“Where did you meet the risen Christ this Easter?” The question from my spiritual director stopped me in my tracks. I couldn’t answer it, so she decided to tell her own story. She is a Dominican sister, and for some years she had worked in adult formation in a large Columbus parish. For the Easter vigil this year, she and another sister decided to go back to that parish. As she was walking into the sanctuary, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around. It was a man she had worked with some years back. Let’s call him “Bill.” When my director had first met him, Bill was an alcoholic. He had already lost two marriages and declared bankruptcy twice. Things went well for a while. But by the time my director left that parish, Bill had gone back to drinking, lost another business, and dropped away from the church. However, one look at Bill’s face at the Easter vigil this year told my director that something had changed. “Sister,” said Bill excitedly, “I’ve cleared up my debts, my business is stable, and I’ve been sober for two years!”
Where do we meet the risen Christ? Where did Thomas meet the risen Christ? Actually, if you think about it, we have an odd set of readings for this Sunday. In our lesson from the Acts of the Apostles, we hear Peter’s declaration that he must obey God rather than human authorities, and that, as a witness, he must continue to proclaim Christ crucified and risen. Our psalm exhorts us to praise God joyfully and noisily, most especially for God’s “mighty acts.” In our reading from the book of Revelation, which we will hear throughout Easter tide, John of Ephesus proclaims the Christ “who is and who was and who is to come.” He reminds us that the same Christ has brought us into a kingdom, in which we are all priests – all of us.
And then we hear the gospel passage, which, at first glance, seems to contrast with the joy of the other lessons, especially the exuberant tone of the psalm. It’s a passage, as you’ve just heard, with two episodes. In the first we see the anxious disciples, afraid that they will be the next to be executed. Jesus comes among them and reassures them. He gives them a commission: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” Then Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit into them. They are good to go.
We don’t know why Thomas wasn’t with the group of disciples when Jesus appeared to them that Easter evening. Actually, we don’t know much about him at all. We might infer from the three times that he appears in the Gospel of John that he bluntly “tells it like it is.” We first saw him when Jesus heard of the death of Lazarus. Jesus decided to return to Bethany, even though he knew that he was a marked man. “Come along,” Thomas said to the others, “we might as well die with him.” We next encountered Thomas at Jesus’ last meal with his friends. Jesus told them that they would live as he did, since they knew where he was going. Thomas countered, “Master, we have no idea where you’re going. How do you expect us to know the way?”
And now here we are, a week after Jesus first visited the frightened disciples. Like many of us, Thomas refused to accept hearsay evidence. Someone else’s report of the risen Christ would not convince him. And really, wasn’t such good news too good to be true? As we know, he was not the first or the only one to wonder about reports that Jesus had been raised. Thomas was especially not ready to believe that Jesus had been raised – not after that horrific execution. If you were Thomas, would you have believed such a report?
By God’s grace, Thomas receives the confirmation that he needs. He meets the risen Jesus. Jesus has all the wounds that prove that it is he, not a ghost nor a hoax, nor some other deity. Thomas is then able to make a deep profession of faith: “My Lord and my God.” Then Jesus gently reminds Thomas that all those who follow Thomas in faith will not need to see Jesus’ physical body to trust that Jesus was indeed raised from the dead. We hear no more of Thomas in John’s gospel, but perhaps he received the same commission as the other disciples. Tradition has it that Thomas spread the good news in India. In fact, the Mar Thoma church in south India traces its founding to Thomas.
So where do we meet the risen Christ today? We are among those who will not see Jesus’ physical body. But is God still bringing life from death? As I continued to meditate on my director’s question, I thought about a woman I have come to know through the Wellstreams program. When I first met her, I was sure she was “not my type.” And indeed, at first glance ours is an unlikely friendship: she is about fifteen years younger than I, has been a stay-at-home mom to five children, is delightfully artistic, and is a committed Roman Catholic. By God’s grace, when she contacted me after the program ended, I was able to say “yes,” and we have met regularly over coffee ever since. Our relationship has been a gift to me, and I felt truly blessed by our last visit. Has the risen Christ made himself known to me in her?
Perhaps Episcopal priest and writer Barbara Crafton is right. Crafton has a daily e-message. For the last few months, she has been sending paintings of Scripture stories, with her own commentary. On Friday she sent a picture of a painting by the early twentieth-century African-American artist, Henry Ossawa Turner. Depicting Peter and John at the empty tomb, the painting shows a somber, puzzled-looking Peter. On the other hand, John is transfixed. He is radiant and glows with an inner light. We know he has had a life-changing experience. Instinct tells me that Crafton is right. “We see the resurrected Christ best,” she says, “by seeing the people who see him.”
But there’s more. As the frightened disciples, the walkers on the road to Emmaus, and Thomas discovered, the risen Christ also shows up in unexpected places, in places where old lives are being renewed, where people are welcomed into fellowship, where death is turned to life. Look around you, you may discover him too. Here are some other places he has recently turned up. Marcel Visser discovered the risen Christ through his friendship with a member of the L’Arche community for disabled adults in Cape Breton, Canada. In the Za’atari refugee camp in Jordan, Ibrahim, a six year-old Syrian refugee who is deaf, is learning sign language through the Holy Land Institute for the Deaf and its partner agencies. Ibrahim and other refugee children like him might have been condemned to a minimal life. However, with the support of Episcopal Relief and Development and other organizations, hearing-impaired children, blind children, even those with mental disabilities are receiving education and, with it, hope for the future.
And one more. I don’t normally read the Sunday New York Times sports pages. However, a couple of days ago, an article caught my eye, and I knew that the risen Christ had unexpectedly turned up in, of all places, a boxing club in Toronto.1 You’ll see all the trappings of a standard boxing club in the Newsgirls Boxing Club: a rope, rings, speed bags, heavy bags, and a punching mannequin. Initially aimed at women, the club is now a welcoming haven for all. The club especially welcomes transgender people, who often find daily life difficult, even dangerous. For many the club is a place of sanctuary and empowerment, even though they will never box anywhere else. Recently, a newcomer to the club, who had come for a few times, asked club founder Savoy Howe a simple question that profoundly moved her. “Why are you so nice to trans people?” the person asked. Howe’s eyes filled with tears as she told the interviewer the story. Then she paused, composed herself, and said, “I mean, why wouldn’t you be?”
And you? Where did you meet the risen Christ this Easter? Where are you meeting him? Have you met him at the altar, when he nourishes you with his Body and Blood? Have you met him in your own prayer time, when you stay silent long enough to hear his faint whispers? Have you seen him in the faces of other people who have seen him? Or perhaps you have met him in your loved ones and friends, those who minister to you and bless you, and those with whom you share God’s blessings. Have you met him in nature, when you look with loving eyes on the beautiful earth which God has given us? Have you met him in the faces of those whom you serve, in work or ministry? Or perhaps he has turned up in places where you never expected he would turn up, in places where outcasts are welcomed, the neglected are cared for, and lives are transformed.
I invite you this week to look around you, to see if by chance the risen Christ has shown up. Be sure: he has and he will. And when he does, he will reassure you that, although we do not see his physical body, we are still blessed with his presence in our lives.
1. David Waldstein, “Sunday Sports,” March 27, 2016, pp. 1, 6.
Sunday, April 3, 2016
Sunday, March 27, 2016
An Idle Tale?
“But they did not believe the women because their words seemed to them like nonsense.”
In the shadowy half-light of a Sunday dawn a band of faithful women clambered over the rocks and up to the tomb where the body of Jesus, their beloved friend and teacher, had been placed on Friday afternoon. Most of these women had followed Jesus since the very beginning of his ministry, and some of them had used their own funds to support Jesus. They saw how he healed people and lovingly listened to everyone who came to him. They saw how he especially welcomed women, poor people, tax collectors, and even gentiles. They heard him teach in the synagogues and tell stories in the villages. They heard him declare that God’s reign had come close to them. They were there too at Jesus’ last meal with his friends, sitting on the floor, or perhaps in an area screened off from the men. They were there at the cross, standing silently by, watching him die like a common criminal. They followed his body to Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb, anointed his body for burial, and watched as the stone covering the mouth of the tomb was rolled in place. Unlike most of Jesus’ other friends, the faithful women didn’t betray him, deny him, or flee from him.
Then in that shadowy dawn, the women had a shattering experience. The rock covering the mouth of the tomb where Jesus’ body had been laid had been rolled back, the tomb was empty, and two men stood near it. Angels? Terrified, the women fell to the ground. Then the strangers flung a question at the women, “Why are you looking for the Living One in a cemetery?”1 As the women stood up, they slowly began to think of all that Jesus had taught. They remembered how he had interpreted Scripture and some of the things he had said about himself. They remembered that he had taken pains to remind Peter and all the rest of his friends that, “It is necessary that the Son of Man proceed to an ordeal of suffering, be tried and found guilty by the religious leaders, high priests, and scholars, be killed, and on the third day be raised up alive.” As the sun rose higher in the sky, suddenly the truth dawned on the faithful women, and they knew that something new and totally unexpected had happened. They ran to tell the others, but “but the apostles didn’t believe a word of it, thought they were making it all up.” Even after Peter went to look for himself, he still wasn’t convinced.
No surprise. In his accounts of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection, and of the earliest experiences of his followers, Luke stresses how difficult it was for people to believe that Jesus had been raised – unless they went back to the Scriptures and thought about what Jesus had said. At the same time that Peter was shaking his head in puzzlement, two of Jesus’ other followers were walking to the village of Emmaus. They related to the stranger who had joined them on the walk all that had just taken place in Jerusalem, not realizing that they were speaking with the risen Jesus. Seemingly exasperated, Jesus said, “So thick-headed! So slow-hearted! Why can’t you simply believe all that the prophets said? Don’t you see that these things had to happen, that the Messiah had to suffer and only then enter into his glory?” Only when Jesus broke bread with them did they fully see him.
The two disciples ran back to Jerusalem, right to Peter and the others, and told them all that had just happened. Then Jesus himself appeared among them all, but, “They still couldn’t believe what they were seeing. It was too much; it seemed too good to be true.” Only when Jesus helped them to understand the Scriptures did the truth begin to dawn on them. And when Jesus reminded them that were witnesses of what had happened to him, they began to see that they too might be called to tell others about what had taken place.
So is the story of Jesus’ being raised sheer nonsense? At the very end of Matthew’s gospel, some of the eleven disciples still doubted. We’ll hear the story next week of how difficult it was for Thomas to believe that Jesus had been raised. Some of the Corinthian Christians must have doubted the truth of Jesus’ resurrection. Why else would Paul have had to remind them, “Face it – if there’s no resurrection for Christ, everything we’ve told you is smoke and mirrors.” If Jesus’ being raised from the dead were sheer nonsense, could Peter, an unlettered fisherman, have convinced Cornelius, a centurion of the Italian Cohort, and all his household, that God raised Jesus on the third day, and that the Scriptures testify that Jesus is God’s anointed one?
