Salt of the earth

Salt has been in the news a lot recently. The Department of Agriculture is changing its nutritional recommendations and considering switching from a food pyramide to a pie chart that looks like your dinner plate. Pie chart sounds a lot tastier than food pyramid, doesn’t it? What didn’t change was the recommendation that individuals limit their salt intake to 1500-2300mg a day, that’s about half a teaspoon to a teaspoon.

We love the taste of salt, and we love it for a reason; our bodies need it to function well. In addition to helping maintain the right balance of fluids, salt helps transmit nerve impulses, and it plays a significant role in the contraction and relaxation of muscles. For those of you who are into chemistry or physiology, unrefined salt contains all four cationic electrolytes, i.e. sodium, potassium, magnesium, and calcium, as well as other vital minerals. Unrefined salt is a convenient package; it’s like we are meant to have a little bit of ocean within us. I love that we need a spoonful of ocean in our bodies to be well.

The big salt story on the news, of course, is not about milligrams but thousands of tons of salt. These are some quotes from the last couple of weeks from Nashville news outlets:

Road salt has become a hot commodity in Middle Tennessee after the biggest snowfall since 2003.

Almost no one has it, and everyone needs it.

Even TDOT, the best salt customer in the state, can’t get salt delivered.

There are places, such as Hickman County, that don’t have salt and don’t have money for any more; they’re done.

And my favorite,

Salt is a savior on Middle Tennessee roads.

Nobody ever writes about pepper like that.

Before people started using canning or artificial refrigeration to preserve food, salt had already been the best-known food preservative, especially for meat, for thousands of years. One of the oldest verifiable saltworks on earth dates back to at least 6000 BC. During the third millennium BC, Egyptians and Phoenicians traded salt fish and salt from North Africa throughout the Mediterranean. During the first millennium BC, Celtic communities bought wine from Greece and Rome, and they paid for it with salt and salted meat.

Salt has been a crucial ingredient in just about any known human culture, and it is no surprise that it gave rise to a variety of symbolic uses. Because it is such a powerful food preservative, salt came to represent permanence and protection.

In ancient Near Eastern cultures, including Israel, salt was eaten by the parties to agreements and treaties. Sharing salt expressed a binding relationship. In the Bible, the expression “covenant of salt” (See, e.g. Numbers 18:19 and 2 Chronicles 13:5) illustrates the permanent nature of God’s covenant with God’s people. We like to talk about “rules written in stone” or “iron laws,” but God’s covenants are “covenants of salt,” forever based in a living relationship of partners who have bound themselves to each other. “You shall not omit from your grain offering the salt of the covenant with your God,” we read in Leviticus, “with all your offerings you shall offer salt (Leviticus 2:13).” There certainly was the notion that salt would purify the offering to make it acceptable as a sacred gift, but the pinch of salt also served as a reminder that covenant fidelity went beyond bringing gifts to the temple and included daily life in the community.

In the ancient Near East, and just about anywhere else in the world at different times, any kind of contamination and spoilage were attributed to the machinations of demons. People knew the preservative power of salt, and scholars suspect that it was for that reason that salt became the substance of choice to ward off evil forces. Cultural anthropologists are quite confident that Jewish mothers began rubbing their newborn babies with salt to protect them against evil spirits, as mothers and midwives continue to do to this day in many parts of the world. But I can’t help but wonder – when a mother in Israel rubbed her infant with salt, didn’t she also rub that little one, head to toe, with the covenant promises of God? Didn’t she put a grain of salt on her child’s lips to give him or her a taste of God’s faithfulness? The truth is, we don’t know what thoughts went through her mind as she did what her mother and grandmother, and their mothers before them, generation to generation, had done. Salt didn’t have just one symbolic meaning; it was a substance that offered itself as a vessel that could contain a wealth of meaning.

When Jesus says to us, “You are the salt of the earth,” what does it mean? He says it right after he spoke a blessing on those who suffer for his sake, “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.” Faithfulness to the way of Jesus will evoke reproach, resistance, and rejection – and he tells us to rejoice, because we are in the company of God’s prophets. We may feel like avoiding the confrontations that come with living as followers of Jesus; we may feel like withdrawing into a smaller, safer world of privatized religion; we may feel that adding a little religious icing to a thoroughly worldly cake is just fine. And so he reminds us who we are:

You are the salt of the earth. You are crucial to the world’s wellbeing. You add a particular flavor. Your presence in the world preserves what is good and heals what is out of balance.

I may be taking this a bit far here, but perhaps I am not: You are the salt of the earth. You are the de-frosting agent that helps thaw the frozen relationships of cold warriors and the slick paths of ice-cold corporate interests.

You are the salt of the earth. You are the living reminder of God’s faithfulness in the world, and the world cannot be without you.

Our bodies need a little bit of ocean in them to flourish. The world needs disciples of Jesus to be reminded of the covenant that binds us to God and to one another like an ocean of grace. What might that look like in your daily life?

There are plenty of bullies in our communities, not just in our schools, and you know that you need to do what you can to stop them, and you know that you may get a bloody nose, but you do it anyway. Salt of the earth.

Everybody at work, it seems, thinks jokes about lesbians are hilarious, and you know that this isn’t just a matter of your company’s non-discrimination policy, and you know, if you stand up and say, “Stop it, this is not funny,” that they will call you names behind your back or in your face, but you do it anyway. Salt of the earth.

Our entire culture seems to revolve around consumption and entertainment, and the forces of privatization and isolation seem to get stronger and stronger, and there are days when you question your Christian commitments to community and solidarity and the messiness of church life, but you stick with it. Salt of the earth.

The world needs disciples of Jesus to be reminded of the covenant that binds us to God and to one another like an ocean of grace.

Yes, there is plenty of hostility toward the gospel, and in our context, little of it comes in the form of outright persecution. It’s more like an endless commercial: friendly faces, great music, and clever lines inviting us 24/7 to turn our self-absorption and self-interest into a lifestyle. There are powerful alternatives to covenant living; there are powerful alternatives to understanding our lives as part of Christ’s mission. And that’s why Jesus’ words of affirmation are followed by words of warning. You are the salt of the earth – but salt can lose its integrity. And once salt has lost its integrity, once salt has lost its covenant character, “it is no longer good for anything.” The world needs salt, not just a little religious icing. The world needs a people who share their bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into the house and clothe the naked, instead of worrying about what they will eat or drink or wear. The world needs a people who practice righteousness together rather than serving their own interest.

When Jesus calls us the salt of the earth, we know one thing for sure: we are good for something, we are meant to add something. We have been called to a mighty purpose. The way of Jesus Christ reveals to us the depth of God’s grace, and our life together gives the world a taste and a glimpse of that depth. That’s why we sprinkle a little salt on Super Bowl Sunday and practice sharing our bread through Second Harvest and bringing the homeless poor into our house through Room in the Inn. We do this because we live for a world where that way of sharing life is as common and pervasive as salt is in the ocean.

I want to close with a quote, commonly attributed to George Bernard Shaw; there are different versions floating around, probably because people have made the words their own by adding a little here, and clipping a little there. I hear in these words echoes of Jesus’ words to us, declaring us to be salt and light of the world.

This is the true joy of life, the being used up for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the community and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die ... Life is no ‘brief candle’ to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for a moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.

It's all gonna be OK

The prophet Micah opens the door to a courtroom for us, and we hear the bailiff’s announcement: “Rise, plead your case before the mountains, and let the hills hear your voice.” The Lord has a controversy with his people, and the passionate words of accusation we hear come from a broken heart:

What have I done to you? In what have I wearied you? Answer me!

There is no answer, no response.

I brought you up from the land of Egypt, and redeemed you from the house of slavery, didn’t I?

O my people, remember now what happened every step of our way together, remember my saving acts, remember my faithfulness, remember me – why do you act like you don’t know me?

Now the people reply, and their testy answer reminds me of bad courtroom tv.

What is it you want? Can we ever even the score? What do you expect in return? Burnt offerings? Thousands of rams? Rivers of oil? Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression? What will it take to get you off our backs?

The people get defensive and ugly, as though God were a pesky contractor complaining that he hadn’t been paid. Thank God for voices like Micah’s to remind us that God doesn’t redeem people to keep them indebted for the rest of their lives like credit card slaves. God doesn’t wake us every morning, “Get up, and remember, you owe me.” That’s not our God. Our God frees people to live in covenant with them – and solely because in this covenant relationship life will flourish.

“He has told you, O mortal, what is good,” and what is good and necessary doesn’t resemble a divine wish list in some cosmic exchange of goods and services. More and bigger things play a prominent role in our dreams of a good life, but God requires that we do justice, and love kindness, and walk humbly with our God. The focus of God’s commandments is on actions, but not actions that can be checked off a list, “Done that, done that, so now I can finally do what I want.” What is good, and what God requires, translates into a way of life, into covenant-shaped doing, loving, and walking. This is much bigger than occasional acts of lavish piety measured in thousands of something or in rivers of something else: what God requires is a walk that reorients our feet, our desires, and our hope toward the reign of God. Nothing, of course, is harder than this dailiness, this not-just-on-Sunday-ness of faith.

We hear God’s passionate plea before the mountains and the hills, “What have I done to you? In what have I wearied you? Answer me!” We don’t know what to say – until we think about justice, kindness, and humility.

You, Lord, have been faithful to us. You have done nothing wrong. You have not wearied us. It’s what we do to each other, that breaks our hearts. It’s the ways we weary one another that griefs our spirits. Justice seems so far out of reach, kindness and humility are so easy to forget. Like you, we mourn the absence of righteousness and peace around us, between us, and within us. But we are like birds that have forgotten their song. Our hope is small and has no wings. We are broken-hearted, poor in spirit, and our souls are thirsty.

A couple of years ago, a mother described a familiar scene. They were in the kitchen, she and her 9-nine-year-old daughter, the little girl eating her cheerios and mom packing her pink Tinker Bell lunchbox into her book bag. The radio was playing in the background, the news was on, and suddenly the child said with great sadness, “Mom, is that war still not over yet?”

The mother wrote, “I could feel my soul draining through the soles of my feet.”

You know that feeling. The little girl gave voice to God’s grief, and you want to protect her, you want to make things right, and in the same instant you realize that you can’t. And so you go to her, and you hold her, and you tell her that it breaks your heart too, and you hold her a little longer before you kiss her on her forehead and say, “It’s gonna be OK, pumpkin, it’s all gonna be OK.”

And off she runs to catch the bus.

And you long for someone who knows all this and gets it. You look up, and there is Jesus, looking right at you, saying, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Oh yes, he is talking to you, and your thirsty soul soaks up his words. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” You mourn, you belong to that community that doesn’t resign itself to the present condition of the world as final. You lament that God’s reign has not yet come in fullness, and you dare to believe that the way of Jesus is the path to abundant life. “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.” Not the proud, the arrogant, or the violent – not those who always seem to bear it away; the meek will inherit the earth. It’s all gonna be OK, because God has vindicated the way of Jesus. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.” You are blessed because your desire and God’s desire are one in your hunger and thirst for strong and close relationships between you and God and those around you and all of creation.

Jesus’ words of blessing are not the old kind of wisdom that identifies blessing in fortunate circumstances, like, “Blessed is the husband of a good wife, the number of his days will be doubled.” That kind of wisdom is based on observation and experience. I have an appointment with my dental hygienist tomorrow, and I know she will welcome me saying something like, “Blessed is the man who flosses daily, for he will keep his teeth.”That’s good advice with plenty of evidence to support it, but Jesus’ words of blessing are not that kind of wisdom; he’s not telling us something others simply hadn’t noticed yet about how the world works. Jesus is working about the reign of God. He announces that the kingdom of heaven has come near, and he blesses those who otherwise have no reason for hope or cause for joy. They are blessed, you are blessed because the kingdom of heaven has come near and it bears the face of Jesus. In his healings and teachings, in his compassion for the poor and his meals with sinners, the joy of heaven embraces the earth; the future of fulfillment infiltrates the present and transforms it.

The present conditions of the unfortunate – their poverty, their pain, their lack of status, their hunger and thirst – are all variations on an ancient theme: those who seek to walk humbly with God will suffer, and yet they trust in God to vindicate them.

Words from the prophets and the psalms resonate in the beatitudes of Jesus:

Those who have clean hands and pure hearts … will receive blessing from the Lord, and vindication from the God of their salvation. _{Psalm 24:3-4}

Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath … for the wicked shall be cut off, but … the meek shall inherit the land. _{Psalm 37:8-11}

My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and behold the face of God? _{Psalm 42:2}

In the life of Jesus these threads of humility and strands of hope all come together; he weaves them into a royal robe and he wears it faithfully throughout his mission. He wears it as he enacts the justice of God’s mercy. He wears it as he embodies the kindness of God’s compassion. He walks humbly all the way, proclaiming with a pure and undivided heart the kingdom of heaven – fearless, because the final word would be God’s.

Soon we find ourselves not at the foot of the mountain where Jesus blesses and teaches, but at the foot of the hill where he has been executed. And again we hear God’s passionate plea before the mountains and the hills:

What have I done to you? In what have I wearied you? Answer me!

We have no answer. We only see what we do to each other in the name of justice and for the love of power, and we know that it breaks the heart of God. We look into the face of the man on the cross, and we have no answer. After we have done all that we are capable of doing to each other, the final word must be God’s.

We believe and proclaim that God’s final word has been spoken. God spoke into the darkness and chaos of our guilt, our proud amnesia, and our shame. God spoke into our helplessness and hopelessness. God spoke and raised Jesus from the dead. The end is not our doing, just as the beginning never was. The first and final word is God’s, and because of Jesus we trust that the word is life – beautiful, abundant life.

When we say to the little girl, “It’s all gonna be OK,” we comfort her in her mourning, and we teach her to trust in the God whose face we see in the face of Jesus. We teach her and we remind ourselves that God is faithful beyond anything we do or fail to do. With a simple gesture of healing and a prophetic word of promise we encourage her to live in the company of Jesus, to learn to do justice with him, learn to love kindness from him, and to walk humbly with him – or perhaps run with him. In the words of Barbara Kingsolver, “The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. The most you can do is live inside that hope, running down its hallways, touching the walls on both sides.” May it be so.

Human creativity in a world made by God

A lecture may not be your idea of a fun date for Valentine's Day, but in this case I would like to suggest that you at least consider it. On Monday, February 14, at 7:30pm, Jeremy S. Begbie will give a lecture at Belmont University's Massey Concert Hall. And when Dr. Begbie lectures, beautiful music and beautiful thought go together. I have heard him a couple of times, and listening to him was both entertaining and intellectually stimulating. The free lecture is sponsored by the Religion and Arts program of the Belmont University School of Religion.

It is one of the hallmarks of the modern era that human creativity is seen basically as a matter of bringing our own order to the physical world, constructing things out of nature but without regard for nature. Discovery and creativity are thus assumed to work against each other. 

