What would you tell Harry?

A few weeks ago, Nancy and I had the pleasure of dining down at the Farmer’s Market. It was a fundraising dinner – now I don’t know how many fundraising dinners you have attended, and perhaps yours have all been memorable and delicious. I’ve been to too many where I looked down at the plate in front of me, and all I could say was, “Really?” A sad piece of chicken breast, devoid of any residual moisture, sitting on a bed of overcooked, cold pasta, with three or four stems of asparagus trying hard to cheer up the plate. But Nancy and I had the pleasure of dining at the Farmer’s Market; it was a fundraiser for the Nashville Food Project, appropriately called, Nourish.

Every living thing on earth must eat in order to live. But we all know there’s a big difference between fueling your body and eating, between eating and dining, and between dining and feasting. We know that grabbing a bite is different from having a meal. Food is not just calories, proteins, carbs, and fats – and what we do with our food says a lot about what we do with life. In Scripture, images of life’s fulfillment are visions of feasts, not drive-throughs.

So Nancy and I had the pleasure of dining at the Farmer’s Market to raise funds for the Nashville Food Project to continue to nourish our community. The meal had been prepared by some of the best chefs in the Southeast, the wines were delightful as well as the company, and John Egerton MC’d the evening with charm and grace. Before the meal was served, John talked a little about regional foods and about bread in particular. In the South, bread is hot and delicious: cornbread baked in cast iron, biscuits that play the whole scale from flaky to fluffy, with butter and jam or eggs and ham. In the North, bread is rarely hot. Bread is baked at night so it has time to cool off and rest: crusty sourdough, chewy ciabatta, sweet rye with caraway seeds, and gorgeous challah that shines like the light of morning was braided into it. John talked about the invisible line that runs through the Eastern U.S., with hot breads in the South and cold breads in the North, and how much he loved all good bread (as do I).

Bread tells stories. It tells us about our ancestors, about farms and cities, about immigration and slavery and labor relations. In much of the world, bread is the very essence of food and life. “Give us this day our daily bread,” we pray – and with bread we pray for all that is needed for life to be nourished and raised to fullness.

During the bombing raids of World War II, thousands of children were orphaned and left to starve.^[1] The fortunate ones were rescued and placed in refugee camps where they received food and good care. But, many of these children who had lost so much could not sleep at night. They feared waking up to find themselves once again homeless and without food. Nothing seemed to reassure them. Finally, someone hit upon the idea of giving each child a piece of bread to hold at bedtime. Holding their bread, these children could finally sleep in peace. Their lives had been uprooted by war, their families killed and their world destroyed, but holding on  to a piece of bread, they held on to hope and peace.

There’s another John who loves to tell us stories about bread; now I’m talking about the one who wrote the gospel that bears his name. He tells us how around Passover time Jesus was sitting with a large crowd and he said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” They were hungry, and he didn’t want to start teaching until they had all eaten (it’s difficult to learn anything when you’re hungry). Philip quickly did the math in his head and said, “Half a year’s wages wouldn’t buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” Andrew told him about the boy who had five barley loaves and two fish and added, “But what’s one boy’s lunch among so many people?”

You know the story, of course. He took the bread, gave thanks, and distributed it among all; so also the fish, and they all ate as much as they wanted. Male and female, young and old, rich and poor, wise and foolish – all ate until they wanted no more. He gave them bread to eat until even the hungriest among the teenage boys said, ‘I’m kinda full’ – and then he told his disciples to gather up the fragments, and they filled twelve baskets.

Now fullness of life is not the same as a full stomach, but nobody wants to hear about fullness of life on an empty stomach either. For the hungry, the good news begins with bread, or rather the breaking and sharing of bread.

The next day, the crowd found Jesus on the other side of the lake, and you already heard what he told them. They had this long talk about bread that perishes and bread that endures for eternal life. We all need the bread that fills our stomachs, but we need just as much the bread that nourishes our life together toward fullness. And Jesus offers himself as the true bread from heaven, the bread that our hearts crave when we hunger for life that is fearless, joyful, and whole.

For many in our community and around the world, the good news still begins with the breaking of bread so they can eat and go to sleep in peace. But we’re all nourished toward fullness by the bread that is Jesus’ life of obedience and love.

I’ll tell you another bread story, and this one has a cake in it.[2] Tony Campolo found himself walking the streets of Honolulu at 3:30 a.m. one morning. He had flown in from the east coast, and the time difference meant that he was up and ready to go way before dawn, hungry and looking for a place where he could get some breakfast and a nice cup of coffee. Up a side street he found a little place that was still open. It wasn’t clean and smelled kinda funny, but it was the only place he could find.

The guy behind the counter asked him what he wanted, and he told him, “A cup of coffee and a donut.” So he sat there munching on his donut and sipping his coffee when suddenly the door of the diner swung open, and in marched eight or nine boisterous women. It was a small place and they all sat along the counter on either side of Tony. Their talk was loud and crude (he was convinced they were all prostitutes) and he felt completely out of place. All he could think about was how to get out inconspicuously.

Then he overheard the woman sitting beside him say, “Tomorrow’s my birthday. I’m going to be thirty-nine.” Another one sitting a couple of chairs down replied, “Birthday? Why are you telling me? What do you want from me? Ya want me to get you a cake and sing ‘Happy Birthday’ or something?”

“Come on!” said the woman next to Tony. “Why do you have to be so mean? I was just telling you, that’s all. I don’t want anything from you. I’ve never had a birthday party in my whole life. Why should I have one now?”

Campolo just sat there, but when the women had left he asked the guy behind the counter if they came in there every night.

“Yeah.”

“What about the one who sat here next to me?” Campolo asked, “does she come in every night?”

“Yeah, her name’s Agnes. She’s been coming in here every night for the last fourteen years. Why do you wanna know?”

“Tomorrow’s her birthday. What do you think about us throwing a birthday party for her – right here – tomorrow night?”

“I like it! That’s a great idea! Hey, Sue! Come out here! This guy wants us to plan a party for Agnes!” His wife thought it was a wonderful idea. “Why don’t you bake the cake, Harry, and I’ll get some candles and nice napkins.”

At 2:30 the next morning, Tony was back at the diner with balloons and a big cardboard sign that read “Happy Birthday, Agnes!” He figured Sue had done a pretty good job of getting the word out because by 3:15 the diner was packed. At 3:30 on the dot, the door swung open and in came Agnes with a couple of her friends, and they all screamed, ‘Happy Birthday!’”

Agnes was stunned and shaken. Her mouth fell open. They all sang “Happy Birthday” to her when Sue brought in the birthday cake with all of its candles lit, and Agnes just sat there and cried. “Blow out the candles, Agnes!” Harry shouted. “Come on! If you don’t blow out the candles, I’m gonna hafta blow out the candles.” And he did. Then he handed her a knife, saying, “Cut the cake, Agnes! Everybody wants a piece.”

But Agnes just looked down at the cake, and without taking her eyes off of it, she softly said, “Look, Harry, is it all right with you if I … is it okay if I keep the cake a little while? I mean is it all right if we don’t eat it right away?” Harry shrugged, “Sure! It’s okay. If you want to keep the cake, keep the cake. Take it home if you want to.”

“Can I?” she asked. She told them that she wanted to take it home and show it to her kids and she promised to come right back. Then she got off the stool, picked up the cake, and carrying it like it was something that belonged on an altar, she walked slowly toward the door and left.

They were all silent, and Campolo looked around and said, “What do you say we pray?” Now that’s a curious thing to do in a Honolulu diner at three-thirty in the morning, but to those gathered there it felt just right. And so they prayed. Tony asked God to bless Agnes, to be good to her and watch over her. They all said, “Amen,” and Harry leaned over the counter and said, “Hey! You never told me you were a preacher. What kind of church do you belong to?” Tony told him that he wasn’t a preacher, and he added, “I belong to a church that throws birthday parties at three-thirty in the morning for folks who never had one.”

Harry looked at him for a moment before he responded, “No you don’t. There’s no church like that. If there was, I’d join it. I’d join a church like that!”

I don’t know what, if anything, Tony said to Harry. What would you say? What would you tell Harry about the bread that our hearts crave when we hunger for life that is fearless, joyful, and whole? What would you tell Harry about the bread of life?

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[1] See Dennis Linn, Sheila Fabricant Linn, Matthew Linn, Sleeping with Bread: Holding What Gives You Life (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1995), p. 1

[2] See Tony Campolo, Let Me Tell You A Story (Nashville: Word Publishing, 2000), p. 216-219; I have modified the text

incredibly everday human

I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I’m not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant.

The quote has been attributed to Robert McCloskey, Richard Nixon, and Alan Greenspan, but who said it first doesn’t really matter; it’s a very common experience. You are talking to a person who appears to be reasonably attentive, of good hearing and sound mind, but he or she still can’t hear you. You make eye contact, you speak slowly and clearly, without a trace of condescension, using common English, but you can tell you’re not getting through to them. It’s incredibly frustrating. We just don’t understand each other as well as we’d like to.

Our hearing develops while we’re still in the womb, and we learn to talk in the first years of our life, but we all know that speaking and listening is not just a matter of talking and hearing. Marriage and family counselors are known to spend much of their time coaching their clients how to speak and listen.

The Bible is full of sayings and writings of prophets who saw very clearly what was going on in their day, and they spoke, they declared, they urged and threatened, some even walked around naked to make their point – but who listened? Often their pronouncements were collected a generation later by men and women who wondered how their parents or they themselves could have missed the urgent truth; they sighed as they added the words of the prophets to their sacred texts.

Ezekiel heard a voice saying to him, “I’m sending you to the Israelites, a rebellious people. I’m sending you to their hardheaded and hardhearted descendants, and you will say to them, ‘Thus says the Lord God.’ You’ll speak my words to them whether they listen or whether they refuse. You aren’t being sent to a people whose language and speech are difficult and obscure but to the house of Israel – they will refuse to listen to you because they refuse to listen to me.”[1]

The prophets knew that listening is not only determined by language and speech, but by these curious human traits that can only be described as hardheadedness or hardheartedness. “Whether they listen or whether they refuse,” the voice said, “they will know that a prophet has been among them.”[2] Has been – that’s the sad past tense of regret. But it can also become the gentle healer of our hardheaded and hardhearted inclinations. It can open our stubborn hearts at least for the desire to listen more attentively and carefully to each other.

When Jesus began his ministry, he left home and went to Capernaum, and when the sabbath came, he entered the synagogue and taught. The people there were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority.[3] He continued to teach and heal in the villages of Galilee, and word about him spread. His family wasn’t thrilled, though. They were embarassed; the neighbors heard them say, “He has gone out of his mind.”[4] The people who had known him all his life didn’t know what to make of this sudden urge of his to leave home and walk from town to town, talking about repentance and the reign of God. They tried to convince him to come home, but once, when people told him that his mother and his brothers were outside, asking for him, Jesus replied, “Who are my mother and my brothers?” And looking at those who sat around him, he said, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”[5] Now that is a beautiful word for all those who recognize the wisdom, love, and power of God in Jesus, but imagine what a harsh word that was for his mother or his little sister.

So eventually Jesus came back to his hometown, and on the sabbath he went to the synagogue and began to teach, and people were astounded. Their astonishment, however, wasn’t the wide-eyed wonder that erupted in Capernaum and elsewhere, it was bewilderment riddled with bits of outrage. Where did he get all this? What is the source of his power? Don’t we know this guy? Who does he think he is? Nothing he said and did in his hometown was any different from what he had done elsewhere, but the outcome was the exact opposite: no miracles and wonders, no more signs of the inbreaking of God’s reign, only upset and angry people.

Jesus, Mark tells us, was amazed at their unbelief. I imagine the disciples were pretty puzzled as well, scratching their heads, wondering what was going on. They had been there when he silenced demons and drove them out. Even the unclean spirits obeyed him! They had been there when he stilled the storm, commanding the wind and the waves, and they obeyed![6] But in this little town, it was like his words hit the walls and fell to the ground. The contrast couldn’t be more striking. “Prophets are not without honor,” he said, “except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.”

Mark tells us that the people who should have known Jesus best, didn’t grasp who he was. It would be easy for us to dismiss them as hardheaded or hardhearted – but only if we can’t see ourselves in their shoes.

“Isn’t this Mary’s boy who used to work in construction?” they said. “We know you, Jesus. We know your family. We’ve known you ever since you were a little boy in diapers – who are you to come here with your newfangled ideas and God talk?” It was inconceivable to them that God could be at work in the man who had grown up just a couple of houses down the street from where they lived. And so they didn’t bring their sick for healing. They didn’t bring their children for his blessing. They didn’t come to hear his teaching. They quickly jumped to, “Who does he think he is?” and stopped listening to what he was saying and went home and left him standing there with his hands tied behind his back. They didn’t expect anything, and Jesus could do no deed of power there. There wasn’t a sadder town in all of Galilee that day. It was a drab and dreary place, with no expectations, little wonder, and little hope.

A miracle, the story suggests, is like the tango: it takes two. We know it takes one who performs and another who perceives the miracle. But Mark invites us to consider the reverse: it takes one who is open with expectation for the power of blessing to become manifest. Without faith, the wonders cease.

Communities where everyone knows everyone else feel comfortable and safe; but for those who want to look at life from angles that aren’t defined solely by family and by what the neighbors might think, life in Mayberry can be suffocating. Small communities have lots of unwritten rules of how things are properly done, and that’s why they can be hardest on their most creative people. If anyone has an idea that breaks the mold, the first response is not, “Tell us more!” but more likely, “Who does she think she is? The King of China’s daughter?”