And yet, the whole story is still so hard to believe! Doubt in Jesus’ resurrection has a long history – and for good reason. None of us were witnesses. None of us travelled with Jesus and his friends. None of us heard him teach or saw him heal. None of us saw Jesus hanging on a cross between two thieves. None of us wept with the women. But we do know death. We do know the death of a loved one. We do know the death of a relationship, whose loss leaves unfillable holes in our hearts. We do know the death of hopes and dreams, as our work for a peaceful and just world evaporates into yet more war, violence, and injustice. We open our newspapers, or turn on our computers, smart phones, or televisions and witness yet another act of terrorism and murder: Brussels, Paris, Charleston, Newtown, Tucson. Too often, we are those people whom Paul pitied, pitied because the resurrection seems so far away from our own experience. Evangelical preacher Tony Campolo is famous for preaching on Good Friday, “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming!” Is it still Good Friday for us? Is this where we live?
By God’s grace, Good Friday is not where we live! After that shadowy dawn, the women went and told Peter and the other apostles. Perhaps they told others as well. The men on the road to Emmaus understood what had happened and told the Eleven. Peter finally understood what had happened. By God’s grace, and empowered by the Holy Spirit, Peter and others of Jesus’ friends spread the good news that Jesus had been raised from the dead and was still alive to them. Paul had a shattering experience of Jesus’ risen presence on the road to Damascus and became an eloquent preacher of the good news. Others of Jesus’ friends risked life, limb, and property to spread the good news that Jesus had been raised, that their lives were forever changed by Jesus’ resurrection, and that new life was available, by God’s grace, to all who followed Jesus. And so the good news has come down to us, to this very day, to this very place, good news brought to us across the centuries, witness by witness by witness.
No we are not stuck on Good Friday! It is Sunday! We too have heard. We may not know exactly what happened in that tomb in the rock, but we trust what we have heard. We trust Jesus’ promise that on the third day God would do something extraordinary. We too study Scripture and find in it the confirmation we seek of the reality of God and of new life in Jesus. We too trust that death is not the final answer to our brief human lives. We trust that we too will enter that larger life where time is no more, and that in a sense, as Jesus’ followers, we are already living in that life. We too trust that with God all things are possible, even our own transformation.
And we hear something else. We hear in the words of the witnesses to Jesus’ resurrected life an invitation to us, an invitation to follow Jesus and to live as he lived. Like the women who first saw the empty tomb, like the men at Emmaus, like Peter, like Thomas, like Paul, like all those who spread the good news, we too have been commissioned. We too are called to tell others that Jesus was raised from the dead, that he is the first one who was raised, but he is not the last. Where he is, there we will be.
Sometime in the 1980s, I attended a conference of feminists in the church. There were Catholic women religious there, as well as Protestant clergy women and lay women. We discussed books like Mary Daly’s Beyond God the Father, and we celebrated liturgies using feminine imagery for God. The Catholic sisters talked of their struggles with the Roman hierarchy and the call they felt to ordination as priests. The Protestant clergy women spoke of their struggle to be heard and taken seriously in churches still dominated by men. During that conference, I was given the button you see me wearing today. I’ve kept it all these years. The button says, “But they did not believe the women because their words seemed to them like nonsense.” For those of us at the conference, the words reflected our experiences in the church at that time. By God’s grace, much has changed in our churches. Although neither women nor married men are ordained yet in the Roman Catholic Church, much has changed even there. Even more has changed in the Episcopal Church, as we have learned that neither gender nor sexuality nor ethnicity nor disability are reasons to exclude people from leadership in the church.
So can I put my button away? Or does the story of Jesus’ resurrection still sound like nonsense? Not for us who believe God’s promises! Not for us who recognize Jesus at the altar and hear his voice in Scripture. Not for us, who joyfully accept his call to share the good news with others.
Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed!
1. This and subsequent Scripture quotes are taken from The Message.
In the shadowy half-light of a Sunday dawn a band of faithful women clambered over the rocks and up to the tomb where the body of Jesus, their beloved friend and teacher, had been placed on Friday afternoon. Most of these women had followed Jesus since the very beginning of his ministry, and some of them had used their own funds to support Jesus. They saw how he healed people and lovingly listened to everyone who came to him. They saw how he especially welcomed women, poor people, tax collectors, and even gentiles. They heard him teach in the synagogues and tell stories in the villages. They heard him declare that God’s reign had come close to them. They were there too at Jesus’ last meal with his friends, sitting on the floor, or perhaps in an area screened off from the men. They were there at the cross, standing silently by, watching him die like a common criminal. They followed his body to Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb, anointed his body for burial, and watched as the stone covering the mouth of the tomb was rolled in place. Unlike most of Jesus’ other friends, the faithful women didn’t betray him, deny him, or flee from him.
Then in that shadowy dawn, the women had a shattering experience. The rock covering the mouth of the tomb where Jesus’ body had been laid had been rolled back, the tomb was empty, and two men stood near it. Angels? Terrified, the women fell to the ground. Then the strangers flung a question at the women, “Why are you looking for the Living One in a cemetery?”1 As the women stood up, they slowly began to think of all that Jesus had taught. They remembered how he had interpreted Scripture and some of the things he had said about himself. They remembered that he had taken pains to remind Peter and all the rest of his friends that, “It is necessary that the Son of Man proceed to an ordeal of suffering, be tried and found guilty by the religious leaders, high priests, and scholars, be killed, and on the third day be raised up alive.” As the sun rose higher in the sky, suddenly the truth dawned on the faithful women, and they knew that something new and totally unexpected had happened. They ran to tell the others, but “but the apostles didn’t believe a word of it, thought they were making it all up.” Even after Peter went to look for himself, he still wasn’t convinced.
No surprise. In his accounts of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection, and of the earliest experiences of his followers, Luke stresses how difficult it was for people to believe that Jesus had been raised – unless they went back to the Scriptures and thought about what Jesus had said. At the same time that Peter was shaking his head in puzzlement, two of Jesus’ other followers were walking to the village of Emmaus. They related to the stranger who had joined them on the walk all that had just taken place in Jerusalem, not realizing that they were speaking with the risen Jesus. Seemingly exasperated, Jesus said, “So thick-headed! So slow-hearted! Why can’t you simply believe all that the prophets said? Don’t you see that these things had to happen, that the Messiah had to suffer and only then enter into his glory?” Only when Jesus broke bread with them did they fully see him.
The two disciples ran back to Jerusalem, right to Peter and the others, and told them all that had just happened. Then Jesus himself appeared among them all, but, “They still couldn’t believe what they were seeing. It was too much; it seemed too good to be true.” Only when Jesus helped them to understand the Scriptures did the truth begin to dawn on them. And when Jesus reminded them that were witnesses of what had happened to him, they began to see that they too might be called to tell others about what had taken place.
So is the story of Jesus’ being raised sheer nonsense? At the very end of Matthew’s gospel, some of the eleven disciples still doubted. We’ll hear the story next week of how difficult it was for Thomas to believe that Jesus had been raised. Some of the Corinthian Christians must have doubted the truth of Jesus’ resurrection. Why else would Paul have had to remind them, “Face it – if there’s no resurrection for Christ, everything we’ve told you is smoke and mirrors.” If Jesus’ being raised from the dead were sheer nonsense, could Peter, an unlettered fisherman, have convinced Cornelius, a centurion of the Italian Cohort, and all his household, that God raised Jesus on the third day, and that the Scriptures testify that Jesus is God’s anointed one?
And yet, the whole story is still so hard to believe! Doubt in Jesus’ resurrection has a long history – and for good reason. None of us were witnesses. None of us travelled with Jesus and his friends. None of us heard him teach or saw him heal. None of us saw Jesus hanging on a cross between two thieves. None of us wept with the women. But we do know death. We do know the death of a loved one. We do know the death of a relationship, whose loss leaves unfillable holes in our hearts. We do know the death of hopes and dreams, as our work for a peaceful and just world evaporates into yet more war, violence, and injustice. We open our newspapers, or turn on our computers, smart phones, or televisions and witness yet another act of terrorism and murder: Brussels, Paris, Charleston, Newtown, Tucson. Too often, we are those people whom Paul pitied, pitied because the resurrection seems so far away from our own experience. Evangelical preacher Tony Campolo is famous for preaching on Good Friday, “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming!” Is it still Good Friday for us? Is this where we live?
By God’s grace, Good Friday is not where we live! After that shadowy dawn, the women went and told Peter and the other apostles. Perhaps they told others as well. The men on the road to Emmaus understood what had happened and told the Eleven. Peter finally understood what had happened. By God’s grace, and empowered by the Holy Spirit, Peter and others of Jesus’ friends spread the good news that Jesus had been raised from the dead and was still alive to them. Paul had a shattering experience of Jesus’ risen presence on the road to Damascus and became an eloquent preacher of the good news. Others of Jesus’ friends risked life, limb, and property to spread the good news that Jesus had been raised, that their lives were forever changed by Jesus’ resurrection, and that new life was available, by God’s grace, to all who followed Jesus. And so the good news has come down to us, to this very day, to this very place, good news brought to us across the centuries, witness by witness by witness.
No we are not stuck on Good Friday! It is Sunday! We too have heard. We may not know exactly what happened in that tomb in the rock, but we trust what we have heard. We trust Jesus’ promise that on the third day God would do something extraordinary. We too study Scripture and find in it the confirmation we seek of the reality of God and of new life in Jesus. We too trust that death is not the final answer to our brief human lives. We trust that we too will enter that larger life where time is no more, and that in a sense, as Jesus’ followers, we are already living in that life. We too trust that with God all things are possible, even our own transformation.
And we hear something else. We hear in the words of the witnesses to Jesus’ resurrected life an invitation to us, an invitation to follow Jesus and to live as he lived. Like the women who first saw the empty tomb, like the men at Emmaus, like Peter, like Thomas, like Paul, like all those who spread the good news, we too have been commissioned. We too are called to tell others that Jesus was raised from the dead, that he is the first one who was raised, but he is not the last. Where he is, there we will be.
Sometime in the 1980s, I attended a conference of feminists in the church. There were Catholic women religious there, as well as Protestant clergy women and lay women. We discussed books like Mary Daly’s Beyond God the Father, and we celebrated liturgies using feminine imagery for God. The Catholic sisters talked of their struggles with the Roman hierarchy and the call they felt to ordination as priests. The Protestant clergy women spoke of their struggle to be heard and taken seriously in churches still dominated by men. During that conference, I was given the button you see me wearing today. I’ve kept it all these years. The button says, “But they did not believe the women because their words seemed to them like nonsense.” For those of us at the conference, the words reflected our experiences in the church at that time. By God’s grace, much has changed in our churches. Although neither women nor married men are ordained yet in the Roman Catholic Church, much has changed even there. Even more has changed in the Episcopal Church, as we have learned that neither gender nor sexuality nor ethnicity nor disability are reasons to exclude people from leadership in the church.
So can I put my button away? Or does the story of Jesus’ resurrection still sound like nonsense? Not for us who believe God’s promises! Not for us who recognize Jesus at the altar and hear his voice in Scripture. Not for us, who joyfully accept his call to share the good news with others.
Christ is risen! The Lord is risen indeed!
1. This and subsequent Scripture quotes are taken from The Message.
Thursday, March 24, 2016
Just as I Have Loved You
A little less than a month from now, on April 22nd, this being a leap year in which the Hebrew calendar adds an extra month, Jews around the world will observe the first night of the week-long celebration of Passover. Let’s suppose that you are lucky enough to have some Jewish friends who have invited you to share their Passover meal, the Seder. Are you curious about what they do? Would you be a little nervous about joining this meal, afraid you’ll make some terrible gaffe?
