Picture yourself in Tucson. The city is set on a desert plateau about 2100 feet above sea level and ringed on three sides with mountains rising to over 9,000 feet. Unlike the Sahara of our imaginations – endless miles of rolling white sands – the desert here contains a wide variety of plant and animal life. Saguaro cacti and other succulents rise high above the desert floor, Palo Verde and Mesquite trees provide a little shade, and hummingbirds twitter everywhere. The light in Tucson, like most of the desert southwest, is astonishingly clear and bright, and there are twice as many sunny days as cloudy ones. What you might not notice until you begin to get dehydrated is that the air in Tucson is very dry, indeed dangerously dry. Every work truck carries the familiar orange barrel-shaped water coolers. Open up almost anyone’s fridge, and you’ll find plastic jugs filled with water that are constantly being emptied out. Out on the back patio there will inevitably be a gallon jug of tea baking in the sun. And when you sit down to lunch, or perhaps just to visit, you’ll usually drink at least three glasses of the chilled iced tea or some other drink. You can survive in Tucson without central heating, you can even survive without central air conditioning – the first evaporative coolers weren’t common in Tucson until the late 1940s. But you cannot survive in Tucson without water. It is an absolute necessity of life.
Now picture yourself in Samaria, near a well on the outskirts of Sychar. The climate here too is desert-like and very dry. And here too it is impossible to survive without water. At noon a lone woman, presumably shunned, ridiculed, and marginalized by the other village women, trudges up to the well. It’s already hot, and she desperately needs water for herself and her male companion. To her surprise she’s met by a tired, dusty, Jewish man, who, against all the social norms, all the rules, asks for a drink. “What,” she says, “You’re kidding, right?” Then, most astonishing of all, he tells her that if she knew with whom she was conversing she would have asked for “living water.” Knowing her sacred geography and history, she presses the stranger about this water. And again he astonishes her by telling her that all those who drink the water he provides “will never be thirsty,” and, indeed, that this water will become “a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.”
What on earth is this “living water?” To begin with the expression translated “living water” can also mean “fresh, running water,” as opposed to water in a cistern. Just as in last week’s Gospel reading, where we encountered one word that meant both “wind” and spirit,” here too the evangelist uses words that catch us up short and make us think a little harder. But what kind of water is it that Jesus is offering? Actually, we don’t have to look much farther than the Hebrew Bible to get some clues. In today’s lesson from Exodus, the water gushing out from the stony rock became a symbol for God’s continuing care for God’s people – despite their tendency to whine, complain, and drive Moses nuts! Speaking for God, Jeremiah, accuses the people of choosing cracked cisterns instead of the “fountain of living water,” i.e., God himself (2:13). Similarly speaking in God’s voice, Isaiah promises the exiles that when they return to Israel they will “draw water from the wells of salvation” (12:3). Farther on Isaiah voices God’s promise to guide the returning exiles “by springs of water” (49:10) and God’s invitation to all who thirst to “come to the waters” (55:1). Telling us of the beauties of the restored Temple, Ezekiel offers a lush description of the life-giving river flowing from the Temple. Ultimately, water symbolizes the source of life and Spirit for all creatures. As heir to this rich Scriptural tradition, Jesus reminds the woman – and the readers of this Gospel account – that our relationship with him is truly life-giving, and that through our relationship with him, we have access, deep within ourselves, to the life-giving action of the Spirit.
There’s more. Jesus’ “living water” is transformative. It is not meant for private consumption. Rather, Jesus’ living water transforms us into people who are more nearly like him. Look at how Jesus related to the Samaritan woman. Across every social barrier – gender, religious practice, morality, ethnicity – Jesus reached out to her. He accepted her, instructed her, encouraged her, and loved her. He gave dignity to her, even though she was no doubt abused by those around her, because she had seriously transgressed the rules of proper living. Touched by Jesus’ loving acceptance, the woman mediated Jesus’ love to others. Running off and leaving her water jug, she ran to the neighbors who had shunned her and invited them into Jesus’ presence. Empowered by Jesus, she became the first evangelist!
Can we experience the transformative power of Jesus’ living water? In The Bean Trees, a hauntingly beautiful novel set largely in the southwest, Barbara Kingsolver relates the story of Taylor Greer, a native Kentuckian who winds up in Tucson with a Cherokee child. One day, just at the beginning of the summer rains, two of the assorted friends she makes, Mattie and Esperanza, take Taylor out into the desert. Mattie mentions that for the ancient Native Americans, today is New Year’s Day. “What,” exclaims Taylor, “July the twelfth?” Mattie explained that “they celebrated it on whatever day the summer’s rain first fell. Everything started over then,” she said. They planted crops, the kids ran around naked, and “they all drank cactus-fruit wine until they fell over from happiness. Even the animals and plants came alive again when the drought finally broke.”1
So do we have to go to the desert southwest to experience the power of living water? Aren’t we also thirsty? Like the Samaritan woman at the well, aren’t we also thirsty for love and acceptance? Aren’t we thirsty for real, authentic life? Don’t we, as John Lawrence suggested, often go after water that doesn’t really satisfy us? “There are,” he says, “the more obvious wells” of alcoholism and drug addiction, the “forever running sluice of poverty and hunger.” Perhaps we drown ourselves in our work – paid or unpaid – only to neglect our health, our families, our neighbors, and our God.2 Jesus promised the Samaritan woman that “those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty.” That promise is for us as well – for all of us, me, you, the clergy, the bishops, the alcoholics downstairs. Irenaeus, the second-century Bishop of Lyons reminded us that “The Church is the fountain of the living water that flows to us from the heart of Christ. Where the Church is, there is the Spirit of God, and where the Spirit of God is, there is the Church and all grace.”
So the question remains. How do we experience this living water? There are many ways, of course, but here is one. We experience this living water in the same way that the Samaritan woman experienced it: by putting ourselves in Jesus’ presence. In a few minutes, I will invite you to “lift up your hearts.” You will respond, “We lift them to the Lord.” When we acknowledge our desire to be in Jesus’ presence, we open ourselves to that flow of living water into our own hearts. And, wonderfully, we can open that channel wherever we are, whenever we want. While waiting your turn at the checkout line, enjoying dinner out with friends, walking the dog, greeting people at Loaves and Fishes, or checking out the latest Facebook posting, you can pray, “I lift my heart to the Lord, I put myself in Jesus’ presence.” And when you are centered in the Lord, his water will flow through you. When his water flows through us into a parched and thirsty world, we can ourselves follow our Master, and respond in love to those whom Jesus loved, to those who are marginalized, who are poor, sick, needy, or addicted. We can even make sure that all people have access to the safe, clean water that is necessary for physical life. Dare we let Jesus’ living water touch those who are not a part of this community? Those in the apartments next door, for example, or those who meet downstairs in our fellowship hall, those who come to the mobile food pantry, or those who are hidden away in assisted living facilities? With whom do we need to share the power of Jesus’ love and acceptance of all?
I want to close with an invitation to practice the presence of God given to us by Edwina Gately. This is week 27 of 52 ways to practice God’s presence.3 Gately begins with a quotation from Thomas Erskine. “What a full and pregnant thing life is when God is known; and what a weary emptiness it is without God! The river of God is full of water, and God will moisten and fill these parched hearts of ours, our of the river of his own life.” Gately then prays.
The rain is falling
like millions of silver jewels
shining against
the black of the night
to be absorbed
by the thirsty soil.
May your grace, O God,
fall upon
our dried humanity
unceasing.
May we absorb
Your moistness
That our dried up hearts
may rise and swell to bursting.
Finally, Gately offers us an invitation: “As you water your plants or flowers, imagine God’s grace watering your soul.” May we, like our plants, drink deeply of that living water.
1. As quoted in Sundays and Seasons (Minneapolis, MN: Augsburg Fortress, 2007), p. 115.
2. Quoted in Synthesis for March 27, 2011(Boyds, MD: Brunson Publishing Co.).
3. A Mystical Heart (New York: Crossroad,1998), pp. 66-67.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Walking with the Spirit
It seemed to come out of nowhere. In the dirt yard of his Aunt Seneva’s house, John Lewis was happily playing with his fourteen cousins.1 Suddenly they saw the sky grow dark, they felt the wind come at them, and they glimpsed distant flashes of lightening. As Aunt Seneva rushed the fifteen terrified children into her little house, the wind began to howl, and the house started to shake. Then the wood plank flooring of the house began to bend, and a corner of the room began to rise. As the children wondered whether they and the house would fly away, Aunt Seneva had them all join hands and walk toward the rising corner of the floor. As the storm howled and beat the outside of the house around them, the children walked back and forth, changing direction with the changing direction of the wind and holding the house down through the sheer weight of their bodies. After that experience, “walking with the wind” became a metaphor for Lewis, a way of talking about his life that reminded him of Jesus’ invitation to Nicodemus. From his childhood home in Troy, Alabama, Lewis walked with the wind to Fisk University and the American Baptist Theological Seminary in Nashville. That same wind pushed him onto freedom rides and civil rights marches, and into leadership of the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee and other community organizations. In 1987, again pushed by the Spirit, Lewis joined the U.S. House of Representatives, representing Georgia’s fifth Congressional district, a position he has held ever since.
Like John Lewis faithful people are restless people. Faithful people are always ready, faithful people continually hear God’s call to leave the safe, the familiar, the cozy, and the known, to head out into the unknown, trusting in the leading of the Spirit. Today we’ve heard one of the most challenging sentences in the entire Hebrew Bible: “Abraham went, as the Lord had told him….” Here Abraham was comfortably settled in Haran, with his wife, his in-laws, his servants, his tents, and his flocks. Although he was childless, God made him a most astonishing promise: “I will make of you a great nation.” But with that promise there was also a command: “Go from your country and your kindred … to the land that I will show you.” Did Abraham want to hear that command? We don’t know. Scripture only tells us that the father of the members of at least three faith communities didn’t argue, or hesitate. He packed up his family, his servants, and his tents, put his animals on the road, and headed out towards Canaan. Thank heavens, brother Lot was willing to go along! Paul too was ready to accept God’s call. Knowing full well what his own change of direction on the road to Damascus had cost him, he strongly identified with Abraham’s willingness to trust God’s call and do the unthinkable.
Nicodemus’s story is a little different. John’s Gospel was written at the end of the first century. By this time the lines had hardened between the Jewish religious leaders and those who professed allegiance to Jesus, and the easy co-existence of the two communities had begun to dissolve. We don’t know much about Nicodemus, other than that he was a leader of the group that read and followed the Mosaic law very strictly. Yet clearly he and others had seen the “signs” that Jesus was doing, the signs that clearly demonstrated his identity as the Word made Flesh. Nicodemus had come by night, perhaps in some fear and trepidation, perhaps to confirm what he had seen and heard. Jesus doesn’t affirm or dispute Nicodemus’s opening statement. He doesn’t ask Nicodemus who he represents. Instead, he offers Nicodemus an invitation: “Come, be born anew, experience that inner transformation that will lead you more deeply into God’s life than you have ever been.” Birth. Think about it for minute. It’s a messy, difficult process, that’s painful for all concerned. Good Pharisee that he is, and used to parsing every aleph and bet of the law, Nicodemus, of course, takes Jesus’ invitation literally and thinks he has to be reborn physically. Was Jesus being deliberately opaque when he answered Nicodemus by talking about the wind? Both in Hebrew and in Greek, the language in which the Gospel is written, the word for “wind” and “spirit” is the same. Like the wind that blew through John Lewis’s life, like the Spirit that delivered God’s call to Abraham, perhaps Jesus was inviting cautious, confused Nicodemus into something completely new and different. After he voices his confusion, we don’t know how Nicodemus responded – he drops out of the conversation after Jesus’ mention of the wind. We do know that he reappears twice more in John’s Gospel: in chapter 7 when he comes to Jesus’ defense, and at the time of Jesus’ burial. In each case, his motivation is unclear. Did he eventually walk with the wind into a Christian community? We don’t know.
We do know this. The Spirit/wind continues to blow, Jesus continues to invite us into renewed life, and during Lent especially, we are invited to engage in self-examination, and inner transformation. We are invited to listen more attentively to the Holy Gust, both personally and corporately. Martin Buber once said that the young of any age are those who have not yet unlearned what it means to begin. The voice teacher in Jonathan Levy’s “Master Class” gently tells her students, “Let us begin again.” Abraham, Sarah, Paul, and, hopefully Nicodemus show us that faith to “begin again” is essential to a deeper relationship with God. Where are you stuck? What do you need to let go of in order to begin again? Perhaps the place to which Jesus invites us is a place of wondering, even confusion. Yes, change is difficult, but, if you were born again, would you grow up differently? If you had the chance, would you let the Spirit blow you into a different place? Is Jesus inviting you to see your life from a different perspective? Would your life be different if you believed with absolutely certainty that God loved you so deeply that God was willing to demonstrate that love on the Cross?
What would it mean on the parish level to be reborn, to be blown by the Spirit to a different place? Is St. Peter’s a warm, comfortable place, a womb from which God is straining with all God’s might to push us out? Or, to put the question differently, supposing we were to re-found this parish? Would it look as it did in 1841? Would it look as it did in 1964? Would it look and feel as it does now? Would we build a building like this one? Would we have a building at all? How might this parish be different if we were truly to accept Jesus’ invitation to grow up differently, to accept God’s deep love for all people, including those on the other side of the red doors?
Do you find the prospect of change daunting? When we take the long view, we know that the church has been changing, growing, and evolving since its very beginning. The church’s understanding of the way to carry forward Jesus’ mission changed between the writing of Paul’s first letters in the late ‘40s and the writing of John’s Gospel in the ‘90s. The contents of the New Testament and the statements of the various creeds were not fully determined for three more centuries. The early church slowly evolved into the church that blossomed in the Middle Ages. Out of the medieval church came the church of the Reformation, which in turn gave way to the church of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Today we are in another time of profound change in the church, as our denominations struggle to reborn into yet a different world and to create new and different communities in which to experience God’s transformative powers. As we move into the second decade of the twenty-first century, we continue to change, we continue to grow into what we hope will be renewed faith and closer relationships with Christians of other denominations and members of other faith communities. And we continue to ponder what these new and evolving Christian communities might look like.
And here is the good news. God continues to birth us. God continues to invite us to walk with the wind, to let ourselves be blown away by the Spirit. Especially during this season of Lent God invites us to be attentive to the movements of the Spirit, the gales and the puffs. God continues to push, pull, call, and lead us. God continues to challenge us to leave our comfort zones, to change and grow, even when we aren’t sure why we have been called or where exactly we are headed. God does not ask of us certainty. God only asks of us trust.
Christ, your summons echoes true
when you but call my name.
Let me turn and follow you
and never be the same.
In your company I’ll go
where your love and footsteps show,
Thus I’ll move and live and grow in you and you in me.
1. The story is told by Patricia Templeton in Synthesis for March 20, 2011 (Boyds, MD: Brunson Publishing Co.).
Like John Lewis faithful people are restless people. Faithful people are always ready, faithful people continually hear God’s call to leave the safe, the familiar, the cozy, and the known, to head out into the unknown, trusting in the leading of the Spirit. Today we’ve heard one of the most challenging sentences in the entire Hebrew Bible: “Abraham went, as the Lord had told him….” Here Abraham was comfortably settled in Haran, with his wife, his in-laws, his servants, his tents, and his flocks. Although he was childless, God made him a most astonishing promise: “I will make of you a great nation.” But with that promise there was also a command: “Go from your country and your kindred … to the land that I will show you.” Did Abraham want to hear that command? We don’t know. Scripture only tells us that the father of the members of at least three faith communities didn’t argue, or hesitate. He packed up his family, his servants, and his tents, put his animals on the road, and headed out towards Canaan. Thank heavens, brother Lot was willing to go along! Paul too was ready to accept God’s call. Knowing full well what his own change of direction on the road to Damascus had cost him, he strongly identified with Abraham’s willingness to trust God’s call and do the unthinkable.
Nicodemus’s story is a little different. John’s Gospel was written at the end of the first century. By this time the lines had hardened between the Jewish religious leaders and those who professed allegiance to Jesus, and the easy co-existence of the two communities had begun to dissolve. We don’t know much about Nicodemus, other than that he was a leader of the group that read and followed the Mosaic law very strictly. Yet clearly he and others had seen the “signs” that Jesus was doing, the signs that clearly demonstrated his identity as the Word made Flesh. Nicodemus had come by night, perhaps in some fear and trepidation, perhaps to confirm what he had seen and heard. Jesus doesn’t affirm or dispute Nicodemus’s opening statement. He doesn’t ask Nicodemus who he represents. Instead, he offers Nicodemus an invitation: “Come, be born anew, experience that inner transformation that will lead you more deeply into God’s life than you have ever been.” Birth. Think about it for minute. It’s a messy, difficult process, that’s painful for all concerned. Good Pharisee that he is, and used to parsing every aleph and bet of the law, Nicodemus, of course, takes Jesus’ invitation literally and thinks he has to be reborn physically. Was Jesus being deliberately opaque when he answered Nicodemus by talking about the wind? Both in Hebrew and in Greek, the language in which the Gospel is written, the word for “wind” and “spirit” is the same. Like the wind that blew through John Lewis’s life, like the Spirit that delivered God’s call to Abraham, perhaps Jesus was inviting cautious, confused Nicodemus into something completely new and different. After he voices his confusion, we don’t know how Nicodemus responded – he drops out of the conversation after Jesus’ mention of the wind. We do know that he reappears twice more in John’s Gospel: in chapter 7 when he comes to Jesus’ defense, and at the time of Jesus’ burial. In each case, his motivation is unclear. Did he eventually walk with the wind into a Christian community? We don’t know.
We do know this. The Spirit/wind continues to blow, Jesus continues to invite us into renewed life, and during Lent especially, we are invited to engage in self-examination, and inner transformation. We are invited to listen more attentively to the Holy Gust, both personally and corporately. Martin Buber once said that the young of any age are those who have not yet unlearned what it means to begin. The voice teacher in Jonathan Levy’s “Master Class” gently tells her students, “Let us begin again.” Abraham, Sarah, Paul, and, hopefully Nicodemus show us that faith to “begin again” is essential to a deeper relationship with God. Where are you stuck? What do you need to let go of in order to begin again? Perhaps the place to which Jesus invites us is a place of wondering, even confusion. Yes, change is difficult, but, if you were born again, would you grow up differently? If you had the chance, would you let the Spirit blow you into a different place? Is Jesus inviting you to see your life from a different perspective? Would your life be different if you believed with absolutely certainty that God loved you so deeply that God was willing to demonstrate that love on the Cross?
What would it mean on the parish level to be reborn, to be blown by the Spirit to a different place? Is St. Peter’s a warm, comfortable place, a womb from which God is straining with all God’s might to push us out? Or, to put the question differently, supposing we were to re-found this parish? Would it look as it did in 1841? Would it look as it did in 1964? Would it look and feel as it does now? Would we build a building like this one? Would we have a building at all? How might this parish be different if we were truly to accept Jesus’ invitation to grow up differently, to accept God’s deep love for all people, including those on the other side of the red doors?
Do you find the prospect of change daunting? When we take the long view, we know that the church has been changing, growing, and evolving since its very beginning. The church’s understanding of the way to carry forward Jesus’ mission changed between the writing of Paul’s first letters in the late ‘40s and the writing of John’s Gospel in the ‘90s. The contents of the New Testament and the statements of the various creeds were not fully determined for three more centuries. The early church slowly evolved into the church that blossomed in the Middle Ages. Out of the medieval church came the church of the Reformation, which in turn gave way to the church of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Today we are in another time of profound change in the church, as our denominations struggle to reborn into yet a different world and to create new and different communities in which to experience God’s transformative powers. As we move into the second decade of the twenty-first century, we continue to change, we continue to grow into what we hope will be renewed faith and closer relationships with Christians of other denominations and members of other faith communities. And we continue to ponder what these new and evolving Christian communities might look like.
And here is the good news. God continues to birth us. God continues to invite us to walk with the wind, to let ourselves be blown away by the Spirit. Especially during this season of Lent God invites us to be attentive to the movements of the Spirit, the gales and the puffs. God continues to push, pull, call, and lead us. God continues to challenge us to leave our comfort zones, to change and grow, even when we aren’t sure why we have been called or where exactly we are headed. God does not ask of us certainty. God only asks of us trust.
Christ, your summons echoes true
when you but call my name.
Let me turn and follow you
and never be the same.
In your company I’ll go
where your love and footsteps show,
Thus I’ll move and live and grow in you and you in me.
1. The story is told by Patricia Templeton in Synthesis for March 20, 2011 (Boyds, MD: Brunson Publishing Co.).
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Since You Are the Son of God
In the interest of full disclosure, I am beginning this sermon with a disclaimer: today’s Gospel is not about us. Here we are at the beginning of Lent. While Jesus has ended his fast and his struggle with the powers of evil, we have just begun our forty-day struggle. We have just begun the examination of our lives to which we are called during Lent. Because we are at the beginning of this period of introspection and honesty with self, we might be tempted to read this text as a lesson in how to face our own temptations. “Facing our demons,” as one commentator put it. We are certainly tempted, all the time, and we pray, all the time, for God to keep us as far from temptation as possible. But this text is not primarily about us and our struggles.
This text is about Jesus. This text is specifically about what kind of messiah Jesus is. This is a central question for Matthew and the community for which he was writing. It is a question that runs throughout the entire Gospel of Matthew’s and to which Matthew’s account gives several different answer. Who is this Jesus? How do we understand what he taught, how he lived, how he died, and what happened after his death? Who is he, and what does that mean for our community and ourselves?
Our lections skip around some in the Gospel of Matthew . Last week our lection was from chapter 17, and on Ash Wednesday we heard from chapter 6. However it is important to remember that the story of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness immediately follows the story of Jesus’ baptism. All three synoptic Gospels record this event, and all three place it immediately after Jesus’ baptism. You remember that in the stories of Jesus’ birth we learned that he was to be the savior of his people, and that, in him, something new and wonderful was coming into the world. In Jesus’ baptism, we heard God declare explicitly that Jesus was God’s beloved son. Although each of the evangelists interprets that declaration slightly differently, all of them, and most especially Matthew, want to tell us what that declaration actually means. Matthew’s question is what scholars call the “Christological” question, i.e., what kind of messiah is Jesus? Before providing any description of Jesus’ ministry, before showing us anything of Jesus’ works or his teachings, before letting us see the heart of the Gospel, Matthew makes sure that we understand who Jesus really is. And in the first century, as for us, that was not an idle question. Remember that Israel was under the heel of the Roman boot, and that the fledgling Christian community was at odds with both the political and religious leadership. There were all kinds of people looking for a messiah, and all kinds of expectations as to what the messiah would do, and so Matthew was at pains here to make sure that we understand clearly who Jesus is, what kind of messiah he isn’t, and, indirectly, what kind he is.
Matthew begins by assuring us that everything that happened to Jesus was at God’s direction: he was “led by the Spirit.” Matthew personifies all those forces opposed to Jesus, all the systemic evil that pervades the world, as “Satan,” an old mythological figure of the ancient Near East. Matthew begins his account with Satan’s declaration, “Since you are the Son of God….” This is the first time that this title is used in Matthew’s Gospel, and it would have shocked his readers: this title was used by the emperor Augustus, who called himself the “son of God.” At the outset, therefore, Matthew clearly states that Jesus is someone whose power is equal to or greater than that of Augustus – whatever we might think from the rest of the story. More to the point, the three temptations that Jesus faces here suggest three ways of exercising power, three ways that Jesus explicitly rejects, three ways in which Jesus will not be the savior that either the forces of evil – or we – would like. First, Jesus will not be someone who sets aside the laws of nature to fulfill everyone’s material needs. No prosperity Gospel here! Following Jesus will not get you into the millionaire’s club. Rather, Jesus and we must respect the laws of nature and depend on God to fulfill our material needs. During his ministry, Jesus himself will surely feed and heal people, but he does so to demonstrate God’s care for all of us. Second, Jesus will not be a showman. He will not test God by doing something so foolish and daring that everyone must be so astonished that they will be drawn to him. He will not draw followers solely because he can do things no one else can do. He will not be a superman. And third, and most important for Matthew’s readers, Jesus will not exercise political power. He will not displace the Romans – indeed by the time of the writing of Matthew’s Gospel the hated Romans had destroyed the temple. Jesus may be a descendant of King David, but he will not establish God’s kingdom in political terms.
Ironically, all the ways of being a messiah that Jesus rejects have good in them. Certainly, we should provide for our own and others’ material needs. We need to feed the hungry and clothe the naked – Matthew is quite explicit about that. Certainly, we should want to draw people into our Christian communities by acts that clearly demonstrate God’s power and love. And certainly we should want to establish political justice. What Jew or Christian wouldn’t have wanted to get rid of the hated Romans? And isn’t a superhuman messiah who could do all these things exactly what they needed?
No, Matthews tells his readers and us. Our messiah was not Superman. Our messiah may be the Son of God, but he rejected all super powers, he “emptied himself taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness,” as Paul said in his letter to the Christian community at Philippi. Our messiah gave up any divine powers he might have had, identified with us in our powerlessness, and declared his allegiance solely to God his Father. Our messiah stated in no uncertain terms that his commitment was wholly to God, that he depended solely on God for all his needs. Identifying with us in our own human weakness, our messiah was able to forgo the “bread, circuses, and political powers” of his day, and went to the Cross as the ultimate victim of those earthly powers. Our messiah is one who stands in solidarity with us, in complete opposition to earthly powers and promises that a new and different reign has begun to take root in this world.
Is this the messiah to whom we have given our allegiance? Have we committed ourselves to being more like this messiah? In a sense that is the primary question that we face during Lent. Is the messiah that we see in Matthew’s account the one that we are following? The question is not whether we are Christians. In our baptisms we have been made members of the Body of Christ. The question is what kind of Christians are we going to be? Matthew’s Gospel is not suggesting that we give up caring for the material needs of those around us, that we give up witnessing to others of God’s love and care for us, or that we cease to strive for justice in the political realm. If – or, better – since we are followers of a messiah who gave himself wholly to God and went to the Cross depending solely on God, and if we have promised to follow, then we too must be wholeheartedly committed to God and .dependent on God.
Perhaps we might take a lesson from the folks who meet downstairs. Actually, we could learn a lot from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. In chapter four, “We Agnostics,” we hear these words [Big Book, pp. 44-45]. For members of AA, this power is “the God of their understanding.” Total commitment to this higher power, total dependence on this higher power is what has helped members of AA, NA, and other “anonymous” organizations free themselves from alcohol, drugs, other addictions, and, ultimately, dependence solely on their own feeble powers. Florence Nightingale was once asked how she had accomplished so much, despite many years of poor health. She answered, “I have no other explanation. As far as I am able or aware, I have kept nothing back from God.”
On Ash Wednesday I suggested that when we take on the traditional Lenten disciplines of prayer, fasting, and alms-giving, we ask ourselves why we are taking on these disciplines, what reward we expect to receive from God. Lent is also a time for deeper self-examination, and especially for focus on the messiah in whose footsteps we are following. Like him, have we forsaken material power, grand gestures, and lust after political power? Have we admitted our dependence on God? Do we rely solely on God? Are we ready to follow Jesus wherever he leads us? Are we ready to follow him all the way to the Cross?
This text is about Jesus. This text is specifically about what kind of messiah Jesus is. This is a central question for Matthew and the community for which he was writing. It is a question that runs throughout the entire Gospel of Matthew’s and to which Matthew’s account gives several different answer. Who is this Jesus? How do we understand what he taught, how he lived, how he died, and what happened after his death? Who is he, and what does that mean for our community and ourselves?
Our lections skip around some in the Gospel of Matthew . Last week our lection was from chapter 17, and on Ash Wednesday we heard from chapter 6. However it is important to remember that the story of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness immediately follows the story of Jesus’ baptism. All three synoptic Gospels record this event, and all three place it immediately after Jesus’ baptism. You remember that in the stories of Jesus’ birth we learned that he was to be the savior of his people, and that, in him, something new and wonderful was coming into the world. In Jesus’ baptism, we heard God declare explicitly that Jesus was God’s beloved son. Although each of the evangelists interprets that declaration slightly differently, all of them, and most especially Matthew, want to tell us what that declaration actually means. Matthew’s question is what scholars call the “Christological” question, i.e., what kind of messiah is Jesus? Before providing any description of Jesus’ ministry, before showing us anything of Jesus’ works or his teachings, before letting us see the heart of the Gospel, Matthew makes sure that we understand who Jesus really is. And in the first century, as for us, that was not an idle question. Remember that Israel was under the heel of the Roman boot, and that the fledgling Christian community was at odds with both the political and religious leadership. There were all kinds of people looking for a messiah, and all kinds of expectations as to what the messiah would do, and so Matthew was at pains here to make sure that we understand clearly who Jesus is, what kind of messiah he isn’t, and, indirectly, what kind he is.
Matthew begins by assuring us that everything that happened to Jesus was at God’s direction: he was “led by the Spirit.” Matthew personifies all those forces opposed to Jesus, all the systemic evil that pervades the world, as “Satan,” an old mythological figure of the ancient Near East. Matthew begins his account with Satan’s declaration, “Since you are the Son of God….” This is the first time that this title is used in Matthew’s Gospel, and it would have shocked his readers: this title was used by the emperor Augustus, who called himself the “son of God.” At the outset, therefore, Matthew clearly states that Jesus is someone whose power is equal to or greater than that of Augustus – whatever we might think from the rest of the story. More to the point, the three temptations that Jesus faces here suggest three ways of exercising power, three ways that Jesus explicitly rejects, three ways in which Jesus will not be the savior that either the forces of evil – or we – would like. First, Jesus will not be someone who sets aside the laws of nature to fulfill everyone’s material needs. No prosperity Gospel here! Following Jesus will not get you into the millionaire’s club. Rather, Jesus and we must respect the laws of nature and depend on God to fulfill our material needs. During his ministry, Jesus himself will surely feed and heal people, but he does so to demonstrate God’s care for all of us. Second, Jesus will not be a showman. He will not test God by doing something so foolish and daring that everyone must be so astonished that they will be drawn to him. He will not draw followers solely because he can do things no one else can do. He will not be a superman. And third, and most important for Matthew’s readers, Jesus will not exercise political power. He will not displace the Romans – indeed by the time of the writing of Matthew’s Gospel the hated Romans had destroyed the temple. Jesus may be a descendant of King David, but he will not establish God’s kingdom in political terms.
Ironically, all the ways of being a messiah that Jesus rejects have good in them. Certainly, we should provide for our own and others’ material needs. We need to feed the hungry and clothe the naked – Matthew is quite explicit about that. Certainly, we should want to draw people into our Christian communities by acts that clearly demonstrate God’s power and love. And certainly we should want to establish political justice. What Jew or Christian wouldn’t have wanted to get rid of the hated Romans? And isn’t a superhuman messiah who could do all these things exactly what they needed?
No, Matthews tells his readers and us. Our messiah was not Superman. Our messiah may be the Son of God, but he rejected all super powers, he “emptied himself taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness,” as Paul said in his letter to the Christian community at Philippi. Our messiah gave up any divine powers he might have had, identified with us in our powerlessness, and declared his allegiance solely to God his Father. Our messiah stated in no uncertain terms that his commitment was wholly to God, that he depended solely on God for all his needs. Identifying with us in our own human weakness, our messiah was able to forgo the “bread, circuses, and political powers” of his day, and went to the Cross as the ultimate victim of those earthly powers. Our messiah is one who stands in solidarity with us, in complete opposition to earthly powers and promises that a new and different reign has begun to take root in this world.
Is this the messiah to whom we have given our allegiance? Have we committed ourselves to being more like this messiah? In a sense that is the primary question that we face during Lent. Is the messiah that we see in Matthew’s account the one that we are following? The question is not whether we are Christians. In our baptisms we have been made members of the Body of Christ. The question is what kind of Christians are we going to be? Matthew’s Gospel is not suggesting that we give up caring for the material needs of those around us, that we give up witnessing to others of God’s love and care for us, or that we cease to strive for justice in the political realm. If – or, better – since we are followers of a messiah who gave himself wholly to God and went to the Cross depending solely on God, and if we have promised to follow, then we too must be wholeheartedly committed to God and .dependent on God.
Perhaps we might take a lesson from the folks who meet downstairs. Actually, we could learn a lot from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. In chapter four, “We Agnostics,” we hear these words [Big Book, pp. 44-45]. For members of AA, this power is “the God of their understanding.” Total commitment to this higher power, total dependence on this higher power is what has helped members of AA, NA, and other “anonymous” organizations free themselves from alcohol, drugs, other addictions, and, ultimately, dependence solely on their own feeble powers. Florence Nightingale was once asked how she had accomplished so much, despite many years of poor health. She answered, “I have no other explanation. As far as I am able or aware, I have kept nothing back from God.”
On Ash Wednesday I suggested that when we take on the traditional Lenten disciplines of prayer, fasting, and alms-giving, we ask ourselves why we are taking on these disciplines, what reward we expect to receive from God. Lent is also a time for deeper self-examination, and especially for focus on the messiah in whose footsteps we are following. Like him, have we forsaken material power, grand gestures, and lust after political power? Have we admitted our dependence on God? Do we rely solely on God? Are we ready to follow Jesus wherever he leads us? Are we ready to follow him all the way to the Cross?
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Your Father Will Reward You
Some years ago, a writer identified the ten reasons why Ash Wednesday is better than Christmas. What, you don’t believe me? Listen. [Read Tens Reasons.] Do you think I’m being blasphemous? Here we are at the beginning of a holy and solemn season. The service began in silence. We’ve changed all the hangings from green to purple. We’re beginning that slow and certain journey deeper into the great mystery of our Lord’s resurrection. “So, Mother Leslie,” you might ask, “Why are you cracking a joke?”
Well, to begin with, you may be the only ones who care. Those who don’t believe couldn’t care less about what we’re doing this evening. They’re just going about their life as usual, whatever they normally do on Wednesday evening. Those who are only concerned about themselves just continue chasing whatever will give them the next high. But we religious people, we face a great temptation on this evening, and most days in this church: we are tempted to substitute religious performance for relationship with God. This is an especially great temptation for Episcopalians, since we value liturgy so much, and, of course for priests in particular, since we have to lead it and always want to get everything just right. We are tempted, all of us, to think that when we have executed the required ceremonies, preferably with elegance and grace, that we have done what God wants us to do.
Is elaborate ceremony what God wants of us? “No, no, no,” shout the prophets. Don’t we hear that “no” clearly in our reading from Isaiah this evening? We hear in no uncertain terms that mere fasting, if it is not accompanied by a change in the way we treat others, is worthless. “Such fasting as you do today will not make your voice heard on high,” God thunders. More to the point, the true fast, the fast that God really wants is not ceremonial, but, in Isaiah’s words, is “to loose the bonds of injustice” and “to share your bread with the hungry.” No, my friends, fasting or any other well-executed religious performance is not what God wants of us.
We hear the same message from Jesus in tonight’s Gospel reading. Actually, I don’t feel so bad about having begun with a joke, because our Lord also has used humor, or more accurately, exaggeration to get his point across. With great humor he offers an elaborate parody of the key religious practices of his day, alms-giving, prayer, and fasting. Jesus was originally speaking to his disciples. In his recounting of this speech for his community Matthew has couched it in terms that they can understand. But we can easily imagine Jesus saying something similar to us. “Look,” he might say, “that person over there is making a great show of putting a hundred-dollar bill in the collection plate, while the people next to hin want all their neighbors to know that not only do they tithe, they give twenty percent of their income to the church. Meanwhile, the folks over there are praying so hard, I can hardly hear myself preach. They may mean well, but really! And the folks up here must surely have been fasting all day. They’re certainly making sure that everyone knows how miserable they are.”
Yes, Jesus has parodied religious performance in this speech, but he does so in order to teach us a deeper lesson. Before we consider that deeper lesson, let’s consider what Jesus is not saying here. Alms-giving, prayer, and fasting were and still are key elements of Jewish religious practice, as they of our practice. In fact, alms-giving, prayer, and fasting are practiced in just about every religious tradition. Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, and many others regularly give to the poor, pray, and fast. Jesus is not saying that we are not to do these things. Indeed, the church specifically recommends that we pay extra attention to these areas of religious discipline during Lent. Nor is Jesus saying that these disciplines should be pursued only in private. Jesus was as well aware as anyone of the importance of corporate worship, observance of communal fasts, and efforts to alleviate poverty and injustice.
The question that Jesus poses to his disciples, his first-century followers, and us is “Why are you doing these things?” What is our motivation? What do we hope to get out of taking on these practices? What reward are we expecting? Are we looking for the approval of others? I suppose that could have been motivation in the first century, but surely not for us. We know that most people on the other side of the red doors couldn’t care less about our prayer, fasting, or alms-giving. Although one writer does suggest that we ought to be more public rather than less public about what we do, so that others may know that there are still some people of faith around. Well, then, are we motivated to engage in spiritual disciplines out of a desire for the satisfaction of thinking that we did what’s expected, fulfilled all our obligations? Perhaps so, although, again, in the twenty-first century there surely is little social pressure on anyone to do anything remotely spiritual. Whatever the source of that motivation, it’s probably internal.
No, says Jesus, our motivation for doing anything in the way of prayer, fasting, and alms-giving should be to obtain God’s reward. Ah, here is the question I’ve been wrestling with. What is the reward of my “Father who sees in secret?” There’s a future-oriented answer to this question, which is that the Father’s reward is acceptance into the kingdom of heaven and the grant of eternal life. But is my reward for faithfulness only pie in the sky when I die? I don’t think so. As I’ve been wrestling with this question, I’ve come to realize that there’s a much deeper reward for engaging in our three-fold practices. And not only in Lent, but at least in Lent, our tithe of the year so to speak. As they were and are for Jews, ourselves, and everyone else, our traditional Lenten observances, as well as other spiritual disciplines, are signs and aids to inner growth and transformation. And so our reward for keeping them, in a word, is deeper friendship with God, deeper participation in the community of love that is at the heart of God. Through prayer we gain a deeper sense of God’s great love for us. Through fasting, we gain a deeper sense of how dependent we are on God for all that we have in this life, and through alms-giving we gain a deeper sense of the needs of God’s other children, our sisters and brothers in the world. As we reach out to others, and especially to the “neighbors we have from you,” as we have been singing this Epiphany tide, we are strengthened in our ability to fulfill the promises we made to God at our baptisms and which we reaffirm with every baptism we witness. Through prayer, fasting, and alms-giving ultimately we are rewarded with more complete growth into Christ, more complete transformation into the people we were truly created to be.
Lent is a solemn and penitential season. During these forty days we are asked to consider our sins and shortcomings, all the ways in which we have missed God’s mark. But Lent is not a sad season. Lent is a gift from God. It is a time when we may begin drawing closer to God. Most especially it is a time when we may, through prayer, fasting, and alms-giving, begin to know the depth of God’s love for us, made known to us in Christ Jesus, and the yearning of God to draw us into that blessed community of love. I wish you a holy and most blessed Lent.
Well, to begin with, you may be the only ones who care. Those who don’t believe couldn’t care less about what we’re doing this evening. They’re just going about their life as usual, whatever they normally do on Wednesday evening. Those who are only concerned about themselves just continue chasing whatever will give them the next high. But we religious people, we face a great temptation on this evening, and most days in this church: we are tempted to substitute religious performance for relationship with God. This is an especially great temptation for Episcopalians, since we value liturgy so much, and, of course for priests in particular, since we have to lead it and always want to get everything just right. We are tempted, all of us, to think that when we have executed the required ceremonies, preferably with elegance and grace, that we have done what God wants us to do.
Is elaborate ceremony what God wants of us? “No, no, no,” shout the prophets. Don’t we hear that “no” clearly in our reading from Isaiah this evening? We hear in no uncertain terms that mere fasting, if it is not accompanied by a change in the way we treat others, is worthless. “Such fasting as you do today will not make your voice heard on high,” God thunders. More to the point, the true fast, the fast that God really wants is not ceremonial, but, in Isaiah’s words, is “to loose the bonds of injustice” and “to share your bread with the hungry.” No, my friends, fasting or any other well-executed religious performance is not what God wants of us.
We hear the same message from Jesus in tonight’s Gospel reading. Actually, I don’t feel so bad about having begun with a joke, because our Lord also has used humor, or more accurately, exaggeration to get his point across. With great humor he offers an elaborate parody of the key religious practices of his day, alms-giving, prayer, and fasting. Jesus was originally speaking to his disciples. In his recounting of this speech for his community Matthew has couched it in terms that they can understand. But we can easily imagine Jesus saying something similar to us. “Look,” he might say, “that person over there is making a great show of putting a hundred-dollar bill in the collection plate, while the people next to hin want all their neighbors to know that not only do they tithe, they give twenty percent of their income to the church. Meanwhile, the folks over there are praying so hard, I can hardly hear myself preach. They may mean well, but really! And the folks up here must surely have been fasting all day. They’re certainly making sure that everyone knows how miserable they are.”
Yes, Jesus has parodied religious performance in this speech, but he does so in order to teach us a deeper lesson. Before we consider that deeper lesson, let’s consider what Jesus is not saying here. Alms-giving, prayer, and fasting were and still are key elements of Jewish religious practice, as they of our practice. In fact, alms-giving, prayer, and fasting are practiced in just about every religious tradition. Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, and many others regularly give to the poor, pray, and fast. Jesus is not saying that we are not to do these things. Indeed, the church specifically recommends that we pay extra attention to these areas of religious discipline during Lent. Nor is Jesus saying that these disciplines should be pursued only in private. Jesus was as well aware as anyone of the importance of corporate worship, observance of communal fasts, and efforts to alleviate poverty and injustice.
The question that Jesus poses to his disciples, his first-century followers, and us is “Why are you doing these things?” What is our motivation? What do we hope to get out of taking on these practices? What reward are we expecting? Are we looking for the approval of others? I suppose that could have been motivation in the first century, but surely not for us. We know that most people on the other side of the red doors couldn’t care less about our prayer, fasting, or alms-giving. Although one writer does suggest that we ought to be more public rather than less public about what we do, so that others may know that there are still some people of faith around. Well, then, are we motivated to engage in spiritual disciplines out of a desire for the satisfaction of thinking that we did what’s expected, fulfilled all our obligations? Perhaps so, although, again, in the twenty-first century there surely is little social pressure on anyone to do anything remotely spiritual. Whatever the source of that motivation, it’s probably internal.
No, says Jesus, our motivation for doing anything in the way of prayer, fasting, and alms-giving should be to obtain God’s reward. Ah, here is the question I’ve been wrestling with. What is the reward of my “Father who sees in secret?” There’s a future-oriented answer to this question, which is that the Father’s reward is acceptance into the kingdom of heaven and the grant of eternal life. But is my reward for faithfulness only pie in the sky when I die? I don’t think so. As I’ve been wrestling with this question, I’ve come to realize that there’s a much deeper reward for engaging in our three-fold practices. And not only in Lent, but at least in Lent, our tithe of the year so to speak. As they were and are for Jews, ourselves, and everyone else, our traditional Lenten observances, as well as other spiritual disciplines, are signs and aids to inner growth and transformation. And so our reward for keeping them, in a word, is deeper friendship with God, deeper participation in the community of love that is at the heart of God. Through prayer we gain a deeper sense of God’s great love for us. Through fasting, we gain a deeper sense of how dependent we are on God for all that we have in this life, and through alms-giving we gain a deeper sense of the needs of God’s other children, our sisters and brothers in the world. As we reach out to others, and especially to the “neighbors we have from you,” as we have been singing this Epiphany tide, we are strengthened in our ability to fulfill the promises we made to God at our baptisms and which we reaffirm with every baptism we witness. Through prayer, fasting, and alms-giving ultimately we are rewarded with more complete growth into Christ, more complete transformation into the people we were truly created to be.
Lent is a solemn and penitential season. During these forty days we are asked to consider our sins and shortcomings, all the ways in which we have missed God’s mark. But Lent is not a sad season. Lent is a gift from God. It is a time when we may begin drawing closer to God. Most especially it is a time when we may, through prayer, fasting, and alms-giving, begin to know the depth of God’s love for us, made known to us in Christ Jesus, and the yearning of God to draw us into that blessed community of love. I wish you a holy and most blessed Lent.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Your Young People Shall See Visions
Have any of you had a vision of God? Have you ever had a deep sense of God’s presence with you? Have you ever felt, more deeply than words can express, that Jesus truly is Emanuel, God with us? Have you ever felt that you could see, if only for a moment, through the veil of your ordinary life, into the world as it truly is? In the poem “Snow Geese,” the poet Mary Oliver shares with us one of those moments of extraordinary insight.
Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was
A flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun
so they were, in part at least, golden. I
held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us
as with a match
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,
but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.
The geese
flew on.
I have never
seen them again.
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won’t.
It doesn’t matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
As through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.1
Well sure, you might say, poets have such visions, especially in natural “thin places.” People in the Bible have had such visions, especially the prophets. St. Paul had a profound sense of Jesus’ reality on the road to Damascus. Saints have had visions. Hildegard of Bingen had wonderful visions of God and Jesus. Francis of Assisi founded his order after Jesus came to him in a vision. Julian of Norwich spent twenty years meditating on the visions she had had during a nearly fatal illness. Even Kent Annan, the founder of Haiti Partners, had a vision of building a house in Port au Prince and helping to make life better for today’s Haitians. But we, we ordinary people, we rational, modern, scientifically educated, dull people, we don’t have visions, we don’t sense God’s presence with us that deeply. No? I wonder. Maybe some of us do.
Certainly Peter, James, and John were as ordinary as we are, just as rational, perhaps not as well educated, but just as dull as we are. And yet, led by Jesus, they had a most extraordinary vision on that mountain, a most extraordinary vision of Jesus as he is, a most extraordinary sense of God’s presence. Since Matthew’s Gospel was written more than forty years after the events that it recounts, it’s hard to know exactly what happened to the disciples that day. We do know that the week before this event, Peter had avowed that he believed Jesus to be God’s anointed, the Messiah. When Jesus then began preparing the disciples for what lay ahead of him in Jerusalem, condemnation, death, and resurrection, Peter refused to believe Jesus’ words. Perhaps to confirm Peter’s confession, perhaps to allay Peter’s and the other disciples’ fears, Jesus led the three of them up a mountain where they had an experience that must have defied words – defied words at least until Jesus was raised from the dead. As the story of that event has come down to us, we hear clear echoes of similar events in the Hebrew Bible: the six days, the three witnesses, the white clothes, the cloud, and the mention of tents or tabernacles are all part of Hebrew Bible stories. What is most important, the presence of Moses and Elijah, remind us that, for his disciples, Jesus was the new lawgiver, the new Moses, and the fulfillment of all the visions of the Hebrew prophets.
More than a deeper understanding of Jesus as the new Moses and fulfillment of the old prophecies, the disciples also glimpsed for a moment Jesus’ divine nature. They had a vision! Impulsive Peter, trying to hold onto this vision, began to babble about building dwellings. Then the disciples had an even deeper sense of God’s presence. They felt as if God had surrounded them, interrupted Peter, repeated what had been said at Jesus’ baptism, and commanded them to listen to Jesus. And what was their reaction to this intense experience of God’s presence? What would your experience be? They fell down in terror! But then something truly extraordinary happened. Jesus had compassion on them and touched them. Putting his hand on their shoulders, he told them to stand up and to not be afraid. Then he graciously led them back down the mountain, to Jerusalem, to witness to his death and resurrection, and to create a new community bonded to him.
I believe that for many of us Jesus does leap off the pages of Scripture as God gives us brief glimpses of Jesus’ true nature. I believe that many of us do have intense experiences of God’s presence with us. We may disbelieve such experiences, just as Ebenezer Scrooge did when Marley’s ghost visited him. Do you remember his reaction to Marley? When the ghost asks, "Why do you doubt your senses?" Scrooge scoffs that "...a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheat. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!" Or we too may be terrified at the prospect of truly encountering God and so stay as far away from God as possible. Martin Luther, the initiator of the Protestant Reformation in Germany, endured profound spiritual anguish in his younger years. The story is told that in the midst of this crisis, he celebrated his first mass as a priest. When he lifted up the bread and wine towards God, now become Christ’s Body and Blood, he was so terrified that he nearly fainted.2 To help him overcome his fear, his mentor removed him from the parish and let him return to study of the Scriptures.
We may disbelieve our senses and discount our visions or our intimations of God’s presence. We may be so terrified of truly encountering God that we too keep as far from God as we can. But we too may also be gifted by God with deeper understanding of who Jesus is, we too may be offered a deeper experience of God’s presence in our lives. And God offers us these gifts for the same reason that God graciously offered them to Peter, James, and John. Visions of Jesus and experiences of God’s presence transform us. When we truly know Jesus as Emanuel, God with us, then we begin to get a deeper sense of how much God loves us. I recently discovered a book called Living Loved by Peter Wallace. It’s a series of meditations on God’s love based on the Gospel of John in Eugene Peterson’s version, The Message. I was going to start working through the meditations as a Lenten discipline, but I decided to start sooner. As meditations like these make God’s deep love for us more and more real, we can hope to be better able to share God’s love with others. And that’s the second reason for God’s gift of visions to us. As we appreciate God’s reality and God’s love for all humanity, we are strengthened for God’s service to others, and we will be better able to appreciate that God’s love extends to all humanity. Most important, our deepened understanding of Jesus as God with us, our deeper sense of God’s nearness and presence in our lives strengthens our trust in God and our hope for the future. The glimpse of Jesus’ true reality that God gives us in the vision of his transfiguration is also a glimpse of what we ourselves might become. This is the core of our hope as Christians: that God in Jesus became what we are, so that we might become what God is.
Any such vision we might have of Jesus, any deeper sense of God’s presence with us, are always gifts of God. Although we can allow ourselves to be open to God in silence and prayer, we cannot compel such deeper experiences of God. God must lead us into them, just as Jesus led the disciples up the mountain. Nor are these experiences ends in themselves. They are always given to us to deepen our faith, uphold us during difficult times, and enable us to draw others into the circle of God’s love. And so we pray for continued vision of Jesus as God with us and continued transformation into Jesus’ likeness. “Lord, change us and we shall be changed, transform us by your love, redeem us by your grace, strengthen us by your presence, that we may move from glory to glory; through Christ our Lord, who with the Holy Spirit reigns with you, O Father, in glory everlasting, Amen.”3
1. Mary Oliver, “Snow Geese,” New and Selected Poems, Vol. 2 (Boston: Beacon Press, 2005), 82-3.
2. Recounted by Diana Butler Bass, A People’s History of Christianity (New York: Harper Collins, 2009), 163-4.
3. David Adam, Clouds and Glory (Harrisburg, PA: Morehouse, 2001), 43.
Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was
A flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun
so they were, in part at least, golden. I
held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us
as with a match
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,
but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.
The geese
flew on.
I have never
seen them again.
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won’t.
It doesn’t matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
As through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.1
Well sure, you might say, poets have such visions, especially in natural “thin places.” People in the Bible have had such visions, especially the prophets. St. Paul had a profound sense of Jesus’ reality on the road to Damascus. Saints have had visions. Hildegard of Bingen had wonderful visions of God and Jesus. Francis of Assisi founded his order after Jesus came to him in a vision. Julian of Norwich spent twenty years meditating on the visions she had had during a nearly fatal illness. Even Kent Annan, the founder of Haiti Partners, had a vision of building a house in Port au Prince and helping to make life better for today’s Haitians. But we, we ordinary people, we rational, modern, scientifically educated, dull people, we don’t have visions, we don’t sense God’s presence with us that deeply. No? I wonder. Maybe some of us do.
Certainly Peter, James, and John were as ordinary as we are, just as rational, perhaps not as well educated, but just as dull as we are. And yet, led by Jesus, they had a most extraordinary vision on that mountain, a most extraordinary vision of Jesus as he is, a most extraordinary sense of God’s presence. Since Matthew’s Gospel was written more than forty years after the events that it recounts, it’s hard to know exactly what happened to the disciples that day. We do know that the week before this event, Peter had avowed that he believed Jesus to be God’s anointed, the Messiah. When Jesus then began preparing the disciples for what lay ahead of him in Jerusalem, condemnation, death, and resurrection, Peter refused to believe Jesus’ words. Perhaps to confirm Peter’s confession, perhaps to allay Peter’s and the other disciples’ fears, Jesus led the three of them up a mountain where they had an experience that must have defied words – defied words at least until Jesus was raised from the dead. As the story of that event has come down to us, we hear clear echoes of similar events in the Hebrew Bible: the six days, the three witnesses, the white clothes, the cloud, and the mention of tents or tabernacles are all part of Hebrew Bible stories. What is most important, the presence of Moses and Elijah, remind us that, for his disciples, Jesus was the new lawgiver, the new Moses, and the fulfillment of all the visions of the Hebrew prophets.
More than a deeper understanding of Jesus as the new Moses and fulfillment of the old prophecies, the disciples also glimpsed for a moment Jesus’ divine nature. They had a vision! Impulsive Peter, trying to hold onto this vision, began to babble about building dwellings. Then the disciples had an even deeper sense of God’s presence. They felt as if God had surrounded them, interrupted Peter, repeated what had been said at Jesus’ baptism, and commanded them to listen to Jesus. And what was their reaction to this intense experience of God’s presence? What would your experience be? They fell down in terror! But then something truly extraordinary happened. Jesus had compassion on them and touched them. Putting his hand on their shoulders, he told them to stand up and to not be afraid. Then he graciously led them back down the mountain, to Jerusalem, to witness to his death and resurrection, and to create a new community bonded to him.
I believe that for many of us Jesus does leap off the pages of Scripture as God gives us brief glimpses of Jesus’ true nature. I believe that many of us do have intense experiences of God’s presence with us. We may disbelieve such experiences, just as Ebenezer Scrooge did when Marley’s ghost visited him. Do you remember his reaction to Marley? When the ghost asks, "Why do you doubt your senses?" Scrooge scoffs that "...a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheat. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!" Or we too may be terrified at the prospect of truly encountering God and so stay as far away from God as possible. Martin Luther, the initiator of the Protestant Reformation in Germany, endured profound spiritual anguish in his younger years. The story is told that in the midst of this crisis, he celebrated his first mass as a priest. When he lifted up the bread and wine towards God, now become Christ’s Body and Blood, he was so terrified that he nearly fainted.2 To help him overcome his fear, his mentor removed him from the parish and let him return to study of the Scriptures.
We may disbelieve our senses and discount our visions or our intimations of God’s presence. We may be so terrified of truly encountering God that we too keep as far from God as we can. But we too may also be gifted by God with deeper understanding of who Jesus is, we too may be offered a deeper experience of God’s presence in our lives. And God offers us these gifts for the same reason that God graciously offered them to Peter, James, and John. Visions of Jesus and experiences of God’s presence transform us. When we truly know Jesus as Emanuel, God with us, then we begin to get a deeper sense of how much God loves us. I recently discovered a book called Living Loved by Peter Wallace. It’s a series of meditations on God’s love based on the Gospel of John in Eugene Peterson’s version, The Message. I was going to start working through the meditations as a Lenten discipline, but I decided to start sooner. As meditations like these make God’s deep love for us more and more real, we can hope to be better able to share God’s love with others. And that’s the second reason for God’s gift of visions to us. As we appreciate God’s reality and God’s love for all humanity, we are strengthened for God’s service to others, and we will be better able to appreciate that God’s love extends to all humanity. Most important, our deepened understanding of Jesus as God with us, our deeper sense of God’s nearness and presence in our lives strengthens our trust in God and our hope for the future. The glimpse of Jesus’ true reality that God gives us in the vision of his transfiguration is also a glimpse of what we ourselves might become. This is the core of our hope as Christians: that God in Jesus became what we are, so that we might become what God is.
Any such vision we might have of Jesus, any deeper sense of God’s presence with us, are always gifts of God. Although we can allow ourselves to be open to God in silence and prayer, we cannot compel such deeper experiences of God. God must lead us into them, just as Jesus led the disciples up the mountain. Nor are these experiences ends in themselves. They are always given to us to deepen our faith, uphold us during difficult times, and enable us to draw others into the circle of God’s love. And so we pray for continued vision of Jesus as God with us and continued transformation into Jesus’ likeness. “Lord, change us and we shall be changed, transform us by your love, redeem us by your grace, strengthen us by your presence, that we may move from glory to glory; through Christ our Lord, who with the Holy Spirit reigns with you, O Father, in glory everlasting, Amen.”3
1. Mary Oliver, “Snow Geese,” New and Selected Poems, Vol. 2 (Boston: Beacon Press, 2005), 82-3.
2. Recounted by Diana Butler Bass, A People’s History of Christianity (New York: Harper Collins, 2009), 163-4.
3. David Adam, Clouds and Glory (Harrisburg, PA: Morehouse, 2001), 43.
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