The gospels give us the only stories we know of Jesus’ birth. We really have two very different stories of the first Christmas, and two other introductions to Jesus.
The earliest gospel, the gospel of Mark, dives right in, with John the Baptizer appearing in the wilderness, proclaiming a gospel of repentance—change—and the forgiveness of sins. And that is how Mark introduces us to Jesus: John is preparing the way for Jesus, and Jesus comes to John to be baptized by him, and the Spirit descends on Jesus. What Mark wants us to know about Jesus’s origins is this: John prepared the way for Jesus, and Jesus is the fulfillment of John’s message.
The gospel of John begins in a very different way: with a Poem in the Prologue that harkens back to the book of Genesis and the beginning of time: “In the beginning was the Word—the Logos— and Word was with God, and the Word was God…. It continues: And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.” The Gospel of John goes back to the beginning of the creation story, and there was the Word. “Word” in Greek is “Logos”, but this Logos in Greek thought wasn’t just a spoken word, but the divine principle of reason, of thought and ordered mind. And so John is linking Jewish thought and Greek thought in Jesus: Jesus is coming from the Jewish God, but is the Logos, Reason, The Word in flesh, is breaking in to the world. And then John jumps right in where Mark began: Jesus coming to John the Baptizer to be baptized.
And so now we come to the Gospels of Luke and Matthew, which give us the stories of Jesus’ birth that are familiar to us. The stories might actually be too familiar—they’re difficult for us to hear afresh. And though we’ve combined them in our minds into one Christmas story, with shepherds and Magi and Gabriel visiting Mary, Luke and Matthew tell us two very different stories of Jesus’s birth. The story we’ve created is somewhat sentimental, but Matthew & Luke are anything but. The stories are different, and each of them is a mini-gospel—what theologian Marcus Borg calls an “overture”, a statement of the theme of the gospel.
We have to begin, though, by getting our genre correct: we would never mistake John’s Prologue for a newspaper account: that’s a poem. And neither are these birth stories newspaper accounts: instead they tell a true story about who Jesus is, in a genre familiar to ancient readers—where great leaders have great origins— but not quite analogous to anything we’ve got now.
The Gospel of Matthew is perhaps the most “Jewish” of the 4 gospels: it presents Jesus as the New Moses—who gave the Law and who lead the Israelites out of Egypt. Jesus here is the authoritative interpreter of Moses, a Moses for Jews and for Gentiles alike.
Remember the story of Moses: Moses was born as Pharaoh was killing the infants of the Hebrews. Ancient Jewish legend says that Pharoah was murdering the children because he had a dream that a liberator of the slaves would be born.
Matthew’s birth story focuses on a series of dreams to Joseph—Mary doesn’t get a speaking part or a dream in this story. In Matthew’s story, Mary & Joseph are engaged, and they live in Bethlehem. Joseph is going to separate from Mary when he finds out she’s pregnant, but Joseph is told in a dream that it is ok, that Mary will bear a great savior. The Magi—wise men, gentiles from the East—show up in the story, looking for this great child. They encounter the Roman appointed king, Herod, and ask for the child who will be a great ruler. Herod doesn’t like that idea, and so like Pharoah, Herod decides to slaughter the infants to prevent the rise of a new king. God warns Joseph in a dream, and so Mary, Joseph and Jesus flee to Egypt. When Herod dies, they move to Galilee, not to Bethlehem.
This is not a warm and fuzzy Christmas story, but the start of a story where the world is turned upside down: Jesus is the new Moses, who will set his people free. And it is the Roman rulers and Herod, the Jewish collaborator, it is they who play the role of Pharoah; the holy family flees to Egypt, of all places, a refuge. Matthew is telling us that Jesus has come to save the people, not from some eternity in hell, but from living in the midst of oppression and injustice. It’s a story where the poor are blessed, and the dispossessed will inherit the earth, and gentiles are invited into the kingdom of God.
Luke’s story has more of the familiar elements you’d see in a Christmas pageant: pretty much everything, except for the Magi & Herod. Luke begins with two birth stories: first, the birth of John the Baptizer to his parent Elizabeth and Zechariah, and then, of course, the birth of Jesus to Mary and Joseph. Like Abraham and Sarah and other characters in the Hebrew scriptures, Elizabeth and Zechariah are “getting on in years”; they are old and childless, but then are blessed with a miraculous child. Mary also has a miraculous conception—but a type not found in the Hebrew Scriptures: a virgin birth, with a divine father, the start of a new thing. And unlike Matthew, Luke has a strong focus on women, as well as men: Mary & Elizabeth get major parts, and while Zechariah gets a major song, Joseph stays in the background.
In Luke’s story, Mary & Joseph are living in Galilee; Mary is visited by the angel Gabriel, and she is told the good news: she will bear a son, who will be great: the Son of the Most High, the Son of God—to which Mary essentially responds, “Ok”. A little while later we get Mary’s famous song, the Magnificat, which gives us a window into the meaning of Jesus’s ministry: Mary says her spirit rejoices in God, her Savior— because with Jesus, God has brought down the powerful from their thrones, lifted up the lowly, filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty.
And then we come to the birth itself. Remember, Mary & Joseph are living in Galilee here. But, like Matthew, Luke has Jesus born in Bethlehem, the city of King David. And so we get the story of the Roman census , which required Joseph & Mary to travel to Bethlehem. They arrive in Bethlehem, and there is no place for them at the inn, and so Jesus is born in a manager.
Then we get the inspiration for many Christmas carols: angels appear to shepherds in the fields, and give the news that a Savior is born: singing “Glory to God and peace on earth.” It is the shepherds, low class and on the margins of society, who the first to hear of Jesus’ birth.
In his Christmas story, Luke tells us about the kingdom of God: it’s for all people, Jews and non-Jews, it’s here on this earth: there will be peace, the poor will be lifted up. And less obvious to the modern reader—Luke is setting the Kingdom of God against the Empire of Rome. The descriptors of Jesus— Savior, Son of God, Bringer of peace—these are what the Romans claimed for their leaders. But Luke says it’s not the great power, Rome, that will bring peace, but this guy, Jesus, born in a manger, honored by shepherds.
I invite you, this Christmas, to consider what these Christmas stories mean today—for you and how you live your life. The gospels say something very particular, to a particular time. It can be a lot of work to translate that into our own lives. I find inspiration in these stories because that are full of hope and promise, that a better world is possible, that God is breaking into history, that a mighty Savior has shown us the way to living in harmony with God. It can be hard to follow the Way during our Christmas season—shopping and gift giving can seem far from the Way of peace and justice. But there are also seeds of generosity and faithful living that can be planted this season, and with God’s grace, bloom.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Sacred Text: Two Verses from Isaiah
From Isaiah 59
Justice is far from us,
and righteousness does not reach us;
We wait… for light, and lo! there is darkness;
… for brightness, but we walk in gloom.
From Isaiah 2
The people who have walked in darkness
have seen a great light.
They that dwell in the land in the shadow of death
Upon them the light has shined.
Justice is far from us,
and righteousness does not reach us;
We wait… for light, and lo! there is darkness;
… for brightness, but we walk in gloom.
From Isaiah 2
The people who have walked in darkness
have seen a great light.
They that dwell in the land in the shadow of death
Upon them the light has shined.
Advent: Waiting
The theme of darkness and light recurs throughout advent. The two sacred texts for today bookend the season of advent: advent is about being in the first passage of Isaiah, dwelling in the land so dark, it is in the shadow of death—but waiting, hopefully, expectantly for the promise of that second passage: the shining forth of the great light.
We’ll sing a verse from O Come, O Come Emannuel each week during advent. The verse for this week—by design— pairs beautifully with the sacred text for this week: we sing from the darkness, imploring the light to come:
And then, the refrain of hope that we proclaim throughout season:
Advent was originally a time of fasting, with the color purple like at Lent; a time of preparation for the coming of the light, of recognizing the darkness we dwell in. This is why John the Baptist, preaching the message of repentance and forgiveness of sins, why he is an advent figure. But Advent has developed into a season of hope amidst the darkness. But you can still hear the edge in the traditional prophetic texts.
So listen again to Isaiah: “Justice is far from us, and righteousness does not reach us; We wait for light, a lo! There is darkness.”