Through music, this lecture will explore the roots of this assumption. By examining some of the music of J. S. Bach (1685-1750), a very different vista is opened up, a trinitarian vision of creation in which the discovery of God-given order is seen as integral to all human making. The lecture will include musical performance and recordings, in addition to extensive visual material.

Jeremy Begbie is the inaugural holder of the Thomas A. Langford Research Professorship in Theology at Duke University. He teaches systematic theology, and he specializes in the interface between theology and the arts. His particular research interest is the interplay between music and theology.

He is also Senior Member at Wolfson College, Cambridge, and an Affiliated Lecturer in the Faculties of Divinity and Music at the University of Cambridge. Previously he has been Associate Principal at Ridley Hall, Cambridge, and Honorary Professor at the University of St Andrews.

He is author of a number of books, including Voicing Creation’s Praise: Towards a Theology of the Arts (T & T Clark); Theology, Music and Time (CUP), and most recently, Resounding Truth: Christian Wisdom in the World of Music (Baker/SPCK). He is a professionally trained and active musician, and has taught widely in the UK, North America and South Africa, specializing in multimedia performance-lectures.

Paul: The Bad News Man

Thomas Jefferson called Paul the “first corrupter of the doctrines of Jesus,” and he was neither the first nor the last to accuse Paul of being “the Dysangelist” (a bearer of bad news rather than an evangelist, a bearer of good news).

Paul certainly is a towering figure in early Christianity, and through the centuries, he has been an apple of discord. Chances are, you hold some strong opinions about this “thirteenth Apostle” of Jesus.

Garry Wills is a historian with a doctorate in the classics, and he is a Catholic who once studied for the priesthood. He is also an excellent writer who won several awards for his publications, including the Pulitzer Prize for Lincoln at Gettysburg.

In 2006, Viking Press published What Paul Meant by Gary Wills, a little book the reviewers loved and didn't love so much. I like the book because it is a very readable and solid introduction, and it makes a great conversation starter.

I invite you to be part of a six-week book club, based on Garry Wills, What Paul Meant. Used copies of the book are available for under $1.00, both online and at local book stores. We will meet on Wednesday nights at 7pm, starting on March 2. Week to week, we'll read about thirty pages and meet to discuss how we have been enlightened, suprised, offended - who knows. It will not be an academic conversation, but a good way to talk about some of the basics of our faith. Perhaps you will make this group part of your spiritual practices during Lent.

If you are interested, please register below.

Fishing for people

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” Jesus sounds a lot like John, the man who baptized him (see Matthew 3:2, 17). The reign of God has come near, and we must understand that its closeness and its presence among us demands a complete reorientation of our lives: Repent. Turn around. Change course. Get out of the hamster wheel and onto a better path. Repent.

John the wilderness prophet has been arrested, but Herod cannot silence the proclamation of God’s reign, much less stop its invasion of the world. In Pasolini’s film version of The Gospel According to Saint Matthew, Jesus is walking at a brisk pace down a country road. A group of farmers traveling the opposite direction stop to look, perhaps to exchange a greeting, and, as he passes them, almost over his shoulder, he says, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near,” and just keeps moving. Where is he going?

Now he is at the lake, sees two brothers at work, says to them, “Follow me, I will make you fish for people,” and just keeps moving. The two hurry but they can barely keep up. Now he sees another pair of brothers, at work in the boat with their father, and he calls them, and immediately they leave the boat and the old man and follow him. The four hurry but they can barely keep up with him. What’s the rush? Where is he going? What about Zebedee, the old man? Is he too slow for the pace at which God’s reign is invading the towns of Galilee?

What a scene: Jesus and thefour men rushing away from the shore, and the old man alone in the boat, a net in his lap and a puzzled look on his face. “James, son, what do you want me to tell your mother?”

Matthew has no interest in Zebedee’s feelings, or anyone else’s, for that matter. This is no script for a television mini-series or a touching documentary. Peter’s wife, Andrew’s children, or Zebedee’s thoughts are completely irrelevant for the story Matthew is telling. In Matthew’s story, there’s only the urgency of Jesus’ call and the immediacy of these men’s response. There’s neither ‘hello’ nor ‘good-bye.’ There’s no quick discussion of what to do with dad nor a careful weighing of options between brothers. There’s only “the strange power of this Jesus, who declares and compels rather than explaining and persuading (Placher, Mark, p. 31).”

Matthew makes sure you and I understand that Jesus’ call is not some kind of church commercial inviting us to consider membership in an institution that will fulfill our spiritual needs and help us raise well-rounded children. This call is unlike any other; it grabs your soul like a voice from heaven, and when you hear it, there are only two options: you either follow its demand or you pretend there is no call, no divine claim on your life.

This call is intrusive and disruptive, and the chances that it will rearrange your relationships and your goals in life are 100%. In Jesus, the reign of God is invading the world, and this call pulls us out of our routines and makes us part of God’s mission. This doesn’t mean that we all quit our jobs and hit the road with Jesus or that we cease being the children of our parents, the brothers and sisters of our siblings, or the parents of our children. But this call to discipleship does make our lives part of God’s healing and liberating work and it redefines the meaning of words like brother and sister and neighbor and righteousness. This call grabs you not just for the sake of your soul, but for the sake of God’s reign in the world.

So the fishermen leave their nets and their boat, but they do not stop fishing. Who they were and what they did has been claimed and rearranged by Christ. “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.”

I have heard and read that story countless times, and for years, fishing for people sounded just fine to me. I thought of Peter and Andrew as fishermen turned mission workers: instead of catching fish, they brought people to Jesus, or something like that. Fishing for people sounded fine until I thought some more about the details: fish get caught in a net, they are pulled out of the water, then there’s a lot of wild wiggling and tossing, but eventually they all end up – fried, baked, or poached – on somebody’s dinner table.

Fishing for people – the phrase suddenly lost its missionary innocence, and I thought about the many ways in which fish are tricked with bait and fooled with lure only to get hooked and reeled in. Fishing for people cannot be about tricking or fooling people, though, if it is to have anything to do with the mission of Jesus.

I wondered what Matthew’s first readers might have thought when they heard this phrase, “I will make you fish for people,” and what kind of associations it triggered in their minds. A commentary directed my attention to a passage from the the book of Jeremiah, one of the great prophets in Israel, a passage many of Matthew’s first readers would have been familiar with. In chapter 16, the prophet declares,

I am now sending for many fishermen, says the Lord, and they shall catch them; and afterwards I will send for many hunters, and they shall hunt them from every mountain and every hill, and out of the clefts of the rocks. For my eyes are on all their ways; they are not hidden from my presence, nor is their iniquity concealed from my sight. _{Jeremiah 16:16-17}

The Lord announces a day of judgment, and people will be caught like fish and hunted like animals hiding in the clefts of the rocks. Fishermen and hunters are instruments of God’s judgment, and read next to this passage, fishing for people sounds frightening. Have Peter and Andrew, James and John been called to round up people for God’s imminent judgment as the kingdom of heaven is drawing near? Does this explain the urgency and speed with which Jesus is moving from scene to scene? Was Herod’s iniquity in putting John in prison the final straw?

The disciples followed Jesus as he went throughout Galilee, teaching in synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people. They watched and learned. Great crowds gathered, people came from all over Galilee, even from Jerusalem and from beyond the Jordan (see Matthew 4:23, 25). But this was no roundup operation. People followed Jesus and they witnessed the power of God making things right among them.

The disciples followed Jesus and they participated in his ministry of teaching and healing and restoring life. How did they participate? Mending nets used to be part of their daily work: after the catch was brought in and taken to market, they would sit on the beach or in the boat, checking the nets for rips and holes, and repairing them. They used to do this until the day when this irresistible voice disrupted their daily routine, commanding, “Follow me.” As fishermen they had many skills: they knew how to be patient, they had developed endurance, they worked well with others, and they had learned to cope with failure as well as success. But perhaps the best gift they brought to the mission of Jesus was their ability to notice even the smallest tear in a net, and their skill and care in mending it.

The purpose of God’s judgment is to make things right in the world. God doesn’t judge to condemn, but to restore and make whole; God judges in order to mend what is torn and broken.

In the advance of God’s reign in the world, the only fishing that is going on is done by God in the work of Jesus. The net has been cast wide, and God is letting it sink to the deepest depth, deeper than our best hopes can reach, down even to those who sit in great darkness and in the shadow of death, and God is pulling the net in, ever so slowly and carefully so as not to lose a single one.

The net, of course, is Christ and all who belong to him, all of his brothers and sisters, young ones and old ones, the whole family of God, fishing for people. We are the net, woven into a web of new relationships and mended by the grace of God, and we are the catch.

The people who sat in great darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the shadow of death light has dawned. _{Isaiah 9:2/Matthew 4:16}

We are the net and we are the catch, and we are being pulled up from the dark depth not to be left lifeless on the beach, but to live together in the light of God’s glory. This fishing expedition is a rescue operation, and Jesus calls us to it for the sake of our souls as well as for the sake of the reign of God in the world. More than anything, he calls us together into a social network of grace, stretching across time and space, so as not to lose a single one. This call is intrusive and disruptive, but it also draws us – all that we are and all that we do – into wholeness. Thanks be to God.

What are you looking for?

Sometimes it is a beautiful gift to get snowed in. Everything slows down, and one way or another, we are all given an opportunity to hibernate a little. This past week, the gift of snow was particularly welcome. In the middle of it, there was a memorial service in Tuscson. President Obama gave what David Brooks called a wonderful speech, and many agreed. Brooks wrote in his column New York Times, January 14, 2011, “[The President] didn’t try to explain the rampage that occurred there. Instead, he used the occasion as a national Sabbath — as a chance to step out of the torrent of events and reflect.”

Sabbath time is more than just a break, or a brief interruption of our hurried routines. Sabbath moments allow our souls to catch up. We pause to let the world turn without us for a while and remember what really matters.

David Brooks, like many of us, is deeply concerned about the deterioration of our public discourse, and our political discourse in particular, and he is well aware that “even a great speech won’t usher in a period of civility. Speeches about civility will be taken to heart most by those people whose good character renders them unnecessary.” And so Brooks doesn’t just call for more civility, but digs a little deeper, because “civility is a tree with deep roots.” He doesn’t dig just a little deeper, say to the need for excellent public education or the importance of independent journalists. He digs all the way down to our shared humanity as one of the foundations of our life together and talks about “failure, sin, weakness and ignorance.”

He reminds his readers that our efforts to change the world, even if we are at our best, will always be laced with failure. “The truth is fragmentary and it’s impossible to capture all of it. There are competing goods that can never be fully reconciled. The world is more complicated than any human intelligence can comprehend.” Such knowledge ought to instill in us two things: a profound sense of humility and modesty, as well as gratitude for others who argue with us, correct us, and introduce elements we never thought of.

Brooks suggests that “civility is the natural state for people who know how limited their own individual powers are and know, too, that they need the conversation.” Our problem, according to him, is that “the roots of modesty have been carved away.” We have forgotten how to be humble and “have lost a sense of [our] own sinfulness.” Brooks identifies cultural changes that have contributed to this loss, but again, the roots lie deeper. This kind of amnesia is of a spiritual nature, and it is no coincidence that Brooks ends his column with a quote from one of the most clear-eyed theologians of the 20^th century, Reinhold Niebuhr:

“Nothing that is worth doing can be achieved in our lifetime; therefore, we must be saved by hope. [Nothing which is true, or beautiful, or good, makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we must be saved by faith.] Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love. No virtuous act is quite as virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as it is from our standpoint. Therefore, we must be saved by the final form of love, which is forgiveness.”

The thing to remember then, when the Sabbath is over, is to live with such hope, such faith, and such love. We resolve to do better and then we step back into the torrent of events. How long will our memory last? How long before pride and fear throw the veil of amnesia over our hearts again?

In the gospel according to John, the first words of Jesus are not an admonition to try harder. Nor are his first words a call to repentance or a summons to join the movement. Jesus turns around and looks at two of John the Baptist’s disciples who have been following him for just a few moments. He doesn’t say, “Welcome! So glad, you joined me.” He asks them, “What are you looking for?”

Of course we are curious what these two unnamed followers of John the Baptist might be looking for. They just decided to follow Jesus after John had pointed him out to them and called him the Lamb of God. But we also hear this question after a terrible shooting that has shaken us deeply and raised all kinds of questions for us. We hear this question after a time of reflection during which the President called us “to expand our moral imaginations, to listen to each other more carefully, to sharpen our instincts for empathy and remind ourselves of all the ways that our hopes and dreams are bound together.”

Jesus asks, “What are you looking for?” and the question is not just addressed to two unnamed disciples in the first chapter of John. This question is the first thing Jesus says to anyone who opens the gospel according to John.

“What are you looking for?”

You want to say, “Depends …” but Jesus gives you time to let the question sink in. And you begin to think about your life, the dreams you once had and the ones that still energize you; you think about your family, your work, your friends. What am I looking for? You wonder if you should start a list to help you get to the bottom of your longing and searching.

The President remembered Christina Taylor Green and said, “I want our democracy to be as good as Christina imagined it. I want America to be as good as she imagined it.” And he added, “All of us – we should do everything we can to make sure this country lives up to our children’s expectations.”

Something like that will always be part of what I am looking for; but I am also looking for something or someone to sustain my hope and my faith and my love.

The two disciples of the Baptist are standing with John when Jesus walks by and their master exclaimes, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” They don’t know any better than you and I what that means, but they follow Jesus – not because they trust him, but because they trust John and his testimony about Jesus. According to John, discipleship begins with a very good question and the life of a witness who points to Jesus. Rowan Williams says that “Faith has a lot to do with the simple fact that there are trustworthy lives to be seen, that we can see in some believing people a world we’d like to live in.”[1]

Tomorrow we observe Martin Luther King Day, and while we mourn his death at the hand of a murderer, we continue to celebrate his vision and courage. The church remembers Dr. King because his was a trustworthy life, because in him we can see a world we’d like to live in – a world of justice, reconciliation, and promise. We remember him because his life is a testimony to the fullness of life God desires for all.

The Baptist points to Jesus, and two of his own disciples become followers of the Lamb of God. “What are you looking for?” he asks. They don’t give an answer; perhaps they don’t have one; perhaps they have too many. In response, they too ask a question, “Rabbi, where are you staying?” Are they asking for his address? I don’t think so. They are curious about where he is at home, they are curious about where his soul is planted, where he draws his strength, where he has found hope, faith, and love.

“Faith,” says Susan Andrews, “begins with curiosity. It is rooted in companionship. It often leads to commitment and conviction, but it all begins with curiosity.”[2] It all begins with curiosity – and Jesus says, “Come and see.” He invites the two, he invites you and me to live in the company of the Word become flesh.

I don’t journey with him because I have seen and now know, but because I want to learn to see more clearly, more truthfully, more faithfully, more completely. I journey with him because I am looking for wholeness in this fragmented world. I am looking for a community that embodies grace and solidarity. I am looking for an economy whose currency is gratitude, not greed. I journey with Jesus because his beautiful life illumines the law, the prophets, and the psalms as well as my own life. I journey with him because I trust the testimony of those who discovered grace and truth in his company, who found a love that holds all things, hope against hope, and deep, abiding faith. It all begins with curiosity, and it is rooted in companionship.