When you arrive at your friends’ home, the house is sparkling clean. You hear that, as part of the cleaning, the family has given away or tossed out all foods containing yeast or leaven, and that they won’t eat leavened bread for an entire week. In the dining room, the large table is set with wine glasses and some strange looking foods. As you sit down, the host hands everyone a small prayer book called a haggadah.
You begin by blessing a first cup of wine. Then the host blesses the matzoh, the unleavened bread, saying, "This is the bread of affliction that our fathers ate in the land of Egypt. Whoever is hungry, let him come and eat; whoever is in need, let him come and conduct the Seder of Passover. This year we are here; next year in the land of Israel."
The youngest child asks questions about the Seder, which the father or host answers. As you read and sing your way through the haggadah, you experience the bitterness of slavery by eating bitter herbs, you are reminded of the mortar that the Hebrew slaves worked with by eating a mixture of chopped apples and honey, and you hear of the ten plagues that befell Egypt. For dinner, which follows the second cup of wine, you eat roasted lamb and more matzoh.
After dinner, you drink wine two more times, the host opens the door inviting the prophet Elijah into the gathering, you recite more prayers, and you sing more songs of praise to God. At the end of this meal, having followed the special liturgy, recited the prayers, and sung the songs, you understand perhaps more deeply than you ever did before, how this meal helps Jews to remember, to actively experience for themselves, the liberation of the Exodus event. You understand too why the Exodus event became such an important story for African American slaves and other oppressed people. And you join more deeply, perhaps, with all the rest of the company, and with Jews all over the world, in affirming that, "With a strong hand and an outstretched arm, and with a great manifestation, and with signs and wonders, the Lord took us out of Egypt."
As an observant Jew, Jesus would have participated in Passover Seders during his life. However, we don’t know for sure whether Jesus’ last meal with his friends was a Passover Seder or not. Some scholars think that it might have been a Jewish meal of special celebration, but not necessarily a Seder. We do know that after Jesus’ death and resurrection, his followers preserved at least two memories of what Jesus did at that last meal. The first memory is preserved in our Gospel reading for tonight. It is the memory of how Jesus modelled self-giving love, and of how his followers were to live out that love in their own lives. As we heard, first, Jesus performed the most humble possible service for his disciples, that of washing their feet, all their feet. Jesus’ washed the feet of Judas, who betrayed him. He washed the feet of Peter, who denied him. He washed the feet of friends who, in his darkest hour, deserted him.
Then Jesus made sure that his friends understood the meaning of what he had done. He told them, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” Facing death, Jesus reassured his friends of his deep love for them, and he charged them to offer that same self-giving love to each other and to all those around them.
The second memory Jesus’ followers kept of his last night is preserved in the epistle reading for tonight: Jesus’ declaration that a new covenant, sealed in his blood, now existed between God and humanity. We also hear his promise to be present to us in bread and wine. In our lesson from the letter to the Christian community at Corinth, Paul remembers for the Corinthian Christians that second tradition, concerning Jesus’ words over the bread and wine of the Last Supper. By Paul’s time, i.e., about twenty years after Jesus’ death, Christians were gathering together in Jesus’ name. Paul reminds them that gathering together for the Lord’s Supper should lead the Corinthians into a deeper form of communion with Jesus and with each other, into a form of active remembrance of the Lord’s love for them similar to what Jews experience in the Passover Seder.
Actually, the Corinthian community was deeply divided. It consisted of a few wealthy families, some artisans and merchants, and a number of slaves. When these new Christians came together for their celebration of the Lord’s Supper, just as Jews do in the Seder, they ate a real dinner. Unfortunately, following the custom of the time, the host served the wealthier members of the community better food in a more comfortable room than he did the lesser community members. So the wealthiest ate well, while those less wealthy ate poorly. If they were slaves, they probably ate very little. In the paragraph just before tonight’s reading, Paul criticizes the Corinthians for their behavior at the Lord’s Supper. In the part of the letter we have just heard, he provides a theological grounding for the instructions he will then give them concerning how they should behave at the Lord’s Supper.
Paul reminds the Corinthians – and us – that in celebrating the Lord’s Supper we actively, experientially remember, i.e., we enter into and appropriate for ourselves, Jesus’ giving of himself over to death. As we actively enter into Jesus’ giving of his body and blood, that event is no longer something that happened a long time ago. It is an event that we experience in our own bodies. It is not that we are, “performing a historical passion play, replicating the movements of Jesus.” Rather, we too are at table with him, we too hear him bless the bread and wine, we too are in communion with him, and we too receive his body and blood from his own hands. We too are included in the new covenant, the covenant that he established on the night he was handed over, the covenant that he ratified by dying on the Cross and rising from the tomb. Ultimately, we too can say, “The Lord died for me.”
But we do not come to Jesus’ table all by ourselves, as atoms. We come to Jesus’ table as part of a community. We come together. “In this shared meal,” we are reminded, “Christians become sisters and brothers in Christ.”1 In this moment we come away from screens of privacy and loneliness. We come out of our fragmented lives. We come hungry, yearning to be fed by God. We leave filled, fed with God’s love. Divisions among us cease. Here we are knit together by our hunger for God and by our experience of God’s satisfying that need for all of us. In receiving the bread and wine, now become Christ’s Body and Blood, we too can say with all our hearts, “Christ died for us.”
As we experience the new covenant in Christ’s blood, and as we are fed by God, we also hear again another commandment, “Do this in remembrance of me.” How do we do this? First of all, we come. We come to the Lord’s Table! Again and again. Again and again we recall our memories of that last night with him. Again and again, we “offer and present ourselves, our souls and bodies.” Again and again, we take into our bodies, the sacrament that feeds us, heals us, and gives us hope. As we remember his death, we marvel again at the depth of his love. And as we proclaim together “the Lord’s death until he comes,” we know that we have had a foretaste of the heavenly banquet, when, in the last day, all of us will be gathered together around the Lord’s Table forever.
And then we go. Enlivened by the Holy Spirit we know that the Lord who showed his deep love for us still lives. Nourished by his Body and Blood, we obey his command to share his love for us with everyone we encounter. We go out into the world, into our homes, into our schools, into our workplaces, into our clubs and secular organizations, hearing his words in our hearts, “Love one another, as I have loved you.” As we care for our children or the elderly, we hear, “Love one another, as I have loved you.” As we volunteer our time to a worthy cause, or as we forgive those who have betrayed us, we hear, “Love one another, as I have loved you.” And as night closes in, on our days and our lives, by God’s grace, we will also hear, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”
May it be so.
1. And following, Ellen Charry, quoted in Synthesis, Vol. 28 No.4, p2.
When you arrive at your friends’ home, the house is sparkling clean. You hear that, as part of the cleaning, the family has given away or tossed out all foods containing yeast or leaven, and that they won’t eat leavened bread for an entire week. In the dining room, the large table is set with wine glasses and some strange looking foods. As you sit down, the host hands everyone a small prayer book called a haggadah.
You begin by blessing a first cup of wine. Then the host blesses the matzoh, the unleavened bread, saying, "This is the bread of affliction that our fathers ate in the land of Egypt. Whoever is hungry, let him come and eat; whoever is in need, let him come and conduct the Seder of Passover. This year we are here; next year in the land of Israel."
The youngest child asks questions about the Seder, which the father or host answers. As you read and sing your way through the haggadah, you experience the bitterness of slavery by eating bitter herbs, you are reminded of the mortar that the Hebrew slaves worked with by eating a mixture of chopped apples and honey, and you hear of the ten plagues that befell Egypt. For dinner, which follows the second cup of wine, you eat roasted lamb and more matzoh.
After dinner, you drink wine two more times, the host opens the door inviting the prophet Elijah into the gathering, you recite more prayers, and you sing more songs of praise to God. At the end of this meal, having followed the special liturgy, recited the prayers, and sung the songs, you understand perhaps more deeply than you ever did before, how this meal helps Jews to remember, to actively experience for themselves, the liberation of the Exodus event. You understand too why the Exodus event became such an important story for African American slaves and other oppressed people. And you join more deeply, perhaps, with all the rest of the company, and with Jews all over the world, in affirming that, "With a strong hand and an outstretched arm, and with a great manifestation, and with signs and wonders, the Lord took us out of Egypt."
As an observant Jew, Jesus would have participated in Passover Seders during his life. However, we don’t know for sure whether Jesus’ last meal with his friends was a Passover Seder or not. Some scholars think that it might have been a Jewish meal of special celebration, but not necessarily a Seder. We do know that after Jesus’ death and resurrection, his followers preserved at least two memories of what Jesus did at that last meal. The first memory is preserved in our Gospel reading for tonight. It is the memory of how Jesus modelled self-giving love, and of how his followers were to live out that love in their own lives. As we heard, first, Jesus performed the most humble possible service for his disciples, that of washing their feet, all their feet. Jesus’ washed the feet of Judas, who betrayed him. He washed the feet of Peter, who denied him. He washed the feet of friends who, in his darkest hour, deserted him.
Then Jesus made sure that his friends understood the meaning of what he had done. He told them, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” Facing death, Jesus reassured his friends of his deep love for them, and he charged them to offer that same self-giving love to each other and to all those around them.
The second memory Jesus’ followers kept of his last night is preserved in the epistle reading for tonight: Jesus’ declaration that a new covenant, sealed in his blood, now existed between God and humanity. We also hear his promise to be present to us in bread and wine. In our lesson from the letter to the Christian community at Corinth, Paul remembers for the Corinthian Christians that second tradition, concerning Jesus’ words over the bread and wine of the Last Supper. By Paul’s time, i.e., about twenty years after Jesus’ death, Christians were gathering together in Jesus’ name. Paul reminds them that gathering together for the Lord’s Supper should lead the Corinthians into a deeper form of communion with Jesus and with each other, into a form of active remembrance of the Lord’s love for them similar to what Jews experience in the Passover Seder.
Actually, the Corinthian community was deeply divided. It consisted of a few wealthy families, some artisans and merchants, and a number of slaves. When these new Christians came together for their celebration of the Lord’s Supper, just as Jews do in the Seder, they ate a real dinner. Unfortunately, following the custom of the time, the host served the wealthier members of the community better food in a more comfortable room than he did the lesser community members. So the wealthiest ate well, while those less wealthy ate poorly. If they were slaves, they probably ate very little. In the paragraph just before tonight’s reading, Paul criticizes the Corinthians for their behavior at the Lord’s Supper. In the part of the letter we have just heard, he provides a theological grounding for the instructions he will then give them concerning how they should behave at the Lord’s Supper.
Paul reminds the Corinthians – and us – that in celebrating the Lord’s Supper we actively, experientially remember, i.e., we enter into and appropriate for ourselves, Jesus’ giving of himself over to death. As we actively enter into Jesus’ giving of his body and blood, that event is no longer something that happened a long time ago. It is an event that we experience in our own bodies. It is not that we are, “performing a historical passion play, replicating the movements of Jesus.” Rather, we too are at table with him, we too hear him bless the bread and wine, we too are in communion with him, and we too receive his body and blood from his own hands. We too are included in the new covenant, the covenant that he established on the night he was handed over, the covenant that he ratified by dying on the Cross and rising from the tomb. Ultimately, we too can say, “The Lord died for me.”