Churches, of course, are small communities, and I wonder how many times we stifle the wisdom and power of God in our midst, and we don’t even notice. How often do we want to make sure everybody knows their place? How often are we simply not receptive to God’s surprising intrusions? These questions get to the crucial difference between having known Jesus all your life and listening to Jesus now. And Mark’s story suggests that it might well be the difference between “no deed of power here” and “it was a time of miracles and wonders and he was amazed at their belief.”

Between the lines of his story, Mark says to us, “People who have never seen Jesus face to face know him better than his own family and kin because they dare to believe and expect that God speaks and acts through him.” Perhaps we all secretly wait for a god who pops onto the scene like the Incredible Hulk popping out of David Banner’s suit, and so we miss the God who now and then looks a lot like the kid who grew up a couple of houses down the street or our cousin from North Carolina: incredibly everyday human.

But when we begin to believe that Jesus indeed embodies God’s love, word, power, and wisdom, and when we begin to believe that God is not too big to meet us in each other, deeds of power begin to happen. Acts of mercy. Works of compassion. Miracles of understanding.

Jesus sends us out, two by two, like tango dancers. He tells us to take nothing for the journey, but to travel light. On the kingdom trail the gear doesn’t matter. It never was about the gear, and it never will be. It’s just baggage more likely to slow us down than to help us accomplish our mission. It never was about steeples, pews, robes, and bells, and it never will be. It’s all about the miracles and wonders of God’s reign. It’s all about the authority and the power we make manifest when we receive the word of God in Jesus with expectant hearts and respond to it obediently. It’s all incredibly everyday human.

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[1] See Ezekiel 2:1-7

[2] Ezekiel 2:5

[3] Mark 1:21-22

[4] Mark 3:22

[5] Mark 3:32-35

[6] Mark 1:27; 4:41

Into the depths

Out of the depths I cry to you; Lord, hear my voice. Some cries are beautiful. Loud shouts of joy from the top of the mountain or cheers of victory from the track and the bleachers at the end of the race. The beautiful racket rising above a pool on a hot summer day, children playing and splashing, shrieking with delight.

Some cries are beautiful. But the cry out of the depths comes from a different place, it comes from a great distance, far from where life is at home. Out of the depths I cry to you; Lord hear my voice.

The psalm gives voice to the love and the despair of a father who falls at Jesus’ feet begging him to lay his hands on his little girl so that she may live. And the words give voice to an unnamed woman who doesn’t dare speak as she comes up behind Jesus to touch his clothes, reaching up from the depths of twelve years of suffering.

A couple of Sundays ago during worship I remembered Cheryl Bridges Johns, a professor at the Church of God seminary in Cleveland, TN. I hope I will never forget her challenge to make room in our worship services for unscripted things to happen. “Make room,” she said, and I’m paraphrasing her words, “make room for a little chaos to give the Holy Spirit an opportunity to tame it.”

The depths of chaos are frightening. We know they are there, some of us are sitting in them right now, but it takes a lot for any of us to cry to the Lord from the depths, unless we’re alone or have a pillow to muffle our cries. Make room, Cheryl said, for a little chaos to give the Holy Spirit an opportunity to tame it. Have yourselves a little festival of tears every now and then, she said.

When did we begin to believe that grief, despair, and helplessness must be transformed into well-written litanies before we can bring them before God? Why do we insist on projecting that everything is under control, that we have it all together? I don’t know, but I suspect it is because we want to be in control. We are afraid of chaos and we are afraid to fully trust the power of God to tame the chaos. We are afraid of what might erupt once we take the lid off. We are afraid it might overwhelm us.

And so we script our worship services carefully and expect them to be over on time. And we talk about praise and worship and create an entire industry that writes the songs for it – but who gives voice and melody to the cries that well up from the depths?

Some poets do.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.[1]

There is no setting of this poem or anything like it in the hymnals of the church. We don’t do laments, nor do we weep or wail; we cry in movie theaters, silently and grateful for the darkness, and at home behind closed doors. There is no room for a ‘festival of tears’ in our public gatherings, and so the Holy Spirit must find other ways to tame the chaos that threatens to undo us.

Jairus was a leader of the synagogue, a prominent and influential member of the community, a man people recognized and greeted in the market place. When he saw Jesus, he fell at his feet, his hands and knees in the dust, and he begged him, not just once, but repeatedly, “My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.” He was a man used to having things under control, and he was powerless. The love for his daughter made a beggar of him. He could have sent a servant to ask Jesus to come to his house, but he didn’t; he was no longer afraid to reveal his love and helplessness in front of the whole town, he fell to his knees and begged, a desperate man.

In one of his memoirs, Frederick Buechner recalls his own helplessness as a father whose little girl was very sick. “One of our daughters began to stop eating. There was nothing scary about it at first. It was just the sort of thing any girl who thought she’d be prettier if she lost a few pounds might do – nothing for breakfast, maybe a carrot or a Diet Coke for lunch, for supper perhaps a little salad with low calorie dressing. But then as months went by it did become scary. Anorexia nervosa is the name of the sickness she was suffering from.” The hardest part: there was nothing he could do. “No rational argument, no dire medical warning, no pleading, or cajolery or bribing would make this young woman he loved start eating normally again. … The psychiatrists we consulted told me I couldn’t cure her. The best thing I could do for her was to stop trying to do anything. [But] the only way I knew to be a father was to take care of her – to move heaven and earth to make her well, and of course, I couldn’t do that. I didn’t have … the power to make her well.”[2]

“My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live,” Jairus begged. Jesus went with him, surrounded by people on every side, and suddenly he stopped, turned around and said, “Who touched my clothes?”

The disciples were like, “You’re kidding, right?” – they didn’t know that a woman in the crowd had come up behind Jesus and touched his cloak, convinced that if she but touched his clothes, she’d be made well. They didn’t know she had been bleeding for twelve years. They didn’t know she had spent all she had on medical bills, and was no better. Had they known, they might have told her, “This is not a good time, Mam. A little girl is dying; look, you’ve waited twelve years, a few minutes more won’t be much of a difference, but for the little girl it’s a matter of life or death.”

The woman touched Jesus with a mixture of desperation and hope. Out of the depths, too tired and poor to be afraid anymore, she reached out and touched his clothes. That was all the faith she had.

Immediately she felt that she was healed. When Jesus turned around and asked, “Who touched me?” she fell down before him and told him the whole truth. She told him the truth of twelve years of suffering and poverty, of loneliness, hopelessness, and shame – and who knows how long it took her to tell the whole truth of her suffering.

And then Jesus said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace, and be healed of your disease.” The truth was and is that she was not just some anonymous, marginalized and impoverished woman in the crowd, but a member of God’s family. The truth was and is that God hears even the silent cry from the depths and invites us into wholeness and peace through Christ.

But what about the little girl who was only twelve years old? It was too late, they said. “Your daughter is dead,” they said, “Why trouble the teacher any further?” But Jesus said, “Do not fear, only believe.” He went into the room where she lay and took her hand. “Talita, cum,” he said, “little girl, get up!” And she got up.

Out of the depth we cry to God, “Lord, hear our voice!” and God comes into our depths, where we are so far from where life and peace are at home; God comes with healing mercy.

Mark loves to sandwich his stories; he does it quite a bit throughout his account of the gospel. Here he begins telling us the story of the little girl, then he arranges an interruption to tell us about the woman who had suffered for as many years as the girl had lived, and then he returns to the first story to finish it. And he finishes it although so many said, it is too late. Finishing it is his way of saying it’s never too late for the love and power of God.

The little girl was dead when Jesus told her Dad, “Do not fear, only believe.” Believe what? Certainly not that if we believe just right, Jesus will do a miracle for us. Thoughts like that cross our minds when we are helpless and despairing.

Mark loves to sandwich his stories so we can begin to see how our own stories, even our entire life story are woven into the life of Jesus. Our lives are his and his life is ours. Even the depths of our helpless and hopeless despair are his. He sits with us and says, “The depths of chaos are frightening, but they will not overwhelm you.” The final word of the story is God’s, and God says, “Get up.”

This word may be too big for our imagination, but it’s just the right size to tame the chaos of our fear and give us the courage to hope. May it be so.

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[1] Written by W. H. Auden; known as “Funeral Blues” and by other titles; see http://www.wussu.com/poems/whafb.htm for some background

[2] Frederick Buechner, Telling Secrets: A Memoir (HarperSanFrancisco, 1992), pp. 23, 26

7x7 Autumn book study

After the summer, I would like to lead another small book group. I'm leaning toward N.T. Wright, Surprised by Hope: Rethinking Heaven, the Resurrection, and the Mission of the Church. Wright is one of the leading New Testament scholars of our time, a prolific author, and the former Bishop of Durham in the Church of England (he retired in 2010). I don't agree with some of his positions, but I always learn from him, and I love his passion for the church.

I think we could read and discuss his book without hurrying in 6-8 weeks. If you'd like to be part of this small book group (6-8 people), let me know, so we can start looking at our fall schedules.

To the other side

A Mighty Fortress Is Our God we sang at Jack’s funeral on Wednesday, one of the great hymns of the church. With steady beat we sang of God, our present help amid the flood of mortal ills. I sing those lines and I see a stronghold built on a rock, surrounded by a raging sea, waves relentlessly battering the walls, but to no avail: this fortress is a mighty one.

And though this world with devils filled, should threaten to undo us, we will not fear. The powers of darkness grim, we tremble not for them; their rage we can endure, for lo, their doom is sure: One little word shall fell them.

One little word. But how much easier it is for us to sing fearlessly against the storm from the walls of a fortress on the shore than from a little boat tossed about by the waves.

Water is one of the most powerful symbols we know, life-giving water and life-threatening water. Our lives begin immersed in a little ocean in the womb, and we imagine it to be a world of perfect peace. Nothing can bother us – food comes to us, steady as our mother’s heartbeat; all other noises are muffled, the temperature is always right, we just curl up in the water and float in complete happiness – until the water breaks, that is. Then, suddenly, it’s gravity and bright lights, cold air, strange sounds and voices, and very soon – hunger. We must learn that being born also means being welcomed by parents who hold us, keep us safe and warm, feed us, whisper in our ears, and continue to surround us with love and care.

It may well be the fact that we spend the first months of our existence immersed in water like fish in the ocean, that we have this life-long attraction to water. There’s nothing like soaking in a hot tub when your muscles are sore – or your soul. You just float in memories of complete happiness, and the tensions melt, the muscles relax, and your soul sings a little song of peace. We love water; the pleasures of splashing and swimming and jumping in puddles; the satisfaction of a drink of cold water on a hot day; the sound of summer rain drumming on the leaves of the trees; the fun of water slides and surfing, kayaking and snorkeling; the beauty of rivers, lakes, and water falls; the rhythm of waves rolling up on the beach. We love water – it flows through our cells, it freshens our skin and it revives our spirit.

Jesus was baptized in a river, and he did much of his teaching by the lake, the Sea of Galilee. When the crowds who gathered to hear him got larger, he asked his disciples to have a boat ready for him, so he could pull away from the shore and teach from the boat.[1] People heard his stories about the sower scattering seed on the ground with the sound of water in the background, little waves lapping up onto the pebbles and rocks. People listened to his kingdom parables while looking at the vast, open stretch of sea and sky; I don’t know about you, but I can’t imagine anything more beautiful than sitting by the water’s edge, listening to Jesus’ stories about God’s reign.

On that day, when evening had come, Jesus said to the disciples, “Let us go across to the other side,” and leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was.

Most of the people on the beach had gone home, they had things to do, animals to look after, meals to prepare, kids to get ready for bed; but some stayed and watched the boat go east. “What business does he have going over there,” they wondered, “it’s only Gentiles on the other side, idolatrous people, it’s an unclean land, full of unholy spirits. It’s not our people over there, not his people, what business does he have going over there?” Dark clouds were moving in, casting shadows on what had been a sunny day on the beach.

Meanwhile, in the boat, the disciples were enjoying the evening breeze and quiet. It had been a long day, they were tired, and the gentle rocking of the boat almost put them to sleep. But then the wind picked up, and soon the storm broke lose. The waves beat into the boat, and it was being swamped. Some of the disciples were fishermen; they were accustomed to wind and waves, but nothing like this. Chaos had been unleashed, the raging wind whipping the water into a frenzy of waves and whirls – their little boat nothing but a nutshell.

The disciples got a very close look at water’s other face, the reality that makes us wear life jackets in our boats, and stay close when our little ones are in the tub, long after they have learned to sit up on their own. There’s danger in the water, and we better learn to respect it, because the moment we learn to breathe, we can drown.

The disciples knew the danger of capsizing and going down into the deep. But they didn’t know Jesus. They saw him, curled up on a cushion, sleeping like a baby, a picture of peace in the midst of the storm. They woke him, saying, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”

Now why do you think they woke him? Did they want to hear one last story before the boat went down? That seems unlikely. Did they need him to help get the water out of the boat or hold the rudder? If so, why didn’t they say so or hand him a pail? To me it sounds like they were anxious and it bothered them that he didn’t seem to be the least bit troubled. “Do you not care that this little boat is going down and all of us with it?” They were frantic and the fact that he wasn’t made it worse.

Jesus woke up; Mark doesn’t even mention if he got up from the cushion. He woke up and rebuked the wind and the sea. “Peace! Be still!” And it was so. He spoke and it came to be. He made the storm be still, and the waves of the sea were hushed.[2] One little word, and there was great calm.

And the disciples? They were sitting down, wide-eyed, barely breathing, their hands clenching the wall of the boat with white knuckles. Before, they had been anxious, now they were afraid.