We need one another, and not just because we all benefit from arguing with each other, correcting each other, or introducing perspectives that hadn’t been considered yet in the great conversation. We need one another so we can seek the truth in our opponents’ error and the error in our own truth.[3]

More than anything, we need one another to practice humility in the spirit of Jesus; and it is really quite simple. We ask one another, “What are you looking for?” and we listen – we listen carefully and with empathy, we listen long enough for the question to sink in, and we hear each other out as we journey together.

It really is quite simple.

---

[1] Rowan Williams, Tokens of Trust: An Introduction to Christian Belief (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2007), p. 21-22

[2] Susan Andrews, Lectionary Homiletics Vol. 16, No. 1, p. 65

[3] Which is another Niebuhr quote, this one a favorite of E.J. Dionne’s



Who is the servant?

The year began with yet another attack by terrorists against a house of worship, this time it was a church in Egypt, in Alexandria, claiming 21 lives on New Year’s eve. Following the attack, there were strong words of condemnation from government officials and notes of sympathy from around the world, but it didn’t stop there. A remarkable thing happened.

A growing group of “Egyptian intellectuals and activists [called] upon Egyptian Muslims at large to flock to Coptic churches across the country to attend Coptic Christmas Eve mass, to show solidarity with the nation’s Coptic minority, but also to serve as ‘human shields’ against possible attacks by Islamist militants.”

Father Rafaeil Sarwat, a Coptic priest, commented, “Although 2011 started tragically, I feel it will be a year of eagerly anticipated change, where Egyptians will stand against sectarianism and unite as one.”

In the days following the attack, Muslims and Copts joined together in a show of solidarity that included street protests, rallies, and widespread Facebook unity campaigns calling for an “Egypt for All.” The outpour of anger towards the terrorist attack has taken even Egyptians themselves by surprise. In past attacks on Egypt’s minority Christian community, verbal condemnation has been immediate, but even the most moderate of Egyptians have seldom taken to the streets or offered themselves as “a Muslim shield” in support of the Copts.

Christians in Egypt celebrate Christmas on January 7, and Christmas Eve services took place on Thursday night. In some churches, the congregations had hung banners above the sanctuary doors, welcoming their Muslim neighbors—and in an unprecedented show of solidarity, they came.

Muslims and Copts gathered at churches across Egypt Thursday night for mass. In Abbasiya, where the Patriarch of the Coptic Orthodox Church, Pope Shenouda III, led the Christmas eve service, dignitaries, movie stars, officials and government ministers congregated in a show of respect and support. Inside the cathedral, plainclothes security were conspicuous, both in the altar and dotted throughout the gathered congregation. “You have shielded us and protected us God,” an exhausted looking Pope began a little after 10pm to the packed congregation.

I don’t know if Coptic Christians sing Silent Night on Christmas Eve, I doubt it, but on Thursday night, together with their Muslim neighbors, they proclaimed heavenly peace on earth. Defying the path of violence and terror, they stood side by side in common witness to a better life, a truly godly life.

We heard a passage from Isaiah this morning, a passage where God declares, “Here is my servant, whom I uphold, my chosen, in whom my soul delights.” The curious thing about this servant in Isaiah is that no one really knows who it is. Sometimes it looks like all of Israel is the servant, as in this passage,

Israel, my servant, Jacob whom I have chosen, the offspring of Abraham, my friend; you whom I took from the ends of the earth, and called from its farthest corners, saying to you, “You are my servant, I have chosen you and not cast you off”; do not fear, for I am with you (Isaiah 41:8-9).

Is all of Israel the servant? Other passages suggest that the servant is an individual or perhaps a group who has a mission to Israel and to the world, as in this passage,

It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth (Isaiah 49:6).

Imagine reading the book of  Isaiah, all 66 chapters, and then you get this question in the test,

Is the servant

a. Israel
b. a remnant of Israel
c. the prophet himself
d. some other individual, or
e. all of the above?

The really interesting stuff is always too complex for multiple choice answers. I suspect that the identity of the servant has been left intentionally open, because the servant is God’s own; the servant’s identity is entirely determined by God’s choosing, God’s spirit, and God’s delight. The servant’s work is to bring justice to the nations, and the servant will not grow faint or be crushed until justice has been established in the earth. The text gently directs our curiosity and attention from who the servant is to what the servant does and how the work is done:

Justice doesn’t drive down Main Street in a Hummer or a tank. Justice notices the bruised reed and is careful not to break it. Justice doesn’t quench the dimly burning wick on the way to brighter, more important things, but is careful to protect the little flame. The servant doesn’t drive a divine bulldozer, but is attentive to the vulnerable and the fragile nature of wounded life. This is what being a servant of God looks like, says Isaiah, and he says it to Israel as a whole and to those in exile who question God’s justice; he says it to kings and judges, to priests and prophets; he says it to any woman and any man who desire to serve God.

Thus says God, the Lord, who created the heavens and stretched them out, who spread out the earth and what comes from it, who gives breath to the people upon it and spirit to those who walk in it: I am the Lord, I have called you in righteousness.

Who is the servant? Those who hear that particular call and serve in righteousness; those who practice vulnerability and are attentive to others who are vulnerable; those who work for the reordering of social life and social power until all who share one breath and one planet are free to fully live the gift of life.

Setting fire to a synagogue, a mosque, or a church in the name of God only makes you an arsonist and a murderer, not a servant of God. The servant of God cries with the bereaved and sits with the defenseless while they say their prayers.

It is no accident that followers of Jesus heard echoes from Isaiah in the voice from heaven that said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Here is my servant, my chosen in whom my soul delights.

Now we are at the river. This is the river that runs from the garden of Eden to the city of God, from Genesis to Revelation, from the beginning of creation to its fulfillment. Its waters run through the scriptures and shape the landscape of our faith. The river of God is full, and its waters bring life and gladness. In the desert, Hagar and Ishmael found a spring to sustain them. In the wilderness, Moses struck a rock and God’s thirsty people drank. Bearing the ark of the covenant, Israel stepped into the river and the water parted, and they walked across and entered the promised land. This is the river where Naaman, the great general of the king of Aram, washed himself and was cleansed. This is the river that runs between promise and fulfillment, between the desert and the land of milk and honey, between slavery and servanthood.

This is the river where the people gather in response to John’s urgent call to repentance. “I baptize you with water, but one who is more powerful than I is coming after me; I am not worthy to carry his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” And Jesus came from Galilee and he waded into the water to be baptized. Why, if John is not worthy to carry the sandals of this more powerful one, does Jesus seek John’s baptism? Why, if Jesus is the bringer of fire, does he desire to be baptized with water? Why, if Jesus is the agent of God’s judgment, would he submit to a baptism of repentance? “I need to be baptized by you,” said John, “and do you come to me?”

Yes indeed. The servant of God stands in the river with us. The waters carry God’s promises of life in fullness, but they are also saturated with our fear and the terrror and pain of our godless lives. “Let it be so now,” the Lord says, “for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”

Righteousness is fulfilled in Jesus’ solidarity with our broken humanity. He gives himself up to the river of God’s grace and to the murky water of our sinfulness. He gives himself to the path of servanthood that lies ahead of him. The path leads to the cross. Now we ask, who is the servant?

And all we can say is, this one. This one whose life echoes the life of God’s people from the beginning of creation to its fulfillment. This one who notices the bruised reed and is careful not to break it. This one who doesn’t quench the dimly burning wick on the way to brighter, more important things, but is gentle and careful to protect the little flame. He stands with us in our vulnerability and brokenness, and his love makes us whole. His life reminds us that we are God’s beloved children in whom God’s soul delights. His life reminds us what it means to be human.

After the violent attack against a house of worship in Egypt, people stood together, defying the path of violence and hate. Moved by those courageous actions, a Coptic priest commented, “Although 2011 started tragically, I feel it will be a year of eagerly anticipated change, where Egyptians will stand against sectarianism and unite as one.” We are still shaken by the murderous attack against Representative Gifford in Tucson. Will this be a year of eagerly anticipated change for us? Will we have the wisdom and the courage to stand together against hate and violence? I pray we will, in Jesus’ name.

Nations shall come

What kind of year do you think this will be? Will the economy gain enough momentum so more businesses will hire workers? Will the bloodshed in Afghanistan continue? Will the people of Haiti see some progress in the rebuilding of their country? Will the tone of the debates in Washington change? Dana Milbank made a new year’s resolution for all of us.

“I know we say it every year: This is the year we are finally going to go on a diet. If you look at the polls ... everything that we need to do as a government, as a society — we need to cut the debt, we need to cut the spending, we need an increase of taxes — all these painful things, we’re not willing to do. The polls show repeatedly we’re not willing to do the hard things. So this is the year we’re going to eat the vegetables, we’re going to eat the fiber and we’re really going to cut some of the fat out.”

Will this be the year when we find a way to do the hard things without assigning the pain to the most vulnerable among us? What vision, what promise will guide us?

I want to tell you a story from the good and golden days, and I won’t be talking about the 90’s or the 50’s or whatever decade has acquired a golden hue in your memory. There was a time when Jerusalem was the capital of a great kingdom, stretching from the Euphrates in the East to the land of the Philistines in the West, and to the border of Egypt. It was the time of King Solomon. His fame spread throughout the lands and to the coasts of Africa, and when the Queen of Sheba heard of him, she came to Jerusalem with her retinue; she came with caravans of camels bearing spices, much gold, and precious stones. The Queen of Sheba gave King Solomon those royal gifts, and he also received much gold from the traders and merchants, and from all the kings of Arabia and the governors of the land. Solomon was a king who excelled all the kings of the earth in riches and in wisdom, and every one of them, year by year, brought him gifts of silver and gold, garments, weaponry, spices, horses, and mules (see 1Kings 4:21; 10:1-25).

Generation after generation, Israel’s children sat in the laps of their grandparents, begging them to tell them stories about Solomon, the wise king. And Grandpa and Grandma loved to do it; with lavish words they painted beautiful scenes of peace and prosperity. They told stories with a golden hue because for hundreds of years the kings of the nations came to Israel not to bring treasure, but to take it away; not to build up Jerusalem’s splendor, but to destroy it.

After two generations in exile in Babylon, the first groups of Israelites returned to Jerusalem, and things didn’t look good at all. Most buildings were destroyed, the economy was in a shambles, the temple lay in ruins, and the community was divided. Who would repair the city walls? Who would rebuild the temple? Who would pay for it? What had become of them and their city! The once proud nation was but a tiny colony on the fringe of the vast Persian Empire, and many of their people still lived far away on the rivers of Babylon. The whole city was sitting in the dust, under a grey blanket of disappointment and despair, and the old folks were tired of telling any stories.

Just then the prophet’s words pierced the gloom:

Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you. For darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples; but the Lord will arise upon you, and his glory will appear over you. Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn. … the abundance of the sea shall be brought to you, the wealth of the nations shall come to you. A multitude of camels shall cover you, the young camels of Midian and Ephah; … they shall bring gold and frankincense, and shall proclaim the praise of the Lord (Isaiah 60:1-6).

The prophet didn’t tell stories about the good and golden days of the past; the prophet sang a vision of God’s glory transforming the world. Now there is more than one way to hear this prophetic pronouncement. Here is one: Israel has been small, weak, and poor for so long, but now finally the tables are starting to turn: they would be great, they would be strong, they would be rich – greater, stronger and richer than all the other nations. Jerusalem would become the hub of the global economy, home to the largest financial institutions and the most powerful trade organizations. Sky-high bank towers would line the streets of downtown, and the world would play by Jerusalem’s rules.

But there is another way to hear the prophet’s words. It’s the same text, but a different voice and a different hope: Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you. Jerusalem, this is the moment to let your life reflect the glory of God. Shine with hope, and the nations will be drawn to your light. The whole world will gather to be part of God’s future.

What kind of year will this be? What vision and promise will guide us? Matthew tells us that in the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem.

We don’t know much about them, these magi from the East, but they have always fascinated us, these travelers from far away lands, bearing exotic gifts. And because we know almost nothing about them, our imaginations soar. Matthew gives us a blank canvas, and we gladly fill it with rich, colorful detail. First we look at the map, and we list all the lands in the East – Arabia, Babylon, Persia, India, and China – from how far East did they come, the wise men? The ends of the earth are the limit!

Then we look at the gifts they bring – gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Not the kind of gifts you and I would bring to a baby shower, but didn’t Isaiah sing about gold and frankincense, and didn’t he sing about kings? In our imagination the wise men now certainly are kings, royal visitors bearing royal gifts, and because they come with three gifts, we determine that there are three of them. So now we’re singing, We three kings from Orient are, but our hunger for detail isn’t satisfied yet.

Did they walk all the way? Certainly not, and already we see caravans of camels, not just three or four, but the multitude of camels from Midian and Ephah we heard about in Isaiah’s song (Isaiah 60:6).

With passing centuries, the stories of the wise men from the East became ever more colorful and elaborate – all because of the child whose star they had observed and followed. This child calls forth holy extravagance in story, image, song, and gift. The nations are coming to the light that has dawned, and the travelers from the East represent all of them – Asia, Africa, Europe, Australia, and the Americas: the whole world is gathering to be part of God’s future. Matthew gives us a hint, and we run with it because we know in our hearts that this child of Bethlehem is God’s Messiah, born to bring us all together in a community where no nation, no person is an outsider.

To recognize Jesus as the new ruler is to side with an unexpected movement of God, a movement begun on the margins and plotted to break through to the center. The glory of God has not risen upon Jerusalem’s palaces of power and knowledge, but nine miles south, in a dusty little hill town. And this contrast, this conflict runs through the whole story, all the way to this new year and to what kind of year we will make of it. There are two kings and two kingdoms, and we must decide where we will go to pay homage. We must decide whether we want the peace and prosperity of Herod’s realm, the reign of fear and lies and violence, or the other kingdom that began in Bethlehem: the kingdom of mercy and grace.

The wise men didn’t hesitate. They took their wealth and wisdom and went to Bethlehem, to the house where the glory of God had entered the world in utter vulnerability.

I still wonder if this will be the year when we the people find a way to do the hard things without sending the bill to the most vulnerable among us. A few years ago, Miroslav Wolf wrote an interesting little Christmas commentary (see Christian Century, December 27, 2003, p.31): “The wise men did not huddle around a fire and give gifts to each other and delight in each other’s generosity.” Instead, they opened the circle and gave their gifts to the child before whose glory they bent their knees. Will this be the year when we open the circle?

Our life is a journey in search of One before whose glory we can kneel and to whom we can offer the best of our gifts – One who is worthy of our worship. And the gospel is very humble in its invitation to us to take the road to Bethlehem and find the glory of God in the face of a child. Great joy awaits us there, and in Jesus’ house all the nations are at home. I will travel on in the light of this promise.

