Did Jesus really say that religious people shouldn’t wash their hands? Of course, washing our hands is one of the common, habitual actions that we do. You know that ubiquitous sign in restaurant rest rooms: “All employees must wash their hands before returning to work.” In the winter we’re told that the best way to prevent spreading flu and colds is to wash our hands. It goes without saying that hand-washing is standard practice in any healthcare setting. However, for religious leaders in Jesus’ time – and no doubt thirty or so years later when the Gospel of Mark was written – hand-washing was not a hygienic practice but, rather, a religious practice. In suggesting that all Jews followed this practice, Mark may have been exaggerating, or perhaps responding to questions put to followers of Jesus. Certainly, working class people, like most of Jesus’ followers, would not have been able to regularly practice the ritual washing of hands.
So did Jesus really condemn hand-washing? Our gospel lection for today is an odd one. We really should read all twenty-three verses – and I urge you to do so when you get home. Following the quote from Isaiah is an example of real hypocrisy, viz., the way some pious people disobey the commandment to honor one’s parents by entrusting their money to the temple. Then Jesus moves into a private conversation with the disciples. He explains that true piety has nothing to do with food, but rather with what is in their hearts. If you think that our lection, as we have it, doesn’t hang together, you’re right!
So did Jesus condemn hand-washing? Notice what Jesus did not say. He did not condemn tradition. He was not against hand-washing or other similar ritual practices. As a good Jew and a rabbi, he may well have followed such practices himself. Nor did Jesus condemn the Pharisees as people or as religious leaders. Again, as a rabbi, he knew full well that the Jews’ distinctive religious practices, dress, and diet helped ensure their survival as a minority community in a religiously diverse world.
What Jesus did condemn the Pharisees for was emphasizing tradition and custom, indeed the many minute and trifling customs which pious people had devised, and neglecting the larger demands of God’s commandments. Moreover, the practices of hand-washing and other similar practices of ritual purification were available only to a select few and enabled those privileged few to see themselves as superior to working class people, artisans, and peasants, indeed any people who worked with their hands. Most important, Jesus was condemning the religious leaders for focusing on their own practices, what I do, rather than on the needs of others. If our text hangs together it is in this: that focusing on oneself and one’s own needs, seeing the world only from our own point of view, our own limited understanding and lifestyle, is ultimately the source of the evil intentions which Jesus names.
So the answer to the question is “No.” Nevertheless, let’s be clear: Jesus did not condemn religious practices as such. Rather, he condemned practices that were self-referential, that led to the exclusion of large groups of people, and that did not reflect the Torah and the foundational values that underlay God’s covenant with the Jews.
Our lesson from the Letter of James, which we began today, reinforces what we’ve just heard in the gospel. Like the letter to the Ephesians, this letter too was probably an encyclical, i.e., a letter not addressed to a specific Christian community but intended for circulation among several communities. It lacks the parts common to letters in the ancient world, and it seems to keep changing topics – you can hear that even in the portion we heard today. But there is an over-arching theme to this letter. As you could hear today, James emphasizes the importance of good works, of good practices if you will. If the Pharisees had asked Jesus what they should do, he might have answered with much of James’ letter.
So what practices does James commend to his hearers? To begin with, the writer says, we must remember that whatever we have comes from God – there are no self-made people in this world – and that God expects us to use God’s gifts to advance God’s reign. Secondly, James asks us to listen carefully to the needs and concerns of others, not jumping in with our own ideas and observations, but attentively taking in what other people are offering us. Finally, James reminds us that as followers of Jesus we are called to take care of the most vulnerable members of society, the “widows and orphans,” i.e., those who have no economic or social support. In a word, like Jesus, James calls us to actualize our faith in our behavior, in truly loving practices, in a word, to “walk the talk.”
What does that look like in real life? What religious practices might help us to avoid Jesus’ condemnation and fulfill James’ criteria? Serious Christians have asked these questions since the earliest Christian communities began to gather. Actually, even before Jesus’ time, the Essenes, the writers of the Dead Sea Scrolls, retired to separate communities where they followed an austere lifestyle and devoted themselves to prayer and study. In the twelfth century, Francis and Clare of Assisi tried to create communities that followed Jesus’ own way of life. They took literally Jesus’ commands to “take nothing for the journey, eat what is set before you, wear no shoes, and work for your wages,” i.e., to live exactly as Jesus had lived. Thus the earliest Franciscans lived among and served the poorest in society, owned nothing, begged for what they needed, and took comfort in being far from the seats of power. However, like many similar communities – like the Desert Fathers and Mothers, the Celtic monastics, the Beguines, and the Bruderhof – they found it difficult to sustain this lifestyle, despite their commitment to Jesus and to Francis’s teachings. Like others, the Franciscans eventually also became clericalized, settled, and wealthy. Fortunately, in the twenty-first century, Francis’s “alternative orthodoxy,” as Richard Rohr calls it, is being rediscovered by the Franciscans themselves, by the Nuns on the Bus, and by intentional communities like the School for Conversion in inner-city Durham, North Carolina.
