A friend of mine was a new faculty member in history at a Midwestern university. As she began to get know people, she discovered that a fellow faculty member in art was a nationally known painter. When she finally saw his work at the winter faculty art show, she fell in love with his paintings. His use of color and light was phenomenal! The paintings made her spirit soar. The artist himself was surprisingly friendly and personable. It was easy to see why other faculty members and even students spoke so highly of him. As she talked with him at the show, she discovered that they were about the same age and had grown up in the same county in Iowa. No wonder she liked him! One day, a few weeks after the show, she ran into him on campus. When she said how much she had enjoyed seeing his paintings, he invited her up to his studio to see his latest work. As they walked around the studio, he explaining his various goals in the paintings, and she enjoying seeing his ideas come to life, an electric spark began to jump between them. He became more animated. She connected more deeply with his paintings. Would something more happen between them? There was only one obstacle. They were both married. They both loved their spouses and intended to keep the promises they had made to them. They let the electricity die down, as they backed away from the paintings. She gave him a light pat on the arm, thanked him for showing her his work, turned around, and walked down the stairs.
Perhaps when my friend and the artist gracefully backed away from the attraction they had suddenly felt for each other they remembered the passage from Matthew’s gospel we just heard. We are still in the middle of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount, in chapters five through seven. Scripture scholars surmise that the historical Jesus didn’t sit down on the mountain and spout off all these prescriptions of moral theology in one go. Rather, it is likely that the evangelist carefully collected remembered teachings and sayings of Jesus and wove them together into the sermon.
Why would the evangelist have done this? Unlike the other gospels, Matthew was written to a community of mostly Jewish Christians. They would probably have been observant Jews who differed from their fellow Jews only in their allegiance to Jesus. Most likely too they lived outside Israel, having been forced to leave Jerusalem with other Jews when the Romans destroyed the city in 70 AD.
As the leaders of these dispersed Jewish communities adapted to life outside Israel, they debated how the Law of Moses could be kept in Gentile societies. What was important and must be retained? What could be reinterpreted or changed? What way of life does God expect of the faithful? What was the true intent of the Law beyond its surface commands? The goal was not to abandon the Law but rather to understand its importance in new circumstances. Indeed in our gospel reading last week, Jesus had said, “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.” In showing that Jesus gave his followers a new way to be faithful to God’s commands, the evangelist thus reassured his hearers that they could observe the Law and still follow Jesus. All that was needed was to understand the Law in a way appropriate to their new situation.
The evangelist also had another concern. He was writing to a small group of Jesus’ followers who were beginning to draw away from their fellow Jews. Their way of life also differed significantly from that of the Gentiles among whom they lived. So the evangelist was also concerned to help his hearers strengthen their communities, so that they could truly begin to experience God’s realm in them.
As you hear the evangelist portray Jesus’ reinterpretation of the law, can you also hear that Jesus has shifted the focus from individual personal punctilious observance of the law to care and concern for the people our actions affect? It is not enough, for example, to observe the sixth of the Ten Commandments, “You shall not murder,” by refraining from taking up a knife or gun against someone. Haven’t we all felt “the urge to kill?” Anger is such a basic human emotion, one we need to recognize and acknowledge when we actually feel it. But if we care about the people we live with, if we really want to build up our communities, if we really want to grow in love, we will also realize how destructive anger can be. We will find ways of managing our anger that do not lead to physical violence or verbal abuse. More to the point, we will pursue forgiveness and reconciliation when we have been wronged or have ourselves wronged someone.
What about Jesus’ reinterpretation of the last commandment, “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house, you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife ….”? Do you only disobey the commandment when you actually sleep with someone else’s spouse? No, says, Jesus. If you care about the promises and covenants that married people have made with each other, you might admire a married person, but you will not seriously entertain asking him or her to violate their relationship with their spouse. When my friend and the artist realized that they might do just that, i.e., break their promises to their spouses, they wisely backed away from each other.
In his teaching on divorce, Jesus is referring not to one of the Ten Commandments but to a prescription in Deuteronomy. In the ancient world, there was virtually no place for a divorced woman, other than to return in disgrace to her parents’ house. Here perhaps Jesus is reminding men that, if they care for the women with whom they have made a covenant, they will remain faithful to that covenant and not force their wives to become socially, morally, or economically bereft. Scholars and church people have debated over the centuries the intention behind Jesus’ reinterpretation here of common ancient practice concerning divorce. We now live in a different culture from that of the ancient world. And so we have come to realize that perhaps not all marriages are made in heaven. We may need to sorrowfully acknowledge our human frailty and our inability to keep our promises. We may come to understand that they may be times when dissolving the marriage will be a more compassionate choice than forcing partners to remain together in misery. But the underlying concern, then and now, is compassion for the spouses, children, and families of all those involved in the dissolution of a covenanted relationship.
In the last part of today’s reading, the evangelist addresses Jesus’ prohibition of oaths. Scholars disagree as to whether he was reinterpreting the third commandment, “You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain,” or the ninth, “You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.” The ancient world, in both the Jewish and Greek communities, had a complicated system of oaths. Suffice it to say, that Jesus was advocating maintaining personal integrity and compassion for others by speaking the truth without any external restraints. For us, the issue is not the taking of oaths, since we seldom take formal oaths in our culture. Most of us encounter oaths only in a court of law or if we are elected to public office, although there are those who take Jesus’ words here so strictly, including most Quakers, that they refuse to swear even in those circumstances. However, it’s not hard to see all the ways in which we engage in deceptive speech: distorting or bending the truth, gossip, or making promises we don’t mean to keep, for example. Doesn’t such speech undermine our personal relationships? Think of the political talk shows and advertisements. Many of us believe that the pundits, talk show participants, and advertisement voice-overs, who bandy about outrageous untruths, have all contributed to the current deeply polarized political climate. And how about the lies embedded in marketing? Will the latest gizmo, that the ads urge us to buy, really make us smarter, nicer, better looking, or richer?
At the heart of all of Jesus’ reinterpretations of the Law of Moses is compassion. Indeed, the same is true of much of the reinterpretation of the law undertaken by the rabbis since Jesus’ time. We are faithful to God when we share deep care for those around us and when we work to strengthen the bonds among us in our various communities. More important, our compassion and concern is ultimately grounded in the intents of our hearts. For me, Margaret Thatcher’s words in the film The Iron Lady indeed ring true: “Watch your thoughts, for they become words. Watch your words, for they become actions. Watch your actions, for they become habits. Watch your habits, for they become your character. And watch your character, for it becomes your destiny. What we think, we become.”
God’s desire for all of us is that we grow in wholeness, trust, and personal integrity, and that our human communities reflect God’s realm. As disciples of Jesus we hope, pray, and trust that the Holy Spirit will lead us more and more deeply into that blessed place.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Sunday, February 9, 2014
You are Salt and Light
Do you take Scripture seriously? In its earliest books, the Bible goes back at least eight centuries B.C. Its last book, Revelation, was written no later than the early second century A.D. So does this library, or the words of the God its books proclaim, offer us any meaningful teaching? Yes, Scripture is one of the three legs of the Anglican stool on which our faith rests – along with tradition, which we explored last week, and reason. But do we really live by it? More to the point, does what we hear on Sunday have any bearing on what we do on Monday and the rest of the week? Do we do anything on Sunday that changes how we live or how we treat others? Do we even think about our relationship with God during the rest of the week? Or have we completely separated our “spiritual life” from the rest of our life? Are these important and real questions for you? If so, today’s Scripture has startling answers to them, answers which might disturb us – or just might move us out of our comfort zone.
Our reading from the Gospel according to Matthew provides what might be the most startling passage of today’s four Scripture portions. We are in the first part of Jesus’ first great discourse in Matthew – altogether there are five. In this first discourse, the writer lays out what Jesus has to say about the new identity and way of life that characterize the community of Jesus’ disciples. The discourse begins after the calling of Peter, Andrew, James, and John, which we heard two weeks ago. As they follow after Jesus, watching him cure the sick and proclaim the good news of God’s reign, the crowds of Jesus’ followers begin to swell. Jesus stops on a hillside and begins what we have come to call the “Sermon on the Mount.” If we had not observed the feast of the Presentation last week, we would have heard the opening lines of the sermon. But you know them: this is the sermon that begins, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” In these opening lines, which we have come to call the Beatitudes, Jesus begins to describe the community of his disciples, and shows us how it contrasts with communities in the world around it.
Jesus then makes two very startling statements. “You are the salt of the earth,” Jesus says. “You are the light of the world.” “You are salt and light?” “Salt” and “light,” are two very potent metaphors for discipleship. Why would Jesus use these metaphors? More important, if we really want to take Scripture seriously, what are we hearing? I studied linguistics in another life. So let’s takes these statements apart.
“You.” Who is the “you” in these statements? At least three circles of hearers are included in this “you.” First, there are the inner circle, those first four whom we heard Jesus call, and, presumably some others, plus possibly some women followers whom this gospel does not name. Second, there are the crowds who looked to Jesus for healing and avidly attended to his words. And then there are all those who heard the gospel, its original audience, and all those who heard it down the centuries, including us. As we recognize ourselves included in this “you,” as we learn who we truly are and what our mission as Jesus’ followers is, we also learn that no one is excluded from this community of disciples. All of you are part of it.
“Are.” Jesus did not say “should be,” “might be,” or “will be.” Jesus did not command us to be something or hope that we might become something. He said that we are something, we are salt and light. We may not be sure where Jesus is leading us, any more than his first followers were. Even so, at the outset of his ministry, Jesus takes pains to tell his followers that, just by virtue of being his disciples, they are already members of a beloved community. That was certainly a startling statement to the first hearers of this gospel, to a community of believers that was small, weak, and persecuted by the surrounding religious and political leadership. Is it startling to us? Mainline Protestant churches have been steadily declining in membership for the last generation. Now it’s the turn of white Evangelical churches to suffer decline, as more and more people under the age of twenty-five declare that they are “nones,” i.e., they have no religious affiliation. We here at St. Peter’s are certainly part of that trend. As a congregation we are much smaller, weaker, and probably less influential than we were thirty years ago. Even so, Jesus doesn’t allow any of us to say, “Oh, poor us.” Instead, he reminds us that “you are.” He says to all of us, “If you profess to follow me, then you are.”
So what are you? “You are salt.” Sodium gets a bad rap these days, as the healthcare media tell us that we eat too much of it. However, in the ancient world, salt was a precious and necessary commodity. It was needed to preserve food. It was part of the commonly-used dung fuel, for which it was also necessary as a fire-starter. It was – and still is – essential to enhancing the taste of food, chiefly by intensifying other flavors. Salt has also been historically important. Roman soldiers were paid in salt, from which comes our word “salary.” Salt production was so important that it was often a government monopoly. Mahatma Gandhi began the Indian independence movement by marching his followers to the sea, in order to make salt from salt water, thus undoing the government monopoly. Perhaps this winter we’ve gained a little more respect for salt, as we’ve watched our road crews open the roads drawing on a now dwindling supply of road salt. “You are salt.” You, Jesus’ first disciples, Matthew’s first hearers, and you, you are precious and needed, especially to enhance the lives of others.
“You are light.” Does this need much explanation? We know that light is an essential element for all human life. Along with plants and other animals, we need sunlight for health. We need daylight for ordinary human activity. Before artificial life, people virtually hibernated during the winter months, sleeping during the long dark hours. With artificial light, we have extended our time for work, though when the power goes out, we gain an enhanced understanding of the necessity of light. Light also guides us safely to our various destinations. Viewing the “city on the hill” from afar, or the lighthouse on the beach, travelers and mariners know how to avoid danger.
So Jesus offers us two potent images for ourselves as his disciples. We are salt and light. We are, by God’s grace, precious and essential to God’s plan. And our role? To be life-giving for others.
Now the real question. How do you “let your light shine before others,” so that they might give glory to God? Actually, no one has to re-invent the wheel to answer this question. As they did for Jesus and the hearers of Matthew’s gospel, the prophetic books of Scripture, together with many of the psalms, offer us the guidance we need in how to live a salty and light-filled life.
Today’s reading from the last third of the prophecy attributed to Isaiah offers us especially good guidance. What do we hear? Worship is important, the prophet acknowledges. We are nourished by worship and hear God speaking to us through the words of Scripture. The spiritual practices that we undertake are also helpful in forming us to be God’s people. But neither worship nor pious practices are ends in themselves. We must not just hear God’s words and perform our rites. We must reach out to the poor and needy. We must share our bread. We must find clothing and shelter for those who lack these essentials of life, and we must recognize that we are kin to the entire human family. We must work to “loose the bonds of injustice.” Whatever that meant in Isaiah’s day, or Jesus’ day, in our day that means we are called to rescue women and children from trafficking. We are called to bring home our soldiers and care for those with PTSD. We are called to reduce our incarceration rates and do away with capital punishment. We are called to see that all have access to adequate food, healthcare and education. We are called to ensure that this country has just immigration policies, especially for those brought here as children. Clearly, we have no shortage of guidance as to how we can be a “light to the world.”
We’re a small parish, you’re thinking, what can we’re do? We feed the hungry. Have we ever asked why people are hungry? Have we asked our elected representatives to support the SNAP (food stamps) program? Thanks be to God, we are clothing the naked, through our offering of diapers, and winter hats, scarves, and gloves. We have a wonderful building. Can it be used for disaster relief, or for respite from extreme cold or heat? Do God’s commands inform your personal dealings? Try this. As you begin your day, pray that God may enable you to be salt and light for all those whom you encounter in your day.
In a church bulletin I saw recently, at the beginning of the service, it said, “Enter to worship.” At the end of the service, it said, “Depart to serve.” If you take Scripture seriously, as you depart from this place, “Go in peace, to love and serve God and God’s people.”
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Traditions
What are some of the traditions of your family? Take a minute to think back to your own childhood. What traditions did your family have when you were growing up? Were there traditions that you can look back on with joy and thanksgiving? Do you think of certain people when you recall these traditions? [Pause] How about now? What family traditions have those of you with younger children created? What about those of you who are grandparents? Do those of you with distant adult children or no children at all have meaningful traditions in your lives? Have your traditions changed over the years? Are there traditions you’ve happily abandoned? Are there traditions you vow you’ll never give up? All of us have traditions, whether we realize it or not, and, for most of us, even in this secular age, traditions still play important roles in our lives.
The role of tradition is a significant theme in our reading from the Gospel of Luke. Tradition was important for Mary, Joseph, the infant Jesus, Simeon, and Anna. In our Gospel account, Luke tells us that, “when the time came for their purification according to the law of Moses,” Jesus’ parents came with him to the temple in Jerusalem, from wherever they were staying in Bethlehem, to make a sacrifice and have the child blessed. Most scholars would question whether Luke got the traditions correct in this account, since it is likely that Luke was not a Jew, and since the quotations from Scripture don’t match up with what is in the Torah. That is probably less important than Luke’s intent here, which was to show that Jesus’ family lived and worshipped firmly within Jewish tradition, and that he and his parents observed all the demands of the law. Jesus, Luke reminds his readers, grew up and came out of that life of tradition. As such, in his life and ministry, though he was often at odds with the religious leadership, he was speaking as an insider to his own people, as one who understood all that God and the Law demanded of them.
Tradition also played an important role in the lives of Simeon and Anna. In Jesus’ time many thoughtful and pious Jews expected that God’s anointed one might come soon, especially to deliver them from the hated Romans. They knew the prophetic writings well. They trusted that God would fulfill God’s promises. As they waited for the anointed one, they remembered that during the time of Exile, Isaiah had promised that a voice crying in the wilderness would announce God’s coming. Did they remember that the prophet Malachi also wrote during a time of discouragement, after the return from exile? About 450 BC, Malachi had also called the people to prepare for a Day of the Lord. He suggested that a messenger – the prophet himself? Elijah? – would come before the Day, to announce its coming. Echoing the prophecy of Amos, he described the Lord’s coming as a time of purification and judgment and foretold that the day would come when all the arrogant and evildoers would be burnt to stubble, but “for you who revere my name, the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings.”
Inspired by God’s word and spirit, perhaps Simeon and Anna came to see John the Baptizer, as we now see him, i.e., as God’s promised messenger who prepared for God’s coming by proclaiming a message of repentance and purification through water. As Simeon and Anna patiently waited, the Lord whom they sought did suddenly come to his temple, in the arms of his parents. By God’s grace, Simeon and Anna were able to recognize Jesus as the anointed one for whom they had spent their lives waiting. They were given the grace of a vision of the fulfillment of God’s promises. As they looked in the face of the holy child, their hearts overflowed and they broke out with songs of God’s praise.
But there is something more here. Both Simeon and Anna also saw, in a nascent sense, that this child would be different from what their traditions had led them to expect. In looking at the child, Simeon already saw the Cross. He foresaw that the child would provoke deep conflict, and that he would expose the true intentions of those around him, especially those among the religious and political leadership. He saw only too plainly that, because of Jesus, Mary would experience the deepest possible grief. Perhaps Anna could see even farther ahead, to the final fulfillment of God’s promises, as she praised God and spoke “about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.”
Tradition, of course, has also played a vital role in the history of the church. We Episcopalians say that our faith is like a three-legged stool. We depend on Scripture, tradition, and reason. Our founder grounded his message in the Hebrew Scriptures. Although our arrangement of them differs from that of modern Jews, we still need them to understand the workings of God. In the fourth century, we agreed on the writings that would specifically inform our lives as followers of Jesus, the writings that we now call the New Testament. Reason is our God-given capacity for making judgments and is essential to a mature faith and a mature church life.
In the twenty-first century, perhaps we wonder what the role of tradition in the church should be. Some of our traditions go back to the earliest centuries of the church. The ashes of repentance with which we mark each other on Ash Wednesday go back to the Hebrew Scriptures. The Solemn Collects that we recite on Good Friday are the oldest prayers of the church. Do you know why the priest receives the bread and wine first? It is not because the priest is the holiest person in the room or the most exalted. It comes from the days before vestments, when Christians were being persecuted. By receiving first, the leader identified himself or herself to any spies present. Do you know why we receive the consecrated host by cupping our hands? We recall how Simeon took the baby Jesus in his arms, and so we do something of the same with the host. As you heard, a Candlemas procession was known in the fourth century. Frescoes and mosaics tell us that bishops and priests wore vestments very similar to what we wear now, from at least the fourth century. Elevating the Gospel book, using candles on the altar, creating icons and stained-glass windows, making the sign of the cross, using incense, bowing, and many other things that we now do are also practices with ancient roots. Indeed, we Episcopalians may actually have a fourth leg to our stool, the body.
The Reformation was a difficult period for the Church of England. For a time during and after the Reformation we lost some of our traditions and much of our rich liturgical life. Indeed, there is still a strain in Protestantism that believes in sola scriptura, “Scripture alone.” If you look at old pictures from the Church of England or colonial times in this country, you will see priests in plain black cassocks presiding at unadorned tables. Beginning in the early part of the nineteenth century Anglicans, including Episcopalians, came to see that we could reclaim our ancient traditions without losing our distinctive history, polity, and way of following Jesus. Vestments, the use of different liturgical colors, candles, ashes, foot-washing on Maundy Thursday, processions, incense, confession, and the Eucharist as the principle Sunday service all represent a reclaiming of the traditions that once nourished the entire church.
As a church, we have also had to abandon some traditions. In the late nineteenth century we understood the injustice of forcing black people to sit in the balcony. In 1976 the Episcopal Church finally came to realize that women should be ordained priest. In bringing forward the 1979 Book of Common Prayer, the Episcopal Church made the difficult decision to abandon the sixteenth-century language that so many had come to love. Many of our dioceses, including this one, have adopted a form for the blessing of same-gender unions. As we live into the twenty-first century, we are still wrestling with our traditions: which old ones to keep or reclaim, which old ones to let go of that no longer serve us, and which new ones to adopt that will reflect the new places to which we believe the Holy Spirit is leading us.
And we might ask the same questions of our own personal spiritual lives. What nourishes us spiritually? What helps us to see where Jesus might be leading us? Bishop Curry suggested that praying daily is a way of hearing Jesus’ call more clearly. Is that a tradition that you are willing to adopt? As a church we have a very rich heritage of spiritual life on which to draw. I am always willing to suggest or teach practices, many of which have very ancient roots, that may open your eyes afresh to God’s presence.
We are midway between Christmas and Ash Wednesday. Stop. Pause. What are your spiritual traditions? What might change?
The role of tradition is a significant theme in our reading from the Gospel of Luke. Tradition was important for Mary, Joseph, the infant Jesus, Simeon, and Anna. In our Gospel account, Luke tells us that, “when the time came for their purification according to the law of Moses,” Jesus’ parents came with him to the temple in Jerusalem, from wherever they were staying in Bethlehem, to make a sacrifice and have the child blessed. Most scholars would question whether Luke got the traditions correct in this account, since it is likely that Luke was not a Jew, and since the quotations from Scripture don’t match up with what is in the Torah. That is probably less important than Luke’s intent here, which was to show that Jesus’ family lived and worshipped firmly within Jewish tradition, and that he and his parents observed all the demands of the law. Jesus, Luke reminds his readers, grew up and came out of that life of tradition. As such, in his life and ministry, though he was often at odds with the religious leadership, he was speaking as an insider to his own people, as one who understood all that God and the Law demanded of them.
Tradition also played an important role in the lives of Simeon and Anna. In Jesus’ time many thoughtful and pious Jews expected that God’s anointed one might come soon, especially to deliver them from the hated Romans. They knew the prophetic writings well. They trusted that God would fulfill God’s promises. As they waited for the anointed one, they remembered that during the time of Exile, Isaiah had promised that a voice crying in the wilderness would announce God’s coming. Did they remember that the prophet Malachi also wrote during a time of discouragement, after the return from exile? About 450 BC, Malachi had also called the people to prepare for a Day of the Lord. He suggested that a messenger – the prophet himself? Elijah? – would come before the Day, to announce its coming. Echoing the prophecy of Amos, he described the Lord’s coming as a time of purification and judgment and foretold that the day would come when all the arrogant and evildoers would be burnt to stubble, but “for you who revere my name, the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings.”
Inspired by God’s word and spirit, perhaps Simeon and Anna came to see John the Baptizer, as we now see him, i.e., as God’s promised messenger who prepared for God’s coming by proclaiming a message of repentance and purification through water. As Simeon and Anna patiently waited, the Lord whom they sought did suddenly come to his temple, in the arms of his parents. By God’s grace, Simeon and Anna were able to recognize Jesus as the anointed one for whom they had spent their lives waiting. They were given the grace of a vision of the fulfillment of God’s promises. As they looked in the face of the holy child, their hearts overflowed and they broke out with songs of God’s praise.
But there is something more here. Both Simeon and Anna also saw, in a nascent sense, that this child would be different from what their traditions had led them to expect. In looking at the child, Simeon already saw the Cross. He foresaw that the child would provoke deep conflict, and that he would expose the true intentions of those around him, especially those among the religious and political leadership. He saw only too plainly that, because of Jesus, Mary would experience the deepest possible grief. Perhaps Anna could see even farther ahead, to the final fulfillment of God’s promises, as she praised God and spoke “about the child to all who were looking for the redemption of Jerusalem.”
Tradition, of course, has also played a vital role in the history of the church. We Episcopalians say that our faith is like a three-legged stool. We depend on Scripture, tradition, and reason. Our founder grounded his message in the Hebrew Scriptures. Although our arrangement of them differs from that of modern Jews, we still need them to understand the workings of God. In the fourth century, we agreed on the writings that would specifically inform our lives as followers of Jesus, the writings that we now call the New Testament. Reason is our God-given capacity for making judgments and is essential to a mature faith and a mature church life.
In the twenty-first century, perhaps we wonder what the role of tradition in the church should be. Some of our traditions go back to the earliest centuries of the church. The ashes of repentance with which we mark each other on Ash Wednesday go back to the Hebrew Scriptures. The Solemn Collects that we recite on Good Friday are the oldest prayers of the church. Do you know why the priest receives the bread and wine first? It is not because the priest is the holiest person in the room or the most exalted. It comes from the days before vestments, when Christians were being persecuted. By receiving first, the leader identified himself or herself to any spies present. Do you know why we receive the consecrated host by cupping our hands? We recall how Simeon took the baby Jesus in his arms, and so we do something of the same with the host. As you heard, a Candlemas procession was known in the fourth century. Frescoes and mosaics tell us that bishops and priests wore vestments very similar to what we wear now, from at least the fourth century. Elevating the Gospel book, using candles on the altar, creating icons and stained-glass windows, making the sign of the cross, using incense, bowing, and many other things that we now do are also practices with ancient roots. Indeed, we Episcopalians may actually have a fourth leg to our stool, the body.
The Reformation was a difficult period for the Church of England. For a time during and after the Reformation we lost some of our traditions and much of our rich liturgical life. Indeed, there is still a strain in Protestantism that believes in sola scriptura, “Scripture alone.” If you look at old pictures from the Church of England or colonial times in this country, you will see priests in plain black cassocks presiding at unadorned tables. Beginning in the early part of the nineteenth century Anglicans, including Episcopalians, came to see that we could reclaim our ancient traditions without losing our distinctive history, polity, and way of following Jesus. Vestments, the use of different liturgical colors, candles, ashes, foot-washing on Maundy Thursday, processions, incense, confession, and the Eucharist as the principle Sunday service all represent a reclaiming of the traditions that once nourished the entire church.
As a church, we have also had to abandon some traditions. In the late nineteenth century we understood the injustice of forcing black people to sit in the balcony. In 1976 the Episcopal Church finally came to realize that women should be ordained priest. In bringing forward the 1979 Book of Common Prayer, the Episcopal Church made the difficult decision to abandon the sixteenth-century language that so many had come to love. Many of our dioceses, including this one, have adopted a form for the blessing of same-gender unions. As we live into the twenty-first century, we are still wrestling with our traditions: which old ones to keep or reclaim, which old ones to let go of that no longer serve us, and which new ones to adopt that will reflect the new places to which we believe the Holy Spirit is leading us.
And we might ask the same questions of our own personal spiritual lives. What nourishes us spiritually? What helps us to see where Jesus might be leading us? Bishop Curry suggested that praying daily is a way of hearing Jesus’ call more clearly. Is that a tradition that you are willing to adopt? As a church we have a very rich heritage of spiritual life on which to draw. I am always willing to suggest or teach practices, many of which have very ancient roots, that may open your eyes afresh to God’s presence.
We are midway between Christmas and Ash Wednesday. Stop. Pause. What are your spiritual traditions? What might change?
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Follow Me
It was a warm day. Most of the men who fished along the Sea of Galilee – which was actually a freshwater lake – had come in from their night’s work. They had eaten some breakfast and caught a little shuteye. Now they were mending any tears in their nets made by the previous night’s catch and beginning to think about tonight’s catch. None of these men was in a position of power. They weren’t at the bottom of the social scale, like the poor-as-dirt shepherds or beggars – or worse. But neither were they among the learned or priestly elites. They were hard-working people, who paid all of Herod’s taxes, got around his endless regulations as best they could, and had as little to do as possible with the Roman soldiers prowling around. And they had families to support, wives and children and in-laws. Their lives weren’t easy, but then whose were?
Onto the shore that morning walked an itinerant rabbi, Yehoshua ha-Notsri, the former carpenter Jesus from that little village some miles inland. He stopped first at Simon and Andrew’s boat – they were late coming in. What on earth did he want? Usually these rabbis waited for prospective students to approach them. He looked intently at Simon and Andrew and said, almost commanded, “Come with me. I’ll make a new kind of fisherman out of you. I’ll show you how to catch men and women instead of perch and bass.” Now what did that mean? Was he turning them into a volunteer rescue squad, or what? Simon and Andrew beached the boat, gave some instructions to the hired hands, and followed after Jesus. Jesus walked on down the shore to old Zebedee’s boat. He said to the brothers James and John, “C’mon, come help me fish for people.” The brothers dropped the nets they were mending, leapt up, and immediately trailed after him.
Didn’t anyone ask the obvious questions? “Catch people?” Who’ll look after the family? Who’ll keep the business going? Who’ll help out Dad? What was the urgency? Seemingly, without another thought – did they even pack provisions or take extra clothes – Simon, Andrew, James, and John, left their old lives behind. Hearing Jesus’ call, they let their lives be turned upside down, as they left the shore and trudged after Jesus. He had called, and they followed. They soon discovered that he had not called them to a life of sitting at his feet studying Torah, or of standing before the sacrificial fires reciting long prayers. He had called them to an active life: walking with him up and down the hills of Galilee, and eventually to Jerusalem. He had called them to help him proclaim that God was fulfilling God’s promises, and that a transformation of the whole world was about to take place. He asked them to accompany him as he preached, taught, and healed. He asked them to help him welcome those on the margins of society into his embrace of love.
Sarah Grimké also heard Jesus call. It took her a little longer to respond than it had Simon, Andrew, James, and John. Sarah was born in 1792 into an aristocratic planter family in South Carolina. With a plantation inland and a mansion in Charleston, the family owned over one hundred slaves. On her eleventh birthday Sarah was presented with a ten-year old slave, who was to sleep on the floor outside her bedroom door and be her personal maid. Having witnessed as a younger child the severe punishment of a slave, Sarah hated slavery even then. In front of all the guests, she disavowed the gift. Despite her uneasiness about slavery, and her growing desire to distinguish herself in the family profession of law – a road that was firmly closed to her as woman – when she was twelve, Sarah persuaded her mother to make her the godmother of her then newborn sister Angelina, the last of the Grimké’s children.
Like virtually every other southern church at the time, the Episcopal Church in South Carolina condoned slavery. Sarah dutifully attended St. Philip’s church with her family but more than once argued with its rector. In her late teens, she heard Jesus ask for her heart, while she was attending a Presbyterian church service with a friend. Thereafter, she dedicated herself to following Jesus wherever he might lead her. Surprisingly, Jesus led her north. Her father, a well-known jurist, had been diagnosed with a seemingly incurable wasting disease. A specialist in Philadelphia was recommended, and Sarah was asked to accompany her progressively weakening father. Unable to cure her father, the specialist recommended the sea air at Long Branch, New Jersey, where her father died a few weeks after arriving.
Having experienced a different way of life in the north, with blacks and whites on a more equal footing, Sarah was not eager to return to Charleston. After a brief visit home, she returned to Philadelphia, where she heard God’s call once again, this time to the Society of Friends and active work for abolition. After living and working for more than a decade with the Friends, Sarah was joined by sister Angelina. Although most of the Quakers were gradualists rather than abolitionists, Sarah and Angelina heard the call to produce anti-slavery pamphlets. Their writings attracted the attention of prominent abolitionists William Lloyd Garrison and Theodore Weld. Weld trained both sisters as speakers, and thereafter they traveled the east speaking to women’s groups in favor of abolition. Soon their talks attracted men, but prominent preachers began to denounce them for speaking publicly to men. So the Grimkés also began speaking about the rights of women. They were ardent abolitionists and feminists for the rest of their lives, consistently grounding their writings and speeches in God’s call to them. They “fished for people,” calling others to a deeper recognition of the wrongness of slavery and of the fundamental goodness and equality of all people.
Do we also hear Jesus’ call? Jesus rarely waits for us to seek him out, to ask politely if we may sit devotedly out his feet. Jesus is still on the move, still seeking to bring near the reign of God. Jesus doesn’t wait for us: he actively seeks us out, knowing the part each of us must play in the bringing in of the kingdom. As he called Simon, Andrew, James, and John, he actively calls each of us to work together with the rest of his friends for the good of all. We may not be able to leave behind our occupations, the nets and boats we need to sustain our daily lives and meet our obligations to those near and dear to us. But we can, by God’s grace, lay aside the pre-conceptions, petty disagreements and dislikes, perfectionism, lack of self-confidence, distractions, and anything else that blocks out God’s call or keeps us from responding to it. Ultimately, we realize that discipleship is not cheap, and that Jesus’ claim on us surpasses the claims of family, occupation, ethnicity, country, and even church. We can acknowledge that all of us, all of us, are called to be God’s instruments.
A Presbyterian pastor serving on the US border in Arizona tells a wonderful story from his time as a youth minister. At a summer camp, he was leading a session on the church with some children.1 He asked each child to draw a picture of the church. He assumed that they would draw pictures of church buildings. However, one child was way ahead of him. She had drawn five pictures on her paper. In the upper left corner, there was a picture of a woman in bed surrounded by people. This was her grandmother, she said, and the people were her pastor and church members praying. In the upper right corner, there was a picture of a can. This was the food that church people shared with those who are hungry, because God does not want people to go hungry. In the bottom right corner, there was a group of children playing. In the bottom left corner, there were musical notes, with people of different sizes and colors. She said that God loves all people, and that the people come to the church to sing their “thank you” to God. In the middle of the paper there was a big heart, a heart that took up all the space and drew the smaller pictures together. God is love, she said, and God asks us to love God and to love our neighbors as ourselves. This is the church into which Jesus invites us.
Do you hear Jesus’ call to join his team, fish for people, and proclaim the good news? If so, then hear the challenge given us by Methodist bishop Will Willimon.2 “I challenge you,” Willlimon says, “this next week to do a little fishing, to attempt to share your faith, perhaps even using words, with one person whom you know. Try to express why you are here. Invite someone to come here next Sunday…. Do one visible act of Christian charity to someone in need in the name of Jesus. See where it gets you.”
1. Mark S. Adams, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Gospel (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2013), 66.
2. Quoted in Synthesis, January 26, 2014, p.4.
Onto the shore that morning walked an itinerant rabbi, Yehoshua ha-Notsri, the former carpenter Jesus from that little village some miles inland. He stopped first at Simon and Andrew’s boat – they were late coming in. What on earth did he want? Usually these rabbis waited for prospective students to approach them. He looked intently at Simon and Andrew and said, almost commanded, “Come with me. I’ll make a new kind of fisherman out of you. I’ll show you how to catch men and women instead of perch and bass.” Now what did that mean? Was he turning them into a volunteer rescue squad, or what? Simon and Andrew beached the boat, gave some instructions to the hired hands, and followed after Jesus. Jesus walked on down the shore to old Zebedee’s boat. He said to the brothers James and John, “C’mon, come help me fish for people.” The brothers dropped the nets they were mending, leapt up, and immediately trailed after him.
Didn’t anyone ask the obvious questions? “Catch people?” Who’ll look after the family? Who’ll keep the business going? Who’ll help out Dad? What was the urgency? Seemingly, without another thought – did they even pack provisions or take extra clothes – Simon, Andrew, James, and John, left their old lives behind. Hearing Jesus’ call, they let their lives be turned upside down, as they left the shore and trudged after Jesus. He had called, and they followed. They soon discovered that he had not called them to a life of sitting at his feet studying Torah, or of standing before the sacrificial fires reciting long prayers. He had called them to an active life: walking with him up and down the hills of Galilee, and eventually to Jerusalem. He had called them to help him proclaim that God was fulfilling God’s promises, and that a transformation of the whole world was about to take place. He asked them to accompany him as he preached, taught, and healed. He asked them to help him welcome those on the margins of society into his embrace of love.
Sarah Grimké also heard Jesus call. It took her a little longer to respond than it had Simon, Andrew, James, and John. Sarah was born in 1792 into an aristocratic planter family in South Carolina. With a plantation inland and a mansion in Charleston, the family owned over one hundred slaves. On her eleventh birthday Sarah was presented with a ten-year old slave, who was to sleep on the floor outside her bedroom door and be her personal maid. Having witnessed as a younger child the severe punishment of a slave, Sarah hated slavery even then. In front of all the guests, she disavowed the gift. Despite her uneasiness about slavery, and her growing desire to distinguish herself in the family profession of law – a road that was firmly closed to her as woman – when she was twelve, Sarah persuaded her mother to make her the godmother of her then newborn sister Angelina, the last of the Grimké’s children.
Like virtually every other southern church at the time, the Episcopal Church in South Carolina condoned slavery. Sarah dutifully attended St. Philip’s church with her family but more than once argued with its rector. In her late teens, she heard Jesus ask for her heart, while she was attending a Presbyterian church service with a friend. Thereafter, she dedicated herself to following Jesus wherever he might lead her. Surprisingly, Jesus led her north. Her father, a well-known jurist, had been diagnosed with a seemingly incurable wasting disease. A specialist in Philadelphia was recommended, and Sarah was asked to accompany her progressively weakening father. Unable to cure her father, the specialist recommended the sea air at Long Branch, New Jersey, where her father died a few weeks after arriving.
Having experienced a different way of life in the north, with blacks and whites on a more equal footing, Sarah was not eager to return to Charleston. After a brief visit home, she returned to Philadelphia, where she heard God’s call once again, this time to the Society of Friends and active work for abolition. After living and working for more than a decade with the Friends, Sarah was joined by sister Angelina. Although most of the Quakers were gradualists rather than abolitionists, Sarah and Angelina heard the call to produce anti-slavery pamphlets. Their writings attracted the attention of prominent abolitionists William Lloyd Garrison and Theodore Weld. Weld trained both sisters as speakers, and thereafter they traveled the east speaking to women’s groups in favor of abolition. Soon their talks attracted men, but prominent preachers began to denounce them for speaking publicly to men. So the Grimkés also began speaking about the rights of women. They were ardent abolitionists and feminists for the rest of their lives, consistently grounding their writings and speeches in God’s call to them. They “fished for people,” calling others to a deeper recognition of the wrongness of slavery and of the fundamental goodness and equality of all people.
Do we also hear Jesus’ call? Jesus rarely waits for us to seek him out, to ask politely if we may sit devotedly out his feet. Jesus is still on the move, still seeking to bring near the reign of God. Jesus doesn’t wait for us: he actively seeks us out, knowing the part each of us must play in the bringing in of the kingdom. As he called Simon, Andrew, James, and John, he actively calls each of us to work together with the rest of his friends for the good of all. We may not be able to leave behind our occupations, the nets and boats we need to sustain our daily lives and meet our obligations to those near and dear to us. But we can, by God’s grace, lay aside the pre-conceptions, petty disagreements and dislikes, perfectionism, lack of self-confidence, distractions, and anything else that blocks out God’s call or keeps us from responding to it. Ultimately, we realize that discipleship is not cheap, and that Jesus’ claim on us surpasses the claims of family, occupation, ethnicity, country, and even church. We can acknowledge that all of us, all of us, are called to be God’s instruments.
A Presbyterian pastor serving on the US border in Arizona tells a wonderful story from his time as a youth minister. At a summer camp, he was leading a session on the church with some children.1 He asked each child to draw a picture of the church. He assumed that they would draw pictures of church buildings. However, one child was way ahead of him. She had drawn five pictures on her paper. In the upper left corner, there was a picture of a woman in bed surrounded by people. This was her grandmother, she said, and the people were her pastor and church members praying. In the upper right corner, there was a picture of a can. This was the food that church people shared with those who are hungry, because God does not want people to go hungry. In the bottom right corner, there was a group of children playing. In the bottom left corner, there were musical notes, with people of different sizes and colors. She said that God loves all people, and that the people come to the church to sing their “thank you” to God. In the middle of the paper there was a big heart, a heart that took up all the space and drew the smaller pictures together. God is love, she said, and God asks us to love God and to love our neighbors as ourselves. This is the church into which Jesus invites us.
Do you hear Jesus’ call to join his team, fish for people, and proclaim the good news? If so, then hear the challenge given us by Methodist bishop Will Willimon.2 “I challenge you,” Willlimon says, “this next week to do a little fishing, to attempt to share your faith, perhaps even using words, with one person whom you know. Try to express why you are here. Invite someone to come here next Sunday…. Do one visible act of Christian charity to someone in need in the name of Jesus. See where it gets you.”
1. Mark S. Adams, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Gospel (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox, 2013), 66.
2. Quoted in Synthesis, January 26, 2014, p.4.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Who do You Say that I Am?
Let’s imagine that Jesus were standing right in our midst. He poses the question to us, “Who do people say that I am?” We might wonder why Jesus was asking that question. Was he still unsure of his identity? Hadn’t the voice at his baptism in the Jordan convinced him? Perhaps he needs our reassurance.
In any case, we have to answer. You [pointing to someone] might answer, “Well, you seem to know a lot about Scripture, and you sure can preach, so some people say that you must be a super mega-church leader, even better than Rick Warren and Billy Graham.” But you [pointing to someone else] might say, “People notice that you’re always talking about peace and justice, so some people say that you’re Mahatma Gandhi, someone who can enable real social change through non-violent means.” And then you [someone else] might pipe up, “Some people notice how you much care about the poor, and how you’re always talking about taking care of ‘the least of these,’ so they think you’re another Mother Teresa.” But then you [someone else] might want to warn Jesus. So you say, “There are those who think you’ll get in trouble with the authorities, maybe even get yourself killed like Martin Luther King.” Then you [another person] might want to sum up the answers of the rest of us and say, “You’re a wonderful person, Jesus, a person we’d all like to emulate, a person who’s as good or better than other great people we know about. But aren’t you just a human being, like the rest of us, and nothing more?” If you think about Jesus at all, would most of you give answers similar to these?
Then Jesus turns to us, to me, and asks – we knew he would – “But who do you say that I am?” How to answer? We know what Simon answered when Jesus asked him that question. We might wonder whether Simon was answering only for himself or for the whole group. Although anyone who followed Jesus had to eventually answer that question, I think Simon was already the de facto leader of the group and could have been speaking for all. We know that Simon said, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” But what did Simon mean when he said that? The word “messiah” comes from the Hebrew mashiah, meaning “anointed one.” It was translated into Greek as christos, from which we get “Christ.” It means the promised liberator of Israel. Simon was saying to Jesus, “You are the one in whom God’s promises to us are fulfilled, you are the king and deliverer we’ve been hoping for, you are the one who will ultimately rule the world. You are more than just a learned rabbi, more than just a champion of the poor. You have a relationship with God that no other person has ever had.”
So when Jesus turns to me, what do I say? Do I use the same words as Simon Peter? Or are there other ways I can say what Peter said, words that twenty-first century people might understand, just as Jesus’ first followers understood Peter’s words? Here’s how I would answer Jesus’ question. I believe in God’s promises to humankind, and I believe that you are the one in whom these promises are fulfilled, including God’s promise to restore all creation. Therefore you are the one to whom I give my full allegiance, above all dictates of politics, culture, family, even, perhaps, the church itself. You are the one whom I want to love and follow with my whole heart. You are the one St. Teresa of Avila meant when she prayed, “We are all vassals of the King. May it please his Majesty that, like brave soldiers, we may look only to where the banner of our King is flying and follow his will.”
I would also say to Jesus that I believe that you are the Word made flesh. You are not only human, you are also God as well. What we know of the nature of the mysterious, unknowable source of all being we know because you reveal it to us. You are still alive, still working to make us more like you, still leading, guiding, and consoling us, and still helping us to partner with you in the transformation of the world.
How did Jesus respond to Peter’s answer? He said, “Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven.” Peter had an “epiphany,” an extraordinary revelation from God of the truth of Jesus’ identity. The gift of being able to see Jesus as both fully human and as the Word made flesh is a gift of God’s grace. Paul reminded the new Corinthian Christians that “no one can say ‘Jesus is Lord’ except by the Holy Spirit.” And so it is for us too. Some of you may have trouble accepting Jesus’ full humanity, and the possibility that we can be like him. Others of you may struggle with seeing him as more than a good man who died 2,000 years ago. When we come to the place of understanding Jesus as both human and divine, it is indeed a gift of grace. When we are baptized and commit ourselves to him, it is a gift of grace. When we reaffirm our baptisms in confirmation, it is a gift of grace.
And here’s the important part: God’s gift of grace is a transformative gift, it is a gift given to us out of God’s great love for us. At first glance, we might wonder whether Peter’s epiphany and confession made any difference in his life. He was still impulsive, impetuous, and clueless. He said all the wrong things when Jesus was transfigured. He fell asleep at Gethsemane, denied he even knew Jesus, and ran away when Jesus was executed. Even so, his confession was the turning point of his life, and God’s transformative grace began to work within him. After the Resurrection, Jesus commanded Peter to feed his sheep. After Pentecost Peter became a gifted preacher, as our lesson from Acts suggests. As a church founder he was a respected elder, who was able to offer sound advice on leadership, as we heard in the second lesson. Tradition even says that, like Jesus, Peter was crucified. In fact, there’s a legend that, in the time of Nero’s persecution of Christians, Peter tried to flee Rome. On the road, Jesus came up behind him. “Where are you going, Lord?” the legend says Peter asked (in Latin, ‘Quo vadis, Domine?’). “To Rome, to be crucified again,” Jesus replied, as he walked past Peter and other faithful Christians already crucified along the Appian Way into Rome. Ashamed, Peter turned around and went into the city to his own death.
And so too for us. The grace that enables us to confess Jesus as lord also works its transformative power in us. We may not feel an immediate transformation. We don’t raise our heads from the font with a halo on, any more than Peter did after his first recognition of Jesus’ identity. Indeed, the transformation at work in us is often called “the slow work of God.” When we continue to let God into our lives, when we “dispose” ourselves to transformation, God will continue to work in us.
And then, like Peter we too will proclaim the good news to others. More, we too will be the good news for others. When God begins God’s transformation of us, God does not lead us onto Easy Street. Rather, in the transformation that makes us more like Jesus, God leads to the streets of exploitation of others, so that we find ways to enable God’s other children to climb out of poverty. God bids us prod our elected representatives into seeking justice for all. God sends us into prisons and bids us ask why so many of our citizens are incarcerated. God bids us welcome strangers and feed Jesus’ sheep. God takes our hands so that we too may partner with God in the bringing in of God’s reign.
And like Peter, we too will find ourselves at the Cross. When we committed ourselves to Jesus in our baptisms, we did not make what Mary Poppins called “piecrust promises,” easily made and easily broken. We committed ourselves to following Jesus heart and soul. Faithful discipleship cannot avoid the walk to Jerusalem and the confrontation with principalities and powers. As members of Jesus’ body, as adopted and beloved children of God, we cannot be bystanders in the fulfillment of God’s promises. Jesus comes up behind us too. In our questions and doubts, we might say to him, “Quo vadis, Domine, where are you going, Lord?” His answer will always be the same, “To the Cross.” And then he will say to us, “Where are you going?” My answer, God willing, will be, “I will go wherever you lead me.”
In any case, we have to answer. You [pointing to someone] might answer, “Well, you seem to know a lot about Scripture, and you sure can preach, so some people say that you must be a super mega-church leader, even better than Rick Warren and Billy Graham.” But you [pointing to someone else] might say, “People notice that you’re always talking about peace and justice, so some people say that you’re Mahatma Gandhi, someone who can enable real social change through non-violent means.” And then you [someone else] might pipe up, “Some people notice how you much care about the poor, and how you’re always talking about taking care of ‘the least of these,’ so they think you’re another Mother Teresa.” But then you [someone else] might want to warn Jesus. So you say, “There are those who think you’ll get in trouble with the authorities, maybe even get yourself killed like Martin Luther King.” Then you [another person] might want to sum up the answers of the rest of us and say, “You’re a wonderful person, Jesus, a person we’d all like to emulate, a person who’s as good or better than other great people we know about. But aren’t you just a human being, like the rest of us, and nothing more?” If you think about Jesus at all, would most of you give answers similar to these?
Then Jesus turns to us, to me, and asks – we knew he would – “But who do you say that I am?” How to answer? We know what Simon answered when Jesus asked him that question. We might wonder whether Simon was answering only for himself or for the whole group. Although anyone who followed Jesus had to eventually answer that question, I think Simon was already the de facto leader of the group and could have been speaking for all. We know that Simon said, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” But what did Simon mean when he said that? The word “messiah” comes from the Hebrew mashiah, meaning “anointed one.” It was translated into Greek as christos, from which we get “Christ.” It means the promised liberator of Israel. Simon was saying to Jesus, “You are the one in whom God’s promises to us are fulfilled, you are the king and deliverer we’ve been hoping for, you are the one who will ultimately rule the world. You are more than just a learned rabbi, more than just a champion of the poor. You have a relationship with God that no other person has ever had.”
So when Jesus turns to me, what do I say? Do I use the same words as Simon Peter? Or are there other ways I can say what Peter said, words that twenty-first century people might understand, just as Jesus’ first followers understood Peter’s words? Here’s how I would answer Jesus’ question. I believe in God’s promises to humankind, and I believe that you are the one in whom these promises are fulfilled, including God’s promise to restore all creation. Therefore you are the one to whom I give my full allegiance, above all dictates of politics, culture, family, even, perhaps, the church itself. You are the one whom I want to love and follow with my whole heart. You are the one St. Teresa of Avila meant when she prayed, “We are all vassals of the King. May it please his Majesty that, like brave soldiers, we may look only to where the banner of our King is flying and follow his will.”
I would also say to Jesus that I believe that you are the Word made flesh. You are not only human, you are also God as well. What we know of the nature of the mysterious, unknowable source of all being we know because you reveal it to us. You are still alive, still working to make us more like you, still leading, guiding, and consoling us, and still helping us to partner with you in the transformation of the world.
How did Jesus respond to Peter’s answer? He said, “Flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven.” Peter had an “epiphany,” an extraordinary revelation from God of the truth of Jesus’ identity. The gift of being able to see Jesus as both fully human and as the Word made flesh is a gift of God’s grace. Paul reminded the new Corinthian Christians that “no one can say ‘Jesus is Lord’ except by the Holy Spirit.” And so it is for us too. Some of you may have trouble accepting Jesus’ full humanity, and the possibility that we can be like him. Others of you may struggle with seeing him as more than a good man who died 2,000 years ago. When we come to the place of understanding Jesus as both human and divine, it is indeed a gift of grace. When we are baptized and commit ourselves to him, it is a gift of grace. When we reaffirm our baptisms in confirmation, it is a gift of grace.
And here’s the important part: God’s gift of grace is a transformative gift, it is a gift given to us out of God’s great love for us. At first glance, we might wonder whether Peter’s epiphany and confession made any difference in his life. He was still impulsive, impetuous, and clueless. He said all the wrong things when Jesus was transfigured. He fell asleep at Gethsemane, denied he even knew Jesus, and ran away when Jesus was executed. Even so, his confession was the turning point of his life, and God’s transformative grace began to work within him. After the Resurrection, Jesus commanded Peter to feed his sheep. After Pentecost Peter became a gifted preacher, as our lesson from Acts suggests. As a church founder he was a respected elder, who was able to offer sound advice on leadership, as we heard in the second lesson. Tradition even says that, like Jesus, Peter was crucified. In fact, there’s a legend that, in the time of Nero’s persecution of Christians, Peter tried to flee Rome. On the road, Jesus came up behind him. “Where are you going, Lord?” the legend says Peter asked (in Latin, ‘Quo vadis, Domine?’). “To Rome, to be crucified again,” Jesus replied, as he walked past Peter and other faithful Christians already crucified along the Appian Way into Rome. Ashamed, Peter turned around and went into the city to his own death.
And so too for us. The grace that enables us to confess Jesus as lord also works its transformative power in us. We may not feel an immediate transformation. We don’t raise our heads from the font with a halo on, any more than Peter did after his first recognition of Jesus’ identity. Indeed, the transformation at work in us is often called “the slow work of God.” When we continue to let God into our lives, when we “dispose” ourselves to transformation, God will continue to work in us.
And then, like Peter we too will proclaim the good news to others. More, we too will be the good news for others. When God begins God’s transformation of us, God does not lead us onto Easy Street. Rather, in the transformation that makes us more like Jesus, God leads to the streets of exploitation of others, so that we find ways to enable God’s other children to climb out of poverty. God bids us prod our elected representatives into seeking justice for all. God sends us into prisons and bids us ask why so many of our citizens are incarcerated. God bids us welcome strangers and feed Jesus’ sheep. God takes our hands so that we too may partner with God in the bringing in of God’s reign.
And like Peter, we too will find ourselves at the Cross. When we committed ourselves to Jesus in our baptisms, we did not make what Mary Poppins called “piecrust promises,” easily made and easily broken. We committed ourselves to following Jesus heart and soul. Faithful discipleship cannot avoid the walk to Jerusalem and the confrontation with principalities and powers. As members of Jesus’ body, as adopted and beloved children of God, we cannot be bystanders in the fulfillment of God’s promises. Jesus comes up behind us too. In our questions and doubts, we might say to him, “Quo vadis, Domine, where are you going, Lord?” His answer will always be the same, “To the Cross.” And then he will say to us, “Where are you going?” My answer, God willing, will be, “I will go wherever you lead me.”
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Baptized in Water
Where is your baptismal certificate? For more than half his life Mario had been homeless.1 Before coming to the church shelter he had lived on the streets of New York. The friends who came to his sixtieth birthday party at the shelter declared that he didn’t look sixty. Mario answered by reaching into his coat pocket and taking out his birth certificate. Yes, indeed, he was sixty years old. Then Mario said, “Wanna see my baptismal certificate?” He pulled it out. The certificate said that Mario had been baptized as an infant in an Episcopal Church on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Why had Mario carried his baptismal certificate with him as he roamed the streets of Manhattan?
Why did Jesus come to the Jordan to be baptized by John? This question haunted the early church. If John’s baptism was for the cleansing of sin, and Jesus was indeed sinless, why did he need to undergo John’s rite? More to the point, if John was the Messiah’s forerunner, not “worthy to carry his sandals,” why did Jesus come to John asking for baptism? The account of Jesus’ baptism, as recorded in the gospel of Matthew, gives us some clues as to how the early church began to answer these questions.
After having provided Jesus’ genealogy, some details about his birth, and the account of the discovery of Jesus by the Persian astrologers, Matthew has brought us to the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry. In his account Matthew suggests that, to begin with, Jesus came to the Jordan in fulfillment of God’s commands. Using water as a sacramental means of purification and repentance was an established rite in Jesus’ time. Indeed, even today, among Orthodox Jews, ritual bathing is required for converts to Judaism and for women at the close of their menstrual periods. By allowing himself to be baptized, Jesus showed that he too, as an observant Jew, was willing to do what God required of him. His response to John’s reluctance to immerse him reflects and exemplifies his humble obedience: “It is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”
More important, in undergoing baptism, in being willing to experience all that those around him were experiencing, Jesus joined himself fully to our human condition. He was doing what his people did. Though he himself was sinless, he “inaugurated his public ministry by identifying with ‘the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem.’ He identified himself with the faults and failures, the pains and problems, of all the broken people who had flocked to the Jordan River. By wading into the waters with them he took his place beside us.”2
In the account of what transpired after Jesus went down into the water, the evangelist tells us something even more important. As he rose from the Jordan, Jesus had a vision. He saw the Holy Spirit descend on him. In that moment he knew himself empowered for ministry and commissioned as God’s anointed one. And more: a voice from heaven publicly proclaimed Jesus’ identity: “This is my Son, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Not “You are my Son, the beloved,” as in the gospels of Mark and Luke, but “This is my Son.” If Jesus, the onlookers at the Jordan, the hearers of Matthew’s gospel, or we had any doubts as to Jesus’ identity, those doubts must surely have been dispelled in that moment.
Obedient, in solidarity with broken human beings, affirmed, empowered, and commissioned, Jesus was all that and more as he went down into and arose from the Jordan. And here’s the good news: the waters that rolled over Jesus have also rolled over us. We too went down into the Jordan with Jesus, and we too came up out of the water with him. The baptismal font is our River Jordan. Whether we were brought to the font by someone else, or whether we came of our own free will, whether we were immersed or sprinkled, Jesus was standing beside us as those waters flowed over us. As we rose from the water, the Holy Spirit descended on us, and God publicly proclaimed us to be God’s beloved children. And in joining ourselves to Jesus, we too are affirmed, empowered, and commissioned.
Do you believe that you are affirmed by God, that you are God’s beloved child? Believe it! You are. You are loved, and accepted and affirmed by God unconditionally and forever. Yet it’s so easy to forget God’s affirmation of us. As children, we may have difficulty in school and discover that we don’t measure up. As teens we may hear other teens deride our ethnicity, our clothing, our taste in music, or our interest in science. The media bombard us as adults with messages reminding us that we are not sufficiently successful, rich, beautiful, athletic, educated, fashionable, or technologically with it – whatever message will sell the next new product. We may stop hearing God’s voice and forget that we are God’s beloved children. So try this exercise. How would you respond to questions like these?3 Do you think that Jesus might be proud of you, proud of you for trusting and believing in him? Might Jesus be proud of you for not giving up on yourself and others and for trusting that he can help you? Do you ever think that Jesus appreciates that you want him, and that you are willing to let go of all that separates you from him? Do you ever think that Jesus is grateful to you for all the many ways in which you show kindness and generosity to others? Do you ever think Jesus wonders why you can’t believe that he has forgiven you totally, or why you think are not loved?
When we know ourselves as beloved children, we also begin to see that God has declared all of us to be beloved children. There is literally no one who is outside the circle of God’s love, even those with whom we violently disagree. Gene Robinson, the retired bishop of New Hampshire and first openly gay bishop in the Episcopal Church, said of Peter Akinola, the archbishop of Nigeria, who strongly opposed Robinson’s consecration, “By virtue of our baptism, Peter Akinola and I are brothers in Christ and one day we are going to be in heaven together, so we might as well learn to get along here because we will have to get along there. God won’t have it any other way.” When we meet those whom we think are unattractive, lazy, dishonest, or hateful do we forget that they too are God’s children? Do we let our own judgments about people drown out God’s affirmation of others? Most important, do we understand that because all of us have been affirmed by God, with Jesus, we have been empowered by the Holy Spirit and commissioned to be Jesus in the world? Do we realize and accept that we have been gifted with the power and the charge to care for all those for whom Jesus cared, those who are poor, oppressed, in need, and unloved? Do we know that we have been called to pursue justice and peace? Are we willing to take up the charge of creating communities of love and inviting those around us into them?
One wonders what Mario experienced on the streets of New York. Those who glanced at him as they walked by probably saw a bum, a homeless panhandler. Did they decide that he was part of the “undeserving poor,” someone who didn’t deserve government assistance or decent clothes or access to the kind of healthcare that you and I routinely enjoy? Did they even wonder whether local shelters and food banks had adequate funding? As I listen to the stories of people who come to Loaves and Fishes sometimes I ask myself the same questions. Recently another parishioner and I saw to it that one of our regular diners, someone who lives in an unheated garage, had a can of kerosene for the space heater that provides his only heat.
Mario was fortunate to finally find a congregation that recognized him as another of God’s beloved children. They understood that his baptismal certificate was an affirmation of his status as someone beloved of God, someone who deserved their care. They welcomed him into their shelter and into their hearts. They claimed him as one of their own.
As we live out our own lives, can we hear again God’s voice at our baptisms? The waters that washed over Jesus also washed over us. If the voice in your head is disparaging and judgmental, try saying to yourself, “I am God’s beloved child, and with me God is well pleased.” If the voice in your head turns toward another in judgment and criticism, say to yourself, “You are also God’s beloved child, and with you God is also well pleased.” Then accept the Spirit’s power and commit yourself to following Jesus up from the water and out into the world.
1. Based on Patricia J. Calahan, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Gospels, Matthew, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox), 44ff.
2. Daniel B. Clendinen, “Journey with Jesus,” January 12, 2014, http://www.journeywithjesus.net/index.shtml .
3. Adapted from A Glimpse of Jesus: The Stranger to Self-Hatred, quoted in Synthesis, January 12, 2014.
Why did Jesus come to the Jordan to be baptized by John? This question haunted the early church. If John’s baptism was for the cleansing of sin, and Jesus was indeed sinless, why did he need to undergo John’s rite? More to the point, if John was the Messiah’s forerunner, not “worthy to carry his sandals,” why did Jesus come to John asking for baptism? The account of Jesus’ baptism, as recorded in the gospel of Matthew, gives us some clues as to how the early church began to answer these questions.
After having provided Jesus’ genealogy, some details about his birth, and the account of the discovery of Jesus by the Persian astrologers, Matthew has brought us to the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry. In his account Matthew suggests that, to begin with, Jesus came to the Jordan in fulfillment of God’s commands. Using water as a sacramental means of purification and repentance was an established rite in Jesus’ time. Indeed, even today, among Orthodox Jews, ritual bathing is required for converts to Judaism and for women at the close of their menstrual periods. By allowing himself to be baptized, Jesus showed that he too, as an observant Jew, was willing to do what God required of him. His response to John’s reluctance to immerse him reflects and exemplifies his humble obedience: “It is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.”
More important, in undergoing baptism, in being willing to experience all that those around him were experiencing, Jesus joined himself fully to our human condition. He was doing what his people did. Though he himself was sinless, he “inaugurated his public ministry by identifying with ‘the whole Judean countryside and all the people of Jerusalem.’ He identified himself with the faults and failures, the pains and problems, of all the broken people who had flocked to the Jordan River. By wading into the waters with them he took his place beside us.”2
In the account of what transpired after Jesus went down into the water, the evangelist tells us something even more important. As he rose from the Jordan, Jesus had a vision. He saw the Holy Spirit descend on him. In that moment he knew himself empowered for ministry and commissioned as God’s anointed one. And more: a voice from heaven publicly proclaimed Jesus’ identity: “This is my Son, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” Not “You are my Son, the beloved,” as in the gospels of Mark and Luke, but “This is my Son.” If Jesus, the onlookers at the Jordan, the hearers of Matthew’s gospel, or we had any doubts as to Jesus’ identity, those doubts must surely have been dispelled in that moment.
Obedient, in solidarity with broken human beings, affirmed, empowered, and commissioned, Jesus was all that and more as he went down into and arose from the Jordan. And here’s the good news: the waters that rolled over Jesus have also rolled over us. We too went down into the Jordan with Jesus, and we too came up out of the water with him. The baptismal font is our River Jordan. Whether we were brought to the font by someone else, or whether we came of our own free will, whether we were immersed or sprinkled, Jesus was standing beside us as those waters flowed over us. As we rose from the water, the Holy Spirit descended on us, and God publicly proclaimed us to be God’s beloved children. And in joining ourselves to Jesus, we too are affirmed, empowered, and commissioned.
Do you believe that you are affirmed by God, that you are God’s beloved child? Believe it! You are. You are loved, and accepted and affirmed by God unconditionally and forever. Yet it’s so easy to forget God’s affirmation of us. As children, we may have difficulty in school and discover that we don’t measure up. As teens we may hear other teens deride our ethnicity, our clothing, our taste in music, or our interest in science. The media bombard us as adults with messages reminding us that we are not sufficiently successful, rich, beautiful, athletic, educated, fashionable, or technologically with it – whatever message will sell the next new product. We may stop hearing God’s voice and forget that we are God’s beloved children. So try this exercise. How would you respond to questions like these?3 Do you think that Jesus might be proud of you, proud of you for trusting and believing in him? Might Jesus be proud of you for not giving up on yourself and others and for trusting that he can help you? Do you ever think that Jesus appreciates that you want him, and that you are willing to let go of all that separates you from him? Do you ever think that Jesus is grateful to you for all the many ways in which you show kindness and generosity to others? Do you ever think Jesus wonders why you can’t believe that he has forgiven you totally, or why you think are not loved?
When we know ourselves as beloved children, we also begin to see that God has declared all of us to be beloved children. There is literally no one who is outside the circle of God’s love, even those with whom we violently disagree. Gene Robinson, the retired bishop of New Hampshire and first openly gay bishop in the Episcopal Church, said of Peter Akinola, the archbishop of Nigeria, who strongly opposed Robinson’s consecration, “By virtue of our baptism, Peter Akinola and I are brothers in Christ and one day we are going to be in heaven together, so we might as well learn to get along here because we will have to get along there. God won’t have it any other way.” When we meet those whom we think are unattractive, lazy, dishonest, or hateful do we forget that they too are God’s children? Do we let our own judgments about people drown out God’s affirmation of others? Most important, do we understand that because all of us have been affirmed by God, with Jesus, we have been empowered by the Holy Spirit and commissioned to be Jesus in the world? Do we realize and accept that we have been gifted with the power and the charge to care for all those for whom Jesus cared, those who are poor, oppressed, in need, and unloved? Do we know that we have been called to pursue justice and peace? Are we willing to take up the charge of creating communities of love and inviting those around us into them?
One wonders what Mario experienced on the streets of New York. Those who glanced at him as they walked by probably saw a bum, a homeless panhandler. Did they decide that he was part of the “undeserving poor,” someone who didn’t deserve government assistance or decent clothes or access to the kind of healthcare that you and I routinely enjoy? Did they even wonder whether local shelters and food banks had adequate funding? As I listen to the stories of people who come to Loaves and Fishes sometimes I ask myself the same questions. Recently another parishioner and I saw to it that one of our regular diners, someone who lives in an unheated garage, had a can of kerosene for the space heater that provides his only heat.
Mario was fortunate to finally find a congregation that recognized him as another of God’s beloved children. They understood that his baptismal certificate was an affirmation of his status as someone beloved of God, someone who deserved their care. They welcomed him into their shelter and into their hearts. They claimed him as one of their own.
As we live out our own lives, can we hear again God’s voice at our baptisms? The waters that washed over Jesus also washed over us. If the voice in your head is disparaging and judgmental, try saying to yourself, “I am God’s beloved child, and with me God is well pleased.” If the voice in your head turns toward another in judgment and criticism, say to yourself, “You are also God’s beloved child, and with you God is also well pleased.” Then accept the Spirit’s power and commit yourself to following Jesus up from the water and out into the world.
1. Based on Patricia J. Calahan, “Pastoral Perspective,” Feasting on the Gospels, Matthew, Vol. 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox), 44ff.
2. Daniel B. Clendinen, “Journey with Jesus,” January 12, 2014, http://www.journeywithjesus.net/index.shtml .
3. Adapted from A Glimpse of Jesus: The Stranger to Self-Hatred, quoted in Synthesis, January 12, 2014.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Seekers
I’ll never forget that day as long as I live. It was a long time ago, but I can still remember it all: the journey, Herod, the house, the child. There are days when I still can’t believe we really did it, really actually saw the child, especially since we had such a hard time finding him. But it was all worth it. My life has never been the same since. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
We were astrologers. Well, I was really an apprentice, but I was far enough along that my master slipped me into the travelling party. We lived in Persepolis, in the eastern part of the Persian Empire. We were Zoroastrians at that time. As astrologers, we diligently studied the skies. We read all the old treatises and knew exactly where all the stars, comets, and galaxies were. We knew how the Sumerians, the Greeks, and the Buddhists had mapped out the constellations. About that time, we’d had some inkling that some kind of shift or transformation was about to take place in the universe, but no one was sure what it was, or how we would know that it had happened.
One night my master came running in from the observation room. “The House of the Jews,” he shouted, “It’s in the House of the Jews!” “What is, master?” I asked. “It’s a star I’ve never seen before in that constellation,” he shouted. “Call the others!” After the others had studied the House of the Jews, they tentatively agreed that there seemed to be a new star there. None of them could say for sure the meaning of such a sign. My master, though, was sure that this star was the sign of the transformation we had been expecting. He said, “I feel a stirring, deep down. Some of us most go to Jerusalem, to the center of the land of the Jews and find out what this star means.” Most of the others looked at my master doubtfully. Jerusalem? Travel a thousand miles just because you think you see a new star?
My master was determined. He doggedly pursued his friends, and finally a few other astrologers agreed to go with him. They had to raise funds for the trip. They had to buy the provisions and equipment. They had to arrange for the camels and the camel drivers. My master had to get a letter of introduction to the government in Jerusalem. Once we started, it should have taken us about two months to get to Jerusalem. But we got lost several times. People sent us in the wrong direction. Some of the roads were washed out. The camels got sick, and one even died. And the camel drivers demanded that we spend longer than just one night whenever we stopped at a caravanserai. And, of course, none of us knew exactly where we were going. My master had figured out that we were looking for “the king of the Jews,” but he had no idea where this king might actually be.
At last we reached Jerusalem. We took our letters of introduction to Herod’s palace and actually got an audience with the great man. My master asked point blank, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?” Herod and his courtiers went white. Trembling, Herod called for his priestly advisors. His voice shook as he asked them what Scripture had foretold about the birth of the Messiah. “Bethlehem,” they said. With that, Herod sent us on our way, reminding us to come back and let him know where this child was, so that he too could worship him. I was skeptical. Herod had called himself the “king of the Jews.” Would he really let someone else, a child, usurp his power?
Although Bethlehem was only six miles away from Herod’s palace, again we got lost. It took us a while to find the right gate out of the city. When we got to Bethlehem we wandered around for a while. We reached a small house on the street of the carpenters. “This is it!” my master shouted. “Are you sure?” the others said. “This small house? We thought we were looking for another king.” My master gingerly knocked. I held my breath. A man ushered us in. And there he was, the most beautiful child I had ever seen, a toddler, maybe eighteen months old or so, sitting on his mother’s lap. Seeing us, he leapt up and ran to us. He laughed and crowed and opened his arms to welcome us. We were awe-struck. For several minutes we couldn’t do anything but kneel there gazing at him. When he laughed some more, we unfroze and began to unpack our bags and pull out the gifts we had carefully carried all the way from Persepolis, gold, incense and myrrh. Even now, I wonder how my master actually found the child. I wonder if the child knew who we were. I wonder what his mother thought when she saw what we had brought.
We found a place to stay for a few days. Then we knew it was time to go back. The night before we were to leave my master had a dream. “We’re not going back to Herod,” he said, “that old fox is up to no good.” The locals told us how to get back to Persia without going through Jerusalem. Later, I shuddered as I heard that Herod, instead of worshipping the holy child, had ordered his soldiers to kill all the boys in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or younger. “It’s OK,” said my master. “Herod didn’t find him. His parents had already taken him to safety in Egypt.”
I’m an old man now. I have children, grandchildren, and even great grandchildren. They are all wonderful people. But something about that child made him more wonderful than any other child I’ve ever known. And my life changed forever the day I saw him. I knew myself as loved and accepted by God in a way I had never known before. How grateful I am that my master saw that miraculous sign and persuaded us all to join him on that wondrous journey.
Only Matthew tells us this story. And what a wonderful story it is. How can it be that foreigners, people from Iran, a country from which the U.S. is currently estranged, were the first to sense the true identity of the holy child? Could it be that God’s revelations sometimes come to outsiders, not only to faithful Christians or Jews? Is it possible that God’s revelations even come to our enemies or to those we think undeserving of God’s love? How could it be that the Persian astrologers were led not by Scripture, but by a celestial phenomenon? Could it be that God speaks through the non-human world as well as through the human world? Could it be that birds and fish and bears and deer, even our own companion animals, reveal something to us of God? How could it be that God spoke to the astrologers through dreams? Could God be speaking to us too through our dreams, through our hopes, wishes, fears, and joys?
How could it be that the astrologers trusted God to lead them back home by an alternate route? As 2014 begins, many of us are not where we thought we might be. Perhaps unexpected changes have occurred in our families, in our jobs, in our health, and in our relationships. Perhaps someone has lost a loved one or been forced to change living arrangements. Just by virtue of being a year older, we are travelling by a different road than we travelled last year. Even so, like the Persian astrologers we too can trust God to continue to reveal Godself to us and to lead us on the challenging alternative roads of our lives.
Laura Sumner Truax reminds us that, “The Magi are traveling companions for us in our information-rich age and especially good for us to emulate as we put one year to bed and once again hold out hope for the new one. Our plans may seem set, but just as 2013 took many of us in a different direction, so will 2014.”1 And as we set forth, we may not have any better information than the astrologers. Even though we have diligently read the Bible, faithfully worshipped, and fervently prayed, we still may have only a dim sense of who God is and what God desires for us. We still may not know exactly where God is leading us. We still may get stuck or discouraged and wonder who can give us accurate directions. We still may encounter detours and alternate routes, even to return home. We still may have to endure losing companions along the way.
Here is the good news: God is with us. Wherever we are on our spiritual journey, neophyte, beginner, wanderer, wonderer, or old soul, God is with us. God will lead us, sustain us, and bring us home. And “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”
1. “Reflections on the Lectionary,” Christian Century, 130, 26, Dec. 25, 2013, p. 19.
We were astrologers. Well, I was really an apprentice, but I was far enough along that my master slipped me into the travelling party. We lived in Persepolis, in the eastern part of the Persian Empire. We were Zoroastrians at that time. As astrologers, we diligently studied the skies. We read all the old treatises and knew exactly where all the stars, comets, and galaxies were. We knew how the Sumerians, the Greeks, and the Buddhists had mapped out the constellations. About that time, we’d had some inkling that some kind of shift or transformation was about to take place in the universe, but no one was sure what it was, or how we would know that it had happened.
One night my master came running in from the observation room. “The House of the Jews,” he shouted, “It’s in the House of the Jews!” “What is, master?” I asked. “It’s a star I’ve never seen before in that constellation,” he shouted. “Call the others!” After the others had studied the House of the Jews, they tentatively agreed that there seemed to be a new star there. None of them could say for sure the meaning of such a sign. My master, though, was sure that this star was the sign of the transformation we had been expecting. He said, “I feel a stirring, deep down. Some of us most go to Jerusalem, to the center of the land of the Jews and find out what this star means.” Most of the others looked at my master doubtfully. Jerusalem? Travel a thousand miles just because you think you see a new star?
My master was determined. He doggedly pursued his friends, and finally a few other astrologers agreed to go with him. They had to raise funds for the trip. They had to buy the provisions and equipment. They had to arrange for the camels and the camel drivers. My master had to get a letter of introduction to the government in Jerusalem. Once we started, it should have taken us about two months to get to Jerusalem. But we got lost several times. People sent us in the wrong direction. Some of the roads were washed out. The camels got sick, and one even died. And the camel drivers demanded that we spend longer than just one night whenever we stopped at a caravanserai. And, of course, none of us knew exactly where we were going. My master had figured out that we were looking for “the king of the Jews,” but he had no idea where this king might actually be.
At last we reached Jerusalem. We took our letters of introduction to Herod’s palace and actually got an audience with the great man. My master asked point blank, “Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?” Herod and his courtiers went white. Trembling, Herod called for his priestly advisors. His voice shook as he asked them what Scripture had foretold about the birth of the Messiah. “Bethlehem,” they said. With that, Herod sent us on our way, reminding us to come back and let him know where this child was, so that he too could worship him. I was skeptical. Herod had called himself the “king of the Jews.” Would he really let someone else, a child, usurp his power?
Although Bethlehem was only six miles away from Herod’s palace, again we got lost. It took us a while to find the right gate out of the city. When we got to Bethlehem we wandered around for a while. We reached a small house on the street of the carpenters. “This is it!” my master shouted. “Are you sure?” the others said. “This small house? We thought we were looking for another king.” My master gingerly knocked. I held my breath. A man ushered us in. And there he was, the most beautiful child I had ever seen, a toddler, maybe eighteen months old or so, sitting on his mother’s lap. Seeing us, he leapt up and ran to us. He laughed and crowed and opened his arms to welcome us. We were awe-struck. For several minutes we couldn’t do anything but kneel there gazing at him. When he laughed some more, we unfroze and began to unpack our bags and pull out the gifts we had carefully carried all the way from Persepolis, gold, incense and myrrh. Even now, I wonder how my master actually found the child. I wonder if the child knew who we were. I wonder what his mother thought when she saw what we had brought.
We found a place to stay for a few days. Then we knew it was time to go back. The night before we were to leave my master had a dream. “We’re not going back to Herod,” he said, “that old fox is up to no good.” The locals told us how to get back to Persia without going through Jerusalem. Later, I shuddered as I heard that Herod, instead of worshipping the holy child, had ordered his soldiers to kill all the boys in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or younger. “It’s OK,” said my master. “Herod didn’t find him. His parents had already taken him to safety in Egypt.”
I’m an old man now. I have children, grandchildren, and even great grandchildren. They are all wonderful people. But something about that child made him more wonderful than any other child I’ve ever known. And my life changed forever the day I saw him. I knew myself as loved and accepted by God in a way I had never known before. How grateful I am that my master saw that miraculous sign and persuaded us all to join him on that wondrous journey.
Only Matthew tells us this story. And what a wonderful story it is. How can it be that foreigners, people from Iran, a country from which the U.S. is currently estranged, were the first to sense the true identity of the holy child? Could it be that God’s revelations sometimes come to outsiders, not only to faithful Christians or Jews? Is it possible that God’s revelations even come to our enemies or to those we think undeserving of God’s love? How could it be that the Persian astrologers were led not by Scripture, but by a celestial phenomenon? Could it be that God speaks through the non-human world as well as through the human world? Could it be that birds and fish and bears and deer, even our own companion animals, reveal something to us of God? How could it be that God spoke to the astrologers through dreams? Could God be speaking to us too through our dreams, through our hopes, wishes, fears, and joys?
How could it be that the astrologers trusted God to lead them back home by an alternate route? As 2014 begins, many of us are not where we thought we might be. Perhaps unexpected changes have occurred in our families, in our jobs, in our health, and in our relationships. Perhaps someone has lost a loved one or been forced to change living arrangements. Just by virtue of being a year older, we are travelling by a different road than we travelled last year. Even so, like the Persian astrologers we too can trust God to continue to reveal Godself to us and to lead us on the challenging alternative roads of our lives.
Laura Sumner Truax reminds us that, “The Magi are traveling companions for us in our information-rich age and especially good for us to emulate as we put one year to bed and once again hold out hope for the new one. Our plans may seem set, but just as 2013 took many of us in a different direction, so will 2014.”1 And as we set forth, we may not have any better information than the astrologers. Even though we have diligently read the Bible, faithfully worshipped, and fervently prayed, we still may have only a dim sense of who God is and what God desires for us. We still may not know exactly where God is leading us. We still may get stuck or discouraged and wonder who can give us accurate directions. We still may encounter detours and alternate routes, even to return home. We still may have to endure losing companions along the way.
Here is the good news: God is with us. Wherever we are on our spiritual journey, neophyte, beginner, wanderer, wonderer, or old soul, God is with us. God will lead us, sustain us, and bring us home. And “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”
1. “Reflections on the Lectionary,” Christian Century, 130, 26, Dec. 25, 2013, p. 19.
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