Mother Rachel's tears

Christmas Eve was lovely and quiet; the bright star in the baptistery window looked beautiful against the midnight darkness. With wide-eyed wonder we listened and sang, and we are still looking for words to proclaim the good news of great joy: Christ is born in Bethlehem!

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

We heard the story, we sang the carols, and we lit our candles, little flames held high to greet the light that shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. Downstairs, our Room in the Inn guests slept peacefully in the warm fellowship hall, tired after a long, cold day. Some of you had been busy in the kitchen cooking a big Christmas dinner for our guests, others were here to welcome and eat with them or stay overnight. Secret Santas brought wonderful gifts, and some of you got up very early on Christmas Day to cook breakfast for all who came in from the cold. Ever since the light of heaven came to earth in Jesus, you have found ways to greet and bear and share it – little flickering lights that don’t belong under a bushel basket.

Most of us spent Christmas morning at home, surrounded by the joyous rumpus of children  and a sea of gift boxes and wrapping paper. We laughed and talked, watched the Christmas movies, played and sang, ate and drank and made merry, and watched the snow fall on the first white Christmas in Nashville in 17 years. Eventually we all fell asleep, the little ones dreaming about their new toys, and the grown ups still humming the tunes that make us happy with tears in our eyes.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

And here we are on the day after Christmas, and Matthew yanks us back from the time of wonder into the violent reality of the time of king Herod. Matthew tells us the story of the birth of Christ, and he leaves little room for sentimentality. I like a little sentimentality. My mind always wants to act like a stern teacher, giving me this serious look about the serious state of the world and the need for unsentimental thinking and cleareyed faith, but my soul is wiser. My soul knows that a little sentimentality doesn’t hurt anyone, and it goes a long way in keeping us all from slipping into cynicism. Matthew will make sure we won’t sit too long in a warm, nostalgic tub, forgetting that Jesus wasn’t born in a little village of collectible Victorian houses.

A king is born, but there already is a king, and there is only room for one on the throne. It doesn’t get any more unsentimental than that.

The birth of Christ truly takes place in our world, and so the little town of Bethlehem lies still only until the shouts of soldiers and the cries of terrified children break the silence. The streets are dark and they are filled with the wailing and loud lamentation of mothers and fathers.

Stanley Hauerwas says,

Perhaps no event in the gospel more determinatively challenges the sentimental depiction of Christmas than the death of these children. Jesus is born into a world in which children are killed, and continue to be killed, to protect the power of tyrants (Matthew, Brazos 2006, p. 41).

Jesus is born into a world of terror and tears—our world. A world whose rulers consider a human life a small price to pay when power is at stake.

Herod the king, in his raging,
charged he has this day
his men of might, in his own sight,
all children young to slay (Coventry Carol).

Jesus is born in Bethlehem, and Herod is frightened, and all Jerusalem with him (Matthew 2:3), and brutal violence erupts, and still the world out-Herods Herod (Robert Lowell). The kingdoms of the world resist the coming of the kingdom of heaven with everything they got, but even at their most violent, they cannot stop it.

In the gospel reading for today, the brutal clip of evil Herod and his death squads is surrounded by the quiet scenes of Joseph who has learned to listen to the angels of the Lord. Herod may take centerstage, but the little Messiah slips through on the edge of the scene, a child of refugees.

Many have asked why the Lord did not send an angel to warn the other parents of Herod’s bloody plan. Many find it impossible to trust a God who would allow the death of all these children in order to save one. If Matthew had a chance to respond, I believe he would say, “Keep reading; this isn’t the whole story yet.”

Matthew’s first readers recognized Herod; he was a familiar figure: Pharao, king of Egypt, who was building an empire on the backs of slaves and wanted to keep it that way. Afraid that the Hebrew slaves might become too numerous to control, he told their midwives to kill all Hebrew boys at birth and let only the girls live. But Shiphrah and Puah, the midwives, obeyed God rather than Pharaoh, and many boys lived, among them Moses who grew up to lead his people from the house of slavery to the land of promise. Moses had to flee, and he lived far from his people as a refugee until the Lord said to him, “Go back…, for all those who were seeking your life are dead.” Moses returned, and the liberation of God’s people began.

Jesus and his parents are refugees in Egypt, when an angel of the Lord says to Joseph, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child’s life are dead.” Matthew wants us to hear these resonances between the story of Moses and God’s people and the story of Jesus. Pharao raises his head again and again, attempting to secure power with violence, but his reign will not last. The kingdom of heaven comes, and the empire of sin strikes back, but the purposes of God prevail.

The ultimate confrontation between God’s reign and the empire of sin was the cross, erected not very far from Bethlehem. Another Herod was on the throne, yet the methods of oppression hadn’t changed; Jesus died because Herod was frightened and all Jerusalem and Rome with him. Christmas and the cross belong together, and there is nothing sentimental about the cross.

Pam Fickenscher says about the massacre of the infants,

You could make a good argument that we should save this story for another day—Lent, maybe, or some late night adults-only occasion. But our songs of peace and public displays of charity have not erased the headlines of child poverty, gun violence, and even genocide. This is a brutal world.

This is indeed a brutal world, but because of Jesus we believe that the last word doesn’t belong to injustice and violence, but to love and hope.

There is another memory Matthew stirs up with his story of the massacre of the infants. Jeremiah comes to mind, and the days when the Babylonian army sacked Jerusalem and the inhabitants of Judah were sent into exile.

A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.

Rachel was the mother of Israel, one of the great matriarchs, and her tomb was on the way to Ephrath, that is, Bethlehem (Genesis 35:16-19). Rachel weeps for her children who are being persecuted, murdered, exiled, sent to concentration camps, to gas chambers, and to the cross, and she weeps inconsolably. In the book of Jeremiah, her tears are followed by a promise of God, and Matthew knows it, but he doesn’t quote those lines here. I imagine he wants us to remember the words like a faint echo and carry them with us in this brutal world.

According to Jeremiah, the Lord said to Rachel, Keep your voice from weeping and your eyes from tears; … they shall come back from the land of the enemy; there is hope for your future; your children shall come back to their own country (Jeremiah 31:16-17).

Nothing less will do. Herod’s actions are brutal and painful, but they are not how it will always be in God’s world – and the reversal is under way. Emmanuel is born in Bethlehem: God is with us.

Jewish mystics taught that only one place on earth would be suitable for the coronation of God’s Messiah; not a high place like Jerusalem, but that lonely place by the road, where Rachel weeps until her children return. The exile of God’s people comes to an end when the Messiah comes to lead them home.

Where shall this be? On the way to Ephrat at the crossroads, which is Rachel’s grave. To mother Rachel he will bring glad tidings. And he will comfort her. And now she will let herself be comforted. And she will rise up and kiss him (Zohar 2.7-9; see Fred Strickert, Rachel Weeping, Liturgical Press 2007, p. 32).

Nothing less will do, and Matthew knows it. He wrote his Christmas story long after Easter. He wrote his Christmas story with the bold hope that the Messiah who was crowned on Golgotha, is God with us in our suffering. He wrote his Christmas story trusting that the day had come when mother Rachel would rise up to kiss the Messiah.

We have heard the story, we have sung the carols, and we had our candles lit, little flames held high to greet the light that shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. God has come to bring the world home.

Silent Prayer

Prayer: what is the first thing that comes to mind? Perhaps a familiar phrase from an ancient prayer or a line from a Psalm. Perhaps you recall gathering with others for morning worship or evening prayers, or you remember those quiet minutes at the beginning of the day when you pause to read and pray for your family and friends. For most of us, prayer is an essential part of our life, or it is a dimension we would like to live more fully.

Very often, the hyperactivity of our days and our minds creates obstacles that keep us from praying well. We may find ourselves saying the words, but we notice that we are not really present; our lips move, but our minds wander. Something within us yearns to simply rest in the presence of God. Silence may not feel like prayer at first, because we are so used to saying words, but silence allows our hurried souls to arrive in the present moment. Silence can help us become more attentive to the still, small voice of God.

For six weeks in January and February, we will offer an opportunity to explore silent prayer in a group. At each gathering, we will begin with a brief teaching, no more than 5-7 minutes, and then we will simply sit for 20 minutes, quietly following our breath as it leads us from busyness to stillness.

Does that sound like something you would like to do? It gets even better. This group is not only an exploration of silent prayer, but also an effort to discover new possibilities for interfaith spirituality, and so it will include Jews and Christians. Rabbi Kliel Rose from the West End Synagogue and Rev. Thomas Kleinert from Vine Street Christian Church developed the format together, and the group meetings will alternate between the synagogue and the church.

If you have any questions, feel free to contact Rabbi Rose or Rev. Kleinert. The first meeting of the group will be on Wednesday, January 19, at 6:30pm at the West End Synagogue, and meetings will continue for five more weeks (until February 23) on Wednesdays at 6:30pm. The group is free, and there will be no homework. We will sit in chairs, and people of all ages are encouraged to participate.

Naming Our Hope

Bonnie Carenen works with Church World Service in Indonesia. She and I never met in person, but a couple of years ago I read a series of excellent meditations for Advent she wrote when she was a Week of Compassion intern, and since then we have stayed in touch. Last week she wrote a brief update about the work she does in Indonesia.

Those of you who receive Week of Compassion updates via email, Twitter or Facebook may have read it; I also sent it to those of you who subscribe to our electronic prayer list (and I only mention this to remind you how easy it is these days to stay informed about the good work of Week of Compassion and Church World Service).

On a recent Saturday, Bonnie and her team were rained in in the town of Sikakap, the main city for aid distribution and relief work after the October 25 earthquake and tsunami in the Mentawai Islands. The sea was too rough to travel by boats, and the roads were too muddy for aid vehicles, even the trusted motorcycles Church World Service frequently relies on. So they spent the afternoon in the makeshift hospital into which the local Protestant church had been converted. More than one hundred patients and their families had been welcomed there and received treatment, and fortunately, many of them had recovered and found other places to stay.

They heard about one recent patient, an infant, whose parents both had died; rescue workers found him two days after the earthquake – still alive. No wonder the locals talked about him as the miracle baby, Baby Emmanuel. You’d think that if you wanted to write a brief article about your work in the aftermath of a natural disaster, and you heard this story about a little child who miraculously survived, and you’re told that the child’s name is Emmanuel, God with us – you’d think that would be plenty to write a moving Advent reflection on the urgency and promise of the work of Week of Compassion and Church World Service in a place of great need. But Bonnie started a new paragraph.

One young woman and her family were still at the hospital, living on rolled-out mats on the concrete floor of the church building. She had given birth at the hospital two months prematurely, just three days after the tsunami. She had lost her home in the disaster, and not just her home, but also her husband. Her child was seriously jaundiced and had to be treated at the nearest real hospital, on another island, more than twelve hours away by boat.

The mother was lost in her grief. The loss of her husband and home, and the premature birth of her baby had happened almost a month earlier, but her child still didn’t have a name. They all knew it wasn’t because there hadn’t been an opportunity for a proper christening or baptism – the young widow and first-time mother was severely traumatized and completely overwhelmed.

Somehow the mother’s friend overheard that Bonnie was a minister, and – imagine that – she asked her to name the child. Bonnie couldn’t believe she was serious, but she said, “I can’t name the baby unless the mother says it is okay.” Translating into the local language, the friend asked if it was alright, and the mother gave a short shrug, and said that was fine.

The baby was a girl. How do you name a child that isn’t your own? It’s difficult enough to pick the right name for your own son or daughter – you want them to bear a strong name, one that becomes an anchor of their identity, a source of strength. But how do you name somebody else’s baby? Holding the child, Bonnie thought about the importance of a person’s name and what an honor it was to have been asked to name this girl. She looked at her and she asked her who she wanted to be and who she already was and how the world might be blessed through her.

And the name came to her. Amelia. This little girl would be Amelia, a name that means “to make better.” Bonnie describes her deep hope for this girl: May you make things better for your mother, your family, your entire community after the unimaginable loss they have endured. May you be a gift of hope, and may you find strength in that calling.

According to the local tradition, Amelia also needed a middle name. Bonnie continued to hold her, wondering what her middle name would be. She considered many of her favorite women in the Bible as well as women from her own life. She thought about this child’s birth in a church after her family’s life and community had been shaken and carried away by a wave. She thought about Advent, the season of expectation, the world’s waiting and wanting to be the world God created it to be. It was Saturday, and the next day another Advent candle would be lit, and the whole world was ready for the dawn of joy. “Joy will come in the morning,” Bonnie remembered the words from Psalm 30. Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning. Amelia’s middle name will be Joy: the anticipation, expectation, and ultimate fulfillment of God’s promise.

Bonnie named the child by giving a name to our hope for the girl and her mother and their community. May Amelia be the gift that makes life better for them, and may the circumstances of her life continue to improve. Bonnie told the family that Joy means “holy happiness from God,” and now we pray for those who hold the little girl, and sing to her, and feed and bathe and rock her, that she will remind them every day of the miracle of Emmanuel, God with us.

I told Bonnie that we would hold Amelia Joy in our prayers and, better yet, that we would put her in the crib with the little boy from Bethlehem. We go to Bethlehem and we gently lay our hope in the cradle that holds God’s salvation – our hope for the world, our hope for all the children born into it, and our hope for a peace that excludes no one, not even the dead. We lay our hope next to Jesus who came to save us from our sins, and who is with us always, to the end of the age.

We go to Bethlehem, because that is where, according to Luke and Matthew, the story begins. For Luke, it’s all about Mary. Mary is visited by the angel Gabriel. Mary asks good questions. Mary says yes to God’s wondrous plan. Mary sings the exuberant words we spoke together this morning. Joseph? He stands on the edge of the scene.

But Matthew tells the whole story differently. For Matthew, the story begins when Mary is found to be with child before she and Joseph lived together. Nobody sings in the first chapter of Matthew. The spotlight is on Joseph, a good man whose world just fell to pieces. All he knows is that Mary is pregnant, and that the child isn’t his.

Joseph faced a serious dilemma. On the one hand, he needed to consider the demands of the law of the God he loved. On the other hand, he needed to consider Mary, the young woman he loved. In those days, you couldn’t just cancel the wedding and take the ring back to the jeweler for a refund. Publicly filing for a divorce meant condemning Mary to life-long shame. Accusing her of adultery might also have resulted in some hot heads demanding that she be stoned to death (Deuteronomy 22:21, 23), and Joseph didn’t want anything like that to happen. Yet the law, the honor of his family, and his personal honor required that he break off the engagement. So Joseph chose of all the options he had the most loving one: he would dismiss her quietly.

I imagine that he was completely exhausted after looking, from every possible angle, at the mess his hopes and dreams had become. Just when he had decided what he would do to honor both the law of God and the love he shared with Mary, he fell asleep. And in his sleep, a messenger from God spoke to him; this was an option not written in the law, an option even his love could not envision: “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” Do not be afraid. This child is entirely God’s initiative. Mary will bear a son, and you are to name him.

Joseph didn’t say a word, but he said ‘yes’ with his life to God’s saving initiative. He took Mary as his wife and he named the little boy Jesus.