What darkness do you wait in? We live amidst darkness, all of us. You are not alone. We light candles and put up decorations to dispel the vary physical darkness of winter—but there is a darkness we can’t dispel.
The prophetic texts describe the darkness that befalls the entire world: justice is but far away, and righteousness might be moving toward us, but isn’t here yet. The world is broken, but we are looking forward to the coming of the One who will show us the New Way, the way to live in the realm of God.
The Good News is that we are a people of the light. It is because we look forward to the coming of the Light of the World that we can name the darkness, and face it with hope. In the middle of all the trials we bear, even at life’s very bleakest, we can—a little piece of us at least--- we can rejoice, becuas we known Emmanuel has already come. And even in the bleak midwinter of our lives, we can trust that God’s love is constantly breaking into the world, that spring will come.
We’ll sing a verse from O Come, O Come Emannuel each week during advent. The verse for this week—by design— pairs beautifully with the sacred text for this week: we sing from the darkness, imploring the light to come:
O come, Thou Day-Spring, from on high,
and cheer us by Thy drawing nigh.
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night
And death's dark shadows put to
flight.
And then, the refrain of hope that we proclaim throughout season:
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to thee, O Israel.
Advent was originally a time of fasting, with the color purple like at Lent; a time of preparation for the coming of the light, of recognizing the darkness we dwell in. This is why John the Baptist, preaching the message of repentance and forgiveness of sins, why he is an advent figure. But Advent has developed into a season of hope amidst the darkness. But you can still hear the edge in the traditional prophetic texts.
So listen again to Isaiah: “Justice is far from us, and righteousness does not reach us; We wait for light, a lo! There is darkness.”
What darkness do you wait in? We live amidst darkness, all of us. You are not alone. We light candles and put up decorations to dispel the vary physical darkness of winter—but there is a darkness we can’t dispel.
The prophetic texts describe the darkness that befalls the entire world: justice is but far away, and righteousness might be moving toward us, but isn’t here yet. The world is broken, but we are looking forward to the coming of the One who will show us the New Way, the way to live in the realm of God.
The Good News is that we are a people of the light. It is because we look forward to the coming of the Light of the World that we can name the darkness, and face it with hope. In the middle of all the trials we bear, even at life’s very bleakest, we can—a little piece of us at least--- we can rejoice, becuas we known Emmanuel has already come. And even in the bleak midwinter of our lives, we can trust that God’s love is constantly breaking into the world, that spring will come.
Sacred Text for "Thanksgiving"
From Paul’s Letter to the Philippians: [NRSV]
Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.
Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.
Reflection: Thanksgiving
This week, we continue our series on Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is predictably coming up this month, and predictably we’re going to talk about it.
It’s hard to argue with the idea of giving thanks, whether you’re secular or religious. No one wants to be ungrateful. But because giving thanks is so uncontroversial , it’s less thought out and more hazy—but good— warm fuzzy feelings. And the hazy-ness around giving thanks can leave us with some deep puzzles, and perhaps extra burdens.
One model of thanksgiving is based on reciprocity: someone has done something nice for you, and so you respond with thanks. This is one model of approaching giving thanks to God: we’re created, there’s lots of good parts of life, and we give thanks because God has been good to us. It’s worked ok for a long time.
The puzzles start when we begin to wonder: what if I don’t feel like God has been good to me? On the Thanksgiving holiday, I give thanks for this food, for this house, for harvest, for the family. If God’s been good to me because I’ve received these things, doesn’t that mean God’s mistreated someone who hasn’t had a good harvest, who’s lost their house, who’s lost their family. If those things happen to me, shouldn’t I be peeved at God, not thankful? And if I’ve really suffered, how dare you say I should be thankful—maybe God hasn’t been good to me.
I think there’s an alternative model for Thanksgiving, that of appreciation. When we give thanks, we rejoice in the good in our lives. Rejoice in the Lord always, Paul says. And why do we give thanks and rejoice? Not because we’ve been better treated than we expect or deserve, but because it is a discipline that improves our lives and our harmony with the world.
Paul provides the hint: whatever is good, just, pleasing, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. That’s what we do when we give thanks—we attend to the good things in life. That’s how the disciples could give thanks, even in prison. That’s how Jesus on the night he was to die could give thanks at the Lord’s supper.
Thanksgiving is for us: Keep on doing the things that you have learned, the practice of thanksgiving, the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard our hearts and our minds.
It’s hard to argue with the idea of giving thanks, whether you’re secular or religious. No one wants to be ungrateful. But because giving thanks is so uncontroversial , it’s less thought out and more hazy—but good— warm fuzzy feelings. And the hazy-ness around giving thanks can leave us with some deep puzzles, and perhaps extra burdens.
One model of thanksgiving is based on reciprocity: someone has done something nice for you, and so you respond with thanks. This is one model of approaching giving thanks to God: we’re created, there’s lots of good parts of life, and we give thanks because God has been good to us. It’s worked ok for a long time.
The puzzles start when we begin to wonder: what if I don’t feel like God has been good to me? On the Thanksgiving holiday, I give thanks for this food, for this house, for harvest, for the family. If God’s been good to me because I’ve received these things, doesn’t that mean God’s mistreated someone who hasn’t had a good harvest, who’s lost their house, who’s lost their family. If those things happen to me, shouldn’t I be peeved at God, not thankful? And if I’ve really suffered, how dare you say I should be thankful—maybe God hasn’t been good to me.
I think there’s an alternative model for Thanksgiving, that of appreciation. When we give thanks, we rejoice in the good in our lives. Rejoice in the Lord always, Paul says. And why do we give thanks and rejoice? Not because we’ve been better treated than we expect or deserve, but because it is a discipline that improves our lives and our harmony with the world.
Paul provides the hint: whatever is good, just, pleasing, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. That’s what we do when we give thanks—we attend to the good things in life. That’s how the disciples could give thanks, even in prison. That’s how Jesus on the night he was to die could give thanks at the Lord’s supper.
Thanksgiving is for us: Keep on doing the things that you have learned, the practice of thanksgiving, the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard our hearts and our minds.
Text for Reflection: from Psalm 109
God of my praise, do not be deaf!
For the mouth of the wicked
and the mouth of deceit have opened against me.
Words of hatred surround me.
They make war against me for no reason!
In exchange for my love, they oppose me—
Yet I am all prayer!
(*...)
Set over him a wicked man;
Let an opponent stand at his right hand.
When he is judged, let him come out guilty;
Let his prayer miss its target.
May his days be few;
Let another take his possessions.
May his children be orphans,
And his wife a widow.
May his children wander about and beg,
Going in search away from their hovels.
Translated by Ellen Davis, in Getting Involved with God
For the mouth of the wicked
and the mouth of deceit have opened against me.
Words of hatred surround me.
They make war against me for no reason!
In exchange for my love, they oppose me—
Yet I am all prayer!
(*...)
Set over him a wicked man;
Let an opponent stand at his right hand.
When he is judged, let him come out guilty;
Let his prayer miss its target.
May his days be few;
Let another take his possessions.
May his children be orphans,
And his wife a widow.
May his children wander about and beg,
Going in search away from their hovels.
Translated by Ellen Davis, in Getting Involved with God
Reflection on a Text of Terror
This Psalm is not often read, and it’s a good followup to the sermon this past Sunday on “Texts of Terror”: “Set over him a wicked man… may his children be orphans, wandering and begging.”
This anger is ugly, and even if the man were evil—wishing him death— but wishing suffering on his children? But it’s in there, in our Psalms.
It’s so offensive to find this, in fact, that NRSV thinks it is not even in there: it puts these words in the mouth of the bad guys, adding in, “they say” at the beginning on really limited textual evidence. It’s controversial.
I think it’s important that we remember that the ugliness is in there, not because it tells us something good and true about God, but because it tells us something about what the psalms are, what the bible is.
The Bible is rough—it doesn’t paint a picture of a lovely world, of perfect people, or even a perfect God. The Old Testament is full of people haggling with God—“God, what if I can find just one nice person, can you hold off your wrath?” Jesus gets snippy, and makes some ethnic comments about Gentiles (comparing them to dogs) that are probably not a good model for, say, the Mideast peace process.
The bible isn’t always an instruction manual for living, and perhaps the psalms aren’t always the best model for prayer.
The best way I have to think about the Bible is as an entryway to discover God, a testimony of many author’s perceived experience of God. Sometimes they think God does strange things, many time they think God does wonderful, beautiful things, and few describe a God doing evil things.
The Bible is an entryway because it invites me, or forces me, to think about God in a way that I hadn’t before. Sometimes I’m stumped or resistant—I’m still working on loving my enemies, and I’m somewhere more in the range of praying for them. But other times, the stories set my heart afire, the stories of Jesus’ promised commonwealth.
Each week we pray a psalm, learning and sharing in the prayers of our ancestor. They say things about God that are beautiful, that are longing—a few weeks ago we prayed:
These psalms give us language to speak to God: “My heart is pierced within me”.
And so here we have Psalm 109, a human psalm if ever there was one. These are feelings we probably know, feelings I know. The Psalm invites us to see those feelings in another, to reflect on those feelings theologically, to bring those feelings before God. Maybe we don’t want to end where the author of Psalm 109 ended. And that might be the value of this “dirty” psalm— we see this hate in another, and so we bring our hate before God, and say: here it is, help me, heal me, show me a way forward.
May God grant us wisdom and peace in our prayers. Amen.
This anger is ugly, and even if the man were evil—wishing him death— but wishing suffering on his children? But it’s in there, in our Psalms.
It’s so offensive to find this, in fact, that NRSV thinks it is not even in there: it puts these words in the mouth of the bad guys, adding in, “they say” at the beginning on really limited textual evidence. It’s controversial.
I think it’s important that we remember that the ugliness is in there, not because it tells us something good and true about God, but because it tells us something about what the psalms are, what the bible is.
The Bible is rough—it doesn’t paint a picture of a lovely world, of perfect people, or even a perfect God. The Old Testament is full of people haggling with God—“God, what if I can find just one nice person, can you hold off your wrath?” Jesus gets snippy, and makes some ethnic comments about Gentiles (comparing them to dogs) that are probably not a good model for, say, the Mideast peace process.
The bible isn’t always an instruction manual for living, and perhaps the psalms aren’t always the best model for prayer.
The best way I have to think about the Bible is as an entryway to discover God, a testimony of many author’s perceived experience of God. Sometimes they think God does strange things, many time they think God does wonderful, beautiful things, and few describe a God doing evil things.
The Bible is an entryway because it invites me, or forces me, to think about God in a way that I hadn’t before. Sometimes I’m stumped or resistant—I’m still working on loving my enemies, and I’m somewhere more in the range of praying for them. But other times, the stories set my heart afire, the stories of Jesus’ promised commonwealth.
Each week we pray a psalm, learning and sharing in the prayers of our ancestor. They say things about God that are beautiful, that are longing—a few weeks ago we prayed:
May there be no invasion, no exile, and no cry of distress in our streets
These psalms give us language to speak to God: “My heart is pierced within me”.
And so here we have Psalm 109, a human psalm if ever there was one. These are feelings we probably know, feelings I know. The Psalm invites us to see those feelings in another, to reflect on those feelings theologically, to bring those feelings before God. Maybe we don’t want to end where the author of Psalm 109 ended. And that might be the value of this “dirty” psalm— we see this hate in another, and so we bring our hate before God, and say: here it is, help me, heal me, show me a way forward.
May God grant us wisdom and peace in our prayers. Amen.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Sacred Text for "Perishing"
Matthew 8
23 And when he got into the boat, his disciples followed him. 24A gale arose on the lake, so great that the boat was being swamped by the waves; but he was asleep. 25And they went and woke him up, saying, ‘Lord, save us! We are perishing!’ 26And he said to them, ‘Why are you afraid, you of little faith?’ Then he got up and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a dead calm. 27They were amazed, saying, ‘What sort of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him?’
-NRSV
23 And when he got into the boat, his disciples followed him. 24A gale arose on the lake, so great that the boat was being swamped by the waves; but he was asleep. 25And they went and woke him up, saying, ‘Lord, save us! We are perishing!’ 26And he said to them, ‘Why are you afraid, you of little faith?’ Then he got up and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a dead calm. 27They were amazed, saying, ‘What sort of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him?’
-NRSV
Perishing
This past Sunday at church, I spoke a bit about the story we read from the Gospel of Matthew for today, how I could very easily imagine myself in that boat, shaking Jesus—wake up, we’re sinking, we’re perishing.
I’ve always read this story as a story about faith—it sounds a lot like Jesus critiquing the disciples—why are you afraid, you of little faith. And you could read this story that way: don’t panic, have trust in God.
But as I prepared this reflection, a note caught my attention, saying this story was probably intended as a metaphor for following Jesus. And I like that interpretation better—rather than being a judgment on having too little faith, it’s a description of the difficulties we’ll encounter on the Christian journey and a promise that that the storm won’t overwhelm us.
This story comes immediately after Jesus approached by a series of potential followers. To one he says, the birds have nests, the fox have dens, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head. To another who wants Jesus to wait while he buries his family, Jesus says let the dead bury the dead. In other words, the journey isn’t going to be easy, the journey cannot wait… and now this story: we’ll encounter storms, but the one who we are following can overcome those storms. Even the wind and waves obey him.
I’m drawn to the disciples’ exclamation: “Lord, save us! We are perishing!”
It is a cry that is both true, yet incomplete. They were perishing but they had not yet perished. In the story, Jesus rebukes the winds and waves and they do not perish; he rebukes them like he would a demon—further evidence that there are parallels intended to be drawn to the Christian journey.
Jesus asks, “Why are you afraid, you of little faith?”, which makes sense as a metaphor. While actual boats do sink, God does promise to walk with us on our journey. This story can be read as part of that promise: that God will rebuke the demons that assail us; we will be loved, even if our boat sinks.
I want to suggest to you today that we are perishing. Find your favorite reason: is it the destruction of the environment? Economic collapse? Terrorism? Individualism? Corporatism? Racism? We can legitimately cry out, “Lord save us, we are perishing!”
Like it has been for millennia, this world is perishing, and it is perishing while it is also filled with promise.
We shouldn’t deny that we’re in trouble. I think the disciples had it right—they were in trouble. And so they turned to Jesus—Lord, save us. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing if we were to run to Jesus and wake him up, have him calm the storm.
If we do the hard work of calling on God, and following Jesus, reconciling with our neighbor, challenging power—then we can calm the storm of racism, at least enough so our boat doesn’t sink. And if we call on the word of God, and live in the way of Jesus in harmony with creation, then we can calm the rising storm and rising tides of environmental destruction.
And that is the good news: the Word of God, active in our lives, can calm the storm.
I’ve always read this story as a story about faith—it sounds a lot like Jesus critiquing the disciples—why are you afraid, you of little faith. And you could read this story that way: don’t panic, have trust in God.
But as I prepared this reflection, a note caught my attention, saying this story was probably intended as a metaphor for following Jesus. And I like that interpretation better—rather than being a judgment on having too little faith, it’s a description of the difficulties we’ll encounter on the Christian journey and a promise that that the storm won’t overwhelm us.
This story comes immediately after Jesus approached by a series of potential followers. To one he says, the birds have nests, the fox have dens, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head. To another who wants Jesus to wait while he buries his family, Jesus says let the dead bury the dead. In other words, the journey isn’t going to be easy, the journey cannot wait… and now this story: we’ll encounter storms, but the one who we are following can overcome those storms. Even the wind and waves obey him.
I’m drawn to the disciples’ exclamation: “Lord, save us! We are perishing!”
It is a cry that is both true, yet incomplete. They were perishing but they had not yet perished. In the story, Jesus rebukes the winds and waves and they do not perish; he rebukes them like he would a demon—further evidence that there are parallels intended to be drawn to the Christian journey.
Jesus asks, “Why are you afraid, you of little faith?”, which makes sense as a metaphor. While actual boats do sink, God does promise to walk with us on our journey. This story can be read as part of that promise: that God will rebuke the demons that assail us; we will be loved, even if our boat sinks.
I want to suggest to you today that we are perishing. Find your favorite reason: is it the destruction of the environment? Economic collapse? Terrorism? Individualism? Corporatism? Racism? We can legitimately cry out, “Lord save us, we are perishing!”
Like it has been for millennia, this world is perishing, and it is perishing while it is also filled with promise.
We shouldn’t deny that we’re in trouble. I think the disciples had it right—they were in trouble. And so they turned to Jesus—Lord, save us. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing if we were to run to Jesus and wake him up, have him calm the storm.
If we do the hard work of calling on God, and following Jesus, reconciling with our neighbor, challenging power—then we can calm the storm of racism, at least enough so our boat doesn’t sink. And if we call on the word of God, and live in the way of Jesus in harmony with creation, then we can calm the rising storm and rising tides of environmental destruction.
And that is the good news: the Word of God, active in our lives, can calm the storm.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Reflections on Communion
What is it that we do here each week, when we share communion—the Lord’s Supper—together?
Communion is a ritual filled with many layers of meaning, with a rich history, and a bit of disagreement, and many different—yet good—interpretations. The sharing of bread and wine is one of our oldest Christian rituals, mentioned in Paul’s letters, the earliest portion of the New Testament, and in the book of Acts, the story of the early church.
Communion is a sign of the coming of the Realm of God, which sounds so heavy, but is so accessible.
Again: Communion is a sign of the coming of the Realm of God, or the kingdom of God
The Realm of God, Jesus said, is like a wedding banquet to which we are all invited. And it’s so important that we all be there, that a shepherd would leave his whole flock to find just one missing sheep.
We see the realm of God in the other meals that Jesus ate in his lifetime—meals with sinners, tax collectors, the outcasts, the poor, the marginalized. Throughout Jesus’ life, this open table was one of his most characteristic and controversial practices. It was carried through in the early Christian church, where the Jews and the Greeks, the rich and the poor, slave and free, male and female broke bread and worshipped together, sharing actual meals, “love feasts,” the ancient coffee hour.
These meals recall that ancient promise of the prophet Isaiah, who said that on the mountain, God will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, of well aged wine, and wipe away the tears from all faces. God invites all to the feast, and we are to turn no one away.
This is what we –not just symbolize—but actually act out, when we share communion: that we are all invited to God’s table—coming from east, and west, north and south— that we are all invited to a common life, together, ordered by justice, love, and peace. In a world marked by war, the church is called to be an outpost of the realm of God on earth, to build it and to share it. And of course, our life and the church’s life is messy. But this ritual, this sacrament is a sign of that hope which we have, that “God’s kingdom will come”, that someday all the earth will be fed, will be at peace, will be whole.
It is appropriate that in our communion, as we act out the practice that makes us followers of Christ, we also remember and give thanks for all that God has done and is doing. And we remember this tangible life of Jesus, a flesh and blood person who lived among us and showed us how we could be, how could live. We remember Jesus, and we remember what it cost Jesus to do this—his life, his body, his blood. Communion memorializes that sacrifice, but also points towards victory.
For death was not the end— afterwards, Jesus appeared to the disciples on the road to Emmaus: they did not recognize Jesus but saw him as a stranger, until later when they invited him to stay for dinner, and then Jesus took the bread, blessed and broke it, and their eyes were opened, and they recognized Jesus for who we was.
I pray that when we share the glorious open feast of communion, that we may draw closer to God, that we may see Jesus in our midst, that we might be encouraged and strengthened to go out into the world and live the life to which we’ve been called.
Communion is a ritual filled with many layers of meaning, with a rich history, and a bit of disagreement, and many different—yet good—interpretations. The sharing of bread and wine is one of our oldest Christian rituals, mentioned in Paul’s letters, the earliest portion of the New Testament, and in the book of Acts, the story of the early church.
Communion is a sign of the coming of the Realm of God, which sounds so heavy, but is so accessible.
Again: Communion is a sign of the coming of the Realm of God, or the kingdom of God
The Realm of God, Jesus said, is like a wedding banquet to which we are all invited. And it’s so important that we all be there, that a shepherd would leave his whole flock to find just one missing sheep.
We see the realm of God in the other meals that Jesus ate in his lifetime—meals with sinners, tax collectors, the outcasts, the poor, the marginalized. Throughout Jesus’ life, this open table was one of his most characteristic and controversial practices. It was carried through in the early Christian church, where the Jews and the Greeks, the rich and the poor, slave and free, male and female broke bread and worshipped together, sharing actual meals, “love feasts,” the ancient coffee hour.
These meals recall that ancient promise of the prophet Isaiah, who said that on the mountain, God will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, of well aged wine, and wipe away the tears from all faces. God invites all to the feast, and we are to turn no one away.
This is what we –not just symbolize—but actually act out, when we share communion: that we are all invited to God’s table—coming from east, and west, north and south— that we are all invited to a common life, together, ordered by justice, love, and peace. In a world marked by war, the church is called to be an outpost of the realm of God on earth, to build it and to share it. And of course, our life and the church’s life is messy. But this ritual, this sacrament is a sign of that hope which we have, that “God’s kingdom will come”, that someday all the earth will be fed, will be at peace, will be whole.
It is appropriate that in our communion, as we act out the practice that makes us followers of Christ, we also remember and give thanks for all that God has done and is doing. And we remember this tangible life of Jesus, a flesh and blood person who lived among us and showed us how we could be, how could live. We remember Jesus, and we remember what it cost Jesus to do this—his life, his body, his blood. Communion memorializes that sacrifice, but also points towards victory.
For death was not the end— afterwards, Jesus appeared to the disciples on the road to Emmaus: they did not recognize Jesus but saw him as a stranger, until later when they invited him to stay for dinner, and then Jesus took the bread, blessed and broke it, and their eyes were opened, and they recognized Jesus for who we was.
I pray that when we share the glorious open feast of communion, that we may draw closer to God, that we may see Jesus in our midst, that we might be encouraged and strengthened to go out into the world and live the life to which we’ve been called.
Sacred Text for Reflection on Joseph of Arimathea
From John 19
After these things, Joseph of Arimathea, who was a disciple of Jesus, though a secret one because of his fear of the Jews, asked Pilate to let him take away the body of Jesus. Pilate gave him permission; so he came and removed his body. Nicodemus, who had at first come to Jesus by night, also came, bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds. They took the body of Jesus and wrapped it with the spices in linen cloths, according to the burial custom of the Jews. Now there was a garden in the place where he was crucified, and in the garden there was a new tomb in which no one had ever been laid. And so, because it was the Jewish day of Preparation, and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there
After these things, Joseph of Arimathea, who was a disciple of Jesus, though a secret one because of his fear of the Jews, asked Pilate to let him take away the body of Jesus. Pilate gave him permission; so he came and removed his body. Nicodemus, who had at first come to Jesus by night, also came, bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds. They took the body of Jesus and wrapped it with the spices in linen cloths, according to the burial custom of the Jews. Now there was a garden in the place where he was crucified, and in the garden there was a new tomb in which no one had ever been laid. And so, because it was the Jewish day of Preparation, and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there
Joseph of Arimathea
It’s evening, the day before the Sabbath, and Jesus has been murdered by the Roman authorities with perhaps the complicity of the Jewish leader, and Jesus’ body hangs on the cross. Before Jesus was crucified, his friends deserted him in fear, saw the crowd that had come & denied even knowing him. Even the closest of Jesus’ followers were scared.
Enter Joseph of Arimathea, who is mentioned by all four gospels. Mark says that Joseph of Arimathea was a respected member of the council, who was “waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God” and emphasizes that Joseph went boldly to Pilate to ask for the body of Jesus.
The gospel of John, which was the sacred text for today, tells us that Joseph was a secret disciple of Jesus, because he was afraid of the temple authorities, who John--a Jew himself—refers to as “The Jews”. And, John alone mentions Nicodemus, also a member of the ruling council, who had come to Jesus by night, in secret. And they go, boldly, risking their position—perhaps their lives—to ask for the body of Jesus so that it could be buried.
We reflected here together on the story of Esther two weeks ago, and I am surprised at the parallels between the stories. Both Joseph and Esther have a secret identity—Esther as a Jew, Joseph as a Jew following Jesus. All this secrecy—perhaps a necessary part of being faithful in a dangerous world? Or is it just fear of being different, the fear that keeps my faith too often hidden outside this church?
There is a time to keep quiet, to be wise in the disclosure of the truth, to work for the kingdom of God in secret. In that secrecy we can still draw close to God, to gather strength or simply just be held by the God who loves us. There can be danger in speaking out—we still may face losing a job when coming out as gay, or joining a political or religious group. The recent terrorist murder of Dr. Tiller shows that even this country, the threat of violence might face those who step out.
But if there is a time to keep quiet, there is a time to step out, to stand up. Joseph of Arimathea was a disciple in secret, but the time came when had to act boldly. Can we speculate why? Maybe he acted boldly because this was the last chance he might have to really follow Jesus. Maybe he acted boldly because he couldn’t just abide letting Jesus hang there. And maybe he acted boldly because keeping quiet, keeping his secret was bringing him further, not closer to God.
There is a group of people today, one group among many, who are not just waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God, but acting boldly to bring it about. Thousands of Iranians throng the streets, and resist the stolen election, the totalitarian state that lashes out in violence. Let us hold them in our prayers, and pray for their courage.
There is no evidence that Joseph of Arimathea, a respected member of the council, did anything to try to stop the execution of Jesus, and there may have been no way he could have even tried. His bold action was too late to save Jesus from death, but it may have saved Joseph from a spiritual depth. God is on the side of those who proudly live their God-given-truth, who do not hide their faith, who cannot remain silent in the face of oppression, who step out and speak the Word that God has given them.
There is a saying: “the tallest blade of grass is the first to be cut down”. And you can stay low, avoid getting cut down, but also never grow. And there is another saying, by Jesus himself: “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit”.
And so I leave you with this question: is there somewhere in your life that you need to step forward? Do you believe that God will stand by your side?
Amen.
Enter Joseph of Arimathea, who is mentioned by all four gospels. Mark says that Joseph of Arimathea was a respected member of the council, who was “waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God” and emphasizes that Joseph went boldly to Pilate to ask for the body of Jesus.
The gospel of John, which was the sacred text for today, tells us that Joseph was a secret disciple of Jesus, because he was afraid of the temple authorities, who John--a Jew himself—refers to as “The Jews”. And, John alone mentions Nicodemus, also a member of the ruling council, who had come to Jesus by night, in secret. And they go, boldly, risking their position—perhaps their lives—to ask for the body of Jesus so that it could be buried.
We reflected here together on the story of Esther two weeks ago, and I am surprised at the parallels between the stories. Both Joseph and Esther have a secret identity—Esther as a Jew, Joseph as a Jew following Jesus. All this secrecy—perhaps a necessary part of being faithful in a dangerous world? Or is it just fear of being different, the fear that keeps my faith too often hidden outside this church?
There is a time to keep quiet, to be wise in the disclosure of the truth, to work for the kingdom of God in secret. In that secrecy we can still draw close to God, to gather strength or simply just be held by the God who loves us. There can be danger in speaking out—we still may face losing a job when coming out as gay, or joining a political or religious group. The recent terrorist murder of Dr. Tiller shows that even this country, the threat of violence might face those who step out.
But if there is a time to keep quiet, there is a time to step out, to stand up. Joseph of Arimathea was a disciple in secret, but the time came when had to act boldly. Can we speculate why? Maybe he acted boldly because this was the last chance he might have to really follow Jesus. Maybe he acted boldly because he couldn’t just abide letting Jesus hang there. And maybe he acted boldly because keeping quiet, keeping his secret was bringing him further, not closer to God.
There is a group of people today, one group among many, who are not just waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God, but acting boldly to bring it about. Thousands of Iranians throng the streets, and resist the stolen election, the totalitarian state that lashes out in violence. Let us hold them in our prayers, and pray for their courage.
There is no evidence that Joseph of Arimathea, a respected member of the council, did anything to try to stop the execution of Jesus, and there may have been no way he could have even tried. His bold action was too late to save Jesus from death, but it may have saved Joseph from a spiritual depth. God is on the side of those who proudly live their God-given-truth, who do not hide their faith, who cannot remain silent in the face of oppression, who step out and speak the Word that God has given them.
There is a saying: “the tallest blade of grass is the first to be cut down”. And you can stay low, avoid getting cut down, but also never grow. And there is another saying, by Jesus himself: “unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit”.
And so I leave you with this question: is there somewhere in your life that you need to step forward? Do you believe that God will stand by your side?
Amen.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Faith and Doubt, April 22, 2009
Sacred Text: Excerpts from John 20
It’s been a week and a half since Easter, and the urgency, the activity, the fear of Holy Week—in which Jesus was captured and executed—this activity is passed. The surprise of Easter has also passed—the discovery of the empty tomb, the wonderment, the rejoicing… That too is now passed, and we are left wondering what do we do after Easter?
The story of Thomas provides a realistic model of how we might continue in faith in a world full of doubt. It may seem a bit odd to think of Thomas as a model—growing p, calling someone a “doubting Thomas” was a way of dismissing them as overly skeptical. It comes from this story—Thomas wasn’t with the group when Jesus originally appeared, and claims “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands…. I will not believe”.
Maybe Thomas is the realist—I certainly see myself in his character. Thomas knew Jesus was taken, and killed. He had been dead for three days. Peter and some of the disciples saw the empty tomb, but what a tragedy: they didn’t understand, says the gospel of John; someone had taken Jesus body. There’s the story of Mary, but this is only second hand. What is Thomas to believe: Jesus is dead, not alive.
Thomas wasn’t with the other disciples that first evening. The others were gathered, doors locked for fear of their persecutors. Jesus appeared to them then. But Thomas wasn’t there when Jesus came. The story doesn’t tell us why—was it too painful to be gathered together in the memory of their dead teacher? Perhaps Thomas had drawn away to be alone, to think, or to pray. Or perhaps, even, to despair.
Thomas wants proof that such a miraculous event could actually happen. Thomas does not want to succumb to wishful thinking. He rejoins the disciples. And after what must have been a long week, Jesus came among them again and Thomas answers with joy “My Lord and my God!”
We often draw on second-hand stories, stories from the Bible that teach us about God, stories from each other, when we’ve seen God in our own lives. But sometimes, we need more—and we rightly cry out to God “I want to see you in the flesh!” We may not be given an apparition of Jesus saying “Behold”—but I do think that if we look hard enough we can see God in our lives.
I said before that Thomas might provide a realistic model of faith. If he makes the most famous statement of doubt in the Bible, he also makes what I think is one of the most powerful statements of faith. A few chapters earlier in John, Jesus is going to back to Judea because Lazarus has died. “But haven’t they just tried to stone you there?” the disciples ask. But Thomas says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him”.
Thomas rightly recognized that following Jesus was a dangerous enterprise. But he believed in Jesus’ message, he loved his teacher so that he would follow him, even unto death. Again this was no wishful thinking faith—that everything would be fine.
This was true faith, true trust in following God even unto the valley of the shadow of death.
And so may we live in faith like Thomas, in a world in which we are so not sure that everything will work out right, in a world in which we have to keep going, even if we don’t have the benefit of a tangible presence of God. Let us seek God, and walk confidently with God even into the darkness.
It’s been a week and a half since Easter, and the urgency, the activity, the fear of Holy Week—in which Jesus was captured and executed—this activity is passed. The surprise of Easter has also passed—the discovery of the empty tomb, the wonderment, the rejoicing… That too is now passed, and we are left wondering what do we do after Easter?
The story of Thomas provides a realistic model of how we might continue in faith in a world full of doubt. It may seem a bit odd to think of Thomas as a model—growing p, calling someone a “doubting Thomas” was a way of dismissing them as overly skeptical. It comes from this story—Thomas wasn’t with the group when Jesus originally appeared, and claims “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands…. I will not believe”.
Maybe Thomas is the realist—I certainly see myself in his character. Thomas knew Jesus was taken, and killed. He had been dead for three days. Peter and some of the disciples saw the empty tomb, but what a tragedy: they didn’t understand, says the gospel of John; someone had taken Jesus body. There’s the story of Mary, but this is only second hand. What is Thomas to believe: Jesus is dead, not alive.
Thomas wasn’t with the other disciples that first evening. The others were gathered, doors locked for fear of their persecutors. Jesus appeared to them then. But Thomas wasn’t there when Jesus came. The story doesn’t tell us why—was it too painful to be gathered together in the memory of their dead teacher? Perhaps Thomas had drawn away to be alone, to think, or to pray. Or perhaps, even, to despair.
Thomas wants proof that such a miraculous event could actually happen. Thomas does not want to succumb to wishful thinking. He rejoins the disciples. And after what must have been a long week, Jesus came among them again and Thomas answers with joy “My Lord and my God!”
We often draw on second-hand stories, stories from the Bible that teach us about God, stories from each other, when we’ve seen God in our own lives. But sometimes, we need more—and we rightly cry out to God “I want to see you in the flesh!” We may not be given an apparition of Jesus saying “Behold”—but I do think that if we look hard enough we can see God in our lives.
I said before that Thomas might provide a realistic model of faith. If he makes the most famous statement of doubt in the Bible, he also makes what I think is one of the most powerful statements of faith. A few chapters earlier in John, Jesus is going to back to Judea because Lazarus has died. “But haven’t they just tried to stone you there?” the disciples ask. But Thomas says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him”.
Thomas rightly recognized that following Jesus was a dangerous enterprise. But he believed in Jesus’ message, he loved his teacher so that he would follow him, even unto death. Again this was no wishful thinking faith—that everything would be fine.
This was true faith, true trust in following God even unto the valley of the shadow of death.
And so may we live in faith like Thomas, in a world in which we are so not sure that everything will work out right, in a world in which we have to keep going, even if we don’t have the benefit of a tangible presence of God. Let us seek God, and walk confidently with God even into the darkness.
Wholeness
“ ‘You need only claim the events of your life to make yourself yours. When you truly possess all you have been and done … you are fierce with reality.’ … I now know myself to a person of weakness and strength, liability and giftedness, darkness and light. I now know that to be whole means to reject none of it but to embrace all of it.”
[Parker Palmer, Let Your Life Speak, pg. 70]
In psalm we prayed together, we asked God to “purge us with hyssop that we would be clean” We said, “wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow”. The psalmist longs for wholeness—longs for joy and gladness, for their crushed bones to rejoice. But there is darkness lurking, parts of psalmist that are dirty, that need to be purged. Wholeness in this vision involves removing some of the offensive parts.
The sacred text we read for today seemed to take a diametrically opposed perspective: for Parker Palmer, the way to wholeness was to embrace all of himself, the weakness and strength, liabilities and well as gifts—even darkness along with the light. Only by embracing all of these parts, says Palmer, was he able to leave behind his malaise & depression.
How do we reconcile these two perspectives— The natural tendency to want to reject the unclean parts of us, and the equally natural tendency to want to be accepted for who we are, flaws and all?
It’s kind of hard to imagine a biblical psalm with the sentiment of embracing the broken parts within ourselves. So many pleas for rescue are found there, along with plenty of humility. It seems a very modern idea, perhaps part of the self-esteem movement, that we should embrace our flaws without rejection or judgment.
And it might be modern. Or it might the model of Jesus himself, embracing the sinner, the unclean, the traitor-collaborator. If Jesus, if God does not condemn us for our faults, but loves us all the same, unconditionally; if God doesn’t reject the darkness, liability and weakness in us but loves us, loves us not despite these flaws, then perhaps it is a sacred wholeness to embrace all of oneself.
For myself, I’ve worked to embrace the fact that I can be a little… grumpy, a little self-centered, lacking in ways I wish I weren’t. It’s hard because I’d like to deny that I am that way at all. But when I recognize my weakness and strength, then I can love even these flaws, just as I would in a friend or spouse.
Embracing this wholeness isn’t license to give up the vision of leading a God-filled life. Rather, embracing all of our flaws lets us acknowledge the raw material we have to work with. And when we can embrace these unclean parts, paradoxically, we can then better bring our lives to God, and say “create in my a clean heart”: I am who I am, give me the wisdom to begin anew, forget my past mistakes, says the Psalmist.
The good news is that God loves the whole you, and though you may see yourself like the dirty snow on the side of the road, crusty and gray—God sees you purer than the most pristine snowfall, and want your weary, broken bones to rejoice.
Amen.
Moses: Here I am Lord, Please send someone else.
Following a reading of excerpts from Exodus 2-4.
"Here I am, Lord. Please, send someone else."
Moses says both these things, and because he does, he is perhaps a very approachable model for understanding our vocation, the work we are called to do with our lives—not our careers, but our lives.
Moses was born to a Hebrew mother, but because Pharoah was engaging in genocide against the Hebrews, his mother set Moses out in a basket in the river. He was found by Pharoah’s daughter who then hired his mother to nurse him. His mother must have been a formative influence: while Moses was raised as an Egyptian, he never forgot his Hebrew roots.
When I read the story, I see a Moses who is angry at the oppression of his people. He sees an Egyptian beating a Hebrew—and maybe his anger overcame his self-interest of keeping your head down (and depending on your perspective, his anger may have overcome his better judgment). He saw this beating and he killed this Egyptian, and is then forced to flee.
Moses doesn’t put up with much—well, he puts up with a lot later on as a leader, but he’s consistently standing up for the oppressed. He’s fled now to another land, sitting a well. He sees some women trying to water their flocks get chased away by some other shepherds; he defends the women, and then marries one. That worked out pretty well for him.
And so, Moses is tending his father-in-law’s flocks when the passage we just read began. He sees a burning bush, hears God calling him, hides his face in fear. This may be Moses’ first encounter with God—we don’t know much about his religious life beforehand. Moses sees something amazing, he must be rejoicing inside that God is finally going to act on behalf of his oppressed people. Until Moses gets the news: God’s going to send Moses to Pharaoh. “Who am I to go to Pharaoh”—seems like a legitimate question. “What if they don’t believe me”, ok.
But as God outlines the plan, Moses ain’t buying it. At the end, he’s reduced to “God, I’m not that well spoken.” When that doesn’t work, I think he’s finally honest: O my Lord, please send someone else.
Many of us are in a similar situation. Perhaps there’s no burning bush, but there’s a tug on our hearts—God is calling us to do something. I feel it sometimes: I’m too weak, too busy, too tired, not good enough. And these are legitimate worries, but they’re hiding something else. I just really don’t want to do it.
God knows our limitation—there’ll be help we can draw on, just as God gave moses signs and aid in the form of his brother Aaron. But, “send someone else”—there is no one else. We’re it. We the church are God’s hands. You and I have each been given our own calling: there’s no one who can do your life’s work.
We will fail along the way, miss the mark, just like Moses did—things may seem to go very badly, we’ll have self-doubt, others will question our work. For someone who didn’t want the job, couldn’t speak very well, got so frustrated he smashed the ten commandments, Moses did pretty well with his life. And so we too we may do pretty well in life, if we stay in touch with God, with that burning bush moment, to sustain us on the journey that is our life.
Amen.
"Here I am, Lord. Please, send someone else."
Moses says both these things, and because he does, he is perhaps a very approachable model for understanding our vocation, the work we are called to do with our lives—not our careers, but our lives.
Moses was born to a Hebrew mother, but because Pharoah was engaging in genocide against the Hebrews, his mother set Moses out in a basket in the river. He was found by Pharoah’s daughter who then hired his mother to nurse him. His mother must have been a formative influence: while Moses was raised as an Egyptian, he never forgot his Hebrew roots.
When I read the story, I see a Moses who is angry at the oppression of his people. He sees an Egyptian beating a Hebrew—and maybe his anger overcame his self-interest of keeping your head down (and depending on your perspective, his anger may have overcome his better judgment). He saw this beating and he killed this Egyptian, and is then forced to flee.
Moses doesn’t put up with much—well, he puts up with a lot later on as a leader, but he’s consistently standing up for the oppressed. He’s fled now to another land, sitting a well. He sees some women trying to water their flocks get chased away by some other shepherds; he defends the women, and then marries one. That worked out pretty well for him.
And so, Moses is tending his father-in-law’s flocks when the passage we just read began. He sees a burning bush, hears God calling him, hides his face in fear. This may be Moses’ first encounter with God—we don’t know much about his religious life beforehand. Moses sees something amazing, he must be rejoicing inside that God is finally going to act on behalf of his oppressed people. Until Moses gets the news: God’s going to send Moses to Pharaoh. “Who am I to go to Pharaoh”—seems like a legitimate question. “What if they don’t believe me”, ok.
But as God outlines the plan, Moses ain’t buying it. At the end, he’s reduced to “God, I’m not that well spoken.” When that doesn’t work, I think he’s finally honest: O my Lord, please send someone else.
Many of us are in a similar situation. Perhaps there’s no burning bush, but there’s a tug on our hearts—God is calling us to do something. I feel it sometimes: I’m too weak, too busy, too tired, not good enough. And these are legitimate worries, but they’re hiding something else. I just really don’t want to do it.
God knows our limitation—there’ll be help we can draw on, just as God gave moses signs and aid in the form of his brother Aaron. But, “send someone else”—there is no one else. We’re it. We the church are God’s hands. You and I have each been given our own calling: there’s no one who can do your life’s work.
We will fail along the way, miss the mark, just like Moses did—things may seem to go very badly, we’ll have self-doubt, others will question our work. For someone who didn’t want the job, couldn’t speak very well, got so frustrated he smashed the ten commandments, Moses did pretty well with his life. And so we too we may do pretty well in life, if we stay in touch with God, with that burning bush moment, to sustain us on the journey that is our life.
Amen.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Sacred Text for "Reverence"
Genesis 28:10-19a, NRSV,alt.
Jacob left Beer-sheba and went towards Haran. He came to a certain place and stayed there for the night, because the sun had set.
Taking one of the stones of the place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. And he dreamed that there was a ladder— set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.
And the Lord stood beside him and said, ‘I am the Lord, the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac; the land on which you lie I will give to you and to your offspring; and your offspring shall be like the dust of the earth, and you shall spread abroad to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south; and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and in your offspring. Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.’
Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, ‘Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it!’
And he was afraid, and said, ‘How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.’ So Jacob rose early in the morning, and he took the stone that he had put under his head and set it up for a pillar and poured oil on the top of it. He called that place Bethel, that is “House of God”
Jacob left Beer-sheba and went towards Haran. He came to a certain place and stayed there for the night, because the sun had set.
Taking one of the stones of the place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. And he dreamed that there was a ladder— set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.
And the Lord stood beside him and said, ‘I am the Lord, the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac; the land on which you lie I will give to you and to your offspring; and your offspring shall be like the dust of the earth, and you shall spread abroad to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south; and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and in your offspring. Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.’
Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, ‘Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it!’
And he was afraid, and said, ‘How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.’ So Jacob rose early in the morning, and he took the stone that he had put under his head and set it up for a pillar and poured oil on the top of it. He called that place Bethel, that is “House of God”
Reverence
Our service’s theme today is “reverence”. It might strike you as a bit of an odd choice, or at least a bit stuffy: irreverence is celebrated in our culture. An irreverent look at something—maybe Jon Stewart on the Daily Show— seems to imply an honesty, a light skepticism, an inability to suffer fools or the pompous gladly. All good things.
I don’t want to have to compete with Jon Stewart. But I don’t think I need to. The sacred text today tells what may be the familiar story of Jacob’s ladder. I want to use this story to say something about the importance of reverence, and how reverence is integral to our relationship with God.
In the story, Jacob is traveling, he’s left his father, he’s about to settle in a new place. It’s getting dark, it’s time to stop, and he lies down on a stone. The stone is a hint right away, as many cultures use stones to mark sacred places. Jacob dreams—and we know how God can dwell in dreams.
In his dream, Jacob sees a ladder, alternatively translated as a stairway, a stairway to heaven. He hears God speak to him, and God makes a promise to him.
So Jacob has an experience of the sacred, a closeness with God. He’s in thin place, a place where the dividing line between the holy and the ordinary is very thin. When we wakes up, he exclaims “Surely the Lord is in this place- and I did not know it! How awesome is this place!” He calls the place Bethel, translated: the House of God.
This is a moment of reverence. Reverence is an ability to feel awe, reverence is being attuned to the sacred, where the sacred actually is.
Surely the Lord is in this place, and that won’t change if we stopped paying attention. But if we don’t have reverence for this place, we might not notice it.
What are the thin places in your life? Is the church a place where you can experience awe, experience the sacred, experience God? Can you feel reverent in nature, in the woods or at the top of a mountain? Or in the pounding beats of music or dance?
It takes work to be open to awe, and ceremonies and rituals are ways to enhance our capacity for reverence. In the story we read today, Jacob marks the place with a stone for a pillar, and pours oil on it to honor it. A little later in the narrative of Genesis, Jacob returns to this spot to build an altar. He doesn’t need to do it—God was in that place even without the altar. But the altar, the pillar—they help mark the place as special, set apart.
And so it is with our worship service here. The things we do are not necessary to worship God—we can worship throughout our life, just as we can pray without any words or ritual at all. But this ceremony—the time for silence, the breaking of the bread, the reflection on a text: this worship service helps us make space for God, to make space for feelings of worship or awe.
There is a danger to ceremony and markers of reverence, that they become empty: A worship service where everyone’s not “really there” . Or worse yet, the danger is that we try to generate reverence when it is inappropriate: an abuse of reverence—calling it unpatriotic to criticize the government. But reverence is not obedience, or lack of dissent, or even skepticism.
Reverence is an openness to and acknowledgement of the Spirit, the presence of God.
May we all find ways to feel that presence, in worship and in our lives.
Amen.
I don’t want to have to compete with Jon Stewart. But I don’t think I need to. The sacred text today tells what may be the familiar story of Jacob’s ladder. I want to use this story to say something about the importance of reverence, and how reverence is integral to our relationship with God.
In the story, Jacob is traveling, he’s left his father, he’s about to settle in a new place. It’s getting dark, it’s time to stop, and he lies down on a stone. The stone is a hint right away, as many cultures use stones to mark sacred places. Jacob dreams—and we know how God can dwell in dreams.
In his dream, Jacob sees a ladder, alternatively translated as a stairway, a stairway to heaven. He hears God speak to him, and God makes a promise to him.
So Jacob has an experience of the sacred, a closeness with God. He’s in thin place, a place where the dividing line between the holy and the ordinary is very thin. When we wakes up, he exclaims “Surely the Lord is in this place- and I did not know it! How awesome is this place!” He calls the place Bethel, translated: the House of God.
This is a moment of reverence. Reverence is an ability to feel awe, reverence is being attuned to the sacred, where the sacred actually is.
Surely the Lord is in this place, and that won’t change if we stopped paying attention. But if we don’t have reverence for this place, we might not notice it.
What are the thin places in your life? Is the church a place where you can experience awe, experience the sacred, experience God? Can you feel reverent in nature, in the woods or at the top of a mountain? Or in the pounding beats of music or dance?
It takes work to be open to awe, and ceremonies and rituals are ways to enhance our capacity for reverence. In the story we read today, Jacob marks the place with a stone for a pillar, and pours oil on it to honor it. A little later in the narrative of Genesis, Jacob returns to this spot to build an altar. He doesn’t need to do it—God was in that place even without the altar. But the altar, the pillar—they help mark the place as special, set apart.
And so it is with our worship service here. The things we do are not necessary to worship God—we can worship throughout our life, just as we can pray without any words or ritual at all. But this ceremony—the time for silence, the breaking of the bread, the reflection on a text: this worship service helps us make space for God, to make space for feelings of worship or awe.
There is a danger to ceremony and markers of reverence, that they become empty: A worship service where everyone’s not “really there” . Or worse yet, the danger is that we try to generate reverence when it is inappropriate: an abuse of reverence—calling it unpatriotic to criticize the government. But reverence is not obedience, or lack of dissent, or even skepticism.
Reverence is an openness to and acknowledgement of the Spirit, the presence of God.
May we all find ways to feel that presence, in worship and in our lives.
Amen.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Reflection: Dreams
January 21, 2009
The theme this week is dreams, and it’s a particularly appropriate theme for this moment in history. On Monday, we honored the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, and the effect that his dream and determination had on our nation. The diverse crowds gathered on the Mall Monday & Tuesday demonstrated, in Obama’s words, the reality of the “dream of a King”, the dream that was Dr. King’s dream, the dream of the King of Kings, Jesus: the dream that we would be divided no more.
Often when we’re hopeful, we talk about dreams and the power they have to change the world, for surely we have seen that! And often when we are cynical or despairing, we warn of fairytale flights of fancy—the foolish dreams that have no chance of fruition, but need to be reigned in.
We use the term “dreams” metaphorically, to describe hopes, aspirations, visions for the future. We know deep in our souls that God can breathe into our dreams, that God can show us a future that is-not-yet.