But we do not come to Jesus’ table all by ourselves, as atoms. We come to Jesus’ table as part of a community. We come together. “In this shared meal,” we are reminded, “Christians become sisters and brothers in Christ.”1 In this moment we come away from screens of privacy and loneliness. We come out of our fragmented lives. We come hungry, yearning to be fed by God. We leave filled, fed with God’s love. Divisions among us cease. Here we are knit together by our hunger for God and by our experience of God’s satisfying that need for all of us. In receiving the bread and wine, now become Christ’s Body and Blood, we too can say with all our hearts, “Christ died for us.”
As we experience the new covenant in Christ’s blood, and as we are fed by God, we also hear again another commandment, “Do this in remembrance of me.” How do we do this? First of all, we come. We come to the Lord’s Table! Again and again. Again and again we recall our memories of that last night with him. Again and again, we “offer and present ourselves, our souls and bodies.” Again and again, we take into our bodies, the sacrament that feeds us, heals us, and gives us hope. As we remember his death, we marvel again at the depth of his love. And as we proclaim together “the Lord’s death until he comes,” we know that we have had a foretaste of the heavenly banquet, when, in the last day, all of us will be gathered together around the Lord’s Table forever.
And then we go. Enlivened by the Holy Spirit we know that the Lord who showed his deep love for us still lives. Nourished by his Body and Blood, we obey his command to share his love for us with everyone we encounter. We go out into the world, into our homes, into our schools, into our workplaces, into our clubs and secular organizations, hearing his words in our hearts, “Love one another, as I have loved you.” As we care for our children or the elderly, we hear, “Love one another, as I have loved you.” As we volunteer our time to a worthy cause, or as we forgive those who have betrayed us, we hear, “Love one another, as I have loved you.” And as night closes in, on our days and our lives, by God’s grace, we will also hear, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”
May it be so.
1. And following, Ellen Charry, quoted in Synthesis, Vol. 28 No.4, p2.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
But Now am Found
I’ve always loved the hymn, “Amazing Grace,” especially that great line, “I once was lost, but now am found….” It’s a very popular hymn in this country, but do you know its story? It was first published in 1779, and its author was an English poet and clergyman, John Newton. Newton was not raised in a religious family, and in his early years, especially during the time he was forced to serve in the English navy, he was often a stubborn and recalcitrant loner. After leaving the navy, he got involved in the Atlantic slave trade, ferrying Africans to the U.S. and other cargo back to England. In 1748, a violent storm battered his vessel off the coast of County Donegal, Ireland. Newton felt so threatened that he called out to God for mercy. The storm abated, and he realized that God had saved his life. He continued in the slave trade for the next seven years. However, in 1755, he gave up sea faring and began studying theology.
Newton was ordained in the Church of England in 1764 and began writing hymns with the poet William Cowper. Recalling his own moment of conversion off the coast of Ireland, he wrote “Amazing Grace” to illustrate a sermon for New Year’s Day 1773. Though not well known in England, “Amazing Grace” was sung extensively during the Second Great Awakening in the U.S. in the early 19th century. In 1835 it was joined to the tune “New Britain,” by which we know it today. Perhaps what is most “amazing” about the hymn is that, with its message that our sins do not cut us off from forgiveness and redemption, and that, God, in God’s mercy, continues to search for us, "Amazing Grace" is one of the most recognizable songs in the English-speaking world.
Unquestionably, John Newton knew his Scripture. When he wrote “Amazing Grace,” perhaps he had in mind not only his own extraordinary experience of God’s radical acceptance of him, but also this passage from the gospel of Luke that we have just heard. Spoiler alert right from the top: the parable that we wrongly call “The Prodigal Son,” is not primarily about forgiveness. It is about restoration, wholeness, and God’s unrelenting search for us, in order to bring us back into community with Godself and with God’s people. You can see that immediately if you look at its context, and especially if you think about why Jesus might have told this parable.
A major motif of the gospel of Luke is Jesus’ humanity. What is more important, throughout both the gospel and its sequel, the Acts of the Apostles, is that the writer emphasizes Jesus’ message that all are welcome in God’s realm, and that salvation is available to all humanity. In the gospel in particular, Jesus heals, seeks out, welcomes, and dines with all kinds of people, rich and poor, sinners and law-abiding, Jews and gentiles. In gathering together all kinds of people, Jesus intentionally creates a new family within the realm of God, a family whose members acknowledge God’s grace and mercy, especially as they see it reflected in Jesus’ welcome of all into that family.
As we heard in today’s reading, some Pharisees and Scribes, i.e., some of the religious leaders, appear to question Jesus’ willingness to cross ethnic, gender, and social class boundaries. “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them,” they complain. Think about it. In Jesus’ time there were only very prescribed people with whom it was customary to share food. In response to this complaint, Luke has Jesus tell three stories, all having to do with something lost, and all ending with joyful recovery of the lost item. All three stories illustrate what Jesus’ ministry is about. The first two, which come in between the opening sentences and the parable we just heard, are relatively simple and straightforward. The first, as those of you Bible-readers remember, is the parable of the ninety-nine sheep that are safely in the fold and the one that has gone astray. After diligently searching for and finding the lost sheep, the shepherd in the parable says, “Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.” In the second story, a woman turns her house upside down searching for a lost coin. When she finally finds it, she says, “Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.” Interpreting both these parables, Jesus says, “Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.”
The third parable, the one we just heard, is more complex. But ultimately its theme is similar to that of the other two. God deliberately seeks those who are lost, it tells us, and rejoices when the lost ones are found. This is not the parable of the Prodigal Son, as it’s usually called. It’s really the parable of the selfish sons and the loving father. Consider: both sons are lost – in different ways. The younger son is more obviously lost. He has taken a chunk of the family’s money and run away. He’s probably immature and inexperienced, so the money quickly disappears, either through extravagant spending or because, as a young man, he was taken advantage of by expert con men. Be that as it may, he was reduced to starvation and a less than minimum wage job. How does he save himself? He rehearses a pro forma apology and heads back home expecting at least a decent meal and a place to sleep. But his father rushes out. Can you picture the old man? Perhaps he’s spotted the boy from the roof-top. He tears down the stairs and out to the road, robes flying, bare legs exposed. When he sees him, does the father rebuke the boy? Of course not. He embraces the boy, ignores his pro forma apology, and calls for a celebration on the spot. “Rejoice with me, for this son of mine … was lost and is found.”
The older brother is also lost. He bears the burden of goodness – as eldest children often do. He is expected to live up to family mores, carry on the family name and occupation, and live up to family standards of behavior. But in some ways, goodness is a prison, especially if you think that you have to be a model person solely through your own efforts. The older son is also alienated from the community and celebration, and has yet to realize that he constantly receives his father’s love, whether he is the model son or not. Lost in alienation, he stands outside the party. A celebration was always waiting for him, but he has always seen himself as carrying the burdens of the world on his own shoulders.
Both sons need the grace of restoration to family and community: one for the unholy life that he has lived, and the other for a life solely focused on himself. Both need to know that they are truly God’s beloved, if imperfect, children. Both need to know that God continually seeks them out, finds them, and rejoices over them. “Rejoice with me, for the child that I have loved has come back to the family.”
Where are we in this insightful parable? Some of us may feel like the younger brother. Perhaps we have intentionally cut ourselves off from community. Perhaps we have committed unspeakable crimes. Sue Klebold, the mother of Dylan Klebold, one of the two shooters at Columbine High School in Littleton Colorado in 1999, has just broken her silence about what it has been like to have been the mother of such a son. Others of us have severed our ties with our families or communities through addictions, either to such harmful substances as alcohol or drugs, or to ostensibly good things like work, sports, or computer or smart phone screens. If we are like the younger brother, God is always waiting for our return, eagerly seeking us, and yearning to draw us back into community.
The truth is that most of us are probably more like the older brother. Priest and writer Henry Nouwen reminds us of our need to acknowledge “the fact that what God has for us is really there all the time….” What we really need are eyes to see. Nouwen continues, “Celebration belongs to God’s Kingdom. God not only offers forgiveness, reconciliation, and healing, but wants to lift up these gifts as a source of joy for all who witness them. In all three parables which Jesus tells to explain why he eats with sinners, God rejoices and invites others to rejoice with him.”1
As we respond to God’s invitation, we are also called to emulate the third son, the teller of these parables. God also invites us to seek out the lost and invite them into community. Episcopal Relief and Development is at work all over the world doing just that. Many of their stories touch my heart. However, this month two stories in this month’s Rotarian reflected a similar commitment. In one, a woman was working with women who had been trafficked as young prostitutes and were trying to come off the streets. In another, a team of young Rotarians were delivering 2,400 durable non-inflatable soccer balls to countries where young people have been seen playing soccer with bundles of trash or rags. Wherever they stopped, the team played a lively game of soccer with the recipients of the balls.
In this parish, we know the joy of welcoming our Loaves and Fishes diners. I wonder, who else should we be inviting? Ultimately, all are welcome in God’s realm. All are invited, sought, and rejoiced over. God rejoices over you and invites you to bring others into the celebratory feast.
1. The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming (N.Y.: Doubleday, 1992), quoted in Synthesis, Lent 4 2016, p 4.
Newton was ordained in the Church of England in 1764 and began writing hymns with the poet William Cowper. Recalling his own moment of conversion off the coast of Ireland, he wrote “Amazing Grace” to illustrate a sermon for New Year’s Day 1773. Though not well known in England, “Amazing Grace” was sung extensively during the Second Great Awakening in the U.S. in the early 19th century. In 1835 it was joined to the tune “New Britain,” by which we know it today. Perhaps what is most “amazing” about the hymn is that, with its message that our sins do not cut us off from forgiveness and redemption, and that, God, in God’s mercy, continues to search for us, "Amazing Grace" is one of the most recognizable songs in the English-speaking world.
Unquestionably, John Newton knew his Scripture. When he wrote “Amazing Grace,” perhaps he had in mind not only his own extraordinary experience of God’s radical acceptance of him, but also this passage from the gospel of Luke that we have just heard. Spoiler alert right from the top: the parable that we wrongly call “The Prodigal Son,” is not primarily about forgiveness. It is about restoration, wholeness, and God’s unrelenting search for us, in order to bring us back into community with Godself and with God’s people. You can see that immediately if you look at its context, and especially if you think about why Jesus might have told this parable.
A major motif of the gospel of Luke is Jesus’ humanity. What is more important, throughout both the gospel and its sequel, the Acts of the Apostles, is that the writer emphasizes Jesus’ message that all are welcome in God’s realm, and that salvation is available to all humanity. In the gospel in particular, Jesus heals, seeks out, welcomes, and dines with all kinds of people, rich and poor, sinners and law-abiding, Jews and gentiles. In gathering together all kinds of people, Jesus intentionally creates a new family within the realm of God, a family whose members acknowledge God’s grace and mercy, especially as they see it reflected in Jesus’ welcome of all into that family.
As we heard in today’s reading, some Pharisees and Scribes, i.e., some of the religious leaders, appear to question Jesus’ willingness to cross ethnic, gender, and social class boundaries. “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them,” they complain. Think about it. In Jesus’ time there were only very prescribed people with whom it was customary to share food. In response to this complaint, Luke has Jesus tell three stories, all having to do with something lost, and all ending with joyful recovery of the lost item. All three stories illustrate what Jesus’ ministry is about. The first two, which come in between the opening sentences and the parable we just heard, are relatively simple and straightforward. The first, as those of you Bible-readers remember, is the parable of the ninety-nine sheep that are safely in the fold and the one that has gone astray. After diligently searching for and finding the lost sheep, the shepherd in the parable says, “Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.” In the second story, a woman turns her house upside down searching for a lost coin. When she finally finds it, she says, “Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.” Interpreting both these parables, Jesus says, “Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.”
The third parable, the one we just heard, is more complex. But ultimately its theme is similar to that of the other two. God deliberately seeks those who are lost, it tells us, and rejoices when the lost ones are found. This is not the parable of the Prodigal Son, as it’s usually called. It’s really the parable of the selfish sons and the loving father. Consider: both sons are lost – in different ways. The younger son is more obviously lost. He has taken a chunk of the family’s money and run away. He’s probably immature and inexperienced, so the money quickly disappears, either through extravagant spending or because, as a young man, he was taken advantage of by expert con men. Be that as it may, he was reduced to starvation and a less than minimum wage job. How does he save himself? He rehearses a pro forma apology and heads back home expecting at least a decent meal and a place to sleep. But his father rushes out. Can you picture the old man? Perhaps he’s spotted the boy from the roof-top. He tears down the stairs and out to the road, robes flying, bare legs exposed. When he sees him, does the father rebuke the boy? Of course not. He embraces the boy, ignores his pro forma apology, and calls for a celebration on the spot. “Rejoice with me, for this son of mine … was lost and is found.”
The older brother is also lost. He bears the burden of goodness – as eldest children often do. He is expected to live up to family mores, carry on the family name and occupation, and live up to family standards of behavior. But in some ways, goodness is a prison, especially if you think that you have to be a model person solely through your own efforts. The older son is also alienated from the community and celebration, and has yet to realize that he constantly receives his father’s love, whether he is the model son or not. Lost in alienation, he stands outside the party. A celebration was always waiting for him, but he has always seen himself as carrying the burdens of the world on his own shoulders.
Both sons need the grace of restoration to family and community: one for the unholy life that he has lived, and the other for a life solely focused on himself. Both need to know that they are truly God’s beloved, if imperfect, children. Both need to know that God continually seeks them out, finds them, and rejoices over them. “Rejoice with me, for the child that I have loved has come back to the family.”
Where are we in this insightful parable? Some of us may feel like the younger brother. Perhaps we have intentionally cut ourselves off from community. Perhaps we have committed unspeakable crimes. Sue Klebold, the mother of Dylan Klebold, one of the two shooters at Columbine High School in Littleton Colorado in 1999, has just broken her silence about what it has been like to have been the mother of such a son. Others of us have severed our ties with our families or communities through addictions, either to such harmful substances as alcohol or drugs, or to ostensibly good things like work, sports, or computer or smart phone screens. If we are like the younger brother, God is always waiting for our return, eagerly seeking us, and yearning to draw us back into community.
The truth is that most of us are probably more like the older brother. Priest and writer Henry Nouwen reminds us of our need to acknowledge “the fact that what God has for us is really there all the time….” What we really need are eyes to see. Nouwen continues, “Celebration belongs to God’s Kingdom. God not only offers forgiveness, reconciliation, and healing, but wants to lift up these gifts as a source of joy for all who witness them. In all three parables which Jesus tells to explain why he eats with sinners, God rejoices and invites others to rejoice with him.”1
As we respond to God’s invitation, we are also called to emulate the third son, the teller of these parables. God also invites us to seek out the lost and invite them into community. Episcopal Relief and Development is at work all over the world doing just that. Many of their stories touch my heart. However, this month two stories in this month’s Rotarian reflected a similar commitment. In one, a woman was working with women who had been trafficked as young prostitutes and were trying to come off the streets. In another, a team of young Rotarians were delivering 2,400 durable non-inflatable soccer balls to countries where young people have been seen playing soccer with bundles of trash or rags. Wherever they stopped, the team played a lively game of soccer with the recipients of the balls.
In this parish, we know the joy of welcoming our Loaves and Fishes diners. I wonder, who else should we be inviting? Ultimately, all are welcome in God’s realm. All are invited, sought, and rejoiced over. God rejoices over you and invites you to bring others into the celebratory feast.
1. The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming (N.Y.: Doubleday, 1992), quoted in Synthesis, Lent 4 2016, p 4.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
What Will You Do?
Priest and teacher Barbara Brown Taylor tells the story of the young mother she met in the pediatric surgery waiting room of the hospital where she was a chaplain.1 Earlier in the week, the woman’s little daughter was playing with a friend when her head began to hurt. By the time the mother found her, the child could no longer see. When doctors did a CAT scan at the hospital, they discovered that a large tumor was pressed against the child’s optic nerve. They scheduled the surgery as soon as possible. The day of the surgery Taylor found the mother in the waiting room. An ashtray full of cigarettes stood beside the mother’s chair. Taylor sat down beside her. After a little bit of small talk, the mother blurted out, “It’s my punishment, for smoking these damned cigarettes. God couldn’t get my attention any other way, so he made my baby sick.” She began to cry and then wailed, “Now I’m supposed to stop, but I can’t stop. I’m going to kill my own child.”
Have you ever said anything like that? Have you ever blamed yourself for something that happened to someone else? Why do bad things happen? Why does tragedy strike us? Why do innocent and good people especially seem to get struck down? Does God punish people for the sins of others, as the young mother thought? These are just the questions put to Jesus by those who listened to his teaching. “What about those innocent Galileans, Rabbi?”
These are age-old questions. We ask ourselves the same questions whenever disaster strikes. Is this God’s judgment on me, on us? Whose fault was it? Why did it happen? Even today, when disaster strikes, there’s always someone who stands up and declares that the disaster is God’s punishment on gays, or feminists, or the “party culture” of New Orleans. Would Jesus agree with that judgement?
There is a strand of Scripture that would agree with that judgment. Certain verses in Deuteronomy and Proverbs support the notion that people get what they deserve. We find it easy to believe that. We say, “If she hadn’t been in the passing lane, the drunk driver would not have hit her.” Maybe. But Scripture also reminds us that the innocent suffer and the guilty prosper. The psalms and the book of Ecclesiastes are filled with laments for the suffering of the innocent. And we can easily believe that too. The residents of the Lower Ninth ward in New Orleans might have read some of those psalms, for they did nothing to bring catastrophe on themselves when Katrina struck, while government officials stood by, slow to recognize their plight. While we might lay sin at the door of the gunman, the twenty children and six adults who died in Newtown, CT, like the Galileans in today’s gospel, did absolutely nothing to bring about their tragic deaths.
In an attempt to understand disasters, sometimes people, especially we religious people, offer another explanation: suffering is part of God’s plan. Would you agree? Is that what your experience tells you? One woman suffers a miscarriage at twenty weeks, while another, who did exactly what the first woman did, delivers a healthy full-term child. Did God really “want another angel in heaven?” Is it really the case that “God won’t send us more than we can bear?” Perhaps the people querying Jesus were also asking this question: did God intentionally cause these disasters?
Contrary to all our expectations, in Luke’s telling of this encounter, Jesus does not answer the question put to him. That’s because ultimately, there is no answer to these questions. While Jesus doesn’t rebuke his questioners, neither does he tell them that the Galileans killed by Pilate – and there is historical evidence that something like this really did happen – or that those who died when the tower of Siloam fell on them deserved what happened to them. He doesn’t tell them that their deaths were all part of God’s plan. Instead, he reminds all his followers – and by extension us – that life is precarious, that we cannot claim to know the cause of suffering, that we cannot control the events in our lives, and that we cannot smugly assume that we are immune from disaster – even if we say our prayers every day, worship regularly, and give generously. Even if we take every precaution, there are still abusive Roman soldiers in the world. Even if we drive defensively, the drunk driver can still cross over into our lane and crash into us. There are no guarantees in life. The best we can do, Jesus reminds us, is continually and intentionally try to orient our lives towards God and do our best to overcome our own sins and shortcomings. “Look at your own life,” Jesus in effect tells his hearers. “Reflect on how you are living, but don’t think you’re immune from disaster.”
But Jesus doesn’t stop with that admonition. Jesus adds one more piece to his call for reorientation and self-examination. To what could be a bleak message of despair, Jesus adds a message of reassurance and hope. Don’t we hear it in the parable that follows his warning? A fig tree has yet to produce the expected fruit. The gardener appeals to the owner for the tree to get another chance. Perhaps with a new trench for better water, or with extra fertilizer, the tree will produce the fruit it was meant to produce. We do face judgement, Jesus tells his hearers, and the opportunity for repentance is time-limited. But, the parable reassures us, God’s judgment is never separated from God’s mercy. As we might expect from Luke, Jesus’ parable reminds us of divine compassion, reassuring us of the abundant grace that is available to us – if we are willing to accept it while we still can.
So what does all this mean to us? I’d like to suggest three things we need to hear in this Gospel reading. The first is this: we are called to heed the warning in Jesus’ words. In this Lenten season especially, hear again his warning that, “Unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.” Whoever we are, we do face God’s judgment. Even if we are absolutely certain that we follow the law, even if we diligently engage in every appropriate spiritual practice, we can never be smug or arrogant, we can never think that therefore we can avoid tragedy or bypass God’s judgment. High on the center of the doorway of the south transept of the great cathedral in Chartres in France is a magnificent sculpture of Christ sitting in judgement at the end of time. While we no longer live in the mindset that would easily understand the importance of that image for our own lives, even we must remember that what we do with our lives has consequences.
Second, we are to hear the words in the parable warning us that our time to reorient our lives toward the Holy One is short: the gardener says, “Sir, let it alone for one more year.” We are called to be intentional about lives now, we are called to engage now in the self-examination that Lent calls for, not at some distant time in the future. Can we be sure that we even have a future? An old rabbi told his disciples, “You should repent the day before you die.” “But, Rabbi,” replied the disciples, “how can we know when that day is?” “Exactly,” said the rabbi, “that is why you must repent every day of your life.”
But third, Jesus never calls us to despair. Ultimately, Jesus calls us to trust and hope that God is at work in our lives. We are called to hear, and hear again, that God hears us when we call, that God upholds us and provides the hand to which we can cling, even when tragedy strikes, and that God always wants to nurture us so that we can bear good fruit.
How are we living our lives? Even though it’s still cold out there, I invite you to hear and meditate on that question through the words of Mary Oliver’s poem, “The Summer Day.”
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? Know that you have been gifted with an eye blink of time. Even when bad things happen, commit to living in that eye blink with your hearts and minds turned towards God. Trust that God is at work in your life. Be ever open to the leading of the Spirit.
1. “Life-Giving Fear,” Christian Century, March 4, 1998, p. 229.
Have you ever said anything like that? Have you ever blamed yourself for something that happened to someone else? Why do bad things happen? Why does tragedy strike us? Why do innocent and good people especially seem to get struck down? Does God punish people for the sins of others, as the young mother thought? These are just the questions put to Jesus by those who listened to his teaching. “What about those innocent Galileans, Rabbi?”
These are age-old questions. We ask ourselves the same questions whenever disaster strikes. Is this God’s judgment on me, on us? Whose fault was it? Why did it happen? Even today, when disaster strikes, there’s always someone who stands up and declares that the disaster is God’s punishment on gays, or feminists, or the “party culture” of New Orleans. Would Jesus agree with that judgement?
There is a strand of Scripture that would agree with that judgment. Certain verses in Deuteronomy and Proverbs support the notion that people get what they deserve. We find it easy to believe that. We say, “If she hadn’t been in the passing lane, the drunk driver would not have hit her.” Maybe. But Scripture also reminds us that the innocent suffer and the guilty prosper. The psalms and the book of Ecclesiastes are filled with laments for the suffering of the innocent. And we can easily believe that too. The residents of the Lower Ninth ward in New Orleans might have read some of those psalms, for they did nothing to bring catastrophe on themselves when Katrina struck, while government officials stood by, slow to recognize their plight. While we might lay sin at the door of the gunman, the twenty children and six adults who died in Newtown, CT, like the Galileans in today’s gospel, did absolutely nothing to bring about their tragic deaths.
In an attempt to understand disasters, sometimes people, especially we religious people, offer another explanation: suffering is part of God’s plan. Would you agree? Is that what your experience tells you? One woman suffers a miscarriage at twenty weeks, while another, who did exactly what the first woman did, delivers a healthy full-term child. Did God really “want another angel in heaven?” Is it really the case that “God won’t send us more than we can bear?” Perhaps the people querying Jesus were also asking this question: did God intentionally cause these disasters?
Contrary to all our expectations, in Luke’s telling of this encounter, Jesus does not answer the question put to him. That’s because ultimately, there is no answer to these questions. While Jesus doesn’t rebuke his questioners, neither does he tell them that the Galileans killed by Pilate – and there is historical evidence that something like this really did happen – or that those who died when the tower of Siloam fell on them deserved what happened to them. He doesn’t tell them that their deaths were all part of God’s plan. Instead, he reminds all his followers – and by extension us – that life is precarious, that we cannot claim to know the cause of suffering, that we cannot control the events in our lives, and that we cannot smugly assume that we are immune from disaster – even if we say our prayers every day, worship regularly, and give generously. Even if we take every precaution, there are still abusive Roman soldiers in the world. Even if we drive defensively, the drunk driver can still cross over into our lane and crash into us. There are no guarantees in life. The best we can do, Jesus reminds us, is continually and intentionally try to orient our lives towards God and do our best to overcome our own sins and shortcomings. “Look at your own life,” Jesus in effect tells his hearers. “Reflect on how you are living, but don’t think you’re immune from disaster.”
But Jesus doesn’t stop with that admonition. Jesus adds one more piece to his call for reorientation and self-examination. To what could be a bleak message of despair, Jesus adds a message of reassurance and hope. Don’t we hear it in the parable that follows his warning? A fig tree has yet to produce the expected fruit. The gardener appeals to the owner for the tree to get another chance. Perhaps with a new trench for better water, or with extra fertilizer, the tree will produce the fruit it was meant to produce. We do face judgement, Jesus tells his hearers, and the opportunity for repentance is time-limited. But, the parable reassures us, God’s judgment is never separated from God’s mercy. As we might expect from Luke, Jesus’ parable reminds us of divine compassion, reassuring us of the abundant grace that is available to us – if we are willing to accept it while we still can.
So what does all this mean to us? I’d like to suggest three things we need to hear in this Gospel reading. The first is this: we are called to heed the warning in Jesus’ words. In this Lenten season especially, hear again his warning that, “Unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.” Whoever we are, we do face God’s judgment. Even if we are absolutely certain that we follow the law, even if we diligently engage in every appropriate spiritual practice, we can never be smug or arrogant, we can never think that therefore we can avoid tragedy or bypass God’s judgment. High on the center of the doorway of the south transept of the great cathedral in Chartres in France is a magnificent sculpture of Christ sitting in judgement at the end of time. While we no longer live in the mindset that would easily understand the importance of that image for our own lives, even we must remember that what we do with our lives has consequences.
Second, we are to hear the words in the parable warning us that our time to reorient our lives toward the Holy One is short: the gardener says, “Sir, let it alone for one more year.” We are called to be intentional about lives now, we are called to engage now in the self-examination that Lent calls for, not at some distant time in the future. Can we be sure that we even have a future? An old rabbi told his disciples, “You should repent the day before you die.” “But, Rabbi,” replied the disciples, “how can we know when that day is?” “Exactly,” said the rabbi, “that is why you must repent every day of your life.”
But third, Jesus never calls us to despair. Ultimately, Jesus calls us to trust and hope that God is at work in our lives. We are called to hear, and hear again, that God hears us when we call, that God upholds us and provides the hand to which we can cling, even when tragedy strikes, and that God always wants to nurture us so that we can bear good fruit.
How are we living our lives? Even though it’s still cold out there, I invite you to hear and meditate on that question through the words of Mary Oliver’s poem, “The Summer Day.”
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? Know that you have been gifted with an eye blink of time. Even when bad things happen, commit to living in that eye blink with your hearts and minds turned towards God. Trust that God is at work in your life. Be ever open to the leading of the Spirit.
1. “Life-Giving Fear,” Christian Century, March 4, 1998, p. 229.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Return to Me
Why are we here? Does it feel as if we’ve done an about-face? On Sunday we had a mountain-top experience: the veil parted and we glimpsed Jesus’ divine nature, even as we hoped that God would work God’s transformation in us. Then, our story took a turn as we came down from the mountain and back to ministry with God’s people – right to the depths! We sang our last “alleluias” until Sunday March 27th. All the paraments and my vestments have again changed color, from festive white and gold to solemn purple. The flowers are gone from the altar. We entered in silence. And here we are engaging in this ancient liturgy of taking on ashes and confessing our sins. Have we suddenly heard God’s call to repent, to care for the poor, to pray, and to fast? Is that why we sophisticated, twenty-first century people have come together to participate in this ancient rite?
For this rite that we share today is truly an ancient rite, whose origins are lost in the traditions of the earliest Israelites. The Hebrew Scriptures give us several prominent examples of communal rituals of prayer, fasting, repentance, and the use of ashes. For example, after Job was rebuked by God he confessed, “Therefore I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes.” Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel all call the people to return to God and to express their repentance by dressing in rough plain clothing and putting ashes on their heads.
Indeed, in some ways our liturgy today is similar to that of Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement.1 Still today, even those who do not regularly attend synagogue services pay attention to the call to join the “solemn assembly,” confess their offenses against God, and express their hope to be inscribed in the Book of Life for another year. For us Christians too, Ash Wednesday is day of “solemn assembly,” a day of special prayer, of fasting, and repentance. But for us, Ash Wednesday is also the beginning of Easter. For the earliest Christians, Ash Wednesday marked the beginning of the intensive preparation for Easter that newcomers to the faith observed. For us too, Ash Wednesday turns us toward Jerusalem, the Cross, and the Empty Tomb.
Like the ancient Hebrews and the early Christians, we begin our journey toward the place of Jesus’ death and resurrection with a pointed reminder that we too will die. All our lections remind us of our mortality. Our psalm especially reminds us of who we are in God’s sight: “For he himself knows whereof we are made; he remembers that we are but dust. Our days are like the grass….” And why do we want to hear this reminder? Because it is the truth. Despite all the “age-defying” cosmetics that American manufacturers serve up, all the promises of immortality, all our attempts to hide death, we know that “we flourish like a flower of the field” that is scattered by a puff of wind. We know that our lives are uncertain, that no one of us knows how much time we have left, that we cannot live forever, and that the time to amend our lives, to wake up to God’s reality, is now. Rabbi Eliezer would tell his students that everyone should repent the day before death. “But Rabbi,” one of the students asked, “how can anyone know when that day is?” “Exactly,” said the Rabbi. “That is why we should repent every day of our lives.”
The ashes remind us of our mortality, and that’s important, but death is never God’s last word to us. The ashes are also a sign of hope, a gift. Traditionally, our ashes were made by burning the palm fronds from last year’s Palm Sunday. Even as we hear “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return,” we also hear the first few notes of the Easter to come.
And, yes, we are urgently called to repent and to fast, to acknowledge our “wretchedness,” i.e., our weaknesses and faults and all the ways in which we fall short of God’s expectations. And, yes, we are fallible human beings unable to live up to our own best standards, let alone God’s standards. Yet we do not cringe before an angry vengeful God ready to strike us down for the slightest provocation. Instead, we hear again that, although God cares deeply for justice, God is merciful and loving. We hear that, although we cannot save ourselves, God takes the initiative to rescue, heal, and save us. The psalmist reminds us that: “The Lord is full of compassion and mercy/ slow to anger and of great kindness…. For as the heavens are high above the earth,/ so is his mercy great upon those who fear him.” The prophet Joel repeats that refrain. “Return to the Lord, your God,” he exhorts us, “for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love….” Joel also reminds us that what God really desires of us is change of heart, transformation, or conversion. “Rend your hearts and not your clothing,” he commands us. Don’t just make a show of taking part in rites and rituals. Deeply commit yourself to God. Let God continue to change you into the people God created you to be, into the people who, by God’s grace, are becoming more and more like the Jesus we saw on the mountain, more and more like the Jesus we encounter in Jerusalem.
As we travel the road to Easter once again we also remember that we are members of a Body, that we are deeply bound to one another, and that we need each other to be completely God’s people. As we hear in the call of the prophet Joel, all the people are to be gathered into a “solemn assembly.” No one is exempted, not newlyweds, not the elderly, not even babes in arms. St. Paul similarly called the entire Christian community in Corinth to be reconciled to God, so that as a community they might reflect Christ’s saving power to the world around them. We too are members of one another, and what we do on this day, or any other day in the church, we do together. We may pray in secret. We may seek God in the silence of our private spaces. We may take on certain helpful spiritual practices. Even so, our salvation is never a private affair. Our repentance and renewal is always corporate. Jesus did not die to save me. He was crucified under Pontius Pilate for us and for our salvation. And thanks be to God! Because our repentance and renewal are corporate, because we are members one of another, we are not dependent solely on our own spiritual resources. Lent calls us to uphold and support one another, to encourage each other in Christian formation and transformation, to relearn and deepen our faith and practice together, and to build up our common life in this place.
In the end it is God who calls us together this day. God calls us to remember our mortality, deepen our faith, and strengthen the bonds among us. We have come to begin a solemn and serious season. For the next forty days we can practice simplifying our lives by letting go of those activities and things that draw us away from God, by engaging in more intentional private and corporate prayer, by serving others, by acknowledging our shortcomings, and by seeking and practicing forgiveness. We can begin to see God at work in all aspects of our lives, not just in our time spent here. We might think of Lent as a time for all of us to be on retreat, a time for us to lay aside our self-preoccupation, and pray about how we might truly love God and our neighbors more deeply. Keeping a good Lent ultimately means drawing closer to God and to one another, taking on those practices that will enable us to see our lives from a fresh perspective.
Why are we here? We are here to begin the journey that leads us to Jerusalem and beyond. We are here to receive ashes that can change our lives. Perhaps the ashes we receive today will awaken us to the truth of God’s transforming power. Perhaps we can hear ourselves in Edward Hays’ Lenten Psalm:
Come, O Life-giving Creator,
and rattle the door latch
of my slumbering heart.
Awaken me as you breathe upon
a winter-wrapped earth,
gently calling to life virgin Spring.
Awaken in these fortified days
of Lenten prayer and discipline
my youthful dream of holiness.
Call me forth from the prison camp
of my numerous past defeats
and my narrow patterns of being
to make my ordinary life extra-ordinarily alive,
through the passion of my love.
Show to me during these Lenten days
how to take the daily things of life
and, by submerging them in the sacred,
to infuse them with a great love
for you, O God, and for others.
Guide me to perform simple acts of love and prayer,
the real works of reform and renewal
of this overture to the spring of the Spirit.
O Father of Jesus, Mother of Christ,
help me not to waste
these precious Lenten days
of my soul’s spiritual springtime.2
I wish you a most holy and blessed Lent.
1. Daniel Clendinen, “A Day of Ashes and Rituals of Renewal,” Journey with Jesus, accessed on Feb. 20, 2012 at http://www.journeywithjesus.net
2. Prayers for a Planetary Pilgrim (Notre Dame, IN: Forest of Peace, 2008), 185.
For this rite that we share today is truly an ancient rite, whose origins are lost in the traditions of the earliest Israelites. The Hebrew Scriptures give us several prominent examples of communal rituals of prayer, fasting, repentance, and the use of ashes. For example, after Job was rebuked by God he confessed, “Therefore I despise myself and repent in dust and ashes.” Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel all call the people to return to God and to express their repentance by dressing in rough plain clothing and putting ashes on their heads.
Indeed, in some ways our liturgy today is similar to that of Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement.1 Still today, even those who do not regularly attend synagogue services pay attention to the call to join the “solemn assembly,” confess their offenses against God, and express their hope to be inscribed in the Book of Life for another year. For us Christians too, Ash Wednesday is day of “solemn assembly,” a day of special prayer, of fasting, and repentance. But for us, Ash Wednesday is also the beginning of Easter. For the earliest Christians, Ash Wednesday marked the beginning of the intensive preparation for Easter that newcomers to the faith observed. For us too, Ash Wednesday turns us toward Jerusalem, the Cross, and the Empty Tomb.
Like the ancient Hebrews and the early Christians, we begin our journey toward the place of Jesus’ death and resurrection with a pointed reminder that we too will die. All our lections remind us of our mortality. Our psalm especially reminds us of who we are in God’s sight: “For he himself knows whereof we are made; he remembers that we are but dust. Our days are like the grass….” And why do we want to hear this reminder? Because it is the truth. Despite all the “age-defying” cosmetics that American manufacturers serve up, all the promises of immortality, all our attempts to hide death, we know that “we flourish like a flower of the field” that is scattered by a puff of wind. We know that our lives are uncertain, that no one of us knows how much time we have left, that we cannot live forever, and that the time to amend our lives, to wake up to God’s reality, is now. Rabbi Eliezer would tell his students that everyone should repent the day before death. “But Rabbi,” one of the students asked, “how can anyone know when that day is?” “Exactly,” said the Rabbi. “That is why we should repent every day of our lives.”
The ashes remind us of our mortality, and that’s important, but death is never God’s last word to us. The ashes are also a sign of hope, a gift. Traditionally, our ashes were made by burning the palm fronds from last year’s Palm Sunday. Even as we hear “Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return,” we also hear the first few notes of the Easter to come.
And, yes, we are urgently called to repent and to fast, to acknowledge our “wretchedness,” i.e., our weaknesses and faults and all the ways in which we fall short of God’s expectations. And, yes, we are fallible human beings unable to live up to our own best standards, let alone God’s standards. Yet we do not cringe before an angry vengeful God ready to strike us down for the slightest provocation. Instead, we hear again that, although God cares deeply for justice, God is merciful and loving. We hear that, although we cannot save ourselves, God takes the initiative to rescue, heal, and save us. The psalmist reminds us that: “The Lord is full of compassion and mercy/ slow to anger and of great kindness…. For as the heavens are high above the earth,/ so is his mercy great upon those who fear him.” The prophet Joel repeats that refrain. “Return to the Lord, your God,” he exhorts us, “for he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love….” Joel also reminds us that what God really desires of us is change of heart, transformation, or conversion. “Rend your hearts and not your clothing,” he commands us. Don’t just make a show of taking part in rites and rituals. Deeply commit yourself to God. Let God continue to change you into the people God created you to be, into the people who, by God’s grace, are becoming more and more like the Jesus we saw on the mountain, more and more like the Jesus we encounter in Jerusalem.
As we travel the road to Easter once again we also remember that we are members of a Body, that we are deeply bound to one another, and that we need each other to be completely God’s people. As we hear in the call of the prophet Joel, all the people are to be gathered into a “solemn assembly.” No one is exempted, not newlyweds, not the elderly, not even babes in arms. St. Paul similarly called the entire Christian community in Corinth to be reconciled to God, so that as a community they might reflect Christ’s saving power to the world around them. We too are members of one another, and what we do on this day, or any other day in the church, we do together. We may pray in secret. We may seek God in the silence of our private spaces. We may take on certain helpful spiritual practices. Even so, our salvation is never a private affair. Our repentance and renewal is always corporate. Jesus did not die to save me. He was crucified under Pontius Pilate for us and for our salvation. And thanks be to God! Because our repentance and renewal are corporate, because we are members one of another, we are not dependent solely on our own spiritual resources. Lent calls us to uphold and support one another, to encourage each other in Christian formation and transformation, to relearn and deepen our faith and practice together, and to build up our common life in this place.
In the end it is God who calls us together this day. God calls us to remember our mortality, deepen our faith, and strengthen the bonds among us. We have come to begin a solemn and serious season. For the next forty days we can practice simplifying our lives by letting go of those activities and things that draw us away from God, by engaging in more intentional private and corporate prayer, by serving others, by acknowledging our shortcomings, and by seeking and practicing forgiveness. We can begin to see God at work in all aspects of our lives, not just in our time spent here. We might think of Lent as a time for all of us to be on retreat, a time for us to lay aside our self-preoccupation, and pray about how we might truly love God and our neighbors more deeply. Keeping a good Lent ultimately means drawing closer to God and to one another, taking on those practices that will enable us to see our lives from a fresh perspective.
Why are we here? We are here to begin the journey that leads us to Jerusalem and beyond. We are here to receive ashes that can change our lives. Perhaps the ashes we receive today will awaken us to the truth of God’s transforming power. Perhaps we can hear ourselves in Edward Hays’ Lenten Psalm:
Come, O Life-giving Creator,
and rattle the door latch
of my slumbering heart.
Awaken me as you breathe upon
a winter-wrapped earth,
gently calling to life virgin Spring.
Awaken in these fortified days
of Lenten prayer and discipline
my youthful dream of holiness.
Call me forth from the prison camp
of my numerous past defeats
and my narrow patterns of being
to make my ordinary life extra-ordinarily alive,
through the passion of my love.
Show to me during these Lenten days
how to take the daily things of life
and, by submerging them in the sacred,
to infuse them with a great love
for you, O God, and for others.
Guide me to perform simple acts of love and prayer,
the real works of reform and renewal
of this overture to the spring of the Spirit.
O Father of Jesus, Mother of Christ,
help me not to waste
these precious Lenten days
of my soul’s spiritual springtime.2
I wish you a most holy and blessed Lent.
1. Daniel Clendinen, “A Day of Ashes and Rituals of Renewal,” Journey with Jesus, accessed on Feb. 20, 2012 at http://www.journeywithjesus.net
2. Prayers for a Planetary Pilgrim (Notre Dame, IN: Forest of Peace, 2008), 185.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
The Slow Work of God
“O God, who before the passion of your only begotten Son revealed his glory on the holy mountain: grant to us that we, beholding by faith the light of his countenance, may be strengthened to bear our cross, and be changed into his likeness from glory to glory….” Does the collect ask us to do something impossible? How can we be “changed into his likeness?” As we come to the end of Epiphany tide and look towards the beginning of Lent, what is the Book of Common Prayer really talking about here?
Certainly, we cannot be changed into Jesus’ physical likeness. To begin with, does anyone know what Jesus looked like? Artists have probably been trying to capture his “likeness” since the day after the first Easter. We have wonderful art to show for it – frescoes, sculpture, icons, paintings from every century and culture – but most artistic renderings are at best symbolic suggestions of who Jesus was. Even if Mathew Brady had been alive during Jesus’ time and had photographed Jesus, most of us could not be changed into his physical likeness: try as we might we will never become short, black-haired, dark-skinned Jewish males.
Then can we hope to be changed into Jesus’ “likeness” by doing what he did? I don’t think any of us will be executed on a cross by Roman authorities. And unless you all are hiding something from me, none of you will be receiving the death penalty any time soon. And aren’t all of us absolutely sure that there’s no way we can be changed into Jesus’ divine likeness? The gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke all tell us that three of the disciples got a glimpse of Jesus’ true glorified nature – and they were terrified! “I will never be glorified as Jesus was, and no one will ever be terrified of me in that way,” we would all say.
So how can we be “changed into his likeness?” What would that look like? If Jesus is our model, perhaps we can answer that question by looking at how he lived out his human life. To begin with, the first thing that we notice about Jesus, especially if we read the gospel of Luke closely, is that Jesus knew that he had a deep and abiding relationship with God. Perhaps Jesus knew his deep relationship with God from the moment of his conception. He surely received another affirmation of his unbreakable bond with God when he was baptized. From then on, Jesus’ connection with God clearly permeated his entire adult life. Jesus’ close connection with God is especially reflected in the depth of his prayer and in how often he took time away from his ministry to go off and pray. If you read the gospel of Luke carefully, you will notice all the times Luke mentions that Jesus withdrew for prayer. It’s not a coincidence that the disciples received such an overwhelming experience of Jesus’ divine nature as today’s reading suggests while they and Jesus were praying.
That’s what happens in prayer! That’s what happens when we open ourselves up to God and let God work within us! The beginning of our transformation into Jesus’ likeness, call it conversion if you will, always comes from a deep and ongoing relationship with God. For some of us, conversion begins with one shattering moment when we sense God’s reality, presence, and demands on us – and after that our lives are never the same. For others of us, conversion begins with a gentle nudge, a feeling that we need to come back to church, to faith, to spiritual growth. And for yet others of us, conversion begins with a “dark night of the soul,” when we feel that all is lost, and that God has completely abandoned us.
After such an experience, are we then immediately “changed into his likeness?” Usually not. Transformation comes through God’s grace at work in us – and it is usually “the slow work of God.” God works in us day by day, week by week, year by year, molding, shaping, and forming us – like a great artist – into God’s desired creation, a human being as fully alive, as filled with the Holy Spirit, as Jesus was. And God works in us as we spend time in prayer with God, as we let God know us, heal us, and change us. Yet transformation is rarely a solo experience. We may pray as individuals, and God may grace our prayer with God’s presence. But if we want to continue to grow as Jesus’ followers, we must do it in community. Notice that Jesus took three people up the mountain with him. Most important, our transformation is never our own doing, and it seldom happens overnight. But the good news is that when we keep “listening to Jesus,” in prayer and worship, when we take time to be present to God, God will transform us.