Jesus said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

There is a popular reading of this story where Jesus isn’t rebuking the wind and the waves, but the disciples for being afraid in the storm. According to that reading, we ought to always remember, no matter how high the waves or how violent the winds, that Jesus is in the boat with us – and that we shouldn’t be afraid, and if we had faith, we wouldn’t be afraid. According to that reading, we ought to tie ourselves to the mast of the cross with strong ropes of faith and laugh at the storm, “Bring it on! Is that all you got?”

I believe this is dangerous nonsense, because the next time your little boat gets hit by a storm, and you know it will, you’ll be afraid, and on top of everthing else, you’ll feel guilty for being afraid. As if fear wasn’t enough.

Jesus didn’t rebuke the disciples, he commanded the wind and the waves to be still. Remember, the whole trip was his idea, “Let us go across to the other side,” he said. This was no evening cruise to a restaurant on the other side of the bay. He took them out to sea, away from the land and the life they knew, to the land of the Gentiles. Why? Because idols and demons ruled on the other side and Jesus invaded their territory to proclaim and bring the kingdom of God. Because sin and death ruled on the other side and Jesus crossed over to bring forgiveness, healing, and wholeness to life. This was no pleasure cruise, this was D-day. Little wonder the forces of chaos tried to stop their little boat with waves bucking like bulls and wind gusts strong enough to break everything in their path.

Jesus’ life and mission is one dangerous crossing after another. His presence, his teaching, his actions lead to confrontation between the way things are and the way they are to be – within us, between us, and beyond us. The truth is, when Jesus is near, the storms aren’t far.

But when Jesus speaks, we hear the word that spoke light and life into being. When Jesus speaks, we hear the One who prescribed bounds for [the sea], and said, “Thus far shall you come, and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stopped.”[3]

The disciples in the boat were not half as afraid of the storm as they were of Jesus’ sovereign power to tame it. They were afraid because it finally dawned on them that it wasn’t them who had taken Jesus into the boat with them; Jesus had taken them into the boat with him, and this ride to the other side was an invasion of enemy territory by the forces of grace and wholeness.

“Why are you afraid?” he asked, “Have you still no faith?”

Our Bible translation is very kind, suggesting that we read, “They were filled with great awe,” when the words can also be translated, “they feared with great fear.” They were afraid because they were beginning to understand that this little boat they were in was going to keep crossing to the other side, and that nothing, neither death nor life, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor anything else in all creation would be able to keep him from completing his journey.

They didn’t jump ship. They stayed in the boat with him, as they were, with their great fear and their little faith, and they sailed with him, all the way to the shore where life in fullness is at home.

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[1] Mark 3:9; 4:1

[2] Genesis 1:7ff.; Psalm 33:9; Psalm 107:29

[3] See Job 38:8-11

Nothing more important

Jean Giono, a French/Italian author, was working on a story. It was a story about a shepherd who lived up in the mountains and a hiker who met him when he was looking for water.

Giono worked on that story for twenty-three years, and in the end it was only seven pages long. It’s the story of Elzéard Bouffier who, after the death of his wife and son, moved to the mountains, and over a period of fifty years planted hundreds of thousands of trees. He began planting trees, he said, because the land was dying for want of trees, and he had nothing more important to do.

The publisher didn’t like the story because it was fiction. It was based on actual people and events, but it wasn’t journalism or biography. It was just a story. Since his publisher didn’t want it, Giono gave up the copyright, so whoever wanted to print it or tell it or turn it into a movie or a song could do so. And today countless people around the world have been touched and inspired by the classic tale of the man who planted trees.

Evening was approaching, and when he asked me if I needed a place to stay for the night, I gratefully accepted. We gathered his sheep and walked to his cabin in a steep valley.

After dinner, the Shepherd left the room and returned with a small sack. He dumped the contents – about two hundred acorns – out on the table. He scrutinized each one carefully and sorted them into piles. He discarded all with cracks. Through this process he eventually ended up with ten piles of ten acorns each. He placed this carefully selected piles of acorns into a bucket of water, then showed me to a corner where I unrolled by blanket and made my bed for the night.

The next day, he invited me to join him as he walked to the top of a nearby ridge. He carried an iron staff the thickness of my thumb and about shoulder height in length. As we reached the top of the ridge, the Shepherd began poking his staff into the ground, making small holes about two inches deep. Into each he placed one of his carefully selected acorns. He was planting trees.

I asked if this was his land. It was not – he did not know who owned it. Perhaps it was common land, or owned by the parish. It did not matter to him. With the same care with which he seemed to do everything, he planted one hundred acorns.

At midday, he returned to his home for lunch. Afterward, he again sorted out one hundred acorns.

When I told him that in thirty years his ten thousand oaks would be a magnificent forest, he responded by saying that if God granted him health, in thirty years these ten thousand oaks would be but a drop in the ocean.

The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how.

Jesus didn’t give us a timetable for the coming of the kingdom of God, nor did he provide a blueprint or a constitution to tell us what he meant by the kingdom, reign, rule, realm, or empire of God. Instead of answers, we get stories about shepherds and farmers – and these parables are incredibly short and rich and frustrating.

Who is this gardener who scatters seed on the ground, and then nothing is mentioned about watering or weeding or keeping the rabbits or chip munks away? Is God the gardener or Jesus? Or are the followers of Jesus the gardeners who sow seeds of mercy trusting that every small act will bear fruit? Or are the followers of Jesus the soil in which the seed of God’s word takes root and flourishes into a harvest of life? Is the kingdom of God like a gardener who slept through the growing season but wakes up for the harvest?

“We have so little to do with Christ’s nearness to us,” says Wendy Farley, “that we can just go to sleep. In fact, it might be better if we did sleep through the whole thing, snug and safe, resting like babies in our mothers’ arms.”

I imagine the man who planted trees slept like a baby every night. And he didn’t go back day after day, anxious to see how the acorns were doing. He just got up every morning and went out to poke holes in the soil and plant seeds, because he had nothing more important to do.

We can enter the parable imagining ourselves to be gardeners, seed, or soil, and each door takes us into a different story that is still the same parable. Martin Luther clearly saw himself as a sower when he said, “I simply taught, preached, and wrote God’s Word; otherwise I did nothing. And while I slept or drank Wittenberg beer with my friends Philip and Amsdorf, the Word so greatly weakened the papacy that no prince or emperor ever inflicted such losses on it. I did nothing; the Word did everything.” But Luther was also able to see his life as the soil in which the seed of God’s Word took root and bore fruit, grace upon grace.

Parables resist complete explanation. They just won’t sit still long enough so we can turn them into simple one-liners that can be embroidered on a couch pillow or printed on a mug. Parables don’t offer answers that settle things, but rather point us back, again and again, to the one who speaks the word to us with many such stories that keep us wondering. They point us to Jesus whose life and cross unsettle the status quo and inaugurate the kingdom.

“With what can we compare the kingdom of God,” Jesus asks, “or what parable will we use for it?”

And he wanders the whole realm of nature, teeming with lion and eagle, bull and bear, gladly offering themselves as symbols of power and might. The oak stands in quiet strength, and the cedar looks as if it knew the beautiful lines from Ezekiel who spoke of the great empires as mighty trees:

Say to Pharaoh, king of Egypt, and to his troops: With whom do you compare in your greatness? Consider Assyria, a cedar of Lebanon: beautiful branches, forest shade, towering height; indeed, its top went up between the clouds. Waters nourished it, the deep raised it up, making its rivers flow around the place it was planted, sending forth its streams to all the trees of the field. So it towered high above all the trees of the field; its boughs grew large and its branches long, from abundant water in its shoots. All the birds of the air made their nests in its boughs; all the animals of the field gave birth to their young under its branches; and in its shade all great nations lived. It was beautiful in its greatness and in its lush foliage; for its roots went down to abundant water. The cedars in the garden of God could not rival it, nor the fir trees equal its boughs; the plane trees were as nothing compared with its branches; no tree in the garden of God was like it in beauty.[1]

The same Ezekiel dared to dream of God planting a tender shoot on Israel’s mounainous highlands, and how it would send out branches and bear fruit. How it would grow into a mighty cedar, and birds of every kind would nest in it and find shelter in the shade of its boughs. “Then all the trees in the countryside will know that I, the Lord, bring down the tall tree and raise up the lowly tree, and make the green tree wither and the dry tree bloom. I, the Lord, have spoken, and I will do it.”[2]

Throughout Israel’s history, any story that mentioned trees with birds in them was a story of hope that in the end God’s kingdom would prevail over the empires of Egypt, Assyria, Babylonia, Rome or any other empire.

“With what can we compare the kingdom of God,” asks Jesus, “or what parable will we use for it?”

And he returns from his walk through nature and Scripture and talks about – mustard. Disappointed? There’s nothing mighty or majestic about mustard. Yes, it has medicinal properties and it is useful for flavoring and preserving food. But the mustard plant is a garden pest, and no one would sow it on purpose. It grows all too readily on its own, and once it appears, it takes over first the field, then the farm, and then the whole county. The mustard plant starts as a proverbially small seed and grows into a shrub of three or four feet, or even higher; and it tends to take over where it is not wanted. It’s fast-growing, drought-resistant, and impossible to control.

“With what can we compare the kingdom of God,” asks Jesus, “or what parable will we use for it?”

And he talks about mustard, an invasive weed. Mustard grows just about anywhere, not just on the hights of Lebanon or the hills of Rome or by the great rivers of Egypt or Babylon. The kingdom of God is like this annual plant that perpetuates itself with tiny seeds.

As people who seek to live in the kingdom Jesus proclaimed, we do small things and lots of them, acts of kindness and compassion that may seem utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of global politics, but Jesus tells us, “You’re scattering seed on the ground, friends. What you’re doing may be as common as mustard, but it’s also as resilient.”

We plant kingdom seeds because we have nothing more important to do. And God’s kingdom is like a weed that finds the tiniest crack in the concrete and it grows and nothing can stop it. It grows until the birds of the air make nests in its shade, and the nations find peace under its branches.

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[1] Ezekiel 31:2-8

[2] Ezekiel 17:22-24

Wherever you're with me

This scene in Mark opens with beautiful simplicity. Then he went home. If somebody collected the life stories of any woman, man, or child who ever lived, some version of that line would be part of each: Then she went home. Then they went home. Then he went home. Whatever it was that came before – a long day of work or a lifetime of wandering, a short stay at the hospital or three generations of exile – whatever it was that came before, then they went home. These words are heavy with peace. We think about familiar faces, a table and a bed, the sound of the rain on the roof, a window, and the way the view changes from season to season, and from year to year. Home.

It’s easy to imagine Jesus at the end of a long day that took him to the synagogue, to the beach, and up the mountain – and that’s just where he’s been in 19 quick verses in chapter 3 – it’s easy to imagine him coming home to his favorite chair where he loves to sit and watch the sun go down behind the hills. Home is always a good place to go, or it’s not home.

Now the passage in Mark could also open with slightly different wording, and, with everything that follows, I believe it should be translated to say,

Then he went into a house and again a crowd gathered so they could not even eat.

People had heard all that he was doing and they came. He had healed so many that everyone who was sick came and pushed forward in order to touch him. The same scene had happened earlier on the beach, when Jesus told his disciples to get a small boat ready for him so the crowd wouldn’t crush him. They kept coming, they kept pushing.

Now he’s in a house that sits like an island in a sea of people who want to touch him. They are drawn to him because of his power to heal and forgive. And then his family shows up. These are the people closest to him, men and women who have known him for years – and they’ve come to restrain him. They are convinced he has gone out of his mind. Perhaps you want to think that they are concerned about his well-being, that they are afraid that he might get hurt, that his mom is here to say, “Are you out of your mind, son? Come on home now, eat a decent meal, and get some sleep.”

But that’s not what’s going on here. They have come to tie him up. The verb translated restrain here is also used later when Jesus is arrested.[1] His family are here to pick him up and take him home, in chains if necessary.

It’s not just people who are saying, “He’s out of his mind;” it’s his own family. The people closest to him do not recognize the power at work in him. They think it’s madness, and they’ve come for an intervention. But there’s another group pushing onto the scene, a delegation from Jerusalem. They are scribes, scholars, religious experts, and they demonize Jesus accusing him of being in league with Beelzebul, the master of demons. They also do not recognize the power at work in him and accuse him of sorcery and black magic.[2]

We look at this scene from the other side of the resurrection, and that makes biased readers of us. We are reading too quickly, though, I think, if we smugly dismiss Jesus’ immediate family as slow and the scholars from the city as blind. Like us, they live in difficult times, and like most of us, they want to maintain what little stability is left in their domestic and religious life. They have been watching what Jesus does, they have witnessed how he brings God’s love and grace to life, regardless of where he is or with whom or what time of day or year – there’s no proper order to it, it’s so extravagant and reckless, and it frightens them. Like us, they live in difficult times and they cling to and wish to protect what little normalcy and peace they know and have. Jesus is just so disruptive that to them his power feels like chaos.

Mark paints a scene for us suggesting that the presence and work of God in Christ is not unambiguous, and that it can indeed be quite difficult to tell the inbreaking of God’s reign from what we might consider madness or, God help us, evil. Now perhaps you think it couldn’t possibly be that difficult. But consider marriage for a moment, or more specifically, think about marriage between a woman and a woman, or a man and a man. To some of us in the churches such marriages are God’s way of ordering human relationships in holy covenants that allow us to grow in love; some of us recognize in the hopeful and painful conversations we’ve been having in this country the healing work of the Holy Spirit who frees us from the demons of homophobia and calls us to justice. To others in the churches a marriage that is not between a man and a woman is unthinkable, and where others speak of liberation, they can only see rebellion against God’s good order. Wherever you find yourself in that debate, think about just how close you might be to calling good evil and the holy demonic.

Mark paints a scene for us. It’s a little house with Jesus in it, and around it a throng of people old and young, rich and poor, men and women; people of all ethnic backgrounds and political convictions, people on crutches and on stretchers; all of humanity with our hopes and our fears, our flaws and our dreams, with our hunger and thirst for life, and we’re pressing in at the doors and windows, aching to be near Jesus and to touch his cloak. The only ones to remain on the edge of the scene are the ones who have made up their minds because they already know what’s best for the family and for religion: Jesus needs to be restrained. The presence and work of the Holy Spirit needs to be kept under control.

Jesus is at odds with his family and he is in conflict with the religious authorities, but it’s not because he’s a young man with wild ideas. When the scribes accuse him of being in league with Beelzebul, the master of demons, he points out that their charge makes no sense. Why would Satan cooperate in the eviction of Satan? If a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand. And Satan, one must assume, would have a strong interest in keeping intact arrangements as old as human memory.

But Jesus has plans to rearrange things significantly and permanently. To illustrate the point he quotes a line from the burglary manual:

No one can enter a strong one’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong one; then indeed the house can be plundered.

Jesus sees himself as the thief who has come to rob the biggest thief of all. Human beings and all of creation belong to God the Creator, and not to the whispering lier who sows lovelessness and robs us of life’s fullness. Jesus has plans for the strong one’s house. He ties him up, demon by demon, fear by fear, and plunders his property, leading the captives home.

Mark paints a scene for us; it’s a little house with Jesus in it. And that little house is the new home for all of us. Jesus’ mother and his brothers are standing outside and they call him. He is out of his mind, they say. He is beside himself. He’s completely out of it, they say, and there’s truth in their confusion. Jesus’ life, in contrast to ours, revolves entirely around the will of God. The whisperer of loveless lies simply can’t get a handle on him. They say, “He is out of his mind,” and the truth is, Jesus is completely in sync with God’s mind. They say, “He is beside himself,” and the truth is, Jesus doesn’t follow the path of the self-absorbed, but entrusts himself completely to the flow of love and grace he offers with such reckless extravagance.

A crowd is sitting around him and they say, “Your mother and your brothers and sisters are outside asking for you.” And he looks at all the humanity sitting around him, all of us with our hunger and thirst for life, and says, “Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.” Jesus sits in the midst of those who long for healing and freedom. The beauty of his mission is that the closer we draw to him because of our own desire to touch and be healed by wholeness, the closer we draw to each other. And the closer we draw to the reality of suffering, longing, and joy in each other, the closer we draw to him and the wholeness he brings to creation.

There’s a little house with Jesus in it. And that little house is big enough for all of us. Jesus’ mother and his brothers are standing outside and they call him. They’ve come to take him home like we all come wishing to take him home with us and show him his room.

But he knows better and he sings,[3]

Ahh home
Come on home
Home is wherever you’re with me
Ahh home
Come on home, home, home
Home is wherever you’re with me

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[1] Mark 14:1, 44, 46, 49

[2] Beelzebul is a Philistine deity, ridiculed in Hebrew tradition as Baal Zebub, Lord of the Flies cf. 2 Kings 1:2; in the first century, the name apparently had become one of the names of the Tempter

[3] With thanks to Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros for a lovely song; the wording was changed only minimally

Nick at night

At the beginning of the fourth Gospel, the Evangelist sings the song of light and life, sings of the incarnation of the Word of God in Jesus Christ, sings of the light that the darkness did not overcome, sings of rejection and welcome.

“… to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God.”[i]

The Gospel and the Epistle for this Sunday, read side by side, appear to be engaged in a little competition over who can be bolder in spelling out the consequences of our new relationship with God, our new life in God. John unfolds in a dialogue between Nicodemus and Jesus what he already touched on in the opening song: we are given a new identity as children of God, “born not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of human will, but of God.”[ii] And Paul writes of the spirit of adoption bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God and joint heirs with Christ.[iii] One speaks of birth, the other of adoption; one chooses his metaphors boldly as a poet, the other sounds a bit more like he’s been to law school, but both proclaim our identity as children of God. I like imagining the two on a walk together after reading each other’s writings, and what a fascinating conversation that would be. John says, “We have beheld his glory and from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace,” and Paul nods and smiles.[iv] Paul says, “We are debtors, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh,” and John responds, “Amen.”[v]

We are children of God, and it is not our doing, it is the gift of God; it is the offer to live lives in which all brokenness is healed by grace. It is a gift, an offer, nothing about it is coercive. But why is that new life not being received universally? Both Paul and John wrestle with the difficult reality of the gift being rejected. There are people, friends and neighbors who do not recognize Jesus for who he is and do not receive him. And our own embrace of this new life is not nearly as whole-hearted and complete as we ourselves would like it to be. Is it because we are afraid of radical newness? Is is because we have a hard time letting go of the things and thoughts that have shaped us?

Early in the gospel narrative, Nicodemus comes to Jesus. He is a Pharisee, a good and pious man, a leader in the Jewish community who speaks not only for himself when he says, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God.” But he comes by night. This conversation is private. Perhaps he doesn’t want to put his good name on the line. Yet he comes; there’s something about Jesus that draws him to have a more personal conversation.

“We know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.”

He has seen the signs. There was a wedding feast, and Jesus was there. When the wine gave out, he told the servants to fill six large stone water jars with water; and when the chief steward tasted it, it was the best wine.

Jesus came to Jerusalem and went to the temple. He drove out sheep and cattle, poured out the coins of the money changers, overturned their tables, and said, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.”

Jesus’ actions raised some eye brows, but many believed in his name because they saw the signs that we was doing. That’s where Nicodemus is coming from. He has seen the signs, but he can’t see all that’s there to see because his knowledge limits his perception.

Jesus responds with a teaching, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” The presence of God’s reign is there to see, but who can see it? Our English Bibles render this phrase either “born from above” or “born again,” but the Greek word means both, and Jesus is having a great time playing with the double meaning: the new life he offers can’t just be put into words or contained by simple categories. This new life messes with the capacity of our language and therefore our knowledge.

Nicodemus hears only one dimension of the word’s meaning, “born again,” and he reacts with disbelief, “How can it be?” He talks about what he knows. It is impossible to reenter one’s mother’s womb and be born a second time. But that is not what Jesus’ words mean. Jesus speaks of a newness so radical that of all the words in the human vocabulary only “birth” can describe how life as a child of God begins. Jesus’ invitation to see and enter the kingdom is an invitation to embrace a grace-dependent and grace-shaped identity that will not be determined by blood or the will of the flesh or human will, but solely by God.

Nicodemus talks about what he knows, and Jesus’ offer of new life does not fit inside the house of knowledge he has built. He cannot see what is happening outside and he cannot hear Jesus’ presence as an invitation to come outside. He clings tenaciously to his categories of the possible. He knows it is impossible to reenter one’s mother’s womb and be born a second time.

But grace is pretty tenacious as well. Nicodemus thinks of birth in very concrete and physical terms, and Jesus meets him there. “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit.” We are quite literally born out of water, but to speak of our identity as children of God we need language that doesn’t limit God to what we already know. Water is life-giving. Water is familiar. But God invites us to live life that is born of water and Spirit, of the familiar and the radically new.

Little children ask, “How come the clouds sail across the sky? How come the field sometimes rolls like the ocean? How come the trees stand still and sometimes they dance?”

“It’s the wind, honey. You hear the sound of it, you watch it play, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes, and neither do I.”

Nicodemus talks about what he knows, and Jesus says to him, “The wind blows where it chooses. The Spirit blows where it wills.” Nicodemus talks about what he knows, and Jesus speaks of two of the most uncontrollable, uncontainable of human experiences, birth and wind. Jesus’ offer of new life is beyond what we can know and control; our language and imagination simply do not stretch enough to include that offer. The new life is about living it in order to know. Jesus doesn’t say, “Come let me explain.” Instead he continues to invite us, saying, “Follow me. Come and see.”

Nicodemus is startled by this talk of wind and spirit, water and birth; all he can say is, “How can these things be?” I am reminded of the story of Abraham and Sarah who were childless and old, and one day they were given a promise of new life: In due season, Sarah, old Sarah, would give birth to a baby boy.But Sarah, like Nicodemus and the rest of us when we try to contain the horizon of God’s possibilities within our own horizons of knowledge and experience, Sarah chuckled. She knew her husband’s age. She knew her own age. She knew about menopause and the life cycle. And God asked, “Is anything too wonderful for the Lord?”[vi] The answer was a baby boy, born in due season.

We have our own experiences of barrenness, of hope drying up and future disappearing from view. We think about employment numbers, student loans, government debts, church budgets, political deadlock, and environmental decline. We work so hard (and so well) building systems of knowledge and control that we forget how to trust the possibilities of God. We maneuver ourselves into dead ends where the only options left are denial or despair. But the truth is that the houses of knowledge we have built will always be too small to contain the possibilities of God. We will never only be what we have become because of the circumstances of our birth, or what we have made of ourselves or of each other. Jesus offers us new life in his company; he invites us to discover what life is like for those who receive its fullness from him, grace upon grace. Jesus invites us to discover our identity as children of God and as members of a community defined by mutual love.

Nicodemus is offered new life, but to embrace it he must let go of the contentions that tell him such newness is impossible; he must learn to trust the holy possibilities of God. His incredulous question, “How can these things be?” is not the last word of the conversation. Jesus tells him and us, that the Son of Man must be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. He points to the cross that we might see his own life in communion with the Father and the Spirit as the source of new life for all, life defined solely by the possibilities of God.

I imagine John and Paul walking along a river, and John says, “Jesus invites us to live and serve in a grace-shaped community as children of the cross,” and Paul responds, “Amen.”

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[i] John 1:12

[ii] John 1:13

[iii] Romans 8:15f.

[iv] John 1:14,16

[v] Romans 8:12

[vi] Genesis 18:14

Hope for the hopeless

Lewis Smedes was a professor of theology who loved to have a little fun with his students on occasion. He didn’t just do it for the laughs, though, but to help them become better theologians. At the beginning of a unit on hope he asked them, “How many of you want to go to heaven when you die?” And everybody raised their hand.

Then he asked, “How many of you would like to go tomorrow if you could?” And all the hands went down; he was happy. He didn’t have to worry about young people wanting to go to heaven too quickly.

Then he rephrased the question, “How many of you would like to wake up tomorrow in a world where no one was afraid to play on the street at night, where no child ever starved, where nobody ever pointed a gun at another human being, where nobody ever put you down because you were different,  where no mother ever wept over a sick baby? How many of you would like to live in a world that finally worked right?” And all hands went up again. “Then you want to go to heaven tomorrow, because that is what biblical hope is about. God created this world. The good Lord is not that interested in getting us off of it. What God is interested in is getting it to work right.”^[1]

God created this world not merely as a testing ground to find souls worthy of living the life eternal way beyond the blue. God’s desire is for life on earth to flourish, and God acts to reclaim all that makes for life. “Because God is a God of life and blessing, God will do redemptive work, should those gifts be endangered,” writes Terence Fretheim. “The objective of God’s work in redemption is to free people to be what they were created to be. It is a deliverance, not from the world, but to true life in the world.”[2]

When we talk about heaven we often get dangerously close to skipping the world, the very world God has made and has given us as a place for true life. Stephen Moseley played a song for us at the end of a talk he gave on a Wednesday night, a few weeks ago. Heaven by Brett Dennen is a simple yet thoughtful song, and you probably won’t hear it on Christian radio.

Beyond the rules of religion, the cloth of conviction
above all the competition, where fact and fiction meet
there’s no color lines, casts, or classes
there’s no foolin’ the masses
whatever faith you practice, whatever you believe

heaven, heaven, what the hell is heaven
is there a home for the homeless
is there hope for the hopeless[3]

I like the song for a number of reasons, but I love how it moves with such ease from the big word HEAVEN to everyday hope in the chorus. True life in the world certainly means homes for the homeless. What about hope for the hopeless?

In Romans 8, Paul writes that “the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God.”^[4] It’s not just human beings who long to be who we really are, who we are meant to be as creatures made in the image of God; the whole creation is waiting, because its own freedom from bondage is tied to ours. We have a particular calling in creation. Human beings are created in the image of God to subdue the earth and have dominion over every living thing on the land, in the sea, and in the air.^[5] And dominion in God’s creation is all about naming the wonders, and knowing them, and caring for them with the same attention, wisdom, and passion for life as God. But sin distorts our powers of naming, knowing, and caring into destructive modes of living; our dominion becomes oppressive and abusive. We don’t get freedom and power right, and as a consequence we lose our place in the world and live like exiles far from home. But our homelessness impacts all.

Listen to this lament by the prophet Hosea, “There is no faithfulness or loyalty, and no knowledge of God in the land. Swearing, lying, and murder, and stealing and adultery break out; bloodshed follows bloodshed. Therefore the land mourns, and all who live in it languish; together with the wild animals and the birds of the air, even the fish of the sea are perishing.[6]

The land mourns, and all who live in it languish, because human beings don’t get freedom and power right. “How long will the land mourn, and the grass of every field wither?” cries Jeremiah.[7] And Isaiah cries, “The heavens languish together with the earth. The earth lies polluted under its inhabitants; for they have transgressed laws, violated the statutes, broken the everlasting covenant. Therefore a curse devours the earth.”[8]

We know, says Paul, we know that the whole creation has been groaning until now. But God is a God of life and blessing, and God will do redemptive work, should those gifts be endangered.

Israel knows this because God made a way for them out of bondage to Egypt. The Israelites groaned under their slavery, and cried out, and God heard their groaning.[9] And just as God was faithful to God’s people, so God will be faithful to God’s creation. No groan will go unheard. Our freedom from bondage to sin and death and creation’s freedom from bondage to decay go hand in hand. The resurrection of Jesus the Messiah has opened the horizon of our hope to include the redemption of all that God has made. Our hope is not a private one for a seat in heaven, but for the redemption of heaven and earth. In hope we were saved, and we wait with endurance for our hope to be fulfilled.

And where is God in all this? Not watching from a distance nor mysteriously pulling the strings from far away. God is present, and in the Spirit God shares the groaning of creation. In the Spirit God suffers, waits, and works with us.

Paul calls the gift of the Spirit to the church “the first fruits,” which sounds a lot like the beginning of harvest time, doesn’t it? It sounds like the joy after a long time of waiting for the first strawberries, the first corn, the first tomatoes. Paul taps into a beautiful Torah tradition that instructed God’s people to bring the first fruits to the temple. It was an act of gratitude for the gift of the land, for the gifts of sun and rain, and for the blessing of growth. It was an act of joyful recognition that all of life is indeed God’s good gift.^[10] Paul taps into that tradition and uses it to speak of the great harvest of redemption for which the life of Jesus was the seed. The gift of the Spirit is the first fruits, the first taste, the first glance, the opening line of the symphony of creation redeemed. We hum along, we sing along, we whisper, we groan, and Paul assures us that it is God’s Spirit in us who kindles a fire of holy restlessness that cannot put up with the world as it is.

First fruits – we know there’s more where that came from, and we lean into that future. The image of God, distorted and fractured through sin, is restored in Jesus the Messiah; and the signs of that restoration become visible in those who trust in God’s life-giving power. Led by the Spirit, they reflect the image of God into the world – and the hills burst into song, the trees clap their hands, and the land smiles.[11]

We have witnessed such moments of redemption and joy when the whole world is at home and we in it; but God’s Spirit is with us particularly when we face the ruin and misery of the unredeemed world, and we find that there are no words left to express the sense of futility and the longing for redemption. Then, says Paul, it is the Spirit of God who utters the prayer the community of Christ wishes to offer, “with sighs too deep for words.” Creation groans, we groan, and the Spirit groans with us. The fire of holy restlessness that cannot put up with the world as it is, makes the unredeemed world’s suffering our own, and in bearing that pain we are being conformed to the image of Christ. In the one Spirit, “we suffer with him so that we may also be glorified with him.”[12]

God’s work in redemption is to free people to be what they were created to be. It is a deliverance, not from the world, but to true life in the world. God’s work in redemption is the deliverance of the world. It is God’s own Spirit who inspires us to ask, Is there a home for the homeless? Is there hope for the hopeless? And the same Spirit inspires and empowers us to give the answer with our lives, to the glory of God.

+

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing,
so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. [13]

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[1] Lewis Smedes, 1993 http://www.csec.org/csec/sermon/smedes_3709.htm with some minor edits

[2] Terence Fretheim, The Reclamation of Creation: Redemption and Law in Exodus, Interpretation 45, p. 359; italics in the original

[3] Brett Dennen, Heaven, Hope for the Hopeless, 2008

[4] Romans 8:18-21

[5] Genesis 1:26-28

[6] Hosea 4:1-3

[7] Jeremiah 12:4

[8] Isaiah 24:4-6

[9] Exodus 2:23f.

[10] See Deuteronomy 26:1-15

[11] See Isaiah 55:12

[12] Romans 8:17

[13] Romans 15:13

Joy in the world

The other day it occurred to me that my grandfather, who was born in 1903, never went on vacation, not once, and I don’t think he missed it. Perhaps you remember somebody like that. I found myself wondering when people started going on vacation and where the word vacation came from.

What I learned is that, until the 1850’s, Americans used the word the way the English do: vacation is the time when teachers and students vacate the school premises and go off on their own – not necessarily to play, though. The custom of  summer breaks, first for the law courts and, later, for universities, was introduced by William the Conqueror from Normandy, where its purpose wasn’t leisure, but assuring a successful grape harvest.[1] Now that’s the kind of vacation my grandfather would have been familiar with: a break from school so everybody can lend a hand during the harvest. I also remember from my earliest school days that some grown-ups called the week of fall break, Kartoffelferien, potato break.

Cindy Aron wrote the first full length history of how Americans have vacationed – from eighteenth-century planters who summered in Newport to twentieth-century workers who headed from the city for camps in the hills.[2] At first, vacations were taken for health more than for fun. The wealthy traveled to watering places, seeking cures for everything from consumption to rheumatism. But the notion that people need a break from work and get away from it all, took quite a while to develop.

For Puritans, work was blessed, and idleness suspect. They worked six days a week and on the seventh day they went to church where the preacher affirmed from the pulpit the goodness of work and warned them against the vices of idleness. But in the 1850s, things began to change quickly and rather dramatically. The railroad allowed people to get to the shore with relative ease, and railroad companies built resort hotels to give the growing white-collar middle class a reason to ride the trains.

Part of what made the middle class was that they had strong values like hard work, discipline, and sobriety, which allowed them to accumulate enough resources to go on vacation. But when they got there, they were tempted to idleness, drunkenness and other worrisome things. So there needed to be a form of vacation where middle class people could relax without worries. The churches were paying attention, and they developed their campgrounds in Martha’s Vineyard, in the Delaware shore, and in other places into worry-free resorts. No drinking, no smoking, no gambling. You couldn’t even bathe on Sundays.

Middle class people were still uncomfortable with the notion of leisure, though, and the resorts responded with a host of programs to keep vacationers busy. They developed schedules of lectures, classes, and courses, and organized hiking and competitive sports absorbed the idle hours. Working on self-improvement – spiritual, educational, physical – helped people feel productive while at play.

But Americans’ uneasy relationship with leisure remained. Robert Siegel, in an interview with Cindy Aron, quoted the saying that Europeans work so they can go on vacation, and Americans go on vacation so they can go back to work. And the author responded,

I think there’s something of a truth in that, and I think it’s an old story. I think if you look at the history and you look at this tension between work and leisure in American culture, I mean, we have this love-hate relationship with our vacations, and I think we’ve had it from the beginning. Some people maybe really like work better. I think being on vacation means dealing with your family, sometimes in ways some people would rather not.[3]

Now that opens another can of worms, and I may have to get to that another time. For now, I want us to think about this desire, this need perhaps, to get away from it all. Feeling the need to get away tells us that things are seriously out of balance where we are. I don’t want to make my grandfather the standard of a balanced life, but I am curious why he never said, “Man, I need a vacation so bad.” I suspect it’s because he took a walk in the woods every day, and a long one on Saturdays. And he worked in his garden every day, and talked to his chickens. He never worried about finding a rhythm for his life, because his life already had a gracious rhythm of work and rest. I never heard him use phrases like running on empty or needing to recharge.

We go on vacation to the beach, to the mountains, to the little house by the river, and inevitably we come back sighing, “I wish I could bring back with me that sense of being alive. I wish I knew how to nurture my mountain soul (my beach or river soul) in the city.” This language is very close to religious sentiments. “I wish I knew how to nurture my heavenly soul in this world.” The language is similar because the longing expressed in those words is very similar, and at its root, it may well be the same. We long for life to be whole and we experience our lives to be out of balance, out of tune, out of sync.

Now we encounter Jesus who says, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”[4] We struggle to name the thief who robs us of life, because in so many ways it’s our own doing, our own misguided ambition, our own misunderstood appetites that, while promising fullness, never fail to drain us.

Jesus was sent by God that we may have life, and have it abundantly. He embodies a life where holiness and wholeness are one, and giving himself to us he draws us into this fullness.

It is Thursday night in the part of John’s account we heard earlier. It is the evening before Jesus’ crucifixion. He has given his friends everything that was given him from God, and only one thing remains for him to do to complete the gift. He doesn’t give them last-minute instructions, though, no hurried notes about the good life, lest they forget. He prays, and we get to hear what he says. He lives this moment, like every moment of his mission, in the intimacy of his relationship with God. He is at peace, not because he knows he’s going home, but because he already is at home.

In the gospel of John, “world” is not another name for “earth” or “universe.” The “world” is that part of creation that doesn’t know God, it is that part of life that is out of tune, out of sync to the point where it is actively opposed to God’s rhythms and seasons.[5] But the “world” is also the object of God’s love. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.[6]

Jesus is at peace, he is completely at home with God and his friends, and we overhear the words of his prayer. He prays for them and for us. He asks God to sanctify us and protect us. He asks God to set us apart for the sacred mission of testifying to the truth in the world, the truth and the life that has found us in Christ. As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. I am not asking you to take them out of the world, but I ask you to protect them from the evil one.

The evil one, the ruler of this world, the thief, that reality we struggle to name because we find ourselves so thoroughly entangled in it, the evil one has been judged and condemned,[7] but we need God to keep us safe.

The holiness and wholeness of life is not found through separation from the world, getting away from it all, but through our being sent into it, through our participating in the mission of God, through our sharing in the intimate relationship between Jesus and God. And as much as we live in that relationship of mutual love, we are in tune with life and at home. In that relationship our ambitions and appetites are healed, and we know who we are and what we are to do. We are at home already, which allows us to live amidst the tangled complexities of the world without getting trapped and exhausted. We know that we do not belong to the world, but that the world is God’s. And that allows us to stop serving the ruler who robs us and drains us. Knowing that the world is God’s, we praise the giver for the beauty of earth and sky and sea, for the rhythms and seasons of life.

We overhear Jesus saying, “I speak these things in the world so that they may have my joy made complete in themselves.” He speaks of joy, and I can’t think of a better way to describe in a word what fullness of life feels like. Joy is that wondrous gift that is more enduring than the best vacation. Joy is the song our soul sings on the beach and in the mountains. Joy is the tune of our one-ness with God and God’s creation and the people with whom we live our days. The joy of being at home with God allows us to live fully and faithfully in the world, engaged with its needs and its wounds, knowing that we are participating in God’s mission of loving all things into wholeness.

Now this may sound like I figured it all out, but I didn’t. All I did is spend a few hours listening carefully for the word of God in scripture, and come Monday morning, like most of you I will struggle to remember. But what I heard and tried to put into words, will still be true, beautiful, and promising.

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[1] http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vacation

[2] Cindy S. Aron, Working At Play: A History of Vacations in the United States (Oxford University Press, 1999)

[3] http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=105545388

[4] John 10:10

[5] See John 1:10

[6] John 3:17

[7] See John 16:11

We are one

Everyone who believes that Jesus is the Christ has been born of God, and everyone who loves the parent loves the child.

It’s Mother’s Day, and God drops a scripture passage in our laps that speaks of the love between the Father and the Son, and you think, “Isn’t it ironic?”[1] And then God drops another passage in our lap, and it speaks of God giving birth to us and, like any mother and her children, wanting to see us all live together in peace as brothers and sisters.[2] We are children of God and we love it, but most of us know how difficult it can be to live with siblings.

On Mother’s Day we tell our mom that we love her, we send her a card, we give her a call, we insist that she stay in bed until we bring our best breakfast to her, we take her out for lunch and draw her a picture. Mother’s Day is all about her, except that it’s also about us, or, more precisely, about me, because I want her to love my picture better than my brother’s, I want her to know that I made the near-perfect scrambled eggs and that it was my little sister who burned the toast and spilled the coffee. And Mom? “I LOVE these eggs,” she says with a broad smile and I grow an inch and a half, but then she continues, “and this is the BEST toast I ever tasted. And the pictures you drew, I must say, you’ve outdone yourselves. Thank you so much! You are the kindest, most thoughtful and generous children any mother could wish for.”

I don’t know about you, but I always found being my mom’s child much easier than being the brother of my siblings, and I guess the same is true for them. Rivalry and love make an explosive mix, and I imagine that many a mother had to step between her feuding children, telling them to stop it and be more loving with each other. “Why should I love him? He hates me!” they both protest, and she doesn’t say, “Because I say so.” She says, “Because I love him and I love you.” You gotta love your brothers and sisters, because she who gave birth to them and to you loves them as much as you.

I thought I’d sing us a song today in honor of our mothers. It’s a great song for brothers and sisters to sing together.[3]

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord.
We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord,
And we pray that all unity may one day be restored:

And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love,
They’ll know we are Christians by our love.

We will walk with each other, we will walk hand in hand.
We will walk with each other, we will walk hand in hand,
And together we’ll spread the news that God is in our land:

And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love,
They’ll know we are Christians by our love.

We will work with each other, we will work side by side.
We will work with each other, we will work side by side,
And we’ll guard each one’s dignity and save each one’s pride:

And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love,
They’ll know we are Christians by our love.

All praise to the Father, from whom all things come,
And all praise to Christ Jesus, God’s only Son,
And all praise to the Spirit, who makes us one:

And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love,
They’ll know we are Christians by our love.

This simple, little song was written in 1966 by Peter Scholtes. He was a priest at St. Brendan’s, on the South Side of Chicago, and the parish was Irish-catholic and black-catholic, about 50/50. It was the height of one of the most tumultuous periods in U.S. history, and Scholtes was moved by the testimony of Martin Luther King, Jr., Jesse Jackson, and others in the civil rights movement. He was also steeped in the worldview and language of John: By this we will know whose we are, the writer of 1 John says midway through his composition, by the love we enact as children of God “not in word or speech, but in truth and action.”[4]

Truth and action. “We are one,” Father Scholtes taught the youth choir at St. Brendan’s to sing; he had written the piece in less than half a day. We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord, and our faith, our walk, our work, our lives are for the restoration of that unity.

When Dr. King came to Chicago on his first trip north, Scholtes and a friend hung a welcome sign outside the church, a testimony to love in truth and action, and he weathered the protest of white parishioners that ensued. And he watched in disappointment as white congregants continued to move out of the neighborhood. He wanted to teach them to sing, “We are one in the Lord and we hope that all unity may one day be restored.” He taught them to sing “one day” hoping that today might be the day of restoration, that the day of love’s faithful labor toward unity would be today, always today. But those who could, moved away; to them “one day” meant “some day, not today; not us, not now.” The writer of 1 John insists that love and love’s demands cannot be postponed but must be lived, must be inhabited.

Love, love, love, parent, child, obedience, commandments, and conquer, conquer, conquer, this is the victory that conquers the world, our faith. The phrases grow like branches on a vine, they spiral and twist, interlace, entwine, they twirl and tangle, and a reader may get carried away by the current of words and experience verbal vertigo. The vision given expression in this tangle of words and phrases is a vision of life: God and the children of God, inseparably united in love. Love divine, all loves excelling, joy of heaven to earth come down, weaving us and all things together in one covenant of love, making the joy of heaven complete in life on earth, all the children of God living as brothers and sisters in God’s garden, receiving, sharing, and fulfilling the most excellent gift of God.

The extravagant whirl of words in 1 John, aiming to match the exuberant circling of God’s love throughout creation, this swirl is centered in a life, in a name and a testimony: Jesus is the Christ. It is a name. It is a life, not a simple answer to all questions. It is a testimony that all things converge in Jesus the Messiah. He is the center at which life in its confusing complexity and life in fullness come into focus: “Abide in my love,” he says, abide in the love my life embodies. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love. This is my commandment that you love one another as I haved loved you.[5]

The love of God poured out in the gifts of creation is our dwelling place, our habitat, our home. Likewise, we become God’s dwelling place when we allow love’s flow to continue through us. Obeying Christ’s commandments we abide in love and love abides in us, and his commandments are not burdensome. Wait a minute; not so fast. Not burdensome? Loving one another is not burdensome? You have to wonder if the author lived alone all his life. Perhaps he never had to put up with a sister who occupied the bathroom for an hour every morning. Perhaps he never had to put up with a brother who not only ate the last two pop-tarts, but put the wrapper back in the box and then put the box back in the cabinet. Perhaps he never had to put up with a spouse who paid no attention to the toilet seat, never put the cap on the toothpaste, and thought the floor was a perfectly good place for dirty clothes.

Loving one another is not burdensome? Our life says otherwise, doesn’t it? Putting up with each other’s foibles day in and day out is indeed a burden, and I think he knows that. I think he wants us to understand that love is of all the burdens the lightest. He wants us to fully grasp that lovelessness is always the heavier burden. Love is not burdensome because love and love alone has the power to overcome estrangement, to drive out fear, to reconcile and heal. All things have their beginning in love, and only love can bring all things to fulfillment by restoring the unity of creator and creation.

Believing that Jesus is God’s Messiah, we are born into the family where love flows freely. In this family, love is invited and offered, never forced; it is motivated by faithulness, not by fear or shame; it is mutual in the back-and-forth of giving and receiving. This is the faith that conquers the a loveless world, like light shining in the darkness. The darkness is passing away and the true light is already shining, we read in 1 John 2:8. The true light is already shining brightly at the center where the word of God became flesh and lived among us, and the true light is reflected in every act of obedience among Christ’s brothers and sisters, in all our deeds of love in truth and action. The true light is already shining, and one day it will shine through all things, and all unity will be restored.

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[1] John 15:9-17

[2] 1 John 5:1-5

[3] With thanks to Bonnie J. Miller-McLemore, Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol. 2, p.490-94

[4] 1 John 3:18f

[5] John 15:9-10, 12

New glass

The vine and the onion

This is the Sunday when the gospel reading is the passage from John, where Jesus paints a beautiful picture, saying, “I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing.” The vine and its branches offers a lush and fertile image of our life in Christ, an image that blooms and brings forth much fruit in our imagining, thinking, and doing. It encourages us to linger and behold; it teaches us to become open and attentive to its rich possibilities. Little wonder, then, that every year during the season of Easter, I find myself drawn to that image with joyful expectation, ready to find new dimensions of resurrection life.

But not so this year. When it was time to select the two readings for our worship on the fifth Sunday of Easter, the angel of the epistle whispered in my ear, “Look, what beauty and truth is written in these lines of First John. God is love, and those who abide in love abide in God, and God abides in them. There’s not a person in the world who doesn’t need to hear that!”

I don’t argue with angels, but I wish they would stay around long enough or come back to whisper in the preacher’s ear when he stares at the passage wondering what to make of a text that is so repetitive, almost relentless in its drumbeat of love, love, love. Fifteen short verses, and love is mentioned twenty-five times! The angel didn’t whisper; instead I heard John, Paul, George, and Ringo singing, All you need is love! and Tina Turner responding, What’s love got to do with it? What’s love but a second-hand emotion? and then Joan Baez, bless her heart, chimed in singing, Love is just a four-letter word.

I don’t know what songs start playing in your head when you hear love repeated again and again, but I suspect they are songs of romance and joy, songs of hope and fulfillment, songs of heart-break and the courage to love again.

One of the commentaries I consulted asked, “How does one approach a subject so shopworn and trivialized as love?”[1] Shopworn and trivialized. I don’t know. At first the phrase resonated with me; words do wear thin from overuse. It is very difficult to speak of God’s enduring relationship with creation, when the same words are used in a MacDonald’s tagline. And only you know what first comes to mind when you hear the words, “I’m lovin’ it.” There’s a website for everything these days, from ilovecheese.com (the official website of the American Dairy Association) to ilovejesus.com (a Christian web hosting service).

Is love shopworn and trivialized? Yes it is. But this overuse also speaks of our desire to see all things infused with love. And even the cheesiest love song also sings of this feeling deep down in our souls, this happy suspicion that love indeed ties all things together; that love indeed is life’s beginning and fulfillment.

For the writer of 1 John, love is not one thing among many God does. Everything that God does is loving, because God as revealed in the story of Jesus is love. The philosophers had thought about the character of the divine for generations, and for Aristotle it seemed clear that God must be pure reason. Plato added that God may also be named The Good beyond Being. And the writer of 1 John didn’t write a long dissertation on the nature of the Divine, but a rather short meditation on what the story of Jesus reveals about who God is, and he became the first one to declare, God is love.

Jesus is sent because God loves the world. Jesus embodies and proclaims the love of God in all he says and does. Jesus teaches his followers that in love he abides in the Father and the Father in him, and that through love we participate in the eternal life they share. Jesus lays down his life for his friends, and no one has greater love than this. This is my commandment, Jesus says, that you love one another as I have loved you. Love, love, love, love. There’s no room for fear, for apathy or hatred, because love’s desire is to be all in all.

Love divine, all loves excelling, joy of heaven to earth come down;
fix in us thy humble dwelling, all thy faithful mercies crown;
Jesus, thou art all compassion, pure, unbounded love thou art;
visit us with thy salvation, enter every trembling heart.

Charles Wesley sings with exuberance that God is love. Martin Luther points to the cross and says, God is nothing but burning love and a glowing oven full of love.[2] Bill Coffin picks up the thread and declares, God’s love is poured out universally for everyone from the Pope to the loneliest wino on the planet; God’s love doesn’t seek value, it creates value. It is not because we have value that we are loved, but because we are loved that we have value. Our value is a gift, not an achievement.[3]

Love pours from the First Letter of John as from an overflowing cup because in the story of Jesus all things are transfigured and shine with the glory of God. The glory of God, the fullness of God’s very being, is love, overflowing into creation and bringing forth life in abundance. But do not think of this flow as aimless spillage or random bursts. God’s love is intentional and God’s desire is for love to be fulfilled in the blessed conviviality of life, the sabbath communion of loving creator and beloved creation. Love flows forth and life emerges in manifold beauty – from the soil and the sea, from rivers and ponds – and what happens to the flow when it reaches us? Does it then stop, having bestowed the gift and fulfilled its purpose? No, for we were created to be and act like God, to let the movement of God’s life-giving, life-redeeming, and life-fulfilling love continue. It flows into us and then flows on from us in words and deeds of mercy.

This means that our loving, our giving of ourselves to one another is both our doing and not our doing, for we are participating in the movement of God’s love in Christ. The gift of God is both, Christ dwelling in us and working through us, creating a sabbath community of peace.

All this, of course, is very much about the vine and the branches. Christ is the vine, we are the branches. We abide in him and he in us, and we bear much fruit. But I want to close with a story about a much humbler plant. It’s a story told by Dostoyevsky in The Brothers Karamazov. Grushenka says to Alyosha,

It’s only a story, but it’s a nice story. I used to hear it when I was a child from Matryona, my cook, who is still with me. It’s like this. Once upon a time there was a peasant woman and a very wicked woman she was. And she died and did not leave a single good deed behind. The devils caught her and plunged her into the lake of fire. So her guardian angel stood and wondered what good deed of hers he could remember to tell to God; ‘She once pulled up an onion in her garden,’ said he, ‘and gave it to a beggar woman.’ And God answered: ‘You take that onion then, hold it out to her in the lake, and let her take hold and be pulled out. And if you can pull her out of the lake, let her come to Paradise, but if the onion breaks, then the woman must stay where she is.’ The angel ran to the woman and held out the onion to her. ‘Come,’ said he, ‘catch hold and I’ll pull you out.’ And he began cautiously pulling her out. He had just pulled her right out, when the other sinners in the lake, seeing how she was being drawn out, began catching hold of her so as to be pulled out with her. But she was a very wicked woman and she began kicking them. ‘I’m to be pulled out, not you. It’s my onion, not yours.’ As soon as she said that, the onion broke. And the woman fell into the lake and she is burning there to this day. So the angel wept and went away.

What’s love got to do with it? The angel weeps because love is so strong and yet so weak. One onion, one humble, ordinary onion, received as a gift, pulled up from the garden, and given to another, is the very path to paradise. There’s no doubt in my heart that the humble onion is strong enough to pull us all out. Even the smallest act of kindness for a little sister or a little brother has the power to change everything, because it embodies the love of Christ. But love is weak and inevitably breaks when we want to keep it for ourselves.

We do belong together, all of us, and it is love that makes us one. “I am the vine, you are the branches,” says Jesus. “Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing.”

---

[1] NIB, p. 432

[2] WA 36, p. 425

[3] Credo, p. 6

2012 Roger T. Nooe Lecture for World Peace

This year's lecture was a project co-sponsored by Vanderbilt University's Project Dialogue and Vine Street Christian Church. We are pleased to make this video of Dr. Eboo Patel's talk available.

Katniss and MacGyver

Some of you may not know who Katniss Everdeen is. Imagine a world that has been destroyed by human action and lack thereof. Imagine a world after the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires; after the rising oceans have swallowed up much of the land; a world after one more brutal war.

Suzanne Collins tells us a story envisioning an America that has been destroyed, ecologically as well as culturally. She envisions the emergence of an empire based on division and inequality; an empire built on military power and control of the media. The name of the empire is Panem, and panem is the Latin word for bread, as in panem et circenses, bread and circuses.

The empire of Panem has its own version of the circuses. It’s a nationally televised tournament in which each year one boy and one girl between the ages of 12 and 18 are selected from each of the twelve districts of Panem. This may at first sound like some version of the Olympic Games, but it’s not about the youth of the world competing for victory and fame; the teenagers selected to participate in the Hunger Games fight to the death until only one remains. Year after year, like a graduating class in spring, they are sent into the arena with the cheerful greeting, “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The world Suzanne Collins depicts in The Hunger Games trilogy is fiction, it is fantasy, but it is frigheningly close to the world we know, with its daily violence, the increasing divide between the rich and the poor, the environmental abuses, and the ever grotesquer realities of reality tv.

The three novels tell the story of Katniss Everdeen, a 16-year-old girl who draws strength from sources the empire cannot control. At the reaping, the annual random drawing that determines which teenagers will participate in the deadly spectacle of the games, she steps forward to take the place of her little sister, Primrose, whose name had just been drawn. And then Katniss participates in the games, but she follows her own set of rules; with courage and skill she out-maneuvers the game designers, and she and her partner Peeta both end up as champions.

This is unprecedented; you can imagine that the masters of Panem are quite worried after this victory that turned the rules of their game upside-down. What if others follow the champions’ example and defy the empire’s rules of deadly competition? “Katniss Everdeen,” says President Snow, “you have provided a spark that, left unattended, may grow to an inferno that destroys Panem.”

Well, if you haven’t read the books yet, I won’t spoil them for you if I tell you that in the end, after many twists and turns, the world of the hunger games gives way to a world without hunger, a world where all people are alive and free. And it’s all because of an ordinary girl doing extraordinary things; it’s all because of one teenager who draws strength from a source the empire cannot control, and her spark becomes a wildfire of change and renewal.

It’s all fiction, of course, fantasy, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Jesus said [Luke 12:49], “I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!” And kindle it he did, with his whole life, and the spark became a wildfire.

Katniss Everdeen came to mind recently when I read again the words from 1 John 3, “We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us—and we ought to lay down our lives for one another.” This statement has a very heroic ring to it, like a young woman of great courage stepping forward publicly to take her little sister’s place in a deadly game and defying the powers that be.

I thought about others who laid down their lives, like the Christian martyrs who bravely stepped into the arena where the lions were waiting. I thought about Martin Luther King, Jr. shot in Memphis for his conviction that the universe was bent toward justice. I thought about Bishop Romero shot at the altar during mass in El Salvador for his gentle witness to the love of Christ.

There’s a fire burning in the world, a fire that the shroud of death cannot suppress, a fire that the heavy blankets of oppression cannot smother. It’s the fire that lit the bush where Moses took off his sandals; it’s the fire that illumined the path for the Hebrew slaves on their way to freedom; it’s the fire that burned in the hearts of the disciples on the road to Emmaus; it’s the fire that God kindles for the sake of freedom and fullness of life.

We hear “laying down one’s life for one another” and we think about one heroic moment of sacrifice, and we’re both inspired and intimidated. Inspired because we are privileged to witness an extraordinary act of selfless love, and intimidated because we can’t imagine we’d have what it takes to go and do likewise. I suspect the writer of 1 John knew about this odd mix of feeling both great and small in the presence of people of great courage, and so he offers us everyday people an everyday example of what he has in mind: Look around, he says, open your eyes and hearts, pay attention, and when you see a brother or sister in need of life’s necessities, lay down your life for them – if they’re hungry, give them something to eat; if they’re thirsty, give them something to drink; if they need clothes or a roof over the head, help them out.

What I hear him say is, laying down our lives for one another is laying down our desire to live for ourselves. It’s laying aside our claim to our own lives, and allowing the love of God to use our lives to change the world. It’s allowing the fire of God to burn in us and to reorient us toward our little brothers and sisters.

The rules of the hunger games are brutally simple: It’s kill or be killed. Do whatever it takes to come out a winner. But Katniss knows another way out: The rules of the game can be subverted. The rules of the game can be changed. Stay true to yourself.

As followers of Jesus we believe and proclaim that the rules of the game have been changed. His life of self-giving allows us to see the love that is at the heart of all things. Yes, it is love that is at the heart of all things, not violence, or the harsh wisdom of everybody for themselves, or the frustrating endurance of systems of oppression—it is love’s power, love’s wisdom, and love’s endurance.

We all want to change the world and make it a better place. We want to be part of rebuilding communities that have been destroyed, and we want to do what we can to keep our communities strong and vibrant. We want to understand if our way of life contributes to the flourishing of God’s creation or if it is ultimately destructive. We want to be part of bringing down the empire of death and spreading the kingdom of life. We want to know if we are living in the truth of God’s love or in the greater convenience of the empire’s simple rules of survival. And sometimes we catch ourselves thinking that all we’re doing amounts to little more than a drop in the bucket, that we’re not doing enough and never will, and our worried, little hearts condemn us.

Apparently the writer of 1 John knew about that, too. “My little ones,” he says, “let’s not just talk about love. Let’s not just sing about love. Let’s put love into action and make it real. And whenever our hearts condemn us, let every act of love, every small act of laying down our lives for one another, reassure our hearts and remind us that we are on the path of truth; for God is greater than our hearts.”

Our hearts are fickle, easily manipulated by fear, but our hearts are not the supreme court of our lives. Our court of final appeal is God, and we see God’s character most fully revealed in Jesus who laid down his life for us. His life is the complete embodiment of divine love, and his commandment for us is to love one another in the same way, in a million everyday ways. His call to us is to stay true to ourselves and to God by staying true to each other. That is how the love of God will continue to be embodied in the world and change the world.

Nancy and I went to Belmont United Methodist Church on Friday to watch a documentary, Tent City, USA. The film tells the story of a community of homeless men and women here in Nashville whose campsite was destroyed by the flood two years ago, and it follows some of them closely in their struggle for housing and for a voice at the tables of power. After the screening, Tee Tee, Stacey and Bama, MacGyver and Wendell came to the front of the room, and it was like they had just walked in from the end of the movie.

The reason I mention this is because today we give thanks for Room in the Inn and the countless volunteers that make this vital ministry possible, and I want to thank all of you who have participated during the season that ended in March. I hope you will be back in November, when another season begins, to help us embody the love of God with some of the most vulnerable citizens of our city.

But there’s another reason I wanted to tell you about this film, and this too has to do with ordinary people doing extraordinary things. After the screening, MacGyver, one of the homeless men we met in the film, told us how he’d been doing these past few months, and it was obvious things were not going well; he used the word complicated at least five times. But then he talked about his daily efforts to be there for others. He told us how he watches when billboard workers are taking down the large vinyl tarps printed with ads, and he saves the pieces for people on the street who need shelter. He told us how he ran into a guy who didn’t have a sleeping bag, and he gave him one he had stashed away safely somewhere. When he heard about another guy who needed a tent, he gave him a small one he had kept in case he would need it. It wasn’t a great tent, but it was better than nothing.

MacGyver had very few of the world’s goods, but when he saw a brother or sister in need he didn’t close his heart. He laid down his life for them. This is what we do, in a million ways, great and small, and it will change the world.

Remembering well

Remember who and whose you are. I have long thought that’s a pretty good line, and I don’t know how many times I have written or spoken it since I first stumbled upon it, I don’t know how or when. Over the years, I have changed my mind about many things, but not about this line. It’s the gospel in six words. It is like another great commandment that shines through all the others. Remember who and whose you are.

The other day, I listened to an interview with Desmond Tutu, the retired Archbishop of Cape Town, and one of the great souls of our time. Recalling three hundred years of colonial oppression in South Africa and the decades of struggle against apartheid, he mentioned how he discovered that the Bible could be such dynamite. Dynamite! His laughter is so beautiful, so infectious, so full of Easter. Dynamite, he said, and “if these white people had intended keeping us under they shouldn’t have given us the Bible. Because, whoa, I mean, it’s almost as if it is written specifically just for your situation.”

The interviewer asked him for a sample of the dynamite, and he said,

“Well, it’s actually right the very first thing. I mean, when you discover that apartheid sought to mislead people into believing that what gave value to human beings was a biological irrelevance, really, skin color or ethnicity, and you saw how the scriptures say it is because we are created in the image of God, that each one of us is a God-carrier. That no matter what our physical circumstances may be, no matter how awful, no matter how deprived you could be, it doesn’t take away from you this intrinsic worth.”

And then he talked about a small parish he served in Soweto while working for the South African Council of Churches. Most of his parishioners were domestic workers in the big homes of white families in Johannesburg. It was common for the white employers never to use a black worker’s name, even though he or she worked in their home every day. Their names, they said, were too difficult. And so women would be called “Annie” and most black men would be called “boy.”

Nobody calls a grown man boy because his name is too difficult.

Nobody robs a woman of her name except to remind her that who she is is defined entirely by those who name her as they please.

And what did The Rev. Desmond Tutu tell the people in that small parish in Soweto?

I would say to them, “When they ask, ‘Who are you?’ you say, ‘Me? I’m a God-carrier. I’m God’s partner. I’m created in the image of God.’” And you could see those dear old ladies as they walked out of church on that occasion as if they were on cloud nine. You know, they walked with their backs slightly straighter. And, yeah, it was amazing.[1]

This is the dynamite that blows away the lies. This is the dyamite that reminds us who and whose we are; and all who remember begin to walk with their backs slightly straighter, and the explosive news spreads as they tell it to their sons and daughters, and cross-stitch it on the receiving blankets of children yet unborn.

See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are.

On Easter morning, we baptized Sarah, Miller, Boyd, Molly, Emily, and Morgan, and as they emerged from the water we called them each by name and by the family name we share; Sarah, child of God, we said; Miller, child of God; Boyd, child of God; Molly, child of God; Emily, child of God; Morgan, child of God: you have been sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism, and marked as Christ’s own forever.

Remember who and whose you are. We come from different places, each with our own story; we come with complex and colorful personalities, with many layers of experience and expectation, we come with the lies we have come to believe and the truths we have forgotten – and the water washes away all that could keep us from being who and whose we really are.

Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do know is this: when he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is.

Dynamite! In love God has created, named, and claimed us; that is who we are. And what will we be? Held by the same love. Forgiven by the same love. Restored and made whole by the same love. We will be like him who is fully alive in the love of God.

Nothing is more important than remembering who and whose we are. Last week, Rabbi Kliel sent me an email with a link to an article his sister-in-law had written on the occasion of Yom Ha’Shoah, also known as Holocaust Remembrance Day.

Toward the end of the article she wrote,

In college, I participated each year in a communal exercise to grapple with both the hugeness of the Shoah and its individual impact. Each year on Yom Ha’Shoah, we organized volunteers to read the names of the victims, in the middle of campus, for 24 consecutive hours. During my sophomore year, I took the 3 a.m. shift, and stood in front of the library in the dark, chilly April night, reading names into the quiet emptiness. In the midst of this rhythm, I stopped suddenly, my stomach sinking, my breath catching. For there it was: my own name. I have no idea who that Judith Rosenbaum was, where she was from, or how old she was when she died. Perhaps she was a relative, perhaps not. But I do know that reading her – our – name changed me. It brought me into the story in a new way.[2]

I just sat there after reading that paragraph, trying to imagine what it was like for Judith to find her own name among the names of the victims. Then I thought about how much of my life has been about finding myself in that story that is mine whether I want it or not. I saw myself standing in a dark, chilly night, reading name after name into the quiet emptiness, only I wasn’t honoring the memory of the millions who died by speaking their names; I was reading the names of the millions who pretended not to see, not to know, not to be responsible, and I asked for answers. And I tried to imagine what finding my own name among them would be like.

Yom Ha’Shoah was on Thursday, and in the evening, Nancy, Miles, and I were guests at a Passover Seder at the Jewish Community Center. We sat at table with Jews, Christians, and Muslims. We told the story of God’s liberation of Israel from slavery, we said the blessings, we ate the matzah, we drank the wine, we opened the door for Elijah, and we sang the songs. I don’t know what that evening meant to all the others, but I knew I was sitting at table with the healing mercy of God. It was a taste of the world to come.

Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we will be has not yet been revealed. What we do know is this: when he is revealed, we will be like him, for we will see him as he is.

We all come from different places, each with our own story; we come with complex and complicated personalities, with layers of experience and expectation, we come with the lies we have come to believe and the truths we have forgotten. Sin has a way of breaking us, all of us. Sin distorts how we relate to God and to ourselves, to other human beings and to our fellow creatures. Sin breaks what love makes, but greater than the power of sin is love’s power to renew, redeem, and restore. See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are and were always meant to be. We are children in the household of God, brought together not in patterns of our own making, but in the image and likeness of Christ. The patterns of our life together will not forever be defined by the walls of fear, prejudice and hate or the abyss of apathy between us and them, but by the love of God who makes all things new.

The more fully we remember who and whose we are, the more fully we will embody the kindness and courage of Jesus. We will laugh with the Archbishop; we will cry with Judith; we will walk in the company of those dear old ladies, and we will tell our children, all our children, that they are God’s own.

---

[1] http://being.publicradio.org/programs/2012/tutu-god-of-surprises/transcript.shtml

[2] Judith Rosenbaum, Strange, Inconceivable Fire: Leviticus and Holocaust Remembrance Day http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mobileweb/judith-rosenbaum/strange-inconceivable-fire-leviticus-and-holocaust-remembrance-day_b_1429812.html?icid=hp_religion_dl_art

We follow again

Our Bible is full of surprises, and not just the kind of surprises we expect to find there. Our lectern Bible, after years of use, had begun to show signs of wear. The binding was a little lose in places, the edges looked frayed, in short, it needed a little work done. While it was at the bookbinder’s shop, we started to read from a younger model – same translation, but tight binding, flawless gold edging, and wrapped in gorgeous red, Moroccan goat leather.

One Sunday, Jeff opened that beauty to read from the first chapter of Genesis, and began to turn the pages. There’s always a dedication page, an introduction, an editor’s note, things like that, a table of contents, but eventually you’d expect to lay eyes on Genesis 1:1. Well, not with this red beauty. It opens with Genesis 3:18, something about thorns and thistles, on the next page you read something about every creeping thing, it’s Genesis 1:26, you turn the page and – taddah! – there’s Genesis 1:1. But turn that page, and you’re suddenly in chapter 5, and turn another, and there’s chapter 13. As far as we can tell (without turning all 1073 pages), all chapters and verses are there, just not necessarily where you’d expect to find them.

The best part, of course, is that Genesis 1 is all about how orderly things come about in God’s creation! What do you think happened? Was it the printer who messed things up or the binder? Or was there somebody with a great sense of humor, somewhere along the production line who decided that scripture is just way too predictable, and that the occasional surprise page would keep the readers engaged?

A few years ago, a seminary student had memorized the entire gospel of Mark in order to do a dramatic monologue before a live audience. He started with chapter 1, verse 1, “the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ,” but he wasn’t sure where to end his performance. According to the current scholarly consensus, based on careful study of the oldest and most reliable manuscripts, Mark ends with chapter 16, verse 8,

So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

You wonder what happened. Did the author suffer a sudden heart attack at that point and slump over his manuscript? Or had he written the most wonderful ending, but somehow that part of the scroll was lost or removed by a scribe with a strange sense of humor? Did somebody perhaps need a piece of parchment to write a letter or another story? Hard to tell what happened. The young performer decided to follow the most reliable manuscripts and end his presentation right there in the middle of verse 8. He ended his first performance declaring, “and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid…” And then he stood there awkwardly in the middle of the stage, shifting from one foot to the other, the audience waiting for more, waiting for another sentence, waiting for a proper ending. And finally, after several anxious seconds, he said, “Amen!” and made his exit and, greatly relieved, the audience applauded loudly.

We like our stories and our songs to end well: a final chapter where all story lines come together and all tensions are resolved; a final measure when the melody comes home and we along with it. To that student, however, wrapping things up for the audience with a confident Amen just didn’t feel right. So at the next performance, when he reached that final verse he said,

So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid,

and then he turned and left the stage in silence.[1]

Now that’s hardly a shout of victory over death.  Give us a woman in the garden, give us two disciples on the road, or a breakfast on the beach – women fleeing from the cemetery in silence? That’s no way to end a gospel. Clearly something must be done about this ending, or at least that’s how many people felt. Early Christian scribes who copied Mark’s gospel tinkered with its ending. One added just a couple of sentences, indicating that the women did as they had been told.[2] Another scribe borrowed a few details from Matthew and Luke to compose a conclusion that would leave readers reassured about the order of things.[3] A few extra lines, the curtain falls and we are pleased. The world is a reliable place after all: dramas begin and conflicts arise, yet all is resolved in the final scene.

