your wings,” and has confidence that God will show his “wonderful love” (Psalm 14:8, 7). Paul, in 2 Thessalonians, assures his church that persecutions are endurable precisely because they initiate the apocalypse, the revelation of the one true God who brings peace: “the day of the Lord is already here,” he asserts, and the churches can know this because “the rebellion comes first and the lawless one is revealed, the one destined for destruction” (2 Thessalonians 2:2,3). Rome persecutes; but Rome is, ultimately, ephemeral, and the persecuted will be vindicated.

The gospel passage, too, waxes on this peculiar theme, as Jesus uses the example of marriage and remarriage to display how what we consume ourselves with here is insignificant in consideration of heaven: “the children of this age marry and remarry,” he says, “but those who are deemed worthy to attain to the coming age and to the resurrection of the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage. They can no longer die, for they are like angels…” (Luke, 20:34-36). We are both of this world, and more than it; we both persist within it and await assumption into God’s love in a mysterious beyond.

Jesus isn’t encouraging people not to invest in now. There is no assumption in the verse that people will stop marrying, or remarrying, or otherwise engaging in the world, simply because they’ll someday be ‘like angels’. On the contrary, most of his imperatives are concerned with now. He consistently enjoins people to make the world better, taking special care to elevate the despairing and disadvantaged among them. Engagement is a given.

But so is a God above it all, who watches with interest and love as we navigate this confusing world. Who is pained when we are pained, but who doesn’t stop pain. At least not as it immediately occurs. At least not when it is transitory. And perhaps this is because He’s a God who lovingly anticipates the moment when we become like angels, who knows that we’re more than our individual situations..that this reality is not the only reality.

It’s easy to see how this “answer” may be received as a non-answer. Traditionally, telling someone who is experiencing pain, or who is facing injustice, that ultimately their pain is dwarfed by God’s love isn’t terribly helpful. Understandably. Such news comes across less like a warm embrace than a frigid wall, even a slap in the face. But then, it’s not our job to deliver such news. It’s our job to comfort, as Christ comforted. And we’re even entitled to our own pain, as it comes.

What we feel here is real. Injustice is a reality. Joy is as well, and so is God’s love. All that we experience might not seem like proof that God exists, and cares; but it’s not our responsibility to formulate proofs. Our job is to remain steadfast in faith, to maintain a glimmer of it even when what we’re faced with doesn’t seem to cohere with our belief.

Most often, attempting to answer the question for others is a mistake…at least, in words. There’s no great response to “how can I believe in God, when…?” Our responsibility, rather, is to be the living witnesses of a loving and higher power; to respond to the precepts He gave us and treat others with the utmost respect and consideration. We can’t prove that God exists; but we can be a comfort to those who are burdened with real fears that He does not, or does not care. Not answering the question overtly, but simply being there for people with a Christ-like love, gives people the space to rediscover the reality of God’s love for themselves. And, hopefully, others who believe will be able to do the same for us when we’re in our own moments of pain, or despair, or doubt.

For every instance of “how can I believe in God when…?”, there’s someone doing the work of “mak[ing] a joyful noise to the LORD, all the earth; break[ing] forth into joyous song and sing praises” (Psalm 98:4). There are those who evince that there’s a reality beyond transitory pains, and that love permeates, and that God is always.

That life fluctuates between emotional and experiential poles doesn’t make things easy. It would be most convenient to exist always in the glow of love, and to not have to worry about moments that lead us to question. Convenient, but not characteristic of here.

God is beyond, as much as He is here. His will isn’t always easy to discern. It’s not always necessary to discern it. We have to rest in the knowledge that it’s waiting; that all which seems to obscure it is finite; and that nothing lasts as long as it does.

Beyond this reality stretches a brighter one, unscathed by tempestuous earthly occurrences. We must strain our hearts toward its light, even when reasons seem hard to come by; peace awaits us there.

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Seeking New Heights

2010-10-25T19:01:00.000-07:00

Readings: Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4; Psalm 119:137-144; Isaiah 1:10-18; Psalm 32:1-7; 2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12; Luke 19:1-10

Living in faith sometimes means confronting grey areas. It is not always so obvious what we should do as Christians; the connections between believing and acting are not always easy to discern. Our readings this week frequently encourage a useful technique for coming closer to determining the “right,” or godly, things to do: start by modifying your perspective.

Being a person who believes in God is a journey with an imperfect guidebook. Throughout scripture, we learn that adhering to the recommendations we find on the page alone is an erroneous move. There’s comfort to believing responses to all situations are pre-defined, but acting without thinking is never sufficient. This is why we find, in books like Isaiah, condemnations of mere “legalism.”

In this book, the prophet confronts the people of Israel, all of whom face tremendous political strains, and encourages them away from acting emptily and hoping for a gracious divine response. There is some suggestion that many of them have been compelled to act frenetically in accordance with what they think God demands, but have forgotten to infuse their actions with true faith. They offer sacrifices by the many; they rigorously observe festival dates; they bombard God with proper “action,” but forget that all of these dictates were given as an expression of love. The prophet channels God, who scoffs: “what care I for the number of your sacrifices?...new moon and Sabbath, calling of assemblies, octaves of wickedness, these I cannot bear…they weigh me down, I tire of the load” (Isaiah 1:14, 13).

The lesson, simply, is that the people cannot perform “acts” of faith in any perfunctory way. If they’ve been living out the laws which undergird the covenants, but without feeling or internalizing them, all they’ve done is ultimately empty. God’s love and allegiance isn’t warranted by automatons; the law must be lived, its precepts met with joy. For what God commands, from Sabbaths, to festivals, to the treatment of one’s neighbors, is all centered in his love for humanity. None of it can be done without a willing spirit; a Sabbath observed without graciousness is not observed at all, even if “rules” are perfectly followed.

And so we read, again at again, that God’s love is available; that it cannot be earned, but must be humbly accepted. And how is this done? Isaiah suggests that simply the admission of sin leads to its receipt: “though your sins be like scarlet, they may become white as snow,” if only one learns “to do good, make[s] justice [their] aim: redress[ing] the wronged, hear[ing] the orphan’s plea, defend[ing] the widow” (Isaiah 1:18, 17). The 613 laws of the Hebrew Bible were designed to so orient people: if they’re internalized, and lived out with love, such behavior will become intuitive. This goes far beyond the trade model—“my dutiful behavior for your glorious reward”—that Isaiah suggests people were actually living out. The model which, if we’re honest with ourselves, we’re frequently tempted to adopt today.

We must not “forget God’s precepts,” the psalmist says, for the true servant knows that all edicts of God are “promises” proven “by fire,” promises which are “forever just” in basis, and lead to living fully (Psalm 119:141, 140, 144). Ignoring the spirit of God’s commands, and attempting to adopt them hollowly without troubling their meaning, is akin to singing them silently—the worshipful praise they should represent goes unvoiced. “Responding” to them like that leads to an atrophying of spirit: “as long as I kept silent, my bones wasted away; I groaned all the day…my strength withered in the dry summer heat” (Psalm 32:3-4).

Each reading proposes such a simple solution: shift your perspective. If you’re living dutifully but seeing no results, rethink what duty means. Our duties to the scriptures are NOT simple. Articulating “love thy neighbor” in appropriate situations is not sufficient; we have to articulate it in our deeds, to live it out, to do the actual work of engaging intimately our fellow humans. Saying that justice should be done is not enough; we have to work on justice’s behalf. Decrying situations which leave some in poverty, or sick, or at the margins is not sufficient; we must literally bring the afflicted in, and love them back to health. The scriptures assure us, after all, that it’s not just their health at stake: as long as one person is forgotten or rejected, the community is not whole.

In the gospel reading, this perspective shift is a literal one. Zacchaeus, a “chief tax collector and also a wealthy man,” is in town one day as Jesus is passing through (Luke 19:2). He’s deeply curious to find out who Jesus is, but is humble in stature, and can’t glimpse him above the crowd. And so he has the brilliant inspiration to climb a tree and get a better view—he’s determined to discover Jesus for himself, despite the din, despite all of the swarms of people who are, unlike him, so certain they can already answer the question of who Jesus is.

Jesus sees, and rewards, this act of faithful curiosity. Zacchaeus is called down from the tree and Jesus comes to stay with him for the night. This man—this sinner, this tax collector, this rich gentlemen among so many poor—is so inspired by what he learns of Jesus that he “sa[ys] to the Lord, ‘behold, half of my possessions, Lord, I shall give to the poor, and if I have extorted anything from anyone I shall repay it four times over’” (Luke 19:8). His whole life, his whole internal perspective, changes, and all as a result of the one moment of inspiration that led him to seek Jesus above the crowd, to see him clearly and for himself.

This week’s readings encourage us to consider how we are like Zacchaeus, or like those who burdened God with empty burnt offerings, perfunctory petitions without heart behind them. Do we know what is necessary for our own salvation? Are we absolutely sure? Or might we dare to climb to some vantage point beyond the crowd, with all of its various recommendations, and see if we can’t determine that for ourselves?

It’s possible that, even after gazing from a different viewpoint, we’ll discover that what we always thought we knew of Jesus is true. In such a case, no risk is involved, and we even may find our relationship with God, and our confidence in that relationship, deepening. But it’s also possible that our relationships to God and his word could always benefit from considering new perspectives. If we take time to think about how much is said of Jesus these days, and how much is built upon those assumptions, it’s only healthy to question how much of it strikes us as true, or is relevant to our own lives in faith.

Maybe, for a day or two, we can dare to forget the crowds. Maybe we can push aside the innumerable declarations of others concerning what Jesus would do in this situation, or that. Maybe we can approach such questions independently, and with the humility the scriptures encourage. We’re justified by faith, but we remain sinners; we love who God is, but we can always stand to learn more about Him. And we do that, first, by admitting our shortcomings, as did David in the Psalms: “I declared my sin to you; my guilt I did not hide. I said, “I confess my faults to the Lord,’ and you took away the guilt of my sin” (Psalm 32:5). We do that by admitting that our ability to see is necessarily limited if we’re standing amidst crowds of people who are all certain they can see perfectly. We do that by asking God, and God alone, to fill in the blanks, the spaces in our hearts and minds where questions still exist, where the formulas in place don’t seem to go far enough. We can seek our own sycamore trees; we can climb to the tops of them, and we can wait in happy expectation, knowing that “the vision still has its time, presses on to fulfillment, and will not disappoint” (Habakkuk 2:3).

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Raindrops Keep Falling...

2010-10-18T17:07:00.000-07:00

Readings: Joel 2:23-32; Psalm 65; Jeremiah 14:7-10, 19-22; Sirach 35:12-17; Psalm 84:1-7; 2Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18; Luke 18:9-14

A mere week ago, the city was awash. Rain fell in torrents, ceaselessly, for days, coupled with a merciless wind which wreaked havoc on umbrellas, so that not even that flimsy respite could be offered. Among the people I know, most of us confronted this seasonal tempermentality grimly, determined only to endure it. We were tolerant at best, and at our worst moments, were reduced by it to bundles of nerves. I would venture to guess that had anyone proposed we respond to this weather with gratitude, most of us would have responded with incredulity. Gratitude? For what? Isn’t a rainy day pure misery?

Yet this week’s texts remind us that there are immemorial qualities about our world which, though we’re inclined to either take them for granted or resent them, were once held as proof positive not only that God existed, but that he loved us dearly. Rain is one of these. In the context of arid Israel, bounded by deserts and at the mercy of the skies for the cultivation of the land, rain was a blessing.

God’s love is repeatedly explained in terms of the gift of water: in Psalms, believers find refuge in God, and this manifests itself in “springs of water to drink,” as “from pools the Lord provides water for those who lose their way” (Psalm 84:6, 7). The imagery here suggests a separation between spiritual yearning, which is akin to wandering, and divine shelter, which is as an oasis among the chaos and inconsistencies of the broader world: the faithful can retreat, draw deeply from God’s spiritual wells, and so sustain themselves. In the Ancient Near East, this must have served as a very powerful metaphor.

But it is rain image is the most persistent throughout these passages—the sudden gift from the heavens of water upon the people. Rain is how God nurtures the land, and thus the people of Israel: “with showers [God] keep[s] the ground soft, blessing its young sprouts,” until God’s paths “drip with fruitful rain” and “the untilled meadows also drip; the hills are robed with joy” (Psalm 65: 11, 12, 13). Psalms suggests that this living, fluid, abundant joy is responded to be people everywhere as a marvel, and as an indication of great blessing.

Joel, too, rejoices over the gift of rain: “rejoice in the LORD, your God!...he has made the rain come down before you, the early and the late rain as before” (Joel 3:23). This foreshadows abundance in the land; moreover, it’s a wonder which asserts God’s presence in the land, and the depth of his special concern for it.

And when Jeremiah fears that the Lord has rejected Israel, it’s the lack of rain which stands as evidence: “Judah mourns, her gates are lifeless; her people sink down in mourning [and] cry in anguish…they find no water…there is no rain in the land….[and the people] cover their heads” (Jeremiah 14:2, 4). In Joel, God’s presence was attested by the presence of water; in Jeremiah, when there is drought, the LORD is missed in the land, and seems a stranger to it.

The people of Israel, it seems, are a thirsty people; but the desire they feel is not merely for the material sustenance which water provides. Indeed, they are a people who thirst for God’s presence; their own bodily well being, and the physical well being of the land, becomes tantamount to an expression of the covenant’s well-being, so that spiritual health is tied up in the health of the earth. Literally, they are a people whose eyes are ever turned skyward, waiting; but this directionality evokes the Temple, and the literal presence of God, on high as much as it anticipates the actual gifts from the sky. They thirst for God’s love, and rejoice in any manifestation of it, and water becomes a significant trope. Quench our desire, they beg; as much as the cultivation of the fields and of their beasts, what God offers to quench that thirst will lead to a deepening, and a continuation, of the relationship of God to the people.

Perhaps these readings are a reminder, to us, to look skyward, or, more specifically, to look to God to fill us where we remain in want. We’re lucky in that our blessings abound; what was scarce to the Israelites is not to us. But this is also a potential trap, because when such necessities are readily available to us, we forget to receive them as gifts. Rain becomes a nuisance, and not a promise that we’ll eat well in coming months; and why seek a distant oasis when we can flick a wrist and turn on a faucet? But if we wish to cultivate the same kind of intimate relationship with God which he shared with the people of Israel, we cannot receive things so easily. What the earth gives us remains a gift; we should try to remember, at least in scattered moments, to shelve our grumblings and turn our faces to the rain, and offer the same kind of thanks, with the same sort of joy, which we see in Joel and the Psalms.

The temptations are great to continue to take things for granted; after all, it’s so easy to do. But it’s dangerous to stock, and zealously count, our blessings as though we always warrant them. God’s generosity deserves gracious receipt.

Our chapter in Luke this week reminds us that gratitude is, in fact, necessary. We can brush aside blessings impatiently, or refuse to acknowledge them as such; we can sap up greedily that which is scarce for our neighbors, and never think twice about it. But then we defy Jesus’s parable, and become like the errant Pharisee, the fool whose prayer to God runs “’O God, I thank you that I am not like the rest of humanity—greedy, dishonest, adulterous’” (Luke 18:11). This preening ‘prayer’ has no value in God’s Temple, for it is built on the absurd premise that any of us can claim separation from, or innate superiority to, the rest. Jesus warns that all who so “exalt themselves will be humbled” (Luke 18: 14).

Yet a hopeful alternative exists, here in the figure of the tax collector. He won’t “even raise his eyes to heaven,” won’t even look for the blessings which God bestows, but instead humbles himself and prays, “’O God, be merciful to me, a sinner’” (Luke 18:13). The gospel tells us that it is he who will be exalted. He confronts a human condition: that he is somewhat “unworthy” of God, as a sinner, as we all are. But because he expects no reward for this, he’s better positioned to receive any gift God sends earthward. By being humble, by not expecting, we prepare ourselves internally for joy.

I suspect that, unlike the tax collector, we do need to presume to raise our eyes a bit, if only because we’ve gotten used to ignoring the source of our blessings. He knew what we forget: that what happens here proceeds from Heaven, and that thanks for the gifts which we sometimes thoughtlessly store needs to be directed there. We have to engage in actively remembering that gifts are gifts, even before we begin the work of receiving them humbly. It’s a great task in our busy lives, but undoubtedly, a valuable one. If we now and again dare to cast aside our umbrellas, and all other tools which enable us to avoid feeling God’s gifts, and thinking about his graciousness, perhaps we can move toward living in the continual joy exemplified in these chapters of Scripture.

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Wrestling Doubt

2010-10-11T16:13:00.000-07:00

Readings: Jeremiah 31:27-34; Psalm 119:97-104; Genesis 32:22-31; Psalm 121; 2 Timothy 3:14-4:5; Luke 18:1-8

The two most prominent characters in this week’s readings are Jacob and the persistent widow. Both face unsettling situations and yet respond to them, with some variations in style, with faith.

This particular chapter of Jacob’s story is one of the most puzzled over passages in Genesis, if not the Hebrew Bible. Jacob, journeying home to rejoin the brother he betrayed, encamps overnight with his family. Seemingly out of the blue, he gets up in the night and begins wrestling with either an angel, or a ‘man of God’. The figure is mysterious; some have suggested that this enigmatic holy man may have been God personified. Jacob is injured, but persists, and at the end of the encounter is renamed “Israel,” for he’s “contended with divine and human beings and has prevailed.” (Genesis 33:29)

This story almost requires individual interpretation. Is the wrestling a metaphor, or is Jacob supposed to have actually physically wrestled with some divine being? If the wrestling is literal, with whom, and why does it begin? If metaphorical: is the struggle internal, and what is Jacob, all wrapped up in human impulse and flaw, wrestling against which is more ‘divine’?

In conjunction with the other readings for the week, and keeping in mind that it’s so difficult to know which interpretation is “better,” it may be interesting to consider the struggle as a metaphor. In the chapters which precede this week’s Genesis reading, Jacob had been engaged in a bit of brotherly competition with Esau. Perhaps this is to put it lightly: Jacob, from a young age, continually defied and tricked his twin, cheating him out of his land, swindling him out of his birthright, until, eventually, the tension became so great that he had to flee. Jacob is now returning to his home, at tremendous risk of being welcomed not quite warmly. Esau has sent word that he’ll ride out to meet Jacob and his party with four hundred men; were Jacob to receive his “just deserts,” this could, in fact, be the end.

Jacob comforts himself with reminders of God’s promises: “’You told me, oh LORD, ‘go back to the land of your birth, and I will be good to you.’’” (Genesis 32:10) Jacob recognizes that he hasn’t always warranted such generous treatment—he says, in fact, in prayer: “I am unworthy of all of the acts of kindness that you have loyally performed for me.” (Genesis 32:11) And yet he anticipates one more act of kindness: that God will help him to cross back into the land promised as his, safely and with all of his new family.

It’s in the night following these prayers that Jacob struggles with the angel. He’s to meet his brother, and all of his brother’s assembled men, in the morning; he’s hoping that the meeting will go well, for his own sake, and for his family’s. Odds are against him. There’s no reason to believe that it will go well for him, especially if all details are left up to only Esau’s sense of justice. In the quiet of the night, he waits. And somehow meets, and struggles with, either an angel or God.

The result of Jacob’s struggle is that he prevails, and is renamed. His renaming essentially reinforces God’s promises to him, ensures that he and his family will be able to enter the land safely and live there until they are “as numerous as the stars.” It reinforces God’s covenant, or reaffirms it. But if the struggle is metaphorical, perhaps the real affirmation is that, despite Jacob’s flaws and lack of obvious worth, the covenant had always been available, and God was always true to it. Jacob had to struggle toward that realization. He had to prevail against all of his self-doubts and ready himself to receive that grace. He had to, in short, trust enough in God to persist, despite odds.

The parable of the persistent widow is similar, although she’s able to “prevail” in her struggle with less self-doubt: the judgment she anticipates is a just one (Luke 18:5). She lives in a town which is presided over by a judge who “neither fear[s] God nor respect[s] any other human being,” and as such, would be the perfect person to test the strength of any sort of covenantal promises passed between God and man. God promises justice, but how does justice work if the system which is supposed to exact it is presided over by those who neither respects heavenly precepts, nor care much for the well-being of individuals? There is reason for the widow to despair. This judge could be the exception to the absolute rule of God’s fairness; he could defy it by refusing to be moved by the persuasiveness of good.

In the end, in fact, he is ‘immovable’, at least in such terms. It’s not fear for his own integrity that sways him; it’s not insecurity before God, and the realities of eternity. In fact, he only bends and renders a just verdict because, inexplicably, he fears the persistent widow—he worries that she “will finally come and strike” him (Luke 18:6).

But Jesus tells us that there’s more to this fear than meets the eye. It’s not that the widow is a particularly fearsome figure. Likely, this wronged woman obsessed with justice is more of a curiosity in such a town than a threat. I imagine a woman of unimposing stature, an earnest and vulnerable person who it would be, very realistically, easy for a heartless, powerful man to dismiss. And yet he cannot. She haunts him, in faith, follows him about seeking the justice that her trust in God tells her must come (Luke 18:7).

Jesus hints to us that it’s not the widow herself who eventually moves the judge to render justice. Rather, it’s God backing her. It’s God who answers her prayers and compels her to persist, filling her with the confidence to continue. It’s God’s work on her behalf that “secure[s] the rights of [those] who call out to him day and night”, God who sees “to it that justice is done” (Luke 18:7, 8). It does not matter that the cruel judge thinks he does not believe in God; this does not negate God’s power over him. It does not matter that the widow is not obviously intimidating; that she represents justice, and that she’s backed by a just God, is what makes her imposing.

In these chapters, God promises that those who have faith will be blessed. Sometimes it’s not obvious why such people are blessed, as with Jacob; sometimes it’s quite clear that they “warrant” it. But the real message of the week’s readings is that we never really warrant God’s love, which is so great that it’s beyond human pursuit. It’s a powerful and moving force that works almost against logic. God gives his love freely and always; not because human beings ever particularly deserve it, but because he’s promised to do so, and is true to his promises.

Our readings teach us that the answers to all misgivings and tribulations lie in the promises God has already made. Even when we think that there’s no reason that it should, help comes from God, “the maker of heaven and earth,” who won’t allow for things to become truly impossible, or impassable (Psalm 121:2-3). God does not sleep; he always guards his beloved creations, affecting and protecting them silently, sometimes so silently that they miss evidence of it (as with the unjust judge).

These are not injunctions against any pain: it is certain that neither the widow, nor Jacob, lived the rest of their lives completely pain or hardship free. It’s only a promise that God is there, if we seek him. And if God is there, we’re somewhat impervious to permanent damage, or persisting injustice. Relief will come, even when situations seem hopeless: “by day the sun cannot harm you, nor the moon by night. The LORD will guard you from all evil, will always guard your life” (Psalm 121:7-8).

These passages are difficult to internalize. Any one of us can offer stories about times in our lives, or in the lives of loved ones, which seem proof that justice does not always prevail. We can read stories which seem to assert such “realities” in the paper, or see them broadcast in any newsreel. But our readings attempt to assure us of a broader justice, a covenant that remains strong despite daily arguments against it. They encourage us to keep faith, and trust that there will be relief. And of the tendency to believe that, because there is pain, there must not be a loving God, they say only that such inclinations are “myths” which divert our attention from “the truth” (2 Timothy 4:4).

Sometimes faith is not convenient; sometimes it would be easier, even look more sensible, to abandon it. Our readings prompt us to resist those desires as facile, and empty. “Be self-possessed,” they enjoin us; eventually, the reward will be in our own “renaming,” in our own assumption into a new and eternal realm of God’s love. If we wait, and believe, and persist: justice will come, and our lives lived in faith will have been, properly, evangelization.

The Imperative to Love

2010-10-04T20:38:00.000-07:00

Readings: 2 Kings 5:1-3, 7-15; Luke 17:11-19; Psalm 66:1-12; Jeremiah 29:1-7.

I once knew a pastor who was ruined by his accent.

Actually, that’s scapegoating: it was not the accent that destroyed him, but his congregation’s reaction to it. As national debates heated up surrounding issues of citizenship versus illegal residency, his congregation began to complain, with increasing fervor, about his Columbian accent. They couldn’t understand him, they claimed, and so he couldn’t possibly really understand them. The communication gap, they believed, was too great.

Oddly enough, these complaints hadn’t really existed in years previous, and so it came to seem that their problem with him was not really that they couldn’t understand what he was saying; it was more that they didn’t want to. He came to represent the Other, the foreigner, the person against whom they must rally. They forgot he’d been their trusted spiritual leader. And, sadly, the overarching leadership caved, and the pastor in question was relocated to an area more likely to react favorably to the fact that he was Hispanic.

I’ve been very angry at his congregation over this for awhile now. It seemed self-evident, to me, that a Christian community should not react this way to someone, particularly a spiritual leader, based on negligible, even imagined, differences. They let themselves get too caught up in the ideas of proper “citizenship” and nationality, and in the process lost a really good pastor, one who had cared for them and done his utmost to exemplify Christian ideals. His “other”ness was not the problem; theirs was. By rejecting him based on his origins, they made themselves “other” to the Scriptures.

Our readings this week are full of aliens, sojourners, foreigners. They are not what we’ve come to expect from people shouldered with such terms. Indeed, the common rhetoric here, in our time, is that he who is the Other must be villianized and kept at a distance. “Other” is considered dangerous. But in biblical contexts, “others” are those who often surprise established nations or groups by being more faithful, more committed to God’s message, than those charged directly to live it out.

In 2 Kings, Naaman, a chieftain of another nation, is encouraged by an Israelite to go to the king in Jerusalem and petition the king’s prophet to have his leprosy cured. Doing so means deviating from all which he’s always known to be true. Yet he listens to the Israelite child and goes before the Israelite king. He is told to perform a simple act of faith—“wash seven times in the Jordan, and your flesh will heal, and you will be clean”--in order to become well (2 Kings 5:10).

Naaman wrestles with himself internally, but eventually decides to show this faith, and is rewarded by becoming healed. And, the text tells us, “he returned with his whole retinue to the man of God. On his arrival he stood before him and said, ‘Now I know that there is no God in all the earth, except in Israel’” (2 Kings 5:15). A hefty concession for any Israelite whose faith was daily tried; a grand one for a foreigner, of whom belief was not required.

In Luke 17, we read again of an afflicted foreigner, this time a Samaritan. He goes before Jesus as part of an ailing group. They beg to be healed. Jesus, never one to put too much stock in silly boundaries, of course heals them—as an act of love, as any creator would do for his created. And the Samaritan who is cured, one of many cured, the only foreigner among the cured, is the only to offer thanks: “realizing he had been healed, [he] returned, glorifying God in a loud voice; and he fell at the feet of Jesus and thanked him” (Luke 17:15-16). Jesus comments on this, affecting perhaps not entirely genuine surprise that this devotion comes from one not bound, by covenant, to Israel’s God: “Ten were cleansed, where are the other nine? Has none but this foreigner returned to give thanks to God?” (Luke 17:17-18)

The message that can be derived from these readings is not that sometimes, some foreigners surprise us by being better than we’d expect; rather, it’s that the notion of “foreigner” is entirely absurd in the context of faith.

Anyone can live out Christian principles. As such, we are required to love all people as our neighbors, not just those who “officially” belong to our communities. The communities mean nothing unless they’re built on values of inclusion.

We cannot rest in notions that, because we have been privileged, because we live in times and locations which are very blessed, we are ourselves blessed over and against other peoples. God loves all; he hears all petitions. And if we fail to welcome into our communities the “foreigners,” those who outwardly seem to be “Other”, we fail to do the work of being like Christ.

Before God, we are all slightly “other.” It is not until we begin the work of faith, of living out Judeo-Christian principles, that we become more of what God envisioned and designed us to be. By appropriating faith into all aspects of our lives, we begin the cautious approach towards accepting God’s grace. It waits us always, regardless of our locations—as the 66th Psalm tells us, shouting “joyfully” to God is a task enjoined of “all…on earth”, who “fall in worship before” God, singing and worshipping. The events in the land are evidence of this love; the mercy and favor they represent is available to all, in all lands.

We are charged, as were the Israelite exiles, with the responsibility of living amongst our neighbors with love. Even if they seem different from us. Even if their “ways” aren’t always easy for us to understand. They, too, are God’s—this is what binds them to us, what makes loving them an imperative. We are to “build houses to dwell in; plant gardens, and eat [shared] fruits,” and the welfare of the ground which we share is essential—our own rests upon it (Jeremiah 29:4, 7). We’re promised joy if we do this—not the joy of living without tumult, in a state of sustained tolerance, but the joy of living truly well, in the borderless community envisioned in scripture.

I worry for us, travelling along these paths we’ve designed. Our communities become less and less hospitable to those who we deem unlike us. This has not become a place where it is easy to be the “Other”. If we’re truly invested in the notion that we’re a nation built upon Judeo-Christian principles, continuing to alienate “aliens” does our foundations an inconceivable injustice. It becomes, in fact, absurd.

We cannot refuse to engage in spiritual communion with people who have different accents, or are differently acculturated; we cannot reject human beings without having even tried to understand them. A Christian community which is only open to some is, it would seem, closed off to Christ. We must counter such trends by doing work which is Jesus-like, which starts at the most basic levels of human communication. We must seek to engage one another, on ground which we find is shared despite our resistance, from a position of faith. All are beloved by God; living in his image, so must we love all.

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Faith Unbroken

2010-09-27T12:40:00.000-07:00

Lectionary Readings: Lamentations 1:1-6, 3:19-26; Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4; 2 Timothy 1:1-14; Luke 17:5-10

[Photograph: prayers in the Western Wall]

This week’s readings are populated by believers who have experienced or witnessed deep, unexpected agony—agonies ranging from loss to the threat of faithlessness, from exile to persecution. What is significant throughout them is that, despite afflictions, our believers remain believers, despite conditions which most of us cannot realistically imagine. The question that emerges as we move through the readings is colored, perhaps, by incredulity: how do they manage this? How, even, can they be expected to?

Our Hebrew Bible readings present us with prophets who are trying to grapple with Jerusalem’s destruction at the hands of the Babylonians, a considerable blow to any faithful Judean convinced that the city, and temple, of God could never fall. What are they to do, feel and believe when calamities can befall even the place which houses the presence of YHWH? And our New Testament figures, though dealing with more personal upheavals, must confront the same kinds questions: faced with doubts, what assurances can they draw either from the present Jesus (in the case of the apostles) or the memory of Him (in the case of Paul) to ever “increase their faith” (Luke 17:1)? Even with God before us, it seems, faith is not always easy to come by. And yet in each of these passages, we find that faith is worth maintaining. It is something to work toward ever diligently, never seeking the rewards of utter and total assurance—it is a relationship between God and His people.

Lamentations is the clearest expression of grief in this week’s readings. Composed sometime after the fall of Jerusalem, it is presumably the account of a witness to Judah’s destruction, one who mourns, with the rest of the nation, for the lost holy city: “Bitterly [Jerusalem] weeps at night, tears upon her cheeks, with no one to console her,” (Lamentations 1:2), for Jerusalem’s people have been driven into exile. The despair the witness feels is almost palpable, as he takes careful account of treasures lost: Judean religion cannot be practiced in Judah, enemies to it rest easily within the city, and exiled Judeans find no peace (Lamentations 1:3-5).

As is typical of exile era wisdom literature, the witness assumes the brunt of the guilt for the unimaginable loss of the city: “the LORD has punished her for her many sins,” he suggests. And yet with all of this considered—the grief of the loss, and the tremendous contrition for it—the lamenter makes an interesting move: rather than abandoning faith in the relationship between God and His people, he recalls that, at its healthiest, that relationship meant that God would always redeem, and he takes heart.

Though being forced to remember Jerusalem in exile is “wormwood and gall,” the lamenter finds reason to hope: “the favors of the LORD are not exhausted, his mercies are not spent” (Lamentations 3:21-22). In fact, he calls these coming mercies acts of faithfulness on God’s part, perhaps faith that the Judeans can remain true to the covenant and seek return; in any case, it is clear that, despite great hardships, confidence in the relationship remains. And for what reason? What causes this witness to hope? Little more than the memory of the city of its best, highly traveled by pilgrims and awash in God’s love; the mere recollection of that is enough to make him “put his mouth to the dust,” as a kiss, for despite ashes, despite all destruction, “there may yet be hope” (Lamentations 3:29).

We find this hope solidified by the time of Habakkuk, a prophet very likely able to remember the destruction himself, who had been living in an extended state of misery with the exiled Judeans, who heard them cry out to the Lord with no seeming response—the wicked seemed to grow wickeder, and injustice seemed to multiply, despite the faith of the people (Habakkuk 1:2-3). The oracle he delivers, the only cause for hope, is that God does hear, and enjoins them to wait, and believe: “the vision still has its time, presses on to fulfillment, and will not disappoint; if it delays, wait for it, it will surely come, it will not be late” (Habakkuk 2:3). If one refrain, one heart of a philosophy, can be drawn out of these works, penned during periods of tremendous hardship for God’s people, it seems to be: wait. God doesn’t afflict us with more than we’re equipped to handle. Relief comes. Wait.

If these exiled prophets and believers can do it, so should the apostles be able to, particularly considering that they’re direct witnesses to God embodied—he stands before them, incarnate, and still they implore Him for reasons to believe.

Imagine the frustration of Jesus, petitioned for more and yet more by his followers, always demanding clearer sight; it seems to us, the removed readers and recipients of these gospels, that they have greater cause than any to take heart and be steadfast. Yet they insist of Jesus, “Increase our faith” (Luke 17:5). We’ve already heard, in our readings, of followers of the Lord who, their worlds collapsed around them, no end to persecution and exile in sight, manage to maintain, and even increase, their own faith; what are we to do with these complacent disciples who seem to bumble, incomprehensibly, before the Lord?

It is perhaps not wise to be too hard on them; throughout the gospels, the disciples frequently misunderstand Jesus, but they are the ones who carry His message forth after His death, and who are left to grapple with the tremendous implications of the incarnation and crucifixion. They do their best, and the metaphor of the mustard seed may not imply, after all, that they didn’t have enough faith; maybe it signifies that they didn’t have enough confidence in the power of that faith. Certainly, they aptly move “mountains”, both theological and political, in the years following Jesus’s crucifixion, and we must therefore assume that the worries which they present to Jesus in Luke are somewhat unfounded.

They’ve been witness to the life of God, embodied, and yet have no confidence that they’ll be able to properly remember what they’ve seen, or felt, or known in His presence. Similar to worries in budding relationships when two people are faced with sudden extended periods apart: perhaps they fear they won’t be strong enough to remain true to Christ and His mission—will what seems so real to them now seem as real, and as true, when Christ isn’t there to reassure them? Are they in danger of faltering, and returning to their pre-Christian existences? Can’t Jesus do something to ensure, or to reassure them, that no such departures could occur? But Jesus promises them no relief; He will not tell them that they already believe "enough".

The parable Jesus delivers seems to suggest that the work of a believer is never done, regardless of how spiritually substantial and ultimately meaningful one day, or another, in the life of a Christian seems to be. The relationship between a believer and God is an intimate one, and therefore no one can ever rest easily in it, or take undue respite from the work of it; it must be cultivated, fed both by gratitude for, and confidence in, the gift of God’s love, and by a constant awareness of what life would be like if the relationship broke down.

God commands a steadfast heart; the disciples, though they’re sure they’ve given this, cannot expect for the relationship to become suddenly easy, for is a master “grateful to [a] servant because he did what was commanded?” (Luke 17:9) No; rather, work for the servant is as faith for the Christian follower: absolutely imperative and never promised as easy.

It is a form of love that cannot be rested in or taken for granted, and once given, must be re-given, just as God constantly regenerates love for His people: both God and disciple say, at the end of the day, “we have done what we are obliged to do.”

And, lest this be thought a rather demanding imperative for a loving God to make, we learn in Timothy that, just as God never afflicts us with more than we are equipped to bear, God never makes demands of us which we are not uniquely suited to fulfill. For “God did not give us a spirit of cowardice but rather of power and love and self-control,” which makes even seemingly minute helpings of pure faith sufficient, so that we need never ask for “more”—a seed of faith will sustain, despite odds which seem too incredible. Indeed, Paul assures us, the perfect grace which God displays in making us precisely so that we can always persist in faith is implicit in creation: “He saved us and called us to a holy life, not according to our works but according to his own design and the grace bestowed on us in Christ Jesus before time began” (2 Timothy 1:9).

And so we are reminded this week that in our darkest moments, we can rely on faith, even if the burdens pressing down on us seem too unimaginable to bear. We are meted out just enough faith to endure any strain. And when times are less tempestuous, and faith seems too accessible to be substantial, we must work in the knowledge that it has already sustained us, and must “exercise” faith to keep it strong. The reward of such devotional work is not the return of God’s love, which is always assured, but the awareness of it: a love that demands, and sustains; that persists, and towards which we must persist. That love is the temple that will never fall, even if the earthly image of it must, at times, undergo some reconstruction.

April 25 -- Life's Volcanoes

2010-04-14T10:34:00.000-07:00

This week's lectionary texts: Acts 9:36-43, Psalm 23, Revelation 7:9-17, and John 10:22-30.

At the time of this writing, the Eyjafjallajokull volcano in Iceland is continuing to wreck havoc on airline travel to and from a number of European nations. Sending ash several miles into the sky, the volcanic eruption has forced the cancellation of tens of thousands of flights, and stranded hundreds of thousands of people. Everyone hopes that the volcano will soon calm down enough to allow for normal air travel to resume, but experts simply don’t know when the intriguingly named Efjafjallajokull will stop erupting (indeed, in 1821, the volcano began erupting for nearly two years!).

Events like the eruption of this volcano in Iceland remind us that our globalized world has become deeply interconnected – we have become incredibly reliant on easy and swift travel, and the loss of the convenience to which we are accustomed has thrown the whole world for a loop.

Furthermore, we are forced to realize that, at the end of the day, we are not in control. We can plan and plan all we want – and, to be sure, there is nothing wrong with making plans to try to achieve our hopes and dreams. But there will be inevitably be unexpected hiccups, fortuitous coincidences, terrible tragedies, beautiful surprises. We can’t make the volcano in Iceland stop erupting any more than we can ensure that our lives will go exactly according to plan – things just don’t work that way.

But even when we grant that life is unpredictable – in ways both bad and good – we can be confident in the continuity and steadfastness of one thing: God’s deep and abiding love for every one of us. This week’s lectionary texts explain that in the midst of uncertainty, we can rely on God to be our shepherd, to bring us through life’s unexpected joys and pains, and to even bring life out of death.

Psalm 23 is almost certainly the most famous of the 150 psalms. In beautiful, poetic language, the psalmist reflects upon the loving care that God had given him. As he writes,

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures;

he leads me beside still waters;

he restores my soul.

He leads me in right paths

for his name’s sake.” (Psalm 23:1-3)

The psalmist trusts God – trusts that God will lead him to safety. He furthers, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff – they comfort me” (Psalm 23:4). The psalmist has known pain and trod dangerous paths – but he recognizes that God only wants the best for him. He closes with a powerful reflection on God’s provision: “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long” (Psalm 23:6)

Meanwhile, in Revelation, we read of an eschatological vision in which God has utterly delivered God’s people “from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages” (Revelation 7:9). Angels and elders and strange creatures: all are worshiping and blessing God. John then writes about what he is told regarding God’s people in this new eschatological reality:

“They will hunger no more, and thirst no more;

the sun will not strike them,

nor any scorching heat;

for the Lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd,

and he will guide them to springs of the water of life,

and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” (Revelation 7:16-17)

God is revealed once again to be a God of delightful contradiction and paradox, for Jesus, the Lamb of God, has become the shepherd, just as he embodies divinity and humanity, leadership and servanthood, power and humility.

In the gospel of John, we read this week that Jesus took seriously his role as shepherd of his people. Accosted by those who wanted to know definitively whether or not he was the Messiah, Jesus explained that he had told them – they simply did not believe. As he went on, he added, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they will never perish. No one will snatch them out of my hand” (John 10:27-28).

We are promised, indeed, that God has great plans for us through Christ. We are not assured that our lives will be easy – after all, Revelation states the God will “wipe away every tear from [our] eyes,” implying that none of us will make it through this messy and beautiful life without enduring struggles and pains. But Christ has promised to take care of us – he will never let go of us. Understanding that we are known intimately and loved dearly by Christ can help carry us through the unexpected moments in our lives, even when we can’t imagine what is coming next.

In Acts, we read about a woman called Tabitha, a disciple of Christ “devoted to good works and acts of charity” (Acts 9:36). Tabitha grows ill and dies, and soon after, Peter is called to come to her home. After meeting with her grieving friends, Peter sends them out of the room, turns to Tabitha, and commands, “Tabitha, get up” (Acts 9:40). Incredibly, she does – she has been restored to life through God’s power.

We may pray for miracles like the one of the resurrection of Tabitha in our own lives – for a friend or family member to beat their illness, for our finances to be fixed, for a volcano to suddenly stop erupting. Sometimes, these prayers are answered in the way that we hope for – but sometimes they are not. And it can be difficult to understand why things happen the way they do, whether for better or for worse. Scripture can prove unsatisfying when we are in the midst of challenges we never expected and aren’t sure how to face.

But in our lives – so challenging, so full of beauty and uncertainty – let us remember this Easter season that our God is one who has promised to always care for us, to love us with a love that we cannot even imagine. Goodness and mercy are ours, says the psalmist, no matter the difficult or unknown roads we must travel. In this sometimes confusing, sometimes breathtaking universe, let us look to God as our rock, our strength, our shepherd, and our constant.

Photo credit here.

April 18 -- Blind But Now I See

2010-04-12T08:54:00.000-07:00

This week's lectionary texts: Acts 9:1-20, Psalm 30, Revelation 5:11-14, and John 21:1-19.

Most people who have ever been prescribed corrective lenses can remember the day that they learned the way they had always seen the world was not quite the whole story. They were seeing shapes and colors, perhaps, or the blurry edges of objects and the fuzzy words on signs or in books. But they weren’t perceiving the world in all its richness – weren’t seeing the fullness of creation.

And then when they first put on glasses or put in contact lenses – what a transformation! Life leaps into focus. Trees have leaves, the blackboard is actually legible. The world has not changed, really, but the person’s perception of it has. They begin to see their surroundings in a whole new way.

This week’s lectionary texts tell stories of people seeing and not seeing, being blinded and having their eyes opened, coming to new understandings of the world and the role they are to play in it. The authors of these texts understand that God is constantly helping us to see things in new ways – constantly pushing and challenging us to seek new perspectives and stretch ourselves.

In Acts, we read the powerful story of the conversion of Saul. Saul was a notorious persecutor of the early Christians, a man who hated those who followed Christ and what they stood for – indeed, we read, he “breath[ed] threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord” (Acts 9:1). But one day, traveling along the road to Damascus to find new victims, he was blinded by a heavenly light that was accompanied by a voice asking, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me? […] I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting” (Acts 9:4-5).

Saul was utterly helpless – ultimately forced to depend upon a Christian disciple, Ananias, in order to regain his sight. Ananias worried that assisting Saul would mean the guarantee of increased persecution of the young Christian community. But God tells him, “Go, for he is an instrument whom I have chosen to bring my name before Gentiles and kings and before the people of Israel” (Acts 9:15). So Ananias lays his hands upon Saul and heals him: “something like scales fell from his eyes, and his sight was restored” (Acts 9:18). Just days after setting out with the intention of destroying the followers of Christ, Saul (who will become known as Paul) begins “to proclaim Jesus in the synagogue, saying, ‘He is the Son of God’” (Acts 9:20).

Even before Saul was temporarily blinded by God, the author of Acts seems to be implying, he was already blind: blind to the pain he was causing, blind to God’s truth. It took the imposition of blindness and the helplessness that entailed to force Saul to reconsider the ways in which he was living, and to realize that the way he had been seeing the world was not the way God wanted him to interpret it.

The psalmist, for his part, also recalls a time when he could not see. There was a time, he explains, when God seemed to have withdrawn from him, and he could no longer see God: “By your favor, O Lord, you had established me as a strong mountain; you hid your face; I was dismayed” (Psalm 30:7). And indeed, the psalmist never explains when (or if) he is able to see God’s face again. The psalm leaves us with questions about what it might mean to feel that God's face is hidden from us -- why and how does such a thing happen?

But the psalmist also explains that God has “turned [his] mourning into dancing; [God] has taken off [his] sackcloth and clothed [him] with joy” (Psalm 30:11). As he exclaims, “O Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me. O Lord, you brought up my soul from Sheol, restored me to life from among those gone down to the Pit” (Psalm 30:2-3). Even during those times in his life when he could not sense God’s presence, the psalmist could recall the times in the past when God had intervened on his behalf. He was able to draw on those memories to help move through the dark times in his life, trusting that he would be able to see what lay ahead by the light of God’s past help.

In the reading from John’s gospel, we hear the striking story of Jesus’ appearance to seven of the disciples at the Sea of Tiberias. Peter and several of the other disciples had decided to go fishing, when suddenly they saw Jesus standing back on the beach – but “the disciples did not know that it was Jesus” (John 21:4). It was only after Jesus told the men, who had thus far failed to catch any fish, to cast their nets to the other side of the boat, that they began to catch more fish than they knew what to do with – and realized that the man on the shore was their friend Jesus. Their eyes, blinded to the real identity of Jesus, were opened.

After the disciples returned and cooked breakfast with Jesus, John tells us that Jesus asks Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?” to which Peter replies, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you” (John 21:15). And Jesus tells Peter, “Feed my lambs” (John 21:15). A similar exchange happens two more times, with Jesus adding, “Tend my sheep” (John 21:16).

Peter does not seem to initially realize why Jesus continues to ask him the same question over and over; he feels “hurt because [Jesus] said to him the third time, ‘Do you love me?’” (John 21:17). But Jesus seems to only want to make sure that Peter understands just how seriously Jesus is taking the role Peter will play in the early Christian community. He wants Peter to know that loving him – loving Jesus – really means loving everyone. Peter and the disciples are to live out their love for Christ by loving and serving everyone they encounter. In this way, Jesus is giving them a new way of seeing: that is, seeing every woman, man, and child as a representation of Christ, and a person worthy of love and care.

Notice that the readings for this week do not always show a neat progression from blindness to sight. Sometimes, as in the case of Saul, people are blinded before they can learn how to see in a new way. Sometimes, as in the case of Peter, painful misunderstandings can result from God's efforts to help us to see things in new ways. And sometimes, like the psalmist, there may be times when we feel that we cannot see God at all. This Easter season, let us wrestle with these questions of blindness and sight, trying daily to see our lives, family, friends, and faith in a new light, looking for ways that we have been blind to the needs of our neighbors, and envisioning better possibilities for our world. And let us remember that all around us are people who view the world in a completely different way, a way we could never have imagined ourselves -- why not take a chance and try on their glasses for a while?

Photo credit here.

April 11 -- Doubt and Joy

2010-04-05T06:07:00.000-07:00

This week’s lectionary texts: Acts 5:27-32, Psalm 18:14-29 or Psalm 150, Revelation 1:4-8, and John 20:19-31.

Easter Day has come and gone. We’ve gone to the church services, sung the happy hymns – perhaps the Hallelujah Chorus? – found the hidden eggs, eaten the chocolate bunnies. We’ve come through on the other side of Lent, experiencing anew the death and resurrection of Christ. We’ve heard the story of the stone rolled away, the empty tomb, the Jesus who once was dead and now is alive again.

But just because Easter Sunday is over doesn’t mean we have come to the end of the Easter season – not at all! Indeed, the Easter season lasts until Pentecost, May 23^rd – we still have weeks of joyful celebration and remembrance ahead.

After the excitement of the “big day,” therefore, it can be helpful to spend some time reflecting on the character of the God we worship this Easter. This week’s lectionary texts help remind us of the glory and goodness of the God who creates and sustains us, the God who has dwelt among us and deeply loves us.

The psalmist in this week’s psalm – the final entry in the Book of Psalms – is so overcome with reverence and awe that all he can do is exhort his listeners to praise God. And not just praise God with their lips, but praise God with every instrument under the sun!

“Praise the Lord!

Praise God in his sanctuary;

praise him in his mighty firmament!

Praise him for his mighty deeds,

praise him according to his surpassing greatness!

Praise him with trumpet sound;

praise him with lute and harp!

Praise him with tambourine and dance;

praise him with strings and pipe!

Praise him with clashing cymbals;

praise him with loud clashing cymbals!

Let everything that breathes praise the Lord!

Praise the Lord!” (Psalm 150)

God has indeed performed mighty deeds – perhaps none so mighty as the one we remember this Easter, that of defeating death itself and returning to life, that we might also live abundantly and in service to others.

As John writes to the seven churches in Revelation, moreover, the God we worship is unfathomably immense. “I am the Alpha and the Omega,” God says in Revelation – indeed, God is the one “who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty” (Revelation 1:8). We can be comforted knowing that God has always been here and will always be here – we never have to worry about losing God’s love.

Yet it is not always easy to follow Jesus. Such a lifestyle can prove immensely unpopular. And deciding to become followers of Christ demands our whole selves – promising to honor God, to serve God’s people, and to recognize that, ultimately, we are not to do what society wants, but what God wants. As Peter and the apostles tell the council that has charged them with illegally teaching in the name of Jesus, Peter answers, “We must obey God rather than any human authority” (Acts 5:29). Peter knows that God has raised Jesus from the dead – “we are witnesses to these things,” he says, “and so is the Holy Spirit whom God has given to those who obey him” (Acts 5:32). He cannot deny what he knows to be true: that God’s surpassing love has performed miracles, and that he can’t be silent when there are people who still need to hear that good news.

Nobody alive today was present at the crucifixion and resurrection – we are taking it, in essence, on faith. But even in John’s gospel we see that Jesus’ resurrection was not an easy story to swallow. The apostle Thomas, John tells us, “was not with [the other apostles] when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ But he said to them, ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe’” (John 20:24-25).

The next week, as it happens, Jesus again appears to the disciples, coming into their midst even through a locked door. After greeting his friends with an expression of peace, he comes to Thomas and says, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe” (John 20:27). Thomas seems overcome with emotion as he proclaims that Jesus is God, and Jesus replies, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe” (John 20:29).

This passage can be a difficult one for anyone who has ever struggled with doubt – and, I suspect, most Christians have dealt with doubt at one time or another. Jesus seems to be saying that Thomas should have believed what the disciples said in the first place, without needing physical proof. And there can certainly much to be said for having a simple faith in God, for believing without seeing, for taking a leap.

But at the same time, we must remember that Jesus does not ignore Thomas’s request for evidence. He comes straight to Thomas and offers him a sign – he does not punish Thomas for his uncertainty. Jesus wants Thomas to be able to trust in him, to believe that he is truly the risen God: but he also is willing to help Thomas make that leap of faith.

This Easter season, may we know that it is okay to not have all the answers, to want to have proof, to be unsure. And may we also know that perhaps the proof of the resurrection is all around us: in our loved ones, in the courage of those who stand up for peace and fight injustice, in the new life springing up all around us. And let us remember that this season is, above all, a season of joy – so let us take out our lutes and cymbals, our pianos and saxophones, our harmonicas and violins, and praise the risen Lord!

Photo credit here.

April 4 -- Waking Up

2010-03-28T17:32:00.001-07:00

This week’s lectionary texts: Acts 10:34-43 or Isaiah 65:17-25, Psalm 118:1-2 and 14-24, 1 Corinthians 15:19-26 or Acts 10:34-43, and John 20:1-18 or Luke 24:1-12.

It might not quite look like it in Boston today, but spring has sprung! Tiny green buds are covering the trees; daffodils and crocuses are dotting yards and birds are chirping in the bushes and branches. The snow is long gone -- rain keeps falling, but that rain is sure to bring even more new vegetation to life after the cold slumber of winter. The world, it seems, is waking up.

April 4th is Easter, the day that we remember Christ's triumph over death -- a triumph that allows us to wake up, to start fresh, to begin a new day full of hope and joy and renewed perseverance. On Easter, we are called to awaken to new possibilities, to new awareness of the needs of our world and our neighbor, to new understandings of how God is working in our lives. The resurrection of Jesus stands as a testament to God's unfathomable love for us -- through Christ, we have been roused from our complacency, our despair, our stagnancy, and urged to claim our new lives as beloved children of God.

This week's lectionary texts are full of beautiful reflections on the power of God to create and recreate, to awaken and enliven the world and all its creatures. In Isaiah, the prophet gloriously recalls God's promises to the world:

"For I am about to create new heavens and a new earth...But be glad and rejoice forever in what I am creating; for I am about to create Jerusalem as a joy, and its people as a delight...no more shall the sound of weeping be heard in it, or the cry of distress." (Isaiah 65:17-19)

God has promised to restore and renew us, to give good things to God's people and to encourage all of creation to live together in new ways that are life-giving and love-increasing. "They shall be offspring blessed by the Lord," we read; "Before they call I will answer, while they are yet speaking I will hear. The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, the lion shall eat straw like the ox" (Isaiah 65:23-24). God wants to help us build a world of peace: "They shall not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain, says the Lord" (Isaiah 65:25).

We all understand that this world can be full of pain and destruction, just as it can be full of beauty and goodness. But as Paul tells the Corinthians, there is hope in Christ: "For as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ" (1 Corinthians 15:22). His is an eschatological vision, in which Christ has destroyed death itself, opening us to new chances to live spirit-filled, courageous, radically loving lives. Even if we feel held back -- by our circumstances, by our pasts -- God has promised us forgiveness and urges us to preach peace (Acts 10:42-43).

The resurrection story in the Gospel of John presents Mary Magdalene as the first witness to the resurrection of Jesus. Upon arriving at the tomb and finding two angels where Jesus' body had been, she begins to weep. Turning around, she runs into Jesus -- whom she fails to recognize -- and he asks her, "Woman, why are you weeping? For whom are you looking?" (John 20:15). She asks Jesus to tell her what has been done with the body -- but then, as Jesus calls her name, she suddenly recognizes that the man in front of her is her dear friend, the man who was once dead but who has been restored to life.

So often we sleepwalk through life, our eyes closed to new opportunities for service, new ways to develop our God-given gifts and talents, new understandings of community and interconnectedness. How many times have we failed to recognize Jesus in a person in need? How many times have we been unable to see God's glory because we are just too tired to shake up our usual patterns and look at the world with fresh eyes?

Indeed, God understands that it can be difficult -- sometimes seemingly impossible -- to wake up. We can be held back by challenges both external and internal, difficulties that prevent us from awakening to the new life God has in store for us. But this Easter, let us hear the call to the joyful, vibrant, beautiful promise we have been given in Christ. Let us ask ourselves how we have fallen asleep and become disconnected from God and from our neighbors. And let us wake from our slumbers and greet the morning with boldness, proclaiming with the psalmist,

"This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it!" (Psalm 118:24)

March 28 -- Palm Sunday

2010-03-20T14:18:00.000-07:00

This week's lectionary texts: Psalm 118:1-2 and 19-29, and Luke 19:28-40 or John 12:12-16.

Growing up Catholic, I remember spending one Palm Sunday gathering with the rest of the congregation in the parking lot of our church. Someone had started a huge bonfire on that chilly morning, and as we all huddled together, everyone was handed a palm frond. After some initial prayers, the priest then led us into the sanctuary, singing and waving our green leaves.

I have to confess that as a child, I was much more fascinated by the actual palms -- their bright colors, the way that you could peel off the edges into little strings -- than by their symbolism. Indeed, the whole story of Palm Sunday seemed strange to me: Jesus riding on a donkey? The residents of Jerusalem welcoming him with palm branches? It all sounded a little silly.

Now, the story of Palm Sunday still seems a bit strange, but in a different way. Namely, how could Jesus be so warmly welcomed one moment, and less than a week later have been sentenced to death, crucified, and resurrected?

This week's lectionary texts do not quite get at the question of how things took such a sudden turn. But they do offer reflection on the ways in which Jesus is continually portrayed as someone who upends expectations and changes our perspective on what it means to be powerful.

As the psalmist writes in Psalm 118, God is good; God's "steadfast love endures for ever" (Psalm 118:1). He offers a stirring image for entering into God's presence:

"Open to me the gates of righteousness, that I may enter through them and give thanks to the Lord. This is the gate of the Lord; the righteous shall enter through it." (Psalm 118:19-20)

Paralleling the psalmist's words, John and Luke offer us their own interpretations of Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem. As Luke writes, two of the disciples are sent ahead to find a young colt and to bring it to Jesus for his entrance into the city. As he rode along, "people kept spreading their cloaks on the road," and the disciples "began to praise God joyfully with a loud voice for all the deeds of power that they had seen, saying, 'Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven, and glory in the highest heaven!'" (Luke 19:36-38).

While Luke omits any mention of palm branches, John writes that as Jesus entered the city, "a great crowd" appeared, taking "branches of palm trees and [going] out to meet him," shouting praises to the Lord (John 12:12-13). Here, John references the prophet Zechariah, explaining that Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a young donkey to echo what had been written: "Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem! Lo, your king comes to you; triumphant and victorious is he, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey" (Zechariah 9:9).

Indeed, the texts we read this Palm Sunday are full of fascinating -- and sometimes unintuitive -- happenings. Jesus is the son of God, but he rides into Jerusalem on a donkey -- hardly the most noble of animals. He is welcomed with praise and excitement by the palm-carrying populace -- but condemned by them just days later. The psalmist seems to echo these seeming contradictions when he writes, "The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone" (Psalm 118:22).

Jesus is constantly causing us to readjust our expectations, to realize that things are not always what they seem. Just as Jesus entered Jerusalem to shouts of praise, only to see his entire life upended just a few days later, we too may experience upheavals in our lives. Things can go from good to bad in an instant; they can just as quickly go from bad to good. Life is unpredictable, and the story of Palm Sunday shows that Jesus can empathize with us when things don't go as we expect them to.

The photograph above was taken in Mexico several years ago. I was sitting near a palm tree, when I noticed a tiny nest woven into the branches. Every few minutes, a little head would poke out and chirp, and, without fail, a bigger bird would eventually return with a new tidbit for its baby. This went on for at least an hour as I watched, totally transfixed. It was a beautiful example of the care of a parent for a child, much like God cares for us, even in the midst of confusion or uncertainty.

We all know what happens after Jesus triumphantly enters Jerusalem that day -- he will come face to face with his own death, a death advocated by the men and women who had just welcomed him with palms. How rapidly things changed. But through it all, God is constantly there, constantly caring for Jesus, as God constantly cares for us. As the psalmist simply and powerfully puts it, "O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good, for his steadfast love endures for ever" (Psalm 118:29).

Photo by the author.

March 14 -- Lost and Found

2010-03-05T10:48:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Joshua 5:9-12, Psalm 32, 2 Corinthians 5:16-21, and Luke 15:1-3 and 11b-32.

"Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us." So goes the version of the Lord's Prayer found in Luke. During Lent, the notion of sin can weigh heavy on our minds and hearts. As we reflect on the events of the past liturgical year and the ways in which we have conducted our relationships with God and our fellow men and women, our attention is often drawn to those ways in which we have fallen short and lost our way.

And in a sense, that's one way to define sin -- losing our way. We lose our way when we fail to come through for our friends and family in their time of trouble. We lose our way when we let a cruel or thoughtless remark pass our lips. We lose our way when we take more than we need. Sin does not have to involve a huge event like stealing millions of dollars or taking a life -- sin can be those little actions that fray at our spirits and slowly wear away at our efforts to live in community or draw closer to God.

In this week's lectionary texts, we hear about the ways in which sin can serve to divide us from those we love. In Luke's gospel, we read the story of the prodigal son, a parable Jesus shares with the Pharisees who have accused him of associating with sinners.

A man, Jesus explains, has two sons, and one wishes to claim his inheritance early. His father consents, and the young man "travel[s] to a distant country, and there he squander[s] his property in dissolute living" (Luke 15:13). He soon begins to starve, and decides to return to his father to beg to be treated as a servant, exclaiming, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son" (Luke 15:21).

Yet his father is simply overjoyed that his son has returned. The other son, upset about the warm welcome received by his brother, complains to his father. But his father replies, "Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found" (Luke 15:31-32).

Lost and found: indeed, this is what forgiveness is all about. When we sin, we distance ourselves from God and our neighbor; we lose ourselves. But when we acknowledge the pain or hurt we have caused, make amends for what we have done, and begin to follow a life-giving path once again, we are promised God's forgiveness.

As Paul writes to the Corinthians, Christ has made all things new: "In Christ, God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us" (2 Corinthians 5:16-21). God wants to be reconciled with us, and for us to be reconciled with one another. God wants us to find our way back home.

The psalmist writes in Psalm 32 of the joy that is to be found in forgiveness: "Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered" (Psalm 32:1). As he writes, "Then I acknowledged my sin to you, and I did not hide my iniquity; I said, 'I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,' and you forgave the guilt of my sin" (Psalm 32:5). Owning up to our sin is not always easy -- but once we do, the psalmist writes, we will be "surround[ed]" by "glad cries of deliverance" (Psalm 32:7).

Sin can be a painful topic; no one likes to dwell on the ways they have hurt others, or the ways that others have hurt them. But this Lent, let us take the time to reflect on where we may have lost our way -- and how being forgiven or offering forgiveness to others can help us find that way again.

Photo credit here.

March 7 -- Spiritual Food and Drink

2010-02-27T14:15:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Isaiah 55:1-9, Psalm 63:1-8, 1 Corinthians 10:1-13, and Luke 13:1-9.

Human beings, wherever they might live, whatever culture they might inhabit, whichever beliefs they espouse, all share the same basic needs, including shelter, clothing, and sanitation. Perhaps the most salient of these needs, however, are food and drink. We can survive just weeks without food, and only days without water.

And beyond fulfilling simple biological needs, food and drink serve important social functions. We share meals with those we love. We bring gifts of food to people celebrating achievements, or grieving losses. We toast special occasions and swap favorite recipes.

As food and drink are such an important part of human life, it seems no surprise that they have a key role to play in our religious lives. In Christianity, one of the central rituals of our faith is the sharing of bread and wine or juice at communion, symbolizing or transforming into the body and blood of Christ, depending upon one's beliefs. Communion serves to nourish us both physically and spiritually, as the food and drink we rely on every day reminds us of the death and resurrection of Jesus.

In this week's lectionary texts, we read of the ways in which we are nourished by God's spiritual food. The authors offer intriguing reflections on the ways in which our relationship with God can have resonances with our need for food and drink.

As the psalmist writes in Psalm 63, "O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you...My soul is satisfied as with a rich feast, and my mouth praises you with joyful lips when I think of you on my bed" (Psalm 63:1, 5). God is portrayed as that which quenches one's thirst and feeds one's spirit -- a source of "steadfast love" that is "better than life" (Psalm 63:3).

Meanwhile, we read in Isaiah the prophet's invitation to Israel to come share in the abundant life offered by God. "Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters," exhorts Isaiah," and you that have no money, come, buy and eat!" (Isaiah 55:1). In the prophet's vision, God offers a bountiful feast that is free for all God's people, and which will be far more satisfying than anything the Israelites have ever known:

"Come, buy wine and milk without money and without price. Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy? Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food. Incline your ear, and come to me; listen, so that you may live" (Isaiah 55:1-3).

Isaiah wants his listeners to understand that ways of life that do not honor God are unsustainable and unsatisfying, but that God has something even better to offer. God wants what is good for God's children -- God invites us to "delight" in delicious food, after all. We are called to the banquet of God's goodness, invited to find the joy that comes with sharing in the endless bounty that is God's love for us.

Paul, for his part, writes in First Corinthians about the importance of learning from the mistakes of our ancestors, cautioning the Corinthians not to fall into the sins of idolatry, sexual immorality, or grumbling. Promising that God will be faithful to the Corinthians, he reminds them that they share a common ancestry with the Israelites: men and women who "all ate the same spiritual food, and all drank that same spiritual drink" (First Corinthians 10:3-4). Paul is mainly writing to remind the Corinthians that God was not pleased with many of the actions of the Israelites, but his message also serves as a reminder that we share in a powerful spiritual lineage, one marked by our common understanding of God as someone who fills all our needs.

Indeed, throughout both the Old and New Testaments, we see examples of God's goodness represented through the means of food and drink. From the manna given to the Israelites in the wilderness, to the feeding of the five thousand with two fish and five loaves, to the transformation of the water into wine at Cana, we can read numerous stories of the ways in which God uses food and drink to demonstrate God's power and love. And Christ, "the bread of life," shows us that God is intimately connected with our daily lives, linking our need for physical sustenance with our need for spiritual nourishment.

Most of us are lucky enough to have never gone hungry or thirsty -- but even in our society of overconsumption, there are many who lack enough food or clean water to make it through the day. For these people, hearing God's love and goodness compared to food and drink can be a hard message to accept -- all the more reason for those of us who have more than enough to continue working for a world in which no woman, man, or child ever has to go to bed hungry.

Photo credit here.

February 28 -- Going for the Gold

2010-02-18T19:26:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Genesis 15:1-12 and 17-18, Psalm 27, Philippians 3:17-4:1, and Luke 13:31-35 or Luke 9:28-36.

From February 12th through the 28th, the 21st Winter Olympics are being held in Vancouver, British Columbia. Over 80 countries have sent over 2,000 men and women to compete for their chance at gold, silver, or bronze. While never free from controversy, the Olympics offer a chance for countries around the world to come together in a spirit of friendship and friendly competition, showcasing some of the most talented and inspiring athletes the world has ever seen.

Every competitor at the Games has a unique story. Many have practiced their sport since childhood. Some have come out of retirement to make one more attempt to earn a medal. All have made sacrifices to compete at such a high level, enduring injuries and lost time with family and friends. And all have demonstrated their desire to keep practicing, keep pushing, keep overcoming obstacles, so that they can honestly say at the end of the competition that, whatever the result, they gave it their best effort.

This week's lectionary texts encourage all of us, Olympic athletes and regular folks alike, to persevere. We are called to seek God, to ask God to show us the way we ought to follow, and to remember that God will give us the courage to make our way forward.

In his letter to the Philippians, Paul encourages the community not to forget what they are striving for. He writes, "Brothers and sisters, join in imitating me, and observe those who live according to the example you have in us" (Philippians 3:17). Paul walks the talk -- his letter has come to the Philippians from prison, where presumably he has been jailed for his unwelcome efforts to spread the gospel.

The Olympics, while characterized by competition among nations, also have the power to make us realize that we are all part of one global community. Paul takes things a step further, however. He warns against keeping one's mind on "earthly things," but rather urges the Philippians to remember that "our citizenship is in heaven, and it is from there that we are expecting a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ" (Philippians 3:19-20).

Paul, explaining that Christ will transform his people, finally notes, "Therefore, my brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and crown, stand firm in the Lord in this way, my beloved" (Philippians 4:1). Paul's deep affection for the Philippians is unmistakable in this epistle. He knows that following Christ can bring serious hardships, but also incredible joy, and he wants the community to be strengthened and encouraged in its walk with God.

In this week's reading from Luke, meanwhile, we read the story of Jesus' lament over Jerusalem. Just as Jesus finishes preaching that the last shall be first and the first shall be last, he is approached by Pharisees who warn him that Herod is out to kill him. Jesus instructs the Pharisees to tell Herod, "Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem" (Luke 13:32-33).

Jesus knows that he has work to do before his ministry is over; he also knows that everything will come to an end -- and a new beginning -- in Jerusalem. He is saddened over the state of the city: "How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!" (Luke 13:34). But he still presses on, knowing that he has a job to do and that God will help him do it.

Indeed, perhaps one of the most powerful biblical reflections on persevering with God's help can be found in Psalm 27. As the psalmist writes,

"The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?...Though an enemy encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war rise up against me, yet I will be confident." (Psalm 27:1, 3)

In this psalm, the psalmist expresses his confidence that God will come through for him, offering protection and strength. He knows that he will face adversaries and struggles, but implores God, "Be gracious to me and answer me!" (Psalm 27:7). In the concluding verses, he exhorts his listeners to similarly rely on the power of God: "I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!" (Psalm 27:13-14).

Even if we are not Olympic athletes, we all face challenges and difficulties in our lives. We all have goals we would like to achieve, but sometimes are held back by fear, or indecision, or uncertainty that our goals are even the right goals at all. But this week, we hear of the rewards to be gained by striving for God -- pushing ourselves to go farther than we ever thought we could go, pressing on through pain, and counting on God to help lift us up when we fall and cheer us on toward the finish line. Truly, as the psalmist writes, we have nothing to fear.

Photo credit here.

February 21 -- Into the Wilderness

2010-02-15T09:08:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Deuteronomy 26:1-11, Psalm 91:1-2 and 9-16, Romans 10:8b-13, and Luke 4:1-13.

This Sunday marks the first Sunday of Lent, the period of forty days leading up to the celebration of Easter. Many Christians have a complicated relationship with this portion of the liturgical year. For some, Lent feels like a dreary season, a time filled with deprivation and gloom. For others, Lent is a welcome season of renewal, a period in which to deepen one's relationship with God and reevaluate the ways in which we live out our faith. And for still others, Lent is both: a time of frustration and a time of peace, a time of discomfort and a time of refreshment.

In our lectionary texts this week, we read the story of the forty days Jesus spent in the wilderness before beginning his ministry. (Incidentally, Lent is forty days long to reflect this sojourn of Christ.) As Luke writes, "Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil" (Luke 4:1-2).

Luke says that Jesus fasted for the entire forty days, and, unsurprisingly, "was famished" (Luke 4:2). So the devil said to Jesus, "If [in this construction, "if" means "since"] you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread" (Luke 4:3). But Jesus, despite his hunger, replies, "It is written [in Deuteronomy 8:3], 'One does not live by bread alone'" (Luke 4:4).

Having seen that he could not get Jesus to budge when it came to his physical needs, the devil shifts his attention to power. He shows Jesus all the kingdoms of the world, saying, "To you I will give their glory and all this authority...if you, then, will worship me" (Luke 4:6-7). But citing Deuteronomy 6:13, Jesus answers that people are supposed to "worship the Lord your God, and serve only him" (Luke 4:8).

Finally, the devil tries one last temptation. He whisks Jesus away to Jerusalem, brings him to the top of the temple, and declares, "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, 'He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you' and 'On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone'" (Luke 4:9-11). But Jesus answers him, "It is said [in Deuteronomy 6:16], 'Do not put the Lord your God to the test'" (Luke 4:12). And with that, the devil departs.

The devil, to be sure, demonstrates that he can quote scripture just like Jesus can; his last effort cites Psalm 91. But Christ knows that God's word asks us to trust God, not test God: "You who live in the shelter of the Most High, who abide in the shadow of the Almighty, will say to the Lord, 'My refuge and my fortress; my God, in whom I trust'" (Psalm 91:1-2).

The texts this week emphasize the idea that no matter what temptations or struggles we face, God has promised to be there for us. In Romans, Paul explains, "Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved" (Romans 10:13). And as the psalmist lyrically writes,

"Those who love me, I will deliver; I will protect those who know my name. When they call to me, I will answer them; I will be with them in trouble, I will rescue them and honor them. With long life I will satisfy them, and show them my salvation." (Psalm 91:14-16)

We are not promised easy lives -- indeed, most of us have experienced our share of sorrows and pains, temptations and trials. But as the season of Lent begins, we are called to remember that such experiences need not have the final say. We can choose to trust and bless God, much as the Israelites do in this week's passage from Deuteronomy, thanking God for their deliverance from exile and celebrating God's goodness with their neighbors.

Trusting God is sometimes easy; other times, it feels nearly impossible. But when we are wandering through the wilderness, we can remember that as Christians, we worship a God who, through the person of Christ, has wandered that wilderness too, and a God who has promised to answer us when we call for help. Lent can sometimes feel like a wilderness: a strange and unfamiliar place. As this new season begins, let us give ourselves permission to reflectively wander, trusting that even if we get lost, God walks with us and will deliver us.

Photo credit here.

February 14 -- The Mountaintop

2010-02-07T10:53:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Exodus 34:29-35, Psalm 99, Second Corinthians 3:12-4:2, and Luke 9:28-43.

"Extol the Lord our God, and worship at his holy mountain; for the Lord our God is holy." (Psalm 99:9)

During my recent trip to Ecuador, I had the opportunity to hike part of Chimborazo, the highest mountain in the country. Our group drove up a good part of the way, and then made it up to about 16,500 feet on foot. The landscape was strange and unfamiliar -- virtually no plant or animal life, just rocks and dust and wafting mist as far as we could see. At such a high altitude, breathing was difficult; every couple of minutes I would have to stop walking and just pause to catch my breath. It wasn't an easy trek, but making it to our goal -- the second refuge hut up the mountain -- was incredibly rewarding and exhilarating.

This week's lectionary texts offer powerful examples of "mountaintop experiences." They invite us to consider what it might mean to meet God on the mountain, and how our experiences of God can transform us in ways both visible and invisible.

In Exodus, we read of Moses's 40-day stay with God on Mount Sinai, recording God's message to God's people. As he finally makes his way back down the mountain, Moses does not realize that "the skin of his face shone because he had been talking with God" (Exodus 34:29). In fact, so striking was Moses's transformation that "when Aaron and all the Israelites saw Moses, the skin of his face was shining, and they were afraid to come near him" (Exodus 34:30).

Moses, of course, eventually discovers that speaking with God has had a profound effect on him. He ultimately decides to wear a veil after such encounters, presumably to prevent his fellow Israelites from being afraid. But "whenever Moses went in before the Lord to speak with him, he would take the veil off, until he came out" (Exodus 34:34). In the presence of God, Moses felt free to be exactly who he was.

In Luke, we hear another story of mountaintop transformation, as we learn about the transfiguration of Jesus. Bringing Peter and John with him, Jesus goes up to pray on a mountain. "And while he was praying," writes Luke, "the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white" (Luke 9:29). Not only did Jesus's appearance change, but Moses and Elijah also appeared on the mountain, speaking with Jesus.

Peter, likely confused but trying to figure out what to do, says to Jesus, "Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah" (Luke 9:33). But no sooner does Peter say this, than a cloud covers the mountain, and a voice inside proclaims, "This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!" (Luke 9:35). And suddenly, Elijah and Moses disappear, leaving Jesus and his disciples silent and alone on the mountain.

What are we to make of these experiences of Moses and Jesus? Paul, in Second Corinthians, suggests that we can read such texts to indicate the transformative power that God can have in our own lives. We no longer need veils, he writes, because God has freed us to be exactly who God made us to be:

"Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit." (2 Corinthians 3:17-18)

It is important to remember that not everyone will have a "mountaintop experience," an unambiguous and transformational experience of God. God may speak to us in quieter ways: through other people or through the reading of scripture, for example.

At the same time, it's likely that many of us have either had such an experience or know someone else who has. Such experiences can be frightening or awe-inspiring, life-changing and surprising. Let us be on the lookout for what we can learn about God and God's life-affirming, unbelievably powerful love from such experiences, whether our own or those of others.

Traveling up Chimborazo was sometimes frightening. At some points along the road, the mist and clouds were so thick that we could hardly see more than a few feet in front of us. In the same way, we don't always know what lies ahead when God invites us to travel up the mountain. We can only keep walking, trusting that God will take us as far as God wants us to go, and knowing that we will go back down the mountain transformed, free to be ourselves and to be shining examples of God's light and love for others.

Photos by the author.

February 7 -- Listening for a Call

2010-01-31T20:28:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Isaiah 6:1-13, Psalm 138, 1 Corinthians 15:1-11, and Luke 5:1-11.

Few pieces of technology have become as ubiquitous in modern society as the telephone. It would be close to impossible to find a person in the United States who has never made a phone call. As of June 2009, moreover, 89% of Americans had cell phones -- 89%!

Certainly, phones can be enormously useful tools, connecting families, friends, and organizations all around the world. At the same time, they can also seem like a mixed blessing. It seems that practically everyone has received an unwanted phone call at one time or another -- whether hearing bad news or simply being irritated by a telemarketer. We can't know what sort of call we're receiving unless we pick up the phone and answer.

This week's lectionary texts elaborate on the notion of "call," showing that every call is different, and can invoke different responses from those who hear it. We are led to consider the ways in which God may be calling us, and to evaluate how we are interpreting and responding to God's call in our lives.

In the passage from Isaiah, the author relates a powerful vision of God: the Lord is seen "sitting on a throne, high and lofty; and the hem of his robe filled the temple. Seraphs were in attendance above him" (Isaiah 6:1-2). The prophet, bearing witness to the awesome sight, exclaims, "Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!" (Isaiah 6:5).

Yet the seraphs purify Isaiah by applying a live coal to his mouth, and God asks, "Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?" (Isaiah 6:8). To which Isaiah replies, "Here I am; send me!" (Isaiah 6:8). He has transformed from a man nervous about answering God's call to someone seemingly eager to do God's will. (Though, granted, God's will in this case appears to be that the people's minds become "dull" and that God pronounces judgment on them [Isaiah 10, 11-13].)

Like Isaiah, Moses was initially reluctant to answer God's call to lead his people -- indeed, God's calls can sometimes seem unexpected and even inexplicable. In this week's reading from Luke, for example, Jesus calls his first disciples: Simon Peter, James, and John. The men had "worked all night long but [had] caught nothing" when Jesus told them to let down their nets again (Luke 5:5). Simon Peter was confused by the request, but decided to oblige, and the fishermen "caught so many fish that their nets were beginning to break" (Luke 5:6).

Seeming to understand that he was in the presence of a remarkable person, Simon Peter exclaimed, "Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!" (Luke 5:8). But Jesus simply replied, "Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people" (Luke 5:10). And the men, writes Luke, took a risk and "left everything and followed him" (Luke 5:11).

God's call can be exhilarating, exciting, or thrilling; it can also be frightening, confusing, or even off-putting. It may come in the form of a nagging sense that there is something God is prodding us to do with our lives, or in the form of a trusted mentor, friend, or pastor talking with us about where our talents and gifts lie. It may come in a dream, a book we read, a song we hear, or a voice in our mind. It may come suddenly; it may take months or years to be recognized.

However and whenever God's call to serve God's people comes, it's likely that we won't feel prepared. "I'm not perfect," we might think, or, "I don't know what I'm doing." We might wonder why God has chosen us to do God's work, whether it's as something as drastic as selling all our possessions and giving the money to the poor, or as simple as volunteering at a nursing home or bringing an extra item to the food shelf each week.

But God doesn't make mistakes, as Paul understands. As he writes in First Corinthians, "I am the least of the apostles, unfit to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me has not been in vain" (1 Corinthians 15:10). God can use anyone to do good in the world -- anyone! The Bible is filled with men and women who initially doubted their ability to answer God's call, but -- with God's grace -- went on to do incredible, transformative things.

It seems likely that God will only call us to work at which we can succeed, with God's help. So is there something you feel like God is calling you to do, or a place God is calling you to go? God's voice can be quiet and hard to hear in the clamor of our busy lives, so let us keep our ears open, remembering, as the psalmist writes, "The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever" (Psalm 138:8).

Photo credit here.

January 31 -- Where is God?

2010-01-24T21:14:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Jeremiah 1:4-10, Psalm 71:1-6, 1 Corinthians 13:1-13, and Luke 4:21-30.

News came this week that the Haitian government estimates that at least 150,000 people have died in the aftermath of the powerful earthquake that struck that tiny, desperately poor nation on January 12. The number is mind-boggling -- imagine, for example, a quarter of Boston's population almost instantly wiped out by destruction and disease.

Watching the news or reading about the enormous tragedy, it can be hard to understand how a loving God could ever allow such a horrific event to take place. The question becomes particularly difficult this week, as we read in two of our lectionary texts about the great care that God is said to have for every single woman, man, and child.

In Psalm 71, the psalmist beseeches God for God's protection and strength:

"In you, O Lord, I take refuge; let me never be put to shame. In your righteousness deliver me and rescue me; incline your ear to me and save me. Be to me a rock of refuge, a strong fortress to save me, for you are my rock and my fortress." (Psalm 71:1-3)

God is portrayed as a powerful source of salvation -- a deity whose care for us has never wavered since we came into existence: "For you, O Lord, are my hope, my trust, O Lord, from my youth. Upon you I have leaned from my birth; it was you who took me from my mother's womb" (Psalm 71:5-6). Even in the midst of worry, the psalmist writes, "My praise is continually of you" (Psalm 71:6).

Meanwhile, in Jeremiah, the theme of God's ever-present protection and care is highly evident. Speaking to the prophet Jeremiah, God explains, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you" (Jeremiah 1:5). He urges Jeremiah to take up the mantle of prophecy, promising to speak through Jeremiah and protect him from his detractors: "Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you" (Jeremiah 1:8).

It can be difficult to hear these promises of protection in scripture and try to square them with the devastation currently making the front page -- and indeed, with the natural disasters and evil deeds that happen every day.

The rest of the lectionary passages for this week, however, offer some help as we try to sort out the mystery of how a good God can exist in a world like ours. Luke's depiction of Jesus's near death at the hands of an angry crowd shows that humans don't always understand God's ways; as Jesus says to the confused and upset group, "Truly I tell you, no prophet is accepted in the prophet's hometown" (Luke 4:24). (And, incidentally, even Jeremiah faced imprisonment and personal attacks once he obeyed God's command to prophesy.)