And what of us? What does faithful practice look like for us ordinary folks in the twenty-first century? We are not monastics or even members of intentional communities – although it is possible to be an associate of a religious order or support the work of alternative intentional communities. “If you were on trial for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict you?” What would that evidence actually look like? First of all, we are called to be clear about what we do profess. We say the Nicene Creed every Sunday. We say the Apostles Creed and repeat the baptismal promises at every baptism. Do the statements in these creeds or promises mean anything to us, or do we just repeat them? One of the reasons I like Joan Chittister’s book In Search of Belief, which I mentioned in the e-news, is that she fleshes out the implications for our lives of every phrase of the Apostles Creed. I commend the book to you.
I am going out on a limb. In addition to our secular lives, our lives involving work, family, and friends, I’d like to suggest a minimum set of practices that will enable us to live a little more as Jesus lived, that will help actualize our faith, and that will strengthen our ability to “walk the talk.” The first practice is some form of daily prayer – even five minutes worth. You can say “good morning” to God before you get out of bed, you can pause at your lunch hour, or you can review the day with God before going to bed. A couple of weeks ago, the comic strip character Ziggy is shown looking up towards a sunbeam. He says, “Oh, I’m not asking for anything…. I just wanted to know how you are doing today!” Did you ever consider saying that to God yourself?
The second essential practice is some form of Sabbath. Yes, ideally, we all ought to be able to take an entire day – and just do nothing! If an entire day isn’t possible, pencil in some time, any amount, to rest from your labors – and from all electronic devices, to study, pray, enjoy nature, or just rest. The third practice is regular worship, ideally every Sunday. If we are to continue to grow as Jesus’ followers, we need regular spiritual nourishment, just as much as our bodies need physical nourishment. The fourth and final practice is some regular form or self-reflection. We need to take the time to periodically ask ourselves these questions: how does my life reflect my faith? How do my practices, my habitual behaviors, my daily life both draw me closer to God and increase my compassion for others?
And then we can trust that, when we ask for God’s grace to do all this, God will lavishly bestow that grace on us. We trust that God is indeed “the giver of all good things,” who will enable us to show forth our commitment to Jesus and our praise of God not only with our lips but always in our lives.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Stand Up for Jesus
Where is Ephesus? For the last seven weeks we’ve been hearing sections of a letter addressed to a Christian community there. Where is this place?
Actually, you can visit the ruins of ancient Ephesus. Today, Ephesus entertains many tourist groups, and cruise ships regularly call at the port of Kusadasi nearby. The city lies on the southwestern coast of Turkey on the eastern shore of the Ionian Sea. Archeologists have been at work there since the 1860s and have to date unearthed about 15% of the ancient city. So visitors can see wonderful Roman ruins. There’s an imposing gate and a second-century library. There’s the Temple of Artemis, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, and many other temples, including one dedicated to the emperor Domitian. Among other sites you can even see an ancient theater and a marketplace.
The city had been founded in the early 10th century BC by a Hittite king. By the time that Christian communities were being established there, i.e., in the first and second centuries AD, Ephesus was a thriving commercial center with a population of about 50,000 people. Of those, a small minority had become followers of the itinerant rabbi who had been executed by the Roman establishment in Jerusalem. Comprising a small number of Jews among many gentiles, these earliest Christian communities were socially mixed and were subject to persecution and discrimination, chiefly for refusing to worship the Roman emperors.
We’ve been calling what we’ve been hearing an “epistle” or “letter,” but scholars believe that our text was probably more like an encyclical, i.e., a letter not addressed to a specific community but rather intended for circulation among several different communities. We are not sure who wrote it. Traditionally it was ascribed to Paul. However, much internal evidence suggests that it was probably written by a disciple of Paul who was writing in Paul’s name – a common practice in the ancient world.
The first half of the letter, as we’ve heard this past month and a half, deals with theological issues. The writer begins by warning the gