Reflection on Matthew 19:16-30

Tonight, I want to reflect a bit on how we read the sacred testimony in our scripture. Where we stand shapes how we see things. Because we're so diverse, we each read scripture with different eyes. But in order to understand Jesus, we also need to put on the eyes of the people Jesus was speaking to: the common people, the poor, the outcasts, the marginalized.

I have a bad habit, and many churches in America have this same habit, of reading scripture from the only the perspective of the powerful. Our church is pretty good—maybe you don't have this problem— but I've been various communities where discussions have assumed that "we" are all on the powerful side—the story of the rich young man is a judgment on "us"; how do we respond, goes the discussion, given that we are relatively wealthy or powerful.

Putting on multiple sets of eyes is a both necessary and a hard thing to do. It is true, that living in a place where there might be violence, but not war; hunger but not starvation, makes us all relatively privileged. We need to remember that, because there's a whole world out that that says "we need more". But it is also true that many of us, in important spheres of our lives, don't have privilege: some of us have been without homes, been discriminated against at work, had the government not recognize a marriage, been chronically ill with difficulty getting health care, been afraid to come out to parents, been victims of domestic violence, been a target of racism or harassment. This is not "them", this is us, this is the church, this is who Jesus was speaking to.

So let's take the exercise of reading this story from a different perspective. From the rich and powerful, it's a story of judgment: You read the story, and you hear it's easier for a camel to go through an eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God--this is horrible news.

But put on another set of eyes: you live in a world that tells you the rich have it made, that they deserve to be rich, and that because they are rich, they can do all sorts of good deeds that make them have favor with God. But then in this story, you hear that a rich young guy wants to know what he really needs to do to find favor with God—and it turns out that this guy can't do it, he's too sad. But you, you're following Jesus already, and you are doing what this guy and all his wealth can't do: picking up, following Jesus, a piece of the kingdom of God being revealed on earth.

If you didn't get it the first time, the disciples are there to ask the "dumb" question: "Look, we've left everything to follow you: what do we get?". Jesus says, "what you've left behind, you'll get back a hundredfold." This is a story of good news. Astonishing news, but good news.

I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that this story wasn't primarily designed to tell people with money what to do with it, thought it certainly is suggestive. Rather, I think this story is telling us that the kingdom of God is so important, that it brings such reward, that we should push aside anything that gets in our way, and if there's less in our way, we should be thankful.

My invitation to you is that to consciously recognize the places in which you stand, to read scripture with multiple sets of eyes, and hardest of all, to try to read it with the eyes of the people Jesus was speaking to.

A Retelling of Matthew 15:21-28

I am going to tell you a story, in which great faith was able to change a heart, and overcome the walls that divide us, one from another.

Jesus was teaching in Galilee to the people, and he was arguing with the Teachers of the Law who came to him from Jerusalem. People from all over the region came to him, bringing the sick and begging for healing, even to grab his cloak. And so, after some time of this, Jesus left Galilee and traveled to the area of Tyre and Sidon, a foreign area, a Gentile area.

Jesus wanted to remain unrecognized—perhaps to spend some time alone with his followers, so much to say to them; perhaps to have some time to himself, to think and to pray. So Tyre and Sidon would be natural places to lay low, away from the conflict and troubles in Galilee. The people there wouldn’t know much about his work, the crowds, or disputes he had.

Yet there was a woman from Tyre, a Canaanite, a Gentile—she might have been rich, and she might have been poor, we don’t know. This woman’s daughter was ill, seemed tormented by a demon. Somehow, this woman recognized something about Jesus—maybe she’d seen him before, maybe she’d heard Jesus talking with his disciples about what had happened in Galilee. And so, for her daughter’s sake, she took the chance— she a Gentile and he a Jew— and she shouted at Jesus: “Have mercy on me, Son of David! My daughter is horribly tormented by a demon!”

But Jesus ignored her, didn’t answer her at all. But she persisted, again and again: “Have mercy; take pity on me; heal my daughter!” And finally, the disciples said to Jesus: “You’ve got to send her away. She’s shouting at us, she’s drawing a crowd.”

So finally, Jesus turned to the woman and said: “My mission is only to the lost sheep of the House of Israel. Go from me.”

The woman threw herself at his feet and pleaded: “Help me, Rabbi. Heal my daughter.”

And Jesus answered her: “It’s not right. It’s not right to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

“True, Rabbi,” she replied. “But even the dogs get to eat the scraps that fall from the table.”

There was a pause. By now a few people had gathered, and looked to Jesus for an answer.

And Jesus said: “Yes, woman, you are right. You have great faith, and your wish will be fulfilled.”

And at that very moment, the Canaanite woman’s daughter was healed.

Something changed after Jesus’ encounter with this woman. He healed again in the area, and eventually great crowds came, largely Gentile crowds. And as he had done, back in the land of Galilee, he fed these thousands, with bread in the desert, not scraps from a table, but abundant loaves and fishes.

Reflections on the Christmas Stories

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.

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.

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.

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.