You know what it’s like when your dreams crumble, not necessarily in an earthquake or under a tsunami wave – but it can feel just like that, overwhelming. Your plans in pieces, you find yourself presented with circumstances you did not, would not choose. You don’t know how it happened, let alone why, and all you can think about is how to get away from what has become of your life. You are so exhausted and tired, you can’t think of a name for your hope.

Matthew tells us that’s the moment when Joseph heard the voice of an angel, “Don’t be afraid. God is faithful and true and at work. Say yes. Don’t be afraid.” And Joseph believed the messenger and laid his hope in the cradle and he gave it the name he gave his son, Jesus.

Joseph said ‘yes’ with his life, and Mary said ‘yes’ with hers, and the Messiah was born. And as we get ready for Christmas, that’s all we do as well: learn to say ‘yes’ with our lives to God’s desire to save and heal and make whole. We learn to give a name to our hope. A strong name, one that rhymes with Emmanuel and Amelia.

Read me a story

It sounds so simple and yet is so true: The church is one of the few places left in modern societies where adults can still have a story read to them. I copied the line from a book about Christmas by Donald Heinz. As I was jotting it down I thought about great stories I had heard on the radio, stories that gripped and moved me, but how radio usually was a solitary experience. Do you remember the feeling of having a story read to you? How warm it is and safe and delightful, and how you wouldn't mind if it went on for 1001 nights?

When we gather in the sanctuary on Christmas Eve it's about coming in from the cold, it's about the music and the little candles in the deep darkness, but it is very much about that moment when a single voice begins to fill the expectant silence, "In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus ... ." I hope many of you will come to one of our Christmas Eve services at Vine Street to listen and sing with shepherds and angels and to welcome the Child.

Would you like to be one of the people who give voice to the great story we have read to us that night? Our 11pm Service of Lessons and Carols has a wide selection of readings from Scripture, and we love hearing a variety of voices. If you would like to participate in this way, please send me an email. I can't promise you a place in the line-up of readers (because we like to mix male and female, young and old voices); but even if you don't get to read that night, you'll get to be there and have the best story of the ages read to you.

Are you the one?

John is in prison. The wilderness preacher who used to sleep out by the river, under a blanket of stars – now he is locked up behind bars. No window allows him to see sun or moon; by day and night he stares at the walls. The door is shut, and it can be opened only from the outside.

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near,” he used to proclaim, certain that the days of the old regime were counted. So convinced was he that the kingdom of justice was about to erupt like a volcano, he could feel it rumbling under the soles of his feet.

John only ate what the wilderness provided, locusts and wild honey, but there was no sweetness dripping from his lips: he spoke with fire on his breath. One stronger than himself would come after him, and he would gather the wheat and burn the chaff. John had seen Jesus. John had baptized Jesus. And when Herod shut him up in a cell he thought it wouldn’t be long before the prison doors would fly open.

First he noticed what he didn’t hear: no reports of the smiting of the wicked; no cries of terror from the threshing floor of divine justice; no shouts of happy vengeance from the streets of he city. I can see him pacing up and down his cell, four steps to the door, four steps back to the wall, tormented by questions, “What is Jesus doing? What is taking him so long? Where is the fire?”

Then John began to hear about Jesus’ work in the towns of Galilee, bits and pieces about him healing the sick, bringing hope to the oppressed, and forgiving sinners—what had happened to the ax that was lying at the foot of the trees? John was confused.

I can see him sitting in the dark, waiting for the walls to crumble and light to pour in; but the only thing crumbling is his certainty; disappointment and doubt are creeping in. Perhaps he knows that he is going to die in Herod’s prison. Perhaps he wants just some assurance that he gave his life for something real and true, and that he wouldn’t end up just another victim of Herod’s rule.

So he sent word by his disciples, asking Jesus, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” For John, everything is at stake in that question – and for anyone who has asked it since. Am I entrusting my hope to the One sent by God or to a fantasy?

When you go to Bethlehem and kneel next to the crib and you look at the infant, it is easy to see a bundle of promise and possibility. The little one hasn’t done anything yet, so your heart is filled with nothing but wonder and expectation. But John didn’t come to meet Jesus in the manger. Jesus came to John at the Jordan to be baptized, and somehow John just knew that this was the One whose coming he had proclaimed. John looked at Jesus and he saw the one whose power had fired his imagination. He looked at Jesus and he saw the one carrying the ax of judgment, the one who would cut down every tree that doesn’t bear good fruit. John looked at Jesus on the river bank, and he knew that the reign of God was now but a fire away.

“Wait a minute,” John said, “I need to be baptized by you, and now you come to me?” Jesus insisted on being baptized together with all the sinners, and John was puzzled. Eventually he consented and he baptized Jesus with water, but he didn’t allow the Messiah’s solidarity with sinners to change his own blazing expectations of divine justice. He just waited for the fire to start.

Now, locked up in Herod’s prison, with little waiting time left, his certainty had changed into a mix of trust and doubt. “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” Asking this question is not a failure of nerve or a symptom of a lack of faith. It is part of the work of Advent, part of preparing ourselves for the coming of God’s reign. The gospel invites us to let go of our violent fantasies of divine vengeance and to take this question with us as we go to Bethlehem and to Galilee and to Jerusalem, and to ask ourselves every step of the way, Is this child the One? Is this friend of sinners the One? This strange king, crucified under the old regime, is he the One who brings the kingdom of heaven to earth? Or are we to wait for another? Are we yet to wait for the one with the ax and the fire?

The answer the gospel invites us to consider is not a simple yes or no, but it is beautifully simple. Jesus says to the disciples of the Baptist, “Go and tell John what you hear and see.” And pointing to the life erupting around him, Jesus sings a few lines from Isaiah:  The blind receive their sight and the lepers are cleansed; the lame walk, the deaf hear, and the dead are raised. Look and listen, the poor have good news brought to them. The reign of God is here, healing and cleansing, feeding and forgiving, opening eyes and ears, restoring and renewing the whole creation. Tell John what you see. Sing him a song of heaven embracing the earth with grace and compassion. Sing of showers of forgiveness on the thirsty land, and streams of mercy refreshing the parched places. The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom.

John knows the song and soon he’s humming along, singing behind thick prison walls about liberty to the captives and release to the prisoners. The guards are wondering if John has lost his mind, but they continue to listen as he sings like no one has ever sung in the basement of Herod’s palace. Say to those who are of a fearful heart, ‘Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God! He will come and save you.’

Behind that prison door the guards can sense a fearlessness and hope that is unheard of in the world of Caesar, who reigns with fear and force. I can see them unlocking that door and saying to John, “We have the keys to your cell, but you know more about freedom and hope than any of us. Will you teach us?” And I can hear John telling them about Israel’s hope of homecoming that will make the desert sing. I can hear him teaching them the song that has joy jumping from line to line like a dancer.

A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way; the unclean shall not travel on it, but it shall be for God’s people; … the redeemed shall walk there. And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

“Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?”

 This question helps us clarify our expectations of who or what God’s Messiah is as we go to Bethlehem and on to Galilee and Jerusalem and wherever the way of Christ takes us.

“Go and tell what you hear and see!”

This short, exuberant sentence is an invitation to recognize the inbreaking of God’s reign in Jesus, and to become attentive to the ways in which his presence transforms the dry land of sin and fear.

We are still beginning to grasp that Jesus didn’t come to bring the fire, but to be the fire that purifies and the water that makes the desert sing. Jesus didn’t come to bulldoze a highway across the hills and valleys of our life, but to be the way that leads us from sin and judgment to righteousness and life, from lonely exile to our home in communion with God. Jesus is the Holy Way, and the unholy and the unclean are no longer excluded from God’s people but loved and called and made whole and sent.

The way of Jesus led him as a sheep among the wolves, straight into Herod’s jail, and he died, just as John did, at the hand of the old regime. The Holy Way goes straight into the prisons where the empire of sin holds God’s people captive, but grace throws the door open, the thick walls crumble under the weight of mercy, and light and life flood in.

We don’t know if John the Baptist sat in his cell and sang with Isaiah, but I like to imagine he did. John was bewildered because in the stories he heard about Jesus he didn’t recognize the Messiah he had announced. I like to imagine that before he died he was able to see the glory of God’s reign in the words and deeds of Jesus. I think of John as the embodiment and voice of our longing for the world made right. He is Advent in person: his life was shaped by his waiting. I like to imagine that the certainty of John’s expectation only for a moment got in the way of his seeing the fulfillment of his hope. I like to imagine it for John, because I have the same hope for you and me: that we may have eyes to see and ears to hear how heaven is coming to earth in Jesus, and how the kingdom of God is present when the sick are healed and the hungry are fed, when sinners are forgiven, and the poor are taught to sing with Isaiah.

Therefore, let us strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Let us say to those who are of fearful heart, “Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God.”

All for the wolf?

Our hope is rooted in our memory. We must remember well in order to look to the future with expectation. Paul writes, “Whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction, so that by steadfastness and the encouragement of the scriptures we might have hope” (Romans 15:4). Desire can be wakened by other means, wishing and wanting draw from other sources, but hope is rooted in memory.

Israel’s memory begins with God’s commitment to the earth and all that live on it. Israel knows there are chaotic powers that threaten to overwhelm ordered life in the world, but Israel affirms that God’s covenant is unshakable. “Never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth” (Genesis 9:11). The story of creation, flood, and covenant was written down for our instruction.

Israel’s memory includes the stories of the ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. God makes a promise to be with this community, to give them land, children, and a great name. In every generation of mothers – from Sarah to Rebekah to Rachel – the future is in question because heirs are lacking. And each time, wondrously, a child is given and the future is kept open by God. The story of bold faith and the dependability of this God from generation to generation was written down for our instruction.

Israel’s memory includes the liberation from slavery, when God’s people escape from Pharao’s realm, and Miriam and her sisters sing and dance on the shore of freedom, proclaiming the victory of God. Israel knows there are systems of oppression and exploitation at work in the world, but Israel affirms that God’s will for justice is stronger. God makes a covenant with the former slaves and they become a people on the way to the land of promise. The story of liberation from oppression and toward covenant faithfulness was written down for our instruction.

Israel’s hope is rooted in the memory of God’s fidelity. Never was the future more in question than when the Babylonian Empire swallowed Jerusalem and the throne of David and the temple and the land and every visible, tangible support for faith. Nothing about the circumstances was promising; on the contrary, the circumstances were defined by the undoing of every promise. How could this happen? Was there any reliable ground for hope? The writer of Lamentations put into words the loss and grief of the people. “My soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is; so I say, ‘Gone is my glory, and all that I hoped for from the Lord.’ The thought of my affliction and my homelessness is wormwood and gall!”

Letting the eyes travel from the end of one line in the text to the beginning of the next is not much of a journey, but the writer of Lamentations did the hard work and dug a well in Israel’s memory and emerged with a word of hope: “My soul … is bowed down within me. But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness” (Lamentations 3:17-23). It was written down for our instruction, so that by steadfastness and by the encouragement of the scriptures we might have hope.

Our hope is rooted in memory, Israel’s and ours, of God’s faithfulness. I imagine Isaiah walking across the bare hills of Judah, circling Jerusalem, the city whose corruption has led to its destruction. I imagine him  walking through a desolate landscape of hacked down trees. Everywhere he goes, not a single tree is left standing, only stumps. It was a common tactic in war: the enemy troops set up camp in a ring around the city, just without reach of the defenders’ spears and arrows. They stopped all incoming and outgoing traffic, putting an end to all trade. Then they burned all fields and systematically chopped down every fruit-bearing tree in walking distance, clearcutting a wide swath of land around the city. Then they just waited until the inhabitants ran out of food and water and were ready to surrender.

I imagine Isaiah walking amid the stumps. The land of promise has become a wasteland; the ruins of the city sit in the dust like a forgotten dream. The prophet’s eyes don’t search the horizon, he looks to the ground, longing for a sign of hope, waiting for a word from the Lord. Dust and ashes, stumps – everywhere.

On one of the stumps he notices a tiny green shoot, no bigger than the flame of a candle, but just as bright. He kneels down, his fingers touch the tender promise, and the words come to him, a shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots (Isaiah 11:1).

Jesse was the father of king David; that was long before Isaiah’s time. God had made a promise to David that his house and kingdom would be established forever. Only David’s house had collapsed long before the enemy came from far away and cut down the family tree. Israel and Judah had not had much luck with their kings and queens. Instruction for good government could be found in the commandments, in Psalms, and in the words of the prophets – but who was wise enough to read and heed?

Hopes were high for every king to judge God’s people with righteousness, defend the cause of the poor, give deliverance to the needy, and crush the oppressor – that justice might flourish in his days and peace abound until the end of time (Psalm 72:1-7). Hopes were high that the reign of God in heaven would be reflected in the life of God’s people on earth. But it wasn’t justice and peace that flourished in Isaiah’s days; the rich got richer and the poor got poorer, much as in our own time.

I imagine the prophet kneeling in the dust speaking of the faithfulness of God. A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse,and a branch shall grow out of his roots. This one wouldn’t be a puppet of the powerful, for a change. The spirit of the Lord would rest on him, and his actions would be in tune with God’s will. This one would judge the poor with righteousness and decide with equity for the meek of the earth.

Isaiah knelt in the dust of lost promises and he received a word of hope. He received a reaffirmation of God’s will for peace – peace within and between nations.

We have grown used to consuming more and more and we have grown used to a politics where the people who have economic might or military power get their way. But there is a better hope, and Isaiah’s word goes way beyond just good government:

Wolf and lamb together, the leopard and the kid, the calf and the lion, cow and bear grazing on the same pasture, a little child tending that mongrel herd, and infants playing safely next to poisonous snakes. Animals and humans, even the snake, all playing together under the trees of paradise. Isaiah dug a well in Israel’s memory and he emerged with a word of hope too large for just one nation or one city; it was a word of hope for all creation.

A wolf’s idea of peace is simple. It is the good life without competition: no leopards, no lions, no bears or shepherds; just a steady supply of tender lambs, fatted calves, and juicy kids – all for the wolf.

A wolf’s idea of paradise is simple. It is a world where the lambs are so fat that they can’t run away, or so stupid that they won’t even try. And a lamb’s dream of paradise is a world without wolves.

Isaiah gave us a word about one who will bring peace for wolves and lambs. One who will reconcile mutually exclusive dreams of safety and good life. And it was all written down for our instruction, so that by steadfastness and by the encouragement of the scriptures we might have hope.

We live in times when dreams of what constitutes the good life, visions of justice and how to establish it clash all the way from the global level down to the local. Anxiety and fear have become the undercurrent of our life together. We may not be wolves and lambs, lions and kids, but we tend to live and treat one another like them. It’s an eat-or-get-eaten world, we say.

When Paul wrote his letter to the Romans, the biggest challenge facing the church was for Jewish and Gentile believers to learn to live and worship together. Paul read the Scriptures carefully in light of the resurrection of Jesus. He found that Gentiles worshiping the God of Israel had been part of God’s promise since the days of Abraham. And so he admonished Jewish and Gentile believers in the church not to insist on their own way, but to welcome one another just as Christ had welcomed them. Make room for each other. Respect each other in your distinctiveness. Recognize and accept one another as members of one community. We may not be wolves and lambs, lions and kids, but we tend to live and treat one another like them. Welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you.

The biggest challenge facing the church today is not for Jewish and Gentile believers to come together. The whole world is struggling to negotiate our differences of culture and ethnicity, theology and politics, education and income, and to live as one community. And a church that only reflects the social, ethnic, cultural, and political divisions of the world is no challenge to those who draw their power from those divisions. To settle for comfortable disunity because that way we can all be ourselves and keep things the way we have always known and done them is a betrayal of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

We owe it to the world to read what was written in former days and also what is written in our own day in a new light: the death and resurrection of Jesus the Messiah. His love reconciles our clashing dreams by welcoming us all. He invites us to let our hope be rooted not in the memories of our respective pasts, but in the memory of God’s faithfulness – the fidelity of God whose steadfast love never ceases, whose mercies are new every morning and never come to an end.



On the Edge of Daybreak

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I just turn and go right back to sleep. Sometimes, though, I wake up and I want to know what time it is. I wonder if I still have hours until morning or if my alarm will go off in just a few minutes. When I wake up in the dark just before dawn I find it hard to imagine that the sun is about to rise. Sometimes I just lie there and watch as the familiar world slowly emerges from the darkness: the neighbors’ house across the street, the tree outside the window, the dresser in the corner.

This hour right before dawn, says the Apostle Paul, is the time in which we live. “You know what time it is,” he writes confidently in his letter, “how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep… the night is far gone, the day is near.”

We live on the edge of daybreak. We know the thick darkness around us and within, but the resurrection of Jesus from the dead marks the dawn of a new day, and what is emerging now is not the old, familiar world, same as it ever was, but a new creation, new time, new life.

We live on the edge of daybreak. You ask Paul what time it is, and he will tell you, “It’s early in the morning, friend, the night is far gone, the day is near. The birds of the kingdom are singing songs of redemption.”

Disciples of Jesus know what time it is; we live “at the dawn of a new day, at the point where night and day, things passing and things to come, grapple with each other.”[1] Disciples of Jesus look into the darkness with watchful expectation, claiming the Easter promise that the faint glimmer of light we can make out is not the fading memory of former glory but the dawn of peace.

It takes discipline to look at the world in that peculiar way. It takes discipline to look at the world from the perspective of the new day, and not just that, but to light candles in preparation, one at a time.

Humans beings are very gifted; we shoot each other with everything imaginable; we we turn every technology into weapons – but that’s not the whole story. God speaks, and we light a candle.

Human beings oppress and abuse each other, we exploit every fear for power – but that’s not the whole story. God speaks, and we light a candle.

We live on the edge of daybreak. Things passing and things to come are grappling with each other. We live in the dark, but our eyes have caught the first light of the coming dawn, and we light a candle. Justice, beauty, truth and peace are things to come, and we light a candle for every glimpse of life in fullness.

Advent means coming, and it stirs in us a holy restlessness for the complete transformation of ourselves and the world. Advent tells us what time it is better than any clock or calendar: time to wake up and live in the light of the new day.

Advent teaches us to live in the interval between the early signs of dawn and the sunrise itself, where our actions are no longer dictated by the passing night but called forth and encouraged by the coming day. “Let us lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armor of light,” Paul writes, reminding us that this is not a battle of us against them, but about the victory of God over all that would keep you and me and all creation from being fully alive. Our struggle is against the destructive temptations of idolatry, where we seek fullness through lust and greed, or surrender to hopelessness rather than the grace of God. We put on the armor of light, and sometimes it is just one flickering candle that has to be sword and shield, breastplate and helmet.

It takes discipline to look into the darkness with watchful expectation. The great Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav lived more than a century ago in what is today the Ukraine. He noticed that if dancers could persuade melancholy persons to join them, their sadness would lift. “And if you are that melancholy person,” he taught, “persuade yourself to dance, for it is an achievement to struggle and pursue that sadness, bringing it into joy.” In 1903, a year in which Russia passed a number of laws that made life very difficult for Jews, Rabbi Nachman said, “I have danced a lot this year.”[2]

It is easy to dance when you feel like dancing, but it is essential that you dance when the darkness is threatening to swallow you. It is essential that we hope when we think all hope is lost for humankind. Our hope isn’t something we dreamed up one day, it is a gift shaped and sustained by the faithfulness of God; and we hope against hope not because the world is promising, but because God’s word is trustworthy.

In the darkness of slavery in Egypt, God spoke – and Moses lit a candle of freedom.

In the darkness of Jerusalem’s corruption, God spoke – and the prophets lit a candle of justice.

In the darkness of Israel’s exile in Babylon, God spoke – and Isaiah lit a candle of hope.

In the darkness of Good Friday, God spoke – and the disciples of Jesus greeted the dawn of a new creation. We look at the world with expectation, because God speaks and God’s word is trustworthy.

“In days to come,” we read in Isaiah, “the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it.” Isaiah sees all the nations coming to the house of God, but this time not to conquer, plunder, and destroy as in the past, but to learn God’s ways and walk in God’s paths. And because God is judge between them and allows them to settle conflicts without recourse to violence, they are finally free to beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks. The global war economy finally becomes a peace economy.

What I find most remarkable about this vision is how utterly useless it is for imperial dreams or other ideas of domination. The nations don’t come after their defeat, forced to pay tribute to the new rulers of the world. They come willingly and expectantly, eager to learn. They come, because this city is like a magnet. The implication for the people living by this vision is not to go and conquer the world, but to build a community that is inviting and hospitable to the world’s hope for peace.

We live in dark times when too many children learn war and little else, but it shall be otherwise. We live in dark times when nations beat their trucks into tanks, and their education budgets into weapons programs, but it shall be otherwise. We live in dark times when the temple mount in Jerusalem is of all the mountains the saddest, but it shall be otherwise. The word of God confronts our resignation with a vision of what shall be.

We do live in the dark, but with our faces lit by the faint light of the coming dawn. We light one candle, and we sing of the sun of righteousness. We live “at the point where night and day, things passing and things to come, grapple with each other.” We trust the word of God that the twilight around us is the dawn of the new day, and we put on the armor of light. With generations of God’s people we encourage one another saying, “Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!”

It is Advent, and we practice and nurture daring hope. I went to see a movie last week, a documentary film called Little Town of Bethlehem. It is not a Christmas movie, although the title sounds like something from the Hallmark channel. It is an Advent movie.

It follows the story of three men of three different faiths and their lives in and around Bethlehem. Sami’s story begins as a young boy living in the Israeli-occupied West Bank; Yonatan’s starts on an Israeli military base; and Ahmad’s begins in a Palestinian refugee camp.

Their three stories are interwoven through the major events of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, starting with the 1972 massacre at the Munich Olympics and following through the first Intifada, suicide bombings in Israel, the Oslo Peace Accords, the assassination of President Yitzchak Rabin, and the second Intifada.

The film explores each man’s choice of nonviolent action amidst a culture of overwhelming violence that has dehumanized all sides.

Sami, after first learning about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as a teen, began lecturing about nonviolence in high school. Later, he traveled to India to learn more about Gandhi. He founded the organization Holy Land Trust to promote nonviolence in the Palestinian community.

Yonatan embraced his father’s legacy as a pilot in the Israeli Defense Forces and fulfilled his own dream of becoming an helicopter pilot. However, his journey led him to the astonishing decision to join with 26 other Israeli military pilots who publicly refused to participate in missions that would lead to civilian casualties. Yonatan struggles to reconcile his love for his country with his growing opposition to the Israeli occupation. He is the co-founder of the organization Combatants for Peace, made up of former Israeli and Palestinian combatants.

The third man, Ahmad, after studying in Spain, returned to Bethlehem to become a nonviolence trainer. Despite the daily challenges of living in a refugee camp, Ahmad risks his life and livelihood in nonviolent actions to bring an end to oppression.

Sami and Ahmad have been labeled as “Israeli collaborators” by some within the Palestinian community and they are seen as a threat to security by the Israeli military. By refusing to participate in offensive military actions against Palestinian civilians, Yonatan has been branded a traitor by some Israelis and can no longer work in his homeland.

Sami is a Christian, Ahmad a Muslim, and Yonatan a Jew. All three practice the daring hope that peace can be achieved through nonviolent struggle. I see how each one looked into the darkness and chose to live on the edge of daybreak.

Have a blessed Advent.

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[1] Jürgen Moltmann, Theology of Hope: On the Ground and Implications of a Christian Eschatology (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1993), p. 31

[2] See Annie Dillard, For the Time Being (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1999), p. 144



What King Is This?

The days are getting shorter, and it’s like somebody flipped a switch. The colors around us are changing from jack-o-lantern orange and the yellow of corn and straw to the richer tones of cranberry red, spruce green, and candlelight gold. It’s been only days since we celebrated the return of the pumpkin spice latte at the coffee shop, and now allspice, nutmeg, and cinnamon are dancing through recipes for cider and pie, sweet potato casserole and ginger bread.

The days are getting shorter, and we start dreaming in the middle of the afternoon about being at home, cozy and warm, with the people we love and the music we have known forever. We want to send cards and wrap presents and deck the halls with boughs of holly.

We look forward to the long night when shepherds hear the angels sing and say, “To you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord.” We look forward to finding the child lying in the manger, wrapped in swaddling cloths. We look forward to wondering out loud, “What child is this who, laid to rest, on Mary’s lap is sleeping? Whom angels greet with anthems sweet, while shepherds watch are keeping?” And we look forward to singing with hushed wonder, “This, this is Christ the King…”[1]

What a joy it is to look at a little child and hear the words of promise of a savior and to sing that this, this is the one, Christ the King, God’s Messiah. Today, though, the gospel reading takes us to the last day of this child’s life, to a different place, a place called The Skull, a place of torture, torment and death. It is a place without color, a place of sour wine and bitter tears and frightening darkness.

What king is this? On the night of his birth, the angels sang and we were glad to join their heavenly anthems. But on the day of his death human voices come together in a cacophony of scorn, “Hey, Savior, show us some salvation!”

“He saved others, let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God!” the leaders are laughing.

“If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” the soldiers keep deriding him. They represent the real power in the land, and their contempt is big enough to ridicule this “king” along with everyone else. The cross is the unmistakable sign of Rome’s sovereignty, and the troops feel strong in their open disdain for a weak, conquered people and its “savior.”

One of the two men, sentenced to death and hanged there like him, joins them in taunting Jesus, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

The whole scene looks like an obscene joke, and the punchline is written on a sign and nailed over Jesus’ head, “This is the King of the Jews.” What king is this, so impotent he can’t save himself?

When Jesus was about to begin his work of proclaiming the good news of the kingdom of God, he spent time in the wilderness. It was a time of learning to trust and follow the path of God rather than any other path. After forty days of fasting, Jesus was famished, and the devil said, “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread.” Not an unreasonable proposal: save yourself from the pangs of hunger and weakness. But Jesus refused.

Then the devil promised him all the kingdoms of the world, but Jesus refused. Finally the devil took him to Jerusalem and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here; God’s angels will protect you.”[2] If you are the Son of God, if you are God’s Messiah, if you are the agent of God’s salvation – save yourself.

The devil’s rhetoric is amplified multiple times around the cross: show your power, do something, come down, save yourself. But Jesus refuses. What king is this?

Amid the abuse and the clamor he remains silent. Once he opens his lips and he prays, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” Forgive whom – the soldiers who, as always, were only following orders? Forgive those who gave the orders? Forgive the leaders who always act with the best interest of the state or the temple or the church or the nation in mind? Forgive those who put their trust in power? Forgive all of us who are trapped in sinful modes of relating, thinking, speaking, and acting?

For a moment, the waves of ridicule and abuse subside, and we hear the king who lives up to nobody’s expectations pray for forgiveness. We have been in his company long enough to know that he wouldn’t ask for armies of angels to sweep in and smite the enemy. We have been in his company long enough to know that his kingdom is not a new and improved version of the kingdoms of the world.

In the gospel of Luke, only three characters say the word kingdom. The first is an angel. Gabriel comes to Mary and says, “You will bear a son and you will name him Jesus. He will reign forever and of his kingdom there will be no end.”[3]

And after the angel, it is Jesus who says the word kingdom again and again. And he doesn’t just say it, he embodies it with every healing gesture and touch, with every teaching and every meal, with every refusal to follow a different path.

The third character who says the word is a dying convict who, at the end of Jesus’s earthly life and work, chides, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

And the other man rebukes him, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.” He reminds us that Jesus is innocent in every respect, condemned solely for disturbing and disrupting the orderliness of religion and custom and law.

And then the man turns to Jesus and says, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” He speaks of a kingdom hidden in the improbable future of a crucified man, and in this kingdom he wants to be remembered. He doesn’t know any better than you and I what it might look like, this kingdom. All he knows is that it is Jesus’ kingdom. All he knows is what we all see in the life and ministry of Jesus: the end of exclusion and condemnation, and the reign of mercy – and he trusts that this mercy has no end. All he knows is what we all see in Jesus’ final refusal to save himself or shock the enemy into submission: the end of the ancient cycle of violence and vengeance, and the reign of forgiveness – and he trusts that this forgiveness has no end. He entrusts himself to the reality to which mercy and forgiveness point, the reality which Jesus embodied and proclaimed, and in the face of death this man finds himself closer to life than he has ever been.

As requests go, “Remember me…” is modest; but Jesus responds with royal extravagance.  “Today, he says to him, “today you will be with me in Paradise.” Like one of the kings in his parables, Jesus generously lavishes gifts on the humble petitioner, granting him life in the lush garden of God.

This kingdom is not a new and improved version of the kingdoms of the world. It is a new way of relating, thinking, speaking, and acting in the name of Jesus. Jesus turns our royal ideology on its head. The reign of Christ the King is an assault on any earthly royal aspiration, any ambition for dominance, and you and I live in this reign when we shed the flawed perceptions of power evident in the scoffing leaders, the mocking soldiers, and the scornful criminal; we live in the kingdom when we turn to Jesus.

Robert Capon wrote in a meditation on the American Messiah,

We crucified Jesus, not because he was God, but because he (…) claimed to be God and then failed to come up to our standards for assessing the claim. It’s not that we weren’t looking for the Messiah; it’s just that he wasn’t what we were looking for.^[4]

He wasn’t what we were looking for. We speak of Jesus as God’s Messiah and we sing of the child in the manger and the man on the cross, “this, this is Christ the King;” and we always wrestle with the fact that it is Jesus who gives meaning to these titles, and not the other way round: it is not our understanding of these titles that determine the meaning of Jesus.