What happened after the transcendent “mountain-top” experience? They all came down the mountain! The gospel account does not say whether the disciples understood what they had experienced with Jesus on the mountain. Jesus didn’t stop to explain it to them. Rather, Jesus returned to ministry. For Jesus, ministry followed mystery. After prayer time, Jesus always came back to heal, feed, and teach, and the transcendent sense of connection with God deepened his call. He continued to care for those in need, even as he set his face for Jerusalem and what awaited him there.
And so it is for us, as we move from the glories of Epiphany tide to the hard work of Lent. After we have had a deep experience of God’s reality, of God’s deep love of us, and of God’s desire to transform us, we might possibly look different. Moses’ face was radiant after his encounter with God, so radiant that people were afraid to come near him. More often the change is in the way we live our lives. “After Zen, the laundry.” Or as Jesuit spiritual teacher Anthony de Mello tells us,
“When the Zen master attained enlightenment
he wrote the following lines to celebrate it:
Oh wondrous marvel:
I chop wood!
I draw water from the well!”1
The truth is that we and others are more likely to see God’s transforming power at work within us not in how we look, but in the quality of our relationships with loved ones and friends, in our ability to respond to the needs of others, and in our zeal for pursuing justice and peace. Indeed, we are called as Christians to come down from the mountain strengthened to serve others. Scottish Bible commentator William Barclay reminds us that we need solitude but not complete withdrawal. Just like Jesus, we need solitude to stay connected with God. But, Barclay says, “if we, in our search for solitude, shut ourselves off from one another, if we shut our ears to the appeal of brothers and sisters for help, if we shut our hearts to the cries and tears of things, then that is not religion. The solitude is … meant to make us better able to meet and cope with the demands of everyday life.”2
Will we be “changed into his likeness?” As followers of Jesus, we trust that when we live a life of prayer, when we join with others in Christian community, and when we live into our respective ministries to others, God will continue the transformation God began in us. Is such a life easy? If it were, these pews would be filled to overflowing. No, it takes courage, grit, and determination to admit that we need God’s transformative power and to let God into our self-centered lives.
John Smylie tells the story of a teen whose parents had divorced.3 Like many children of divorced parents he had shuffled back and forth between their respective houses, angry at both of them and secretly wishing they would get back together. When his mother remarried, he was even angrier, and especially at his stepfather. Two years after his mother remarried, when he was fifteen, some friends invited him to come to a Happening, a special weekend for teens that helps them go deeper in their relationship with God. When he came home from the weekend, he was tired, but excited, and he bubbled over telling his mother and stepfather about all the wonderful experiences he had had. Then he said to his stepfather, “There’s something I’ve got to tell you, but I’m not ready to tell you right at this moment.” His stepfather replied, “Whenever you are ready I’m here to listen to you.” Three days later, when the stepfather was beginning to wonder when he might hear the rest of the story, the boy declared he was ready to speak. They went where they could be alone. The boy held his head down and struggled to speak. Finally, close to tears, he said, “You know, when you married my mom, that was really hard for me. I want my mom to be happy, but it was really hard to have you come into my life and my family. What I realized over the weekend was that God has brought you to my life.” Stunned and unable himself to speak, the stepfather received the boy’s gracious words and embraced him.
This is the good news: when we look at Jesus, when we listen to him, God’s grace transforms us. God’s grace enables us to live a cross-shaped life, connected both to God and to our neighbors. My brothers and sisters, as we look towards Ash Wednesday, Lent, and Good Friday, we can trust that by God’s grace we will share Christ’s life and be truly transformed into his likeness.
1. The Song of the Bird (New York: Doubleday, 1982), 16.
2. William Barclay, The Gospel of Mark (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1956), 220, quoted in David E. Leininger, Tales for the Pulpit (Lima, OH: CSS, 2009), 80.
3. "Transforming Light,” Lectionary Stories for Preaching and Teaching Cycle C (Lima, OH: CSS, 2012), 45-47
Certainly, we cannot be changed into Jesus’ physical likeness. To begin with, does anyone know what Jesus looked like? Artists have probably been trying to capture his “likeness” since the day after the first Easter. We have wonderful art to show for it – frescoes, sculpture, icons, paintings from every century and culture – but most artistic renderings are at best symbolic suggestions of who Jesus was. Even if Mathew Brady had been alive during Jesus’ time and had photographed Jesus, most of us could not be changed into his physical likeness: try as we might we will never become short, black-haired, dark-skinned Jewish males.
Then can we hope to be changed into Jesus’ “likeness” by doing what he did? I don’t think any of us will be executed on a cross by Roman authorities. And unless you all are hiding something from me, none of you will be receiving the death penalty any time soon. And aren’t all of us absolutely sure that there’s no way we can be changed into Jesus’ divine likeness? The gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke all tell us that three of the disciples got a glimpse of Jesus’ true glorified nature – and they were terrified! “I will never be glorified as Jesus was, and no one will ever be terrified of me in that way,” we would all say.
So how can we be “changed into his likeness?” What would that look like? If Jesus is our model, perhaps we can answer that question by looking at how he lived out his human life. To begin with, the first thing that we notice about Jesus, especially if we read the gospel of Luke closely, is that Jesus knew that he had a deep and abiding relationship with God. Perhaps Jesus knew his deep relationship with God from the moment of his conception. He surely received another affirmation of his unbreakable bond with God when he was baptized. From then on, Jesus’ connection with God clearly permeated his entire adult life. Jesus’ close connection with God is especially reflected in the depth of his prayer and in how often he took time away from his ministry to go off and pray. If you read the gospel of Luke carefully, you will notice all the times Luke mentions that Jesus withdrew for prayer. It’s not a coincidence that the disciples received such an overwhelming experience of Jesus’ divine nature as today’s reading suggests while they and Jesus were praying.
That’s what happens in prayer! That’s what happens when we open ourselves up to God and let God work within us! The beginning of our transformation into Jesus’ likeness, call it conversion if you will, always comes from a deep and ongoing relationship with God. For some of us, conversion begins with one shattering moment when we sense God’s reality, presence, and demands on us – and after that our lives are never the same. For others of us, conversion begins with a gentle nudge, a feeling that we need to come back to church, to faith, to spiritual growth. And for yet others of us, conversion begins with a “dark night of the soul,” when we feel that all is lost, and that God has completely abandoned us.
After such an experience, are we then immediately “changed into his likeness?” Usually not. Transformation comes through God’s grace at work in us – and it is usually “the slow work of God.” God works in us day by day, week by week, year by year, molding, shaping, and forming us – like a great artist – into God’s desired creation, a human being as fully alive, as filled with the Holy Spirit, as Jesus was. And God works in us as we spend time in prayer with God, as we let God know us, heal us, and change us. Yet transformation is rarely a solo experience. We may pray as individuals, and God may grace our prayer with God’s presence. But if we want to continue to grow as Jesus’ followers, we must do it in community. Notice that Jesus took three people up the mountain with him. Most important, our transformation is never our own doing, and it seldom happens overnight. But the good news is that when we keep “listening to Jesus,” in prayer and worship, when we take time to be present to God, God will transform us.
What happened after the transcendent “mountain-top” experience? They all came down the mountain! The gospel account does not say whether the disciples understood what they had experienced with Jesus on the mountain. Jesus didn’t stop to explain it to them. Rather, Jesus returned to ministry. For Jesus, ministry followed mystery. After prayer time, Jesus always came back to heal, feed, and teach, and the transcendent sense of connection with God deepened his call. He continued to care for those in need, even as he set his face for Jerusalem and what awaited him there.
And so it is for us, as we move from the glories of Epiphany tide to the hard work of Lent. After we have had a deep experience of God’s reality, of God’s deep love of us, and of God’s desire to transform us, we might possibly look different. Moses’ face was radiant after his encounter with God, so radiant that people were afraid to come near him. More often the change is in the way we live our lives. “After Zen, the laundry.” Or as Jesuit spiritual teacher Anthony de Mello tells us,
“When the Zen master attained enlightenment
he wrote the following lines to celebrate it:
Oh wondrous marvel:
I chop wood!
I draw water from the well!”1
The truth is that we and others are more likely to see God’s transforming power at work within us not in how we look, but in the quality of our relationships with loved ones and friends, in our ability to respond to the needs of others, and in our zeal for pursuing justice and peace. Indeed, we are called as Christians to come down from the mountain strengthened to serve others. Scottish Bible commentator William Barclay reminds us that we need solitude but not complete withdrawal. Just like Jesus, we need solitude to stay connected with God. But, Barclay says, “if we, in our search for solitude, shut ourselves off from one another, if we shut our ears to the appeal of brothers and sisters for help, if we shut our hearts to the cries and tears of things, then that is not religion. The solitude is … meant to make us better able to meet and cope with the demands of everyday life.”2
Will we be “changed into his likeness?” As followers of Jesus, we trust that when we live a life of prayer, when we join with others in Christian community, and when we live into our respective ministries to others, God will continue the transformation God began in us. Is such a life easy? If it were, these pews would be filled to overflowing. No, it takes courage, grit, and determination to admit that we need God’s transformative power and to let God into our self-centered lives.
John Smylie tells the story of a teen whose parents had divorced.3 Like many children of divorced parents he had shuffled back and forth between their respective houses, angry at both of them and secretly wishing they would get back together. When his mother remarried, he was even angrier, and especially at his stepfather. Two years after his mother remarried, when he was fifteen, some friends invited him to come to a Happening, a special weekend for teens that helps them go deeper in their relationship with God. When he came home from the weekend, he was tired, but excited, and he bubbled over telling his mother and stepfather about all the wonderful experiences he had had. Then he said to his stepfather, “There’s something I’ve got to tell you, but I’m not ready to tell you right at this moment.” His stepfather replied, “Whenever you are ready I’m here to listen to you.” Three days later, when the stepfather was beginning to wonder when he might hear the rest of the story, the boy declared he was ready to speak. They went where they could be alone. The boy held his head down and struggled to speak. Finally, close to tears, he said, “You know, when you married my mom, that was really hard for me. I want my mom to be happy, but it was really hard to have you come into my life and my family. What I realized over the weekend was that God has brought you to my life.” Stunned and unable himself to speak, the stepfather received the boy’s gracious words and embraced him.
This is the good news: when we look at Jesus, when we listen to him, God’s grace transforms us. God’s grace enables us to live a cross-shaped life, connected both to God and to our neighbors. My brothers and sisters, as we look towards Ash Wednesday, Lent, and Good Friday, we can trust that by God’s grace we will share Christ’s life and be truly transformed into his likeness.
1. The Song of the Bird (New York: Doubleday, 1982), 16.
2. William Barclay, The Gospel of Mark (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1956), 220, quoted in David E. Leininger, Tales for the Pulpit (Lima, OH: CSS, 2009), 80.
3. "Transforming Light,” Lectionary Stories for Preaching and Teaching Cycle C (Lima, OH: CSS, 2012), 45-47
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