The ancients too thought that God spoke to us in dreams, and the book of Genesis tells the story of that dreamer and dream-interpreter, Joseph (of the many colored coat) who saw a warning of famine in the dreams of the Pharaoh—danger, but also a way out
Today I want to talk about the danger of dreams.
When God inspires our dreams & dwells in them, we can receive the courage to go a different path. This past week, I traveled through the South & spent an afternoon in the Civil Rights museum in Memphis, Tennessee. In the stories of the marchers, freedom riders, the organizers, and the preachers, the compelling power of a God-given dream came through.
But ever present was the danger that came along with these dreams of dignity & justice. Dreaming of – and working for!—a different world can scare what the theologian Walter Wink & the Apostle Paul call “The Powers that Be”. Because dreams are by definition not-yet reality, those who like the world the way it is are threatened by God-given dreams.
I saw this too. The Memphis Civil Rights museum was attached to the Lorraine Motel, where the powers that be struck out and tried to snuff out the dream of God’s justice—the Lorraine Motel where Dr. King was murdered by an assassin’s bullet.
Big dreams can bring big violence. But even the smaller, more daily dreams incite smaller, more daily resistance. Some of use dream of raising a family, yet struggle to afford it in a world not set up for work and parenting. Some of us dream of good health and a restoration to community, but are left in pain or exhausted from just leaving the house. Or dream of a good job, but struggle to find work we can believe in, or any work at all. Some of us dream that gender won’t limit what we can do or who we can love, but face prejudice from friends, employers and even fear violence.
What dreams do you struggle to live? What dangers have you faced?
But, if there is a danger in following a dream, there is danger in ignoring a dream given by God. In the sacred text for today, “Harlem”, Langston Hughes writes of “a dream deferred.” When dreams are blocked, deferred—they rot, they drag down, the pressure builds.
It is not only external powers that bring the danger of deferred dreams, but we ourselves. If a dream is burning inside us and we do not follow it, that dream can poison our souls. The examples are trite, but oh so true: someone stuck in the wrong career, ignoring God’s vocation; someone stuck in the closet, ignoring his true self.
Although God-inspired dreams point the way to a bright future, they are perilous. They bring danger if we live them and danger in equal measure if we do not.
And so, while the way of your dreams may be dark, rough & rocky, remember that but despite even murder, Martin Luther King’s dream lived on. Despite even murder, Jesus’ dream lived on and brought us together, here, today.
Amen.
Sacred Text for "Centering Down" Reflection
How good it is to center down!
To sit quietly and see one's self pass by!
The streets of our minds seethe with endless traffic;
Our spirits resound with clashings, with noisy silences,
While something deep within hungers and thirsts for the still moment and the resting lull.
With full intensity we seek, ere the quiet passes, a fresh sense of order in our living;
A direction, a strong pure purpose that will structure our confusion
and bring meaning in our chaos.
We look at ourselves in this waiting moment - the kinds of people we are.
The questions persist: what are we doing with our lives? -
What are the motives that order our day?
What is the end in our doings? Where are we trying to go?
Where do we put the emphasis and where are our values focused?
For what end do we make sacrifices? Where is my treasure and what do I love most in life?
What do I hate most in life and to what am I true?
Over and over the questions beat in the waiting moment.
As we listen, floating up through all the jangling echoes of our turbulence, there is a sound of another kind –
A deeper note which only the stillness of the heart makes clear.
It moves directly to the core of our being. Our questions are answered,
Our spirits refreshed, and we move back into the traffic of our daily round
With the peace of the Eternal in our step.
How good it is to center down!
From Meditations of the Heart by Howard Thurman.
To sit quietly and see one's self pass by!
The streets of our minds seethe with endless traffic;
Our spirits resound with clashings, with noisy silences,
While something deep within hungers and thirsts for the still moment and the resting lull.
With full intensity we seek, ere the quiet passes, a fresh sense of order in our living;
A direction, a strong pure purpose that will structure our confusion
and bring meaning in our chaos.
We look at ourselves in this waiting moment - the kinds of people we are.
The questions persist: what are we doing with our lives? -
What are the motives that order our day?
What is the end in our doings? Where are we trying to go?
Where do we put the emphasis and where are our values focused?
For what end do we make sacrifices? Where is my treasure and what do I love most in life?
What do I hate most in life and to what am I true?
Over and over the questions beat in the waiting moment.
As we listen, floating up through all the jangling echoes of our turbulence, there is a sound of another kind –
A deeper note which only the stillness of the heart makes clear.
It moves directly to the core of our being. Our questions are answered,
Our spirits refreshed, and we move back into the traffic of our daily round
With the peace of the Eternal in our step.
How good it is to center down!
From Meditations of the Heart by Howard Thurman.
Centering Down: Epiphany and the New Year
We celebrated epiphany at church this past Sunday—the recognition of the birth of Jesus by the Magi, the travelers from foreign lands who brought gifts of gold, frankincense & myrrh. Epiphany is an important holy day for the church—not just because we have a picturesque image of Three Kings all dressed up bearing gifts. The story’s told in the Gospel of Matthew, a gospel written about a very Jewish Jesus to a very Jewish audience—the recognition of Jesus’ birth by non-Jews, the Magi, is meant to highlight the universal nature of Jesus’ message.
Yet epiphany might be eclipsed in our lives by New Year’s, marked by much bigger parties at the least, a holiday shared with others throughout the culture. New Year’s is a time of transition—and for many, New Year’s resolutions and an examination of what we want to be doing differently with our lives.
The sacred text for today, “How good it is to center down”, fits well with both the reflection of New Year’s & the recognition of God in epiphany.
“Centering down” is what we do here, each week as we gather for 15 minutes of silent prayer & meditation at the beginning of rest & bread. It can be hard to sit down, expecting peace, yet have the questions beat in upon this sacred time. “What am I doing with my life, where am I trying to go.”
I am bit jealous, though: Howard Thurman ends the poem “Our questions are answered,Our spirits refreshed…” And I know I am still waiting for answers to my questions, but when I find it, I receive the peace for my spirit with gladness!
The Magi bring gifts, gifts of treasure. And the poem asks, “Where is my treasure and what do I love most in life?” Our treasure is what we value, what we strive for—our family, our money, our work, our church? New Year’s resolutions—going to the gym to take care of the body— these resolutions are an acknowledgement that in the small decisions of each day, we can lose track of the big treasures that matter most.
And so we center down. Each week, we listen for that deep note in the stillness of our hearts, for the whisper of God. We listen for God to remind us of treasures we forget were even possible. We listen for God to name the treasures that we already possess, the treasures we can offer to others, even to Jesus. Through a long Advent, we awaited the coming of Christ. We waited for God to speak. Now, we move back into the traffic of ordinary life, perhaps refreshed, hopefully with a just bit of the Eternal in our step.
Amen.
Yet epiphany might be eclipsed in our lives by New Year’s, marked by much bigger parties at the least, a holiday shared with others throughout the culture. New Year’s is a time of transition—and for many, New Year’s resolutions and an examination of what we want to be doing differently with our lives.
The sacred text for today, “How good it is to center down”, fits well with both the reflection of New Year’s & the recognition of God in epiphany.
“Centering down” is what we do here, each week as we gather for 15 minutes of silent prayer & meditation at the beginning of rest & bread. It can be hard to sit down, expecting peace, yet have the questions beat in upon this sacred time. “What am I doing with my life, where am I trying to go.”
I am bit jealous, though: Howard Thurman ends the poem “Our questions are answered,Our spirits refreshed…” And I know I am still waiting for answers to my questions, but when I find it, I receive the peace for my spirit with gladness!
The Magi bring gifts, gifts of treasure. And the poem asks, “Where is my treasure and what do I love most in life?” Our treasure is what we value, what we strive for—our family, our money, our work, our church? New Year’s resolutions—going to the gym to take care of the body— these resolutions are an acknowledgement that in the small decisions of each day, we can lose track of the big treasures that matter most.
And so we center down. Each week, we listen for that deep note in the stillness of our hearts, for the whisper of God. We listen for God to remind us of treasures we forget were even possible. We listen for God to name the treasures that we already possess, the treasures we can offer to others, even to Jesus. Through a long Advent, we awaited the coming of Christ. We waited for God to speak. Now, we move back into the traffic of ordinary life, perhaps refreshed, hopefully with a just bit of the Eternal in our step.
Amen.
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