Many say, and with good reason, that we shouldn’t continue to call Jesus “the King,” because our imagination is already overstuffed with white men sitting on thrones or riding on white horses. Today, though, the gospel didn’t take us to the royal throne halls of our disneyfied imagination but to that place called The Skull, and there we heard two prayers: Jesus praying for us, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing;” and an unnamed criminal, inviting us to pray with him, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

The relationship that gives rise to these prayers is the reign of Christ, and everything about it is defined not by the poverty of our hearts, but by the riches of God’s mercy. The reign of Christ the King gets its color and fragrance, its melody and story from the love of God in Jesus. Everything else are our attempts to find words for that love.

The days are getting shorter, and we are dreaming dreams about the whole world being at home with God and God being at home in the world. May it be so soon, very soon.

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[1] What Child Is This, Chalice Hymnal #162, words by William C. Dix

[2] See Luke 4:1-13

[3] See Luke 2:30-33

[4] Robert F. Capon, Hunting the Divine Fox (New York: Seabury Press, 1974) p. 91



Holiday hopes

Clarks Summit is a small town in Pennsylvania. It’s very much like countless other small towns in the country, and like many of them, it has an annual holiday parade in November.

A few years ago, the merchants association invited the pastor of the Church on the Hill to give the invocation at the beginning of the parade. The high school band was lined up and ready to march down Main Street. Miss Snowflake was already waving to everybody from her convertible. And the pastor stood with the other dignitaries, next to a 4-ft. plastic red-nosed reindeer, a 5-ft. plastic turkey, and a 6-ft. inflatable snow man.

This was his first parade prayer, and he didn’t know what exactly was expected of him. So he turned to the young woman who had sent him the email invitation and said, “Rosemary, what should I pray for?”

She seemed surprised by his question, but replied with holiday cheer, “How about if you pray for a successful shopping season – you know, encourage people to support local businesses?”

The pastor was stunned: the merchants wanted him to bless the buying and selling of merchandise. What did he expect? That they wanted him to pray for the healing of creation and peace on earth?

At the appointed time, he could only mumble the words, “God, thank you for bringing us together. Make us mindful of the poor who can’t afford to shop here or anywhere. Amen.”^[1]

After this brief invocation, the other dignitaries looked a little puzzled, and the president of the merchants association leaned over to the mayor and said, “Next year, remind me not to invite a preacher to the parade.”

That’s probably a good idea, because a preacher in November reaches for a hope that stretches far beyond the upcoming shopping season.

A preacher in November spends much time with Jesus in the temple, thinking and praying about the days when not one stone will be left upon another and all will be thrown down, nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; great earthquakes, famines and plagues; dreadful portents – what word is the preacher supposed to bring from there to the holiday parade?

A preacher in November spends much time with Isaiah and the glorious vision of new heavens and a new earth:

No more shall the sound of weeping be heard in the city or the cry of distress. No more shall there be in it an infant that lives but a few days, or an old person who does not live out a lifetime. No more shall they build and another inhabit; or plant and another eat; for like the days of a tree shall the days of my people be, and my chosen shall long enjoy the work of their hands. They shall not labor in vain, or bear children for calamity. The wolf and the lamb shall feed together, the lion shall eat straw like the ox; but the serpent—its food shall be dust! They shall not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain, says the Lord.

The vision is for Clarks Summit and Jerusalem and Nashville and every small town and city and hamlet under the sun, but it is too big for a little parade. The merchant association looks at the next few weeks of sales and hopes for better figures than last year, but the preacher can’t help but pray for a better hope.

As the church year draws to a close, Isaiah takes us back to the beginning of our story in God’s garden, with its hopes for creation and humankind, and he takes us back to the beginning of the dashing of those hopes: Adam and Eve, the tree and the serpent, the lies and the curses, the fury that turns Cain and Abel from brothers into killer and victim – and now, “I am about to create new heavens and a new earth,” says the Lord. Men and women shall no longer labor in vain or bear children for calamity or watch anger and violence spread from generation to generation. They shall not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain, says the Lord. All that has prevented God’s shalom from flourishing  in the garden and in the ancient house of human history shall be overcome by the faithfulness and power of God, maker of heaven and earth.

Some of the things the prophet declared seem utterly doable. Putting an end to infant mortality? If only Isaiah could see the miracles that happen in the neonatal ICU every day. Prolonging human life beyond one hundred years? Life expectancy today is more than 80 years in over twenty-five countries, and close to 90 in Monaco on the French riviera.[2]

What was a dream for most of human history is quickly becoming a realistic goal – but wolf and lamb together, that’s just a little over the top, isn’t it? A world without violence, without terror and fear – that’s just a bit much, isn’t it? The sceptic mind prefers the spreadsheets of economic forecasters over the poetry of prophets.

Only the young possess the simplicity
To accept a truth transcending rote and rule,
So that, like star-led shepherds, children see
The fact of miracle.
But logic, the sophist, clouds the maturing life,
Caution replaces the fearless face of youth,
Till the skeptic mind prefers a plausible lie
To a fantastic truth. ^[3]

We live with a lot of plausible lies, I’m afraid. We make do with the realities of the old creation because the fantastic truth of the new is, well, just a little over the top. We make do with hopes for better holiday season sales because the hope of God’s peace spreading throughout our broken world is just too big for our little parade.

“Plausible lies are part of the illusions of our culture,” says Peter Gomes, “things that appear to be real, valuable, and permanent, designed to give us pleasure and satisfaction and to help us in the mastery of ourselves and our world.”^[4]

Plausible lies are lies because they continue the illusion that life can be mastered and that we are its masters. Plausible lies are plausible because they leave the promises of God out of the equation.

Walter Brueggemann suggests that the vision in Isaiah “is outrageous because the new world of God is beyond our capacity and even beyond our imagination. In our fatigue, our self-sufficiency, and our cynicism,” we remain convinced “that such promises could not happen here.”^[5]

What would happen, if we dared to embrace the fantastic truth of God’s vision? We wouldn’t let the plausible lie of shrinking budgets define our life together. We wouldn’t let numbers define possibility, but ask how the possibilities of God might redefine our numbers and our budgets.

We wouldn’t allow our culture to drive us deeper and deeper into isolation and away from God, but rather let God draw us together and into the new heavens and the new earth.

As Christians, we confess that Jesus is the Christ and proclaim him Lord and Savior of the world. We find our lives restored and renewed in the fantastic truth of Jesus’ resurrection. God raised him from the dead and that first day was the beginning of the new creation.

Sin had its way with him. Every lie, every injustice, every self-righteous illusion, every hateful word and angry blow – we had our way with him. All that has kept life from flourishing, the webs of evil thoughts, words, and deeds – they had their way with him and he died.

But he rose to reign over all. And where he reigns, violence is past. Where he reigns, those who build houses don’t labor in vain but make enough to live in them. Where he reigns, those who plant and harvest the fields also eat their fruit. Where he reigns, low infant mortality rates and high life expectancy are no longer measures of privilege. Where he reigns, life is restored and renewed in God’s shalom.

As his disciples and citizens of his reign, we learn to unmask the plausible lies we tell one another, and we begin to live by the fantastic truth of God’s faithfulness. We are being called out of the old creation not to withdraw from it, but to become part of its transformation. We participate in the creative struggle for a new community, a new city. In the Gospel, Jesus speaks of endurance in the face of terrifying news, conflict, hatred, and betrayal—and he promises, “not a hair of your head will perish.”^[6]

There still is anguish and terror, weeping and premature death, oppression and violence – but the risen Christ is the living witness that those are former things that have been judged and rejected by God, and therefore will not remain. What will remain, is what has begun with the resurrection of Jesus: life in fullness for all. What will remain, is the joy and delight of the new city where God is at home.

We call this Pledge Sunday because today we make our pledges of financial support for a new year of ministry. But Pledge Sunday isn’t about our money, it’s about our heart. We choose today and we choose every day anew, what vision will guide our life: whether it will be the plausible lies of the way things are, or rather the fantastic truth that challenges our imagination with the way things will be.

Our treasure will go where our heart leads. Where will it be? The parade of the merchants association? Or the procession of nations entering the city of God?

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[1] Based on a story in Lectionary Homiletics Vol. XV, No. 6, p. 4

[2] https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/rankorder/2102rank.html

[3] G. S. Galbraith, “Fact and Wonder” Christian Science Monitor, Nov 25, 1959, in Peter Gomes, The Good Life: Truths That Last in Times of Need (New York, NY: HarperCollins, 2002) p. 116

[4] Ibd.

[5] See Lectionary Homiletics Vol. XV, No. 6, p. 61

[6] See Lk 21:9-10



November song

The year is winding down, and the scripture readings for these Sundays in November gently draw our hearts and minds toward thinking about endings. That’s not a difficult thing to do this time of year when we put the garden to bed for the winter and watch the leaves falling from the trees.

Richard Wilbur wrote a beautiful poem for this season; it is called, “October Maples, Portland.”

The leaves, though little time they have to live,
Were never so unfallen as today,
And seem to yield us through a rustled sieve
The very light from which time fell away.
(…)
It is a light of maples, and will go;
But not before it washes eye and brain
With such a tincture, such a sanguine glow
As cannot fail to leave a lasting stain.[1]

In October, maples like gold ranks of temples flank the dazzled street, and in November, the killing frost arrives at night and throws its cold blanket over everything. And suddenly the glorious light of maples is only a memory.

We don’t think too much about time in the spring when everything around us is beginning, blooming, bursting into life. In the spring, time is the friend that opens the miracle and wonder of life to us – but in the fall we look at life from the other side. In the fall, we are reminded of time as the merciless thief that takes everything, ever eroding, dissolving, burying and forgetting.

Isaac Watts read Psalm 90, and he taught us to sing

Time, like an everrolling stream,
soon bears us all away;
we fly forgotten, as a dream
dies at the opening day.[2]

Watts wrote a November song, yet this verse wasn’t the final one. The last stanza of his hymn teaches our anxious hearts to trust the power of God in the winter of life when we ask, “What will become of me when I die? Will life simply continue without me? What about my life story, my relationships, my dreams that remained unfulfilled – will they all just fall like leaves and be blown away?”

Some of you were in the room when someone you loved was dying. You remember the deep sense of absence you felt after they breathed their last. The body was there, but the person you knew and loved was not. Your world, your heart, your life had a hole in it the size of your love. The body was there, but you wondered, “Where is he now? Where is she?”

We understand intuitively how in human history and across cultures ideas evolved that describe human beings as consisting of body and soul, with the body returning to the elements at death, and the soul flying into the spirit world. In old pictures, the soul is often shown as a tiny winged human being, a bird, or a butterfly, so that after the death of the body, the soul, no longer weighed down by earthly concerns, could take flight into the freedom of heaven. Many Greek and Roman philosophers even thought of the soul as entrapped in the prison of the body, so that death would come as its liberation.

The ancient Israelites had little use for such ideas. They affirmed the goodness of the body as God’s creation, intricately woven, fearfully and wonderfully made. Human life was enbodied, or it was neither human nor life.

In ancient Israel, a good life meant living to a ripe old age and seeing one’s children grow up and one’s children’s children. A person’s life story wasn’t so much the tale of an individual as it was a story of participating in the life of the family, the tribe, and the covenant community. A man’s name lived on in his children, and family memories of parents and grandparents became tribal narratives about the ancestors.

In Genesis we read of Abraham’s death, “he breathed his last and died in a good old age, an old man and full of years, and was gathered to his ancestors.” The story continued with his sons Isaac and Ishmael, and the web of relationships across generations was a source of comfort and hope for the living. For them the crucial question was, “What if a man dies childless? How will his name and memory continue?”

The law of Moses stated,

When brothers reside together, and one of them dies and has no son, the wife of the deceased shall not be married outside the family to a stranger. Her husband’s brother shall go in to her, taking her in marriage, and performing the duty of a husband’s brother to her, and the firstborn whom she bears shall succeed to the name of the deceased brother, so that his name may not be blotted out of Israel. _{Deuteronomy 25:5-6}

This family arrangement was to make sure the name and memory of the deceased man continued. It also made sure his property stayed in the family and his widow was protected and taken care of.

The Sadducees in today’s gospel passage used this tradition to make fun of the notion of resurrection. What if there are seven brothers, and each dies without an heir, and each marries the woman in turn? To whom will she belong in the resurrection?

The Sadducees were part of the wealthy aristocracy in Jerusalem. They held leadership positions at the temple, and politically they were pragmatists. Theologically they were strict traditionalists. In contrast to the Pharisees, they accepted only the written Torah, not the oral tradition of interpretation of the law. They rejected newfangled beliefs like the resurrection of the dead, because they couldn’t see a scriptural basis for it in the five books of Moses. They had great fun painting this picture of a woman in the world to come, looking at seven brothers, wondering whose wife she would be.

Perhaps you noticed that women were strangely missing from these deep reflections on life and death and memory. It would appear that they were put on earth for the sole purpose of providing men with sons. It’s men who have names, women have children. Things didn’t look any better in Greek philosophy where women’s status as fully human was in question, since the men weren’t sure if women even had a soul.

Jesus, in his response, surprised these privileged gentlemen by pointing out that the resurrection life is not a mere continuation of life in this age. Those who are considered worthy of a place in the resurrection from the dead neither marry nor are given in marriage, for they cannot die anymore. There’s no need for marriage arrangements to secure offspring and property and memory. In the resurrection, men as well as women live as children of God, whether they were married or not, whether they had children or not. In the resurrection, they live in relationships no longer distorted by power, but entirely and solely defined by their relationship with God. In the resurrection, the glory of God shines through all things, brighter than the light of maples, and November comes no more.

But you can’t convince Sadducees with visions of beauty and justice. “We can’t find this resurrection in our texts,” they say. And Jesus says, “Moses himself showed it, in the story about the bush.”

The voice of God out of the bush didn’t say, “Many generations ago, I used to be Abraham’s God, and then also Isaac’s and Jacob’s, and now I’d like to be yours.” No, the voice said, “I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” The voice of God doesn’t refer to a past reality that is gone, but to a living relationship that time and death did not tear apart. Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are alive in God.

Now that is a highly imaginative reading of scripture, perhaps even a little too imaginative for some of us, but without an imagination nurtured by Jesus we may never see the new thing God is doing in our midst.

November’s killing frost threw the coldest blanket on Jerusalem, putting an end to Jesus’ life of grace and truth and compassion – and time, like an everrolling stream bore him away, and it was like the light had vanished from the world forever.

You know it wasn’t the Sadducees who started to speak of his resurrection. The women did, Mary Magdalene and the others who had followed him from Galilee. They barely had words to speak about what they had seen and heard, but they spoke. They began to talk about life, embodied life no longer subject to sin, suffering, or death, but glorified and fulfilled. They spoke about this new beginning God had made in the world, a beginning that would not become just another ending, but flow into fulfillment like a river flows to the sea. And soon the disciples didn’t just talk about the new life, they began to live it with boldness and courage, as brothers and sisters of Christ.

There is an exuberance behind this proclamation of new life and new hope that is easier to catch in the spring. But November is the season when we say with Paul, “I am convinced that neither death, nor life ... nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” _{Romans 8:38-39}

November is the season when we affirm the faithfulness of God that extends beyond all endings. November is the season when we sing with Isaac Watts that final verse,

O God, our help in ages past,
our hope for years to come,
be thou our God while life shall last,
and our eternal home.