Furthermore, in a beautiful passage in First Corinthians, Paul expresses the idea that as human beings, we simply cannot know everything that God knows, though someday we may hope to: "For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known" (1 Corinthians 13:12).

And, as Paul concludes, "Now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love" (1 Corinthians 13:13). Love, he believes, "bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends" (1 Corinthians 13:7-8).

As Christians, we are called to be the body of Christ: to be God's hands and feet in this world. Perhaps the earthquake in Haiti happened for a reason that we simply can't understand. Perhaps there was no reason at all, and the earthquake was just an earthquake -- a natural event not controlled or directed by God, albeit one made worse by our past neglect of Haiti and its people. Whatever the case, it is up to us to step in and help, and to keep helping long after the first wave of attention has come and gone.

It can be incredibly difficult to understand how a loving and protective God exists in the midst of a tragedy like the one in Haiti -- indeed, many argue that events like the one of January 12th prove that God can't be real. Let us not stop wrestling with painful and challenging questions like this one. But at the same time, let us remember that we are called to love in word and deed, following the example of Christ and doing whatever we can to heal Haiti and the rest of our world.

There are numerous groups currently working to aid the Haitian people. Consider making a monetary donation (as aid workers are calling for funds, not supplies) to an organization such as the Red Cross.

Photo credit here.

January 24 -- The Body of Christ

2010-01-18T10:56:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Nehemiah 8:1-3, 5-6, and 8-10, Psalm 19, First Corinthians 12:12-31a, and Luke 4:14-21.

I recently returned from a week-long trip to Ecuador with a group of divinity, theology, and business students. During our time in South America, we learned about issues as diverse as globalization and debt, food sovereignty and ecology, indigenous spirituality and refugees. We also had incredible opportunities to meet a variety of Ecuadorian women, men, and children, and were often overwhelmed by the hospitality we encountered.

On one of our last nights in Ecuador, we were invited to a church service held in a tiny chapel in a tiny mountaintop village near Guamote. The service was attended by many local families, our entire group, and a few people from Guamote (as well as a kitten who kept darting in and out).

Since I speak neither Spanish nor Quechua (the indigenous language spoken by most of the village's residents), I rarely understood exactly what the celebrants were saying. But as we all got up to take communion, I marveled at what a beautiful moment we were sharing: men and women from all over the world, coming together in one of the oldest rituals of Christianity.

This week's texts also emphasize the importance of coming together as the body of Christ. As Paul writes in First Corinthians,

"For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ. For in the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body -- Jews or Greeks, slaves or free -- and we were all made to drink of one Spirit." (1 Corinthians 12:12-13)

Paul wants to make clear that every single person is important for the body of Christ to work together; nobody is any less critical than anyone else. We are inextricably linked, he radically writes: "If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it" (1 Corinthians 12:26).

Both the readings from Nehemiah and Luke, for their part, offer examples of the faithful coming together to listen to God's word. In Luke, Jesus stands up in the synagogue to read the words of Isaiah, saying, "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor" (Luke 4:18-19).

It seems important that Luke records, "The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him...All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came out of his mouth" (Luke 4:20, 22). Jesus's declaration, which comes near the beginning of his ministry, was not made alone, or to a select few, but to his whole synagogue -- he was inviting his community to share in his announcement of hope and salvation.

In Nehemiah, we hear the story of Ezra bringing God's law to the people: "The priest Ezra brought the law before the assembly...in the presence of the men and the women and those who could understand; and the ears of all the people were attentive to the book of the law....And Ezra opened the book in the sight of all the people...Then Ezra blessed the Lord, the great God, and all the people answered, 'Amen, Amen,' lifting up their hands" (Nehemiah 8:2-3, 5-6).

But Ezra does not simply read the book of the law to the people. Rather, his peers then "read from the book, from the law of God, with interpretation. They gave the sense, so that the people understood the reading" (Nehemiah 8:8). It was important to Ezra that everyone, not just the elite, could have the chance to fully understand God's word -- the community was stronger for it.

Indeed, coming together in community is essential for our walk with God. It is in community that we learn and grow, question and have our questions echoed or answered, build relationships with people like and unlike us. The psalmist writes, "The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims his handiwork" (Psalm 19:1). This is a beautiful, incredible world that God has given us to share. How important, then, that we seize opportunities to explore it, improve it, and seek to strengthen the body of Christ, a body whose members are scattered throughout the globe.

December 20 -- The Lord is my Shepherd

2009-12-14T19:33:00.001-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Micah 5:2-5a, Luke 1:47-55 or Psalm 80:1-7, Hebrews 10:5-10, and Luke 1:39-45.

Candy canes are omnipresent at this time of year, whether they're decorating Christmas trees, tucked into stockings, or handed out by Santas at the mall. But where did this delicious seasonal treat come from? According to one legend, the choirmaster of a German cathedral in the 17th century passed out sticks of sugar candy bent into the shape of shepherd's crooks to keep noisy youngsters occupied during Christmas services. More than 300 years later, candy canes are still a hit!

Shepherds, of course, are found throughout the Bible and in Christian imagery. The word "pastor" comes from the Latin pastorem, "to shepherd." Perhaps the most famous of all the psalms, Psalm 23 begins, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters, he restores my soul...your rod and your staff -- they comfort me" (Psalm 23:1-4).

Jesus himself calls himself a shepherd in the Gospel of John, saying,

"I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me, just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep. I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd." (John 10:14-16)

This week's lectionary texts offer further reflection on the idea of relating God to a shepherd. As the prophet Micah exclaims, Bethlehem -- previously an unremarkable, small town -- would be the birthplace of the new ruler of Israel. Micah writes, "And he shall stand and feed his flock in the strength of the Lord, in the majesty of the name of the Lord his God. And they shall live secure, for now he shall be great to the ends of the earth; and he shall be the one of peace" (Micah 4:4-5).

Meanwhile, the psalmist also utilizes the imagery of a shepherd to pray for the restoration of God's people. "Give ear, O Shepherd of Israel," he pleads, "you who lead Joseph like a flock!" (Psalm 80:1). Unlike in Micah's triumphant prophecy, the psalmist is expressing dismay: dismay that he and his people are "the scorn of our neighbors" (Psalm 80:6).

It seems that the psalmist is incredibly frustrated -- his people are in need of guidance and protection. That is, they are in need of a shepherd: someone to lead them through the harsh challenges of life and bring them lasting peace.

In Luke's gospel, the shepherds are the first to hear the glad tidings of the birth of Jesus. And Jesus, as previously noted, called himself a shepherd. So we can sometimes forget that shepherds were not exactly highly regarded in ancient times. They were often viewed as rough and dirty; they were constantly on the move and didn't have much money. Their lives revolved around their flocks.

At first glance, then, it might seem strange for Christianity to associate God with a shepherd. Surely, the creator of the universe ought not be compared to someone as seemingly unsophisticated as a person who herds sheep for a living? But the God we worship is all about overturning expectations and rooting for the underdog -- Jesus stands up for the oppressed and the powerless.

As Mary elucidates in Luke, "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior...[God] has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty" (Luke 1:46, 52-53).

We live in a society where independence and individualism are highly prized. It can be hard to think that perhaps we are indeed in need of the guidance of a shepherd -- someone to show us the way when we feel uncertain, or to watch over us when we feel afraid. And God has certainly gifted us with free will, unique personalities, and the ability to create our own triumphs and make our own mistakes. But this Advent, let us also consider how wonderful it is that God is so full of surprises -- assuming and transforming the role of a previously scorned profession and shaking up the status quo, all out of God's infinite love for us.

Sources:

American Bible Society, "Shepherds"

Garrison, Webb. Treasury of Christmas Stories. Nashville: Rutledge Hill Press, 1990.

Photo credit here.

December 13 -- The Promise of Peace

2009-12-07T09:13:00.001-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Zephaniah 3:14-20, Isaiah 12:2-6, Philippians 4:4-7, and Luke 3:7-18.

This famous peace symbol was created in 1958 by Gerald Holtom, a British textile designer and conscientious objector during World War II. He created the symbol by combining two semaphore flags: N and D, standing for "nuclear disarmament." Now, more than fifty years after the peace symbol was invented, it still remains incredibly familiar and widely used.

This week's lectionary texts speak to us in a number of ways about the promise of peace. They tell us of the rejoicing that there will be when God's peace descends on the world, but also make clear that we are not to simply wait for peace to come to us: we must help to bring peace to our planet.

The prophet Zephaniah offers an exuberant call to praise, reminding his listeners to remember the victory and peace that God shall bring to them:

"Sing aloud, O daughter Zion; shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter Jerusalem! The Lord has taken away the judgements against you, he has turned away your enemies. The king of Israel, the Lord, is in your midst; you shall fear disaster no more." (Zephaniah 3:14-15)

God promises to restore God's people, explains Zephaniah, renewing them in love. Moreover, writes the prophet, God will pay special attention to the weakest and least powerful: "And I will save the lame, and gather the outcast, and I will change their shame into praise and renown in all the earth" (Zephaniah 3:19).

Isaiah offers a similar reflection on God's goodness, writing, "Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and will not be afraid, for the Lord God is my strength and my might; he has become my salvation" (Isaiah 12:2). God can be counted on; God will not forget God's promises to save and renew God's people.

Isaiah's words are full of beautiful imagery and calls to rejoicing: "With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation...Sing praises to the Lord, for he has done gloriously...Shout aloud and sing for joy, O royal Zion" (Isaiah 12:3, 5-6).

Zephaniah and Isaiah both are prophets, bringing the promise of God's redemption and peace to suffering people. Their words are filled with excitement and joy. But the words of John the Baptist in this week's passage from Luke seem far more sober. John, speaking to the men and women who have come seeking baptism, likely startles them by exclaiming, "You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Bear fruits worthy of repentance" (Luke 3:7-8). John seems to be warning that no one is exempt from the call to carry out good deeds and repent from sin.

John then proclaims a message of generosity and peace, telling his followers that they ought to share their clothing and food, be honest in their dealings with one another, and refrain from extortion (Luke 3:11-13).

But not all of what John has to say about peace is warm and fuzzy. Speaking about the coming of Christ, he warns, "He will baptize you with the Holy Sprit and fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire" (Luke 3:16-17). And we also read in Zephaniah, perhaps troublingly, that God is coming as "a warrior who gives victory" (Zephaniah 3:17).

What does it mean that we are called to live as peaceful people, but that we also read that God can be portrayed as a warrior, or as someone who will burn the chaff with "unquenchable fire"? Perhaps the authors of these texts want us to know how strongly God hates injustice and oppression, and realized that intense, even warlike imagery is the best way to get that message across.

Whatever the case -- and however much we may struggle with what it means to try to bring about God's peace in a world fraught with seemingly never-ending violence and injustice -- the words of Paul in Philippians offer powerful reflection on the power of peace:

"Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 4:4-7)

In the fifty years since Gerald Holtom invented the now ubiquitous peace symbol, the number of nuclear weapons has peaked, and then fallen. But there are still over 30,000 nuclear warheads on this planet, to say nothing of the countless other weapons, wars, and scourges of poverty and famine. This Advent, let us remember that God has not only promised us peace through Jesus Christ, but has called each of us to actively work for a peaceful and just world in whatever ways we can.

For more information about the peace symbol, see this article.

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December 6 -- Prophetic Words

2009-11-30T15:54:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Baruch 5:1-9 or Malachi 3:1-4, Luke 1:68-79, Philippians 1:3-11, and Luke 3:1-6.

In the New Testament, Christians are told that they have all been blessed with particular spiritual gifts by God. These gifts include the ability to teach, to lead, to be compassionate, to minister, and to be wise. While Christian denominations disagree about whether or not some of these gifts are still granted to followers of Christ -- speaking in tongues, for example -- most of us could name people we believe have been granted gifts like compassion or leadership.

But prophecy, listed as another gift of God in Romans 12:6 and 1 Corinthians 12:10, is probably not given much thought by contemporary Christians. Fortune cookies or magazine horoscopes may be as close as we get to anything resembling prophetic wisdom. But such things are just pale shadows of the powerful prophecies we find in this week's lectionary readings.

The prophetic book of Malachi, likely written in the 5th century BCE, offers us a glimpse of God's coming messenger:

"See, I am sending my messenger to prepare the way before me, and the Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple. The messenger of the covenant in whom you delight -- indeed, he is coming, says the Lord of hosts." (Malachi 3:1)

But Malachi warns that the coming of this messenger -- who can be interpreted as Christ -- will not be an easy one. "Who can endure the day of his coming," asks the prophet, "And who can stand when he appears?" (Malachi 3:2).

Indeed, explains Malachi, this messenger is coming for the purpose of redemption: "For he is like a refiner's fire and like fullers' soap; he will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver, and he will purify the descendants of Levi and refine them like gold and silver, until they present offerings to the Lord in righteousness" (Malachi 3:2-3).

This emphasis on purity is echoed in Philippians, as Paul urges the Philippian church to stay strong and continue to share the gospel. Paul's opening words to the congregation are beautiful and tender; "I thank my God every time I remember you," he writes, expressing his gratitude that the men and women there "hold [him] in [their] heart" (Philippians 1:3, 7).

Having praised their good works, he adds, "And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight to help you determine what is best, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless, having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God" (Philippians 1:9-11).

With this single sentence, Paul redirects the Philippians' attention to the prophesied second coming of Christ, urges them towards righteousness, and reminds them that the proper response to the life of Christ is love and an effort to grow in wisdom.

Finally, our two readings from Luke give us two additional prophecies about Jesus. John the Baptist, referencing Isaiah, proclaims, "Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight...All flesh shall see the salvation of God" (Luke 3:4, 6).

And Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist, becomes filled with the Holy Spirit, and announces,

"Blessed be the Lord God of Israel...He has raised up a mighty savior for us in the house of his servant David, as he spoke through the mouth of his holy prophets of old...And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins" (Luke 1:68-69, 76-77).

Zechariah's impassioned prophecy ends by expounding upon the righteous deeds that will be done by this messiah: "By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace" (Luke 1:78-79).

This last line of Zechariah's prophecy, I would argue, is what this week's texts are all pointing towards: the prophesied arrival of Jesus, God and man, who is coming to redeem and purify, liberate and save, and be in loving relationship with every single person.

Christ's coming is not gentle or safe -- it upturns the status quo. His arrival means that the weak need no longer fear the strong, the oppressed remain bound, or sinners feel crushed by their sins. The prophecies we read about him in this week's texts underscore his radical love and righteousness.

Prophecy is not often discussed in many of our churches, but this week's powerful passages are an excellent reminder that the Bible is filled with life-giving and earth-shaking prophecies about the Messiah -- and perhaps a call for us to stop and listen for the messages that God may be giving us today.

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November 29 -- Holy Waiting

2009-11-21T09:23:00.001-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Jeremiah 33:14-16, Psalm 25:1-10, 1 Thessalonians 3:9-13, and Luke 21:25-36.

I've always had something of a sweet tooth. So two days after Halloween, I stopped by my local CVS to see if I could pick up some discounted treats, but I was far too late: the shelves were already stocked with piles of red, green, and white candy.

From store displays to advertisements, one could easily get the sense that Christmas is right around the corner, even though we haven't even celebrated Thanksgiving yet! There often seems to be a crazy rush to plan holiday parties, bake piles of cookies, and buy, buy, buy. We take it for granted that the weeks leading up to Christmas are supposed to be frantic and breathless.

But the season of Advent -- which begins the new liturgical year -- offers us a different model. Advent is a time of waiting, of expectation, of hope, a period in which we are encouraged to withdraw from frenzied consumerism and overcommitments and remember just what it is we are really preparing for: the birth of Christ.

The lectionary readings for this week, which marks the first Sunday of Advent, help to center us in a new mindset, one that forces us to slow down and remember what God has done and will do. Jeremiah writes, in words that can be interpreted to foretell the coming of Christ,

"The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah. In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In those days Judah will be saved and Jerusalem will live in safety. And this is the name by which is will be called: 'The Lord is our righteousness.'" (Jeremiah 33:14-16)

The words of the prophet encourage us that our waiting is not in vain; the Messiah whose birth we await is a righteous God.

The psalmist, too, speaks of the importance of waiting, beseeching God, "Make me to know your ways, O Lord; teach me your paths. Lead me in your truth, and teach me, for you are the God of my salvation; for you I wait all day long" (Psalm 25:4-5). Here, drawing inspiration from the psalmist, we can use this time of holy waiting to deepen our walk with God, to seek new insights through prayer and the reading of scripture, and to love God by serving others. These weeks of waiting are a gift: a dedicated period in which to strengthen our relationship with God as we wait for the birth of God's son.

But somewhat disconcerting is this week's passage from Luke, in which Jesus foretells the coming of the Son of Man, when "people will faint from fear and foreboding of what it coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken" (Luke 21:26). Jesus exhorts his disciples, "Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day does not catch you unexpectedly...Be alert at all times" (Luke 21:34, 36).

If Advent is a time of waiting and preparation for the birth of Jesus, this emphasis on Jesus's second coming might seem out of place. But being reminded that Jesus has said that he will come again helps us to remember that God continually calls us to faithful waiting, whether we anticipate a newborn savior or a mighty king -- and God keeps God's promises.

Jesus himself urges us to cast aside our worries and bad habits, and refocus our attention on living our lives in service and love. We don't know exactly what is coming: God has a way of overturning out expectations. Who, after all, would have predicted that the creator of the universe would come to earth as a helpless baby? But as we begin the season of Advent, these passages urge us to extricate ourselves from the hubbub of pre-Christmas busyness, and, in a spirit of peace, pause to ponder the mysteries, promises, and majesty of God.

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November 25 -- Christ the King

2009-11-16T16:39:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: 2 Samuel 23:1-7 or Daniel 7:9-10 and 13-14, Psalm 132 or Psalm 93, Revelation 1:4b-8, and John 18:33-37.

When I was a child, I attended a school called Christ the King. Despite my grade school's name, however, I can't remember spending much time in religion class talking about Christ's royal attributes; much more emphasis was placed on the idea that Jesus was our friend, or our brother, or our shepherd.

But this week's lectionary passages draw our attention to the numerous places in the scriptures where Christ or God are described in regal, noble, majestic language.

Psalm 93 emphasizes God's ancient and unsurpassable power:

"The Lord is king, he is robed in majesty; the Lord is robed, he is girded with strength. He has established the world; it shall never be moved; your throne is established from of old; you are from everlasting." (Psalm 93:1-2)

The prophetic book of Daniel offers a startling vision of a new ruler:

"As I watched, thrones were set in place, and an Ancient One took his throne, his clothing was white as snow, and the ahir of his head like pure wool; his throne was fiery flames, and its wheels were burning fire." (Daniel 7:9)

The vision continues, with Daniel reporting the resplendent arrival of an ostensibly human figure:

"I saw one like a human being coming with the clouds of heaven. And he came to the Ancient One and was presented before him. To him was given dominion and glory and kingship, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him. His dominion is an everlasting dominion that shall not pass away, and his kingship is one that shall never be destroyed." (Daniel 7:13-14)

The author of Revelation, writing at least 250 years after the composition of the book of Daniel, makes reference to the prophet's words when expounding upon the glory of Jesus Christ, who he calls "the ruler of the kings of the earth" (Revelation 1:5):

"To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father, to him be glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen. Look! He is coming with the clouds; every eye will see him, even those who pierced him, and on his account all the tribes of the earth will wail." (Revelation 1:5-7)

And 2 Samuel, purporting to relate the final words of King David, offers a brief reflection on the ways in which rulers can learn from God, the ruler of all:

"The God of Israel has spoken, the Rock of Israel has said to me: One who rules over people justly, ruling in the fear of God, is like the light of morning, like the sun rising on a cloudless morning, gleaming from the rain on the grassy land." (2 Samuel 23:3-4)

There is clearly something to be said for describing God and Christ as kings or rulers. Such images convey the enormity of the power of the divine; they also emphasize God's ability to protect God's people, or to bring about justice and righteousness. When we see God or Jesus portrayed as a king, we are reminded of the fact that we do not rule the world, and we cannot always get our own way.

At the same time, descriptors like "king" can be problematic. We risk transforming God into a distant ruler, mighty but detached, unconcerned with human affairs. Or we may come to associate God with the world's fallible human leaders, which can be particularly destructive for those men and women who have lived under oppressive regimes. Moreover, calling God a king can serve to reify the traditional view of the divine as exclusively male.

So it's interesting to read in this week's passage from John the unique response given by Jesus to the accusation that he considers himself the King of the Jews:

"My kingdom is not from this world," he tells Pilate. "So you are a king?" Pilate presses. But Jesus only replies, "You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice." (John 18:36-37)

It almost seems as though Jesus himself is a bit uncomfortable with the notion that he is a king -- and he certainly does not consider himself a king in the same way as earthly kings. For Jesus, relationships and restoration were more important than titles and honors.

Ultimately, then, images of God and Christ as king can draw our attention to the majesty and glory of the divine, but we must take care to balance them with the other powerful images we draw from scripture: companion, redeemer, brother, and friend.

Picture credit here.

November 15 -- The End?

2009-11-09T20:26:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: 1 Samuel 1:4-20 or Daniel 12:1-3, 1 Samuel 2:1-10 or Psalm 16, Hebrews 10:11-25, and Mark 13:1-8.

Chances are that if you've been watching the news or keeping an eye on pop culture over the last few months, you've seen references to the year 2012 (or the forthcoming movie named for that year). A number of doomsday scenarios have sprung up around the (only partially true) notion that one of the calendars of the ancient Mayans ended in December 2012. Others have suggested that 2012 might see the earth swallowed by a black hole, or set on a collision course with another planet.

Such scenarios they are almost certainly the products of overactive imaginations; you'd be lucky to find a scientist -- or a contemporary Mayan -- who seriously believed that the world would end in 2012.

But humans seem to have always been intrigued by the notion of the end of the world. Christianity -- as well as Judaism and Islam -- carries with it the notion of the end of time. Theologians and authors disagree about the nuances of eschatology -- what exactly does it mean to say that Jesus will come again, or that there will be a final judgment?

This week's lectionary texts intriguingly explore these ideas without giving us any definitive answers. The picture they paint is mysterious and powerful, even frightening, as we read in Daniel:

"There shall be a time of anguish, such as has never occurred since nations first came into existence. But at that time your people shall be delivered, everyone who is found written in the book. Many of those who sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, some to everlasting life, and some to shame and everlasting contempt. Those who are wise shall shine like the brightness of the sky, and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever." (Daniel 12:1-3)

Meanwhile, in Mark, we hear of Jesus's disciples questioning him about his prediction of the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem, once Judaism's most sacred place. First warning his friends against being lead astray by imposters, Jesus adds,

"When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed: this must take place, but the end is still to come. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs." (Mark 13:7-8)

Indeed, references to earth-shaking events can be found throughout the Bible, including some unlikely places. Even Hannah, the mother of the prophet Samuel, expounds on the final judgment in her song of thanksgiving for the birth of her son:

"The Lord! His adversaries shall be shattered; the Most High will thunder in heaven. The Lord will judge the ends of the earth; he will give strength to his king, and exalt the power of his annointed." (1 Samuel 2:9-10)

The picture being sketched is one of great unrest. And so it's no wonder that there have been people in virtually every century who have believed that the end of the world is around the corner -- every generation has its own troubles and potential signs that the end is near.

But while speculating on the end of time can be a fascinating exercise -- indeed, the movie 2012 seems destined to be a hit -- in many ways it seems fruitless to try to definitively determine on what is meant by ideas like the last judgment or the coming of the kingdom of God, or when such events might occur. Paul, after all, seems to have believed that Jesus would return in his own lifetime. And as Jesus says in Matthew, "But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father" (Matthew 24:36).

Perhaps instead of spending our time worrying about whether or not the world will end in 2012 (for the record, I'm not holding my breath), we ought to turn to this week's passage from Hebrews, which focuses our attention on more worthwhile pursuits:

"And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the Day approaching." (Hebrews 10:24-25)

For more information about 2012, see NASA's recent awareness campaign here.

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November 8 -- Attitudes of Abundance

2009-11-02T15:19:00.000-08:00

This week's lectionary texts: Ruth 3:1-5 and 4:13-17 or 1 Kings 17:8-16, Psalm 127 or Psalm 146, Hebrews 9:24-28, and Mark 12:38-44.

The economic turmoil of the last couple of years has left virtually no person untouched. Women and men have lost their jobs and their homes; families have depleted their savings; poverty has affected an ever-increasing number of lives. Even those not directly harmed by this economic crisis are facing cutbacks and cost-cutting measures. We're all learning that material wealth and prosperity are not things that we can always count on.

This week's passages, therefore, offer an interesting perspective on what it really means to be well-off. We are urged by these texts to cultivate an attitude of abundance, remembering that God's ideas about prosperity may be quite different from our own.

In the reading from First Kings, we hear the story of the widow of Zarephath. The prophet Elijah enters this woman's town, having been told by God that the widow would feed him. But when Elijah approaches her, she is understandably confused:

"As the Lord your God lives, I have nothing baked, only a handful of meal in a jar, and a little oil in a jug; I am now gathering a couple of sticks, so that I may go home and prepare it for myself and my son, that we may eat it, and die." (1 Kings 17:12)

Like many widows of her time, this woman had virtually nothing -- indeed, she seems resigned to a terrible fate for herself and her child, and can't imagine how Elijah could have asked her for something to eat.

But Elijah explains, "Do not be afraid; go and do as you have said; but first make me a little cake of it and bring it to me, and afterwards make something for yourself and your son. For thus says the Lord the God of Israel: The jar of meal will not be emptied and the jug of oil will not fail until the day that the Lord sends rain on the earth." (1 Kings 17:13-14)

And indeed, as the story goes, Elijah was right: "She went and did as Elijah said, so that she as well as he and her household ate for many days. The jar of meal was not emptied, neither did the jug of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord that he spoke by Elijah." (1 Kings 17:15-16)

Many will recognize the similarities between this story and the stories found in the Gospels of the ways in which loaves and fishes were multiplied to provide food for thousands. In both, the aid of God multiplied resources far beyond what anyone had believed possible.

In Mark, we hear the story of another widow: this time, a woman who deposits two small coins into the treasury at the temple. Though her offering couldn't have looked like much to outside observers, Jesus reminds his disciples that "this poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on" (Mark 12:43-44).

Most of us are not in a position to give away all we have to the church or our neighbors. And there is no doubt that countless people -- both in our own country and around the world -- are struggling to even get to the next day, as was the widow of Zaraphath.

But what this week's passages remind us is that even in the midst of economic strife, we can rethink our ideas about prosperity and abundance. The old cliche is true: every little bit helps. We may not be able to give our next-door neighbor a new job, but we can invite him over for dinner. We might not be able to donate our income to our church, but we can volunteer to teach Sunday school or greet newcomers.

Even when things are hard -- and it's no denying that this is a challenging time -- God calls us to think about how we can cultivate an attitude of abundance that will be a blessing to our families and neighbors. Psalm 146 tells us that "the Lord watches over the strangers; he upholds the orphan and the widow" (Psalm 146:9). God has not forgotten about us -- and God has called us to share our prosperity, whether our possessions, our time, or our talents, with those in need.

Picture credit here.