But what if this strange ending is exactly how Mark wanted to tell the story? What if this gospel has this unfinished feel on purpose, and not because parts went missing? What if this gospel wants to leave us hanging in midsentence with this puzzled expression in our faces? We have heard the whole story, from its beginning to this moment. We were there when at Jesus’ baptism the heavenly voice declared, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”[4] We were there when Jesus took with him Peter and James and John, and led them up a high mountain, and he was transfigured before them.[5] We were there when Jesus prayed in Gethsemane and the disciples couldn’t keep awake.[6] We were there when Judas betrayed him, Peter denied him, and all the disciples deserted him. We were there when Jesus was arrested, questioned and judged, mocked, abused and executed. We are attentive listeners, and even more attentive readers; we were there. We know that the women were the only ones who didn’t run away, that they watched from a distance, that they saw where the body was laid. Now three of the women come to the tomb and hear the message to go and tell—and now even they finally fail?

They fled and said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

Now everyone has fled, but the story is not over. We have heard it. We have read it. We have lived through its every moment, and now we must decide what happens next. We were there when Jesus told the men and women who followed him, “After I am raised up I will go before you to Galilee.” Will we trust his promise? Will we go to Galilee, or will we flee the scene and go back to the world as it was?

Silence is an option. We can deny the whole thing, act as though it never happened, and continue to live in the Friday world. Or we can begin to live in this new reality. We can go to Galilee where Jesus promised we will see him. We can go to the place where the story began and start the journey over.

Now Galilee is no longer just the name of the hill country north of Jerusalem. Galilee is the name given to the land of promise and faith: it is the land where we live and work, where we sing songs and tell stories, where we raise our children and think about the future. Galilee is the Friday world we know under the Sunday promise. The risen Christ invites us to live there, in the company of all the other men and women who chose to follow again.

The Friday world of the cross had reduced all of them to silence and fear. But from such weakness and failure, God brought forth faith. The risen Christ didn’t choose a new team, but God raised those imperfect men and women to live as bold witnesses to the resurrection.

Bill Sloan Coffin noted years ago,

Not only Peter but all the apostles after Jesus’ death were ten times the people they were before; that’s irrefutable. (…) I believe passionately in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, because in my own life I have experienced Christ not as memory, but as presence. So today on Easter we gather not, as is were, to close the show with the tune, ‘Thanks for the Memory,’ but rather to reopen the show with the hymn, ‘[Christ the Lord] Is Risen Today.’[7]

Risen today. Easter is not about memory, but about presence, disruptive and transformative presence. The gospel Mark wrote down is only the beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ—the story is still unfolding with us no longer in the audience, but as participants.

The women were paralyzed. Something had gone wrong – or had gone so right they couldn’t take it in. There was the news that Jesus had been raised. But there was also the word about a new life for them: Move your feet. Leave the tomb. Tell the guys. Galilee. Follow me. You will see.

The life-giving power of God had radically transformed the body of Jesus, but it had only begun to transform them. And so they ran away from the cemetery and said nothing to nobody. If Jesus had been raised and vindicated by a mighty act of God, and if by raising Jesus God had indeed reversed the whole order of time and history, of life and death – then nothing would ever be the same again. Little wonder they were afraid.

If Jesus is defeated, crucified, dead, and buried – it may break our heart, but it also confirms everything we have suspected about the world all along. It’s a Friday world: Might makes right. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for more of everything, and the meek will inherit nothing at all. But if we can wrap our small, fearful hearts around the promise and reality of today, Sunday is flooding this Friday world with hope. If we can pin our hope on that promise for just a moment, we begin to realize that it’s not human evil that has the last word, but the God who spoke the very first word. The last word belongs to God who said, “Let there be light,” and the Friday darkness fled at the dawn of this new day.

“Who will roll away the stone for us?” In Mark’s story this is the last question on the lips of those who used to follow Jesus. We know that stone. It lies heavy on our ability to continue to live kind and compassionate lives in this Friday world, to do justice and love kindness and walk humbly with our God. The stone slows us down, it blocks our movements, locks us in, suffocates our courage. But today we hear that the stone, which is very large, has already been rolled back; and God calls us, again, to practice resurrection by following the one who is going ahead of us.

Today we can see that God’s faithfulness will not be undone by our infidelity. And today, chastened by our failures and empowered by Christ’s presence we follow again.

---

[1] Cf. Thomas Long, “Dangling gospel,” Christian Century, April 4, 2006, p. 19

[2] Mk 16:8b “The Shorter Ending”

[3] Mk 16:9-20 “The Longer Ending”

[4] Mk 1:11

[5] Mk 9:2

[6] Mk 14:32-42

[7] William Sloan Coffin, Credo, p. 28; my emphases

Friday World

I hope you will join us on Good Friday at 7pm in the sanctuary for a walk of seven stations (the pictures give you only six glimpses).

For Emily, Boyd, Morgan, Molly, Miller, and Sarah, the walk marks the conclusion of their baptism retreat.

For the rest of us it's a good way to begin living fully in God's Easter world again. 

And remember, on Thursday we meet at 6pm for supper in the fellowship hall.

Are we done?

We have been talking about music a lot recently, for very good reasons. Now we are only days away from wrapping up the conversations and distilling countless comments into a job description!

When we planned the Worship Sounds process, we scheduled one last listening group for April 15, the Sunday after Easter. But we find ourselves wondering, "Do we need another session? Or are we done talking and ready to move on?" What do you think?

If you didn't have a chance to participate in a triplet or one of the listening groups, perhaps you'd like to attend the wrap-up session on April 15. If you feel like you've already said all you need to say, you can still help us out with a quick response. Please use the form below to help us decide if we need to have one last listening group on Sunday, April 15, after the 10:45am worship service.

51

[I'm a little late. This is the sermon for March 25]

The psalm for this day calls for a story. The scribes who assembled the poems and songs that eventually became the collection we know as the book of Psalms, gave this psalm a short introductory note, “A Psalm of David, when the prophet Nathan came to him, after he had gone in to Bathsheba.”

That is quite a story. It begins in the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle – but that year king David sends his generals out and he himself stays in Jerusalem. Late one afternoon, he rises from his couch and, walking about on the roof terrace, he sees a woman bathing, a very beautiful woman. He sends someone to find out who she is, learns that her husband is out with the army, and he sends for her. 

She comes over, they have a couple of drinks, they make love, and she goes home. A few weeks later, there’s a message for the king. David opens the envelope and reads it. “I’m pregnant. Bathsheba.”

David concocts a plan to hide the consequences of his adulterous affair. He calls Bathsheba’s husband, Uriah back from the front lines, scheming to make him think the child is his own. “Go home, take a break,” he says, “spend a little time with your beautiful wife.” 

But David is in for a royal surprise: Uriah refuses to go home, saying that he cannot indulge himself in such pleasures while his men are left in the battlefield.

The king resorts to making him drunk, yet Uriah, ever the good soldier, still resists the comfort of his wife’s bed; he spends the night camping out with the other officers.

Now the plot thickens as David moves another step deeper into the morass. He orders his general Joab to put Uriah in the front lines where the fighting is fiercest, and to make sure he dies there for king and country. And so it happens. Word comes that Uriah has been killed in action. 

On hearing the news of her husband’s death, Bathsheba laments. After the period of mourning is over, David sends for her and she becomes his wife. The king gets what he wants. End of story? Not quite.

The prophet Nathan comes to the palace and tells the king about a rich man who has stolen a poor man’s only lamb and slaughtered it for dinner. The king is furious, “That is an outrage! Not in my kingdom! The man who has done this deserves to die!”

“You are the man,” says Nathan.

That is when the fog of power and self-absorption finally lifts, and David realizes what he has done.

This psalm, the scribes wrote in the margins of their scrolls, this psalm is the sort of prayer that fits such a moment of sudden clarity when your knees buckle and your soul drains through the soles of your feet. This Psalm is not the quickly written apologetic press release you’d expect from a powerful man who happened to get caught. Psalm 51 is a deep and honest reflection, a “liturgy of the broken heart.”

Just about every word from the vocabulary of human sinfulness is listed in the opening lines: my transgressions, my iniquity, my sin, the evil I have done in your sight – it’s like there aren’t enough words for the horror, the guilt, and the shame. We are listening to the voice of a grown up human being who reflects on our common capacity to do evil.

But this is not just David’s prayer. The “I” that speaks in this psalm are God’s people Israel who recognize themselves in these words, and it doesn’t end with them. The “I” that speaks here is all of humanity, all the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve at the moment when the fog of our self-absorption lifts and we realize our capacity for evil. This prayer allows us to reflect on the universality of sin without wallowing in confessions of guilt like pigs in a mud pit. This psalm encourages us to see ourselves in the light of God’s judgment and of God’s power to redeem, restore and renew.

Before the litany of sin that dominates the opening verses, the prayer appeals to the character of God who is merciful and whose steadfast love and tender compassion have been affirmed by generations of God’s people. The only place to reflect on what Scripture calls sin, according to this psalm, is in the light of God’s grace. Much of what sin entails can only be seen in that light, rather than the dim rays of a guilty conscience.

Sin is not a churchy word for doing the wrong thing or breaking the law. Sin is the name given to our broken relationship with God, a brokenness that impacts how we relate to ourselves, to each other, and to the world. Sin is what rules us when we imagine ourselves as gods instead of creatures of God. Sin is what distorts every aspect of our thinking, speaking, and doing, when we fail to know ourselves and one another as God’s own. Sin is like being completely out of tune in a creation that sings the glory of God.

Many prayers for help say, “Change my situation, so I may praise you.” But this one says, “Change me; I am the problem.” We learn to say from a very young age, “I’m sorry. Can we start over?” We ask for a clean slate, for a new beginning that disregards the past. But this prayer rises from a place of deeper insight. Sin is not an occasional thing, something we do now and then, but rather a reality that pervades our lives and distorts our entire being. 

Psalm 51 comes from the place where the fog of our self-assured autonomy lifts, and we suddenly see that we are not who we imagined ourselves to be. “I don’t recognize myself anymore, and I can’t put myself back together. Wash me in your mercy. Recreate me in your grace.”

A clean slate will not do. Create in me a clean heart. Create in me a heart that is free of all that alienates me from you, for I cannot be myself without you.

In this prayer, and quite often in Scripture, heart does not refer merely to an organ, a part of the body. It is rather understood as the center of our consciousness, that through which we perceive the world around us and express what is within us. The heart is like a hub where our sensibility, our imagination, our mind and will come together to shape our perception and give direction to our actions. And Scripture insists that we have a heart problem. We have hearts that gravitate toward pride and fear and idolatry. That is why the psalm doesn’t rise from the heart but from the place where the heart’s poverty is revealed in the light of God’s grace.

The prayer begins not with the painful recognition of sinfulness, but with the hopeful appeal to the mercy, love, and compassion of God. Yes, human sinfulness is pervasive, powerful, and persistent, but God’s mercy, love, and compassion still come first. The faithfulness of God is more encompassing than the reality of our sin. Where sin draws a circle of despair that traps us all, God draws a wider circle of mercy that holds us.

When we recognize the voice of Psalm 51 as our own, we begin to see that we are surrounded by God’s loyal love and we notice the sin that is ever before us; we begin to trust that God not only desires fullness of life for us, but that God’s mercy is also the power that makes fullness of life possible; learning to pray with Psalm 51, we begin to envision ourselves and our communities no longer entangled in the consequences of our sinfulness, but knit together by the creative possibilities of God, fearfully and wonderfully made, intricately woven after the pattern of God’s will.

This psalm calls for a story. These words of truth and hope call for a story that we, like the scribes of old, can write into the margins. And not just that; there’s a story that calls for this psalm. There’s a story that cries out for truth and hope and new hearts.

It is the story of a teenage boy who watches a basketball game on tv with his dad. During half-time, he walks to a store in the neighborhood and buys a bag of Skittles and a can of iced tea. On his way home he is shot and killed by a neighborhood watch captain.

It happened on February 26. The young man’s name was Trayvon Martin. I find it utterly questionable when people patrol their neighborhood with loaded guns, but I will not talk about that now.

I find it almost impossible to fathom that the shooter has not been arrested, but I will not talk about that now.

What I do want to talk about is the nagging suspicion in my heart that the shooter would be in jail and awaiting trial, had the shooter, rather than the victim, been African-American.

What I do want to talk about is young African-American males growing up with the weight of suspicion on their shoulders, and their parents who must remind them not to run down the sidewalk, especially when they carry a bag or a package, so nobody would mistake them for a robber.

What I do want to talk about is how racist stereotypes twist and distort our perception of ourselves and of each other to the point that we don’t see another face, another person, but only a projection of our fears, a projection of our own brokenness.

This story calls for long, honest conversations about the things that alienate us from each other. This story calls for a long, honest prayer asking God to create in us hearts that are free of all that alienates us from God and from one another.

Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.

A spirit of honesty to sustain our efforts to reestablish truth and trust in our communities. A spirit of hope to strengthen our belief that change, though slow, painfully slow, is possible. A spirit of love to give us the courage to surrender together to God’s power to make all things new.

This story calls for a psalm, and the psalm calls for a people to pray it and live it, a people after God’s own heart. By the grace of God, may we belong to that people.