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[1] Richard Wilbur, Collected Poems 1943-2004 (Orlando: Harcourt, 2004) p. 274

[2] O God, Our Help in Ages Past, Chalice Hymnal #67



Salvation A to Z

When it comes to naming the ones who have gone before us and who have shaped our faith in significant ways, I usually stay in the neighborhood, as it were, close to home. I name people in my family, or teachers and mentors, men and women whom I have known in person and with whom I have spent time; people whose eyes I remember smiling at me and whose hand I still sometimes feel on my shoulder after all those years.

I never met Habakkuk, though. All I know about the man with the funny name fits on three pages in my Bible. There’s no picture of his face, and there aren’t any stories to at least imagine the outlines of his life. All I know about Habakkuk is a voice I first heard when I was in my twenties. It took that long because in the church Habakkuk doesn’t get the  exposure and name recognition of prophets like Isaiah or Amos. I remember sitting in a large gathering and listening to an old Jewish man who spoke about the audacity of hope (that was long before it became the title of a book). He sat on a stage behind a small table, and looking at us over the rims of his glasses he quoted from the final verses of Habakkuk,

Though the fig tree does not blossom,
and no fruit is on the vines;
though the produce of the olive fails
and the fields yield no food;
though the flock is cut off from the fold
and there is no herd in the stalls,
y e t   I   w i l l    r e j o i c e   i n   t h e   L o r d;
I will exult in the God of my salvation. Habakkuk 3:17-18

The old man was no fool. He had seen violence and injustice in his lifetime that none of us could imagine. He had known hunger, thirst, pain and loss, he had lived through the darkness of six million Jewish men, women, and children murdered. And there he sat, teaching us the audacity of hope with the authority of his own life and the words of the prophet Habakkuk. “Don’t let circumstance determine the measure of your hope,” he said. “Only God is big enough to sustain your soul when the world gives you little to sing about. Listen to Habakkuk.” And we did.

We were Christians from all corners of Germany, Protestants and Catholics. We were looking at the growing arsenals of nuclear weapons in Europe and around the globe, and we knew that peace had to be more than sitting in fear in the shadow of missiles. We were looking at apartheid in South Africa and military rule in most of South America, and we knew that justice had to be more than the ability of European corporations to continue to do business there without disruptions. We were looking at forests and rivers dying because of acid rain, and we knew that we didn’t want to live as though we had another planet in storage somewhere. We began listening to Habakkuk and we found a brother in the struggle for a different world, a different life:

O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you will not listen? Or cry to you “Violence!” and you will not save? Why do you make me see wrong-doing and look at trouble? Destruction and violence are before me; strife and contention arise. So the law becomes slack and justice never prevails. Habakkuk 1:1-4

We found a brother who didn’t switch channels to hear only the news he wanted to hear, but who looked at the mess the world was in and took his questions to God. He didn’t get himself a nice couch and pull the blanket over his ears, no, he got up and took a stand:

I will stand at my watchpost, and station myself on the rampart; I will keep watch to see what [the Lord] will say to me, and what [God] will answer concerning my complaint. Habakkuk 2:1

He wanted to see justice and salvation, he had questions about God’s just rule, and he found himself a place where he stationed himself to keep watch. He didn’t turn away, he didn’t withdraw, he paid attention: ears and eyes open, heart and mind open.

The answer concerning his complaint didn’t explain how or why, if God was in charge, the world was in the kind of shape it was in. The answer Habakkuk received was a call to write the vision and to make it plain. The answer he received was a call to be attentive and persistent, for there is still a vision for the appointed time. If it seems to tarry, wait for it; it will surely come, it will not delay (Habakkuk 2:2-30). Stand at your watchpost in the world gone wrong and put into words every glimmer of hope you can see, every whisper of promise you can hear. Don’t let circumstance determine the measure of your hope, but solely the vision of God’s just reign of peace. Only God is big enough to sustain your soul when the world gives you little to sing about.

The voice of Habakkuk has been with me like a brother for almost thirty years, keeping watch with me.

But why does God who said, “Let there be light” and there was light, why does God not say, “Let there be justice and peace”? If you ask Luke, he’ll tell you that that is exactly what God said in the life of Jesus Christ.

Jesus was on his way to Jerusalem when he passed through Jericho and found Zacchaeus up in a tree. You know how he got there, the wee little man who owned the biggest house in town.

Nobody liked him. They enjoyed blocking his view when Jesus came down the road. It wasn’t hard, he was short, and the streets were already crowded; all they had to do was stand shoulder to shoulder like a wall. Zack wasn’t just a tax collector, he was the chief tax collector who had gotten rich by picking every last penny from their pockets. They knew that it was their hard work that had paid for his house and everything in it.

Zacchaeus couldn’t get through the wall of bodies, but he was determined to see who Jesus was – determined enough to make a fool of himself by running like a child, and, as if that hadn’t been ridiculous enough, climbing a tree. Perhaps he had heard people talking about Jesus, the friend of sinners and tax collectors, and now, sitting in the tree above the crowd, he was wondering if it could be true.

Jesus looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.” Oh did he ever hurry! He practically fell out of that tree, overjoyed and speechless, happy to welcome the famous rabbi.

The people who had been laughing out loud when they watched Zacchaeus running down the road and climbing the sycamore, now grumbled, “Really? Of all the houses in Jericho it had to be this one? Why did Jesus go to be the guest of a sinner?”

Well, Jesus had been very consistent in accepting those whom everybody else rejected, and we are not nearly as surprised as the people of Jericho were. What surprises us is what happened next: Zacchaeus, the rich crook, committed himself to doing justice. He turned to Jesus and said, “Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.” What had gotten into the little man?

I can see Habakkuk standing at his watchpost on the edge of the scene, taking notes for the vision he is to write. You remember how he cried out to God, the law becomes slack and justice never prevails?

O mercy, justice sure did prevail that day! Half of what he owned Zacchaeus pledged to address the needs of the poor, and he made four-fold restitution for what he had stolen – following the strictest interpretation of the law. Nothing anyone would call slack! Everybody was wondering, “What just happened here?” – and Jesus said, “Today salvation has come to this house.”

Zacchaeus was rich, and the last time Jesus had looked into the eyes of a rich man, he said, “How hard it is for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.”

And those who heard it said, “Then who can be saved?”

Zacchaeus was rich, and in Luke news about the rich is consistently bleak: They are the ones sent away empty when the hungry are filled with good things, they are the ones who have already received their consolation, they are the fools who only know how to build bigger barns, they are the ones feasting with their friends while Lazarus is starving at the door. Woe – then who can be saved?

Habakkuk points to Zacchaeus, “That’s something to sing about, isn’t it?” And it’s not just Zacchaeus’s soul being saved. Salvation changes everything, from the very personal to the political. When Jesus is in the house, the reign of God is present and the world is being made right and whole in acts of justice and compassion.

Jericho was Jesus’ final stop before completing his earthly ministry in Jerusalem. His words to Zacchaeus are like a definition of his entire mission: “The Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.”

I am reminded of a story at the beginning of Genesis. There, Adam and Eve are hiding themselves from the presence of God among the trees. They are hiding from God in shame and fear because they know that they have broken the trust between them. The story describes God as walking in the garden, looking for them and calling, “Where are you?” It’s a serious game of hide and seek.

Now this may be a bit of a stretch, but it may still be true: we have been hiding among the trees since the days of Adam and Eve, knowing that we are not the people God wants us to be; but God is looking for us. And at the end of his journey to Jerusalem, Jesus finds Zacchaeus in the tree. God is looking for us, Adam to Zacchaeus, A to Z, and finding us. And every time one of us is found, the reign of God comes to us and the world is being made right and whole, and justice prevails.

Now that is something to sing about, isn’t it?

Phil and Max

Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt, and this morning he told it to us. It’s a dangerous story. We hear it and we are inclined to write the Pharisee off as a self-righteous, religious hypocrite, and then we leave this place of prayer with contempt in our hearts – which is not what Jesus has in mind for us. Jesus keeps telling us this story, because he wants us to go home with greater love for God and the people around us.

Two men went up to the temple to pray. Years ago, I named them, Phil and Max. Phil’s a Pharisee and Max a tax collector. Phil’s a good man, and he knows it. He takes his religion seriously. He observes the prayer times diligently, he studies scripture daily, and he gives generously to help the needy. Phil is the kind of dedicated person of which every congregation and every community needs a few. He has taught Sunday school, he has been an Elder for several years, and when you talk to him about giving it doesn’t turn into a sales-job. Phil gets it. He is committed to his congregation, and in addition to his work, he also serves on the boards of several non-profits. It’s people like Phil who hold the community together with their efforts and their example. Phil knows what is right and he does it.

Max’s is a different kind of story. Max collects taxes, and that doesn’t mean he got a degree in accounting and started working for the IRS. Max works for the Romans. He has crossed the line by collaborating with the occupying military power, squeezing the population to maintain the empire and its legions. The Romans created a unique and effective way of collecting taxes through a franchise system. The imperial government sold the function and office of Tax Collector to regional brokers who then employed locals to do the dirty work. The local tax collector was given his financial quota, and nobody really cared how he managed to raise the amount. He set his own rate, and from whatever he was able to collect, he skimmed off his profits. That’s what Max does for a living. You can imagine he doesn’t have many friends. He has betrayed his neighbors by collaborating with the occupation forces, and to make matters worse, he himself profits from their subjugation under pagan rule. Max walks down Main Street, and as soon as people see him, they cross to the other side of the road. Max is a sinner, and he knows it.

So the two went up to the temple to pray, and Phil, standing by himself, thanked God that he was a good man and not like other people. He brought with him two short lists, one telling of the ways in which he went far beyond the call of duty in his religious observance, the other listing some of the people who damaged life in the community with stealing, adultery, and shameless profiteering.

Max, on the other hand, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven. All he said was, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” This man, Max, Jesus said, went down to his home justified rather than the other, Phil. Now that was Jesus’ outside-of-the-story statement; neither Max nor Phil knew anything about the state of their relationship with God according to Jesus. For all we know, Max returned to his life of sin. The next morning he got up and he took money from his neighbors, handed some of it over to the Romans, and put some aside for himself. Max was not a good guy. He was a corrupt crook and he knew it. And Phil was a decent man who, for all we know, returned to his life of religious observance and civic responsibility.

Jesus didn’t tell us this outrageous story so we could walk away whispering, “God, I thank you that I am not like Phil.” This is not a lesson in contempt, but a teaching about our need for mercy.

Phil’s prayer is short, and it is an expression of his relationship with God. It begins beautifully, “God, I thank you,” opening the moment to become a channel for waves of gratitude for all the things God has done. It begins beautifully, but then it quickly turns into the sad report of a spiritually self-sufficient man who didn’t come for mercy but for praise. “God, I thank you that I am not like the rest,” he says, and his contempt for the rest of the people is matched by his pride in his own accomplishments. He assesses himself against the standard of religious law, and he is satisfied. He looks around and compares himself to those who cannot measure up, and he is pleased with the difference. Phil prays with peripheral vision and keen powers of observation.

Max’s prayer is short as well, and it too reflects his relationship with God. “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” He knows himself. He knows what he has done and what he is capable of doing. Without a sideward glance, his eyes lowered, gazing at his toes, he stands before God. Max is oblivious to all but his own need for God’s mercy, perhaps not even hoping for the mercy of God’s people anymore.

I read about a social worker who works with prostitutes in Chicago. A young woman told her how she got involved in prostitution, how it began. She talked about the drugs and the money, the near-impossibility of walking away, and about living with a permanent sense of shame and guilt.

“Can you believe I hired out my own daughter?” she said, “I can’t, but I did it, and I know I would do it again. Hiring her out I made more in one hour than I would in one night.”

 “I could hardly bear hearing her sordid story,” the social worker wrote, “I had no idea what to say to this woman. At last I asked if she had ever thought about going to a church for help. I will never forget the look of pure, naïve shock that crossed her face. ‘Church?’she said. ‘Why would I ever go there? I was already feeling terrible about myself. They’d just make me feel worse.’” ^[1]

She had long given up hoping for the mercy of God’s people. Whether we like it or not, we pray with a sideward glance, comparing ourselves to others, finding those whose brokenness seems worse than our own. Well, at least I’m not like her, not like him, not like them – I may have my foibles and failings, but compared to them … Thank you, God. When I pray with a sideward glance, the corners of my own heart remain dark – and I continue to live in illusion and denial.

What Jesus dares us to imagine is a community of mercy. Sin is so pervasive and powerful that even our perceived righteousness can break our relationship with God and with each other; sin isolates us both in our goodness and our badness. Only mercy can teach us to pray, “God, we are all like other people. We are not who you made us to be. Have mercy on us. Take away the burden of our sin.”

Karl Barth was one of the greatest theologians of the 20^th century. He taught at the university of Basel in Switzerland, and on Sunday mornings, he frequently went to the prison to preach. There he shared with a small congregation of prisoners and guards the good news of Jesus Christ. He talked about our captivity behind walls thicker than the walls of their prison, behind doors heavier than the doors of their cells. He talked about the power of sin to fragment and separate and isolate us from God, and then he told them the story of God’s grace. The story of a love that will not let us go. The story of a mercy that breaks the walls and kicks down the doors.

“We are saved by grace. That means that we did not deserve to be saved. What we deserve would be quite different. No one can be proud of being saved. Each one can only fold [their] hands in great lowliness of heart and be thankful like a child. Consequently, we shall never possess salvation as our property. We may only receive it as a gift over and over again with hands outstretched.” ^[2]

Salvation is not about getting out ahead of the rest. Much of it is about learning to say we again, standing on the common ground of our need for God’s mercy, standing in the company of sinners, knowing that Jesus is standing with us. We all enter the kingdom of heaven, not because we deserve to be there, but because Jesus has joined us in our lonely exile to forgive our sins and bring us together in the community of forgiven sinners.

As forgiven sinners we look at others not to compare and judge and deepen our divisions, but to see one another and hold one another in solidarity and recognize one another as brothers and sisters. None of us can be proud of being saved, because it’s not our doing. It’s grace, abundant and sufficient, poured out for all—because we all need more love than we deserve.

Phil and Max—I want to tell you the end of the story, and I’m making it up, but I’m also not making it up. Phil and Max now pray together regularly, and a couple of weeks ago a woman from Chicago sat with them. “Guys,” she said, “can you teach me to pray?” And Phil said, “In the morning we say, ‘God, we thank you for the gift of this day. Help us remember who we are.’” And Max said, “At night, before we go to sleep, we say, ‘God, we thank you for the gift of this day. Forgive us when we forgot who we are.  Hold us in your grace in the hours of the night.’” And the professor from Switzerland said, “You always say, we, huh?” And they answered, “Always. We’re in this together; all of us.”

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[1] See Philip Yancey, What’s So Amazing about Grace? (Zondervan, 1997), p. 11

[2] Karl Barth, Deliverance to the Captives (Harper, 1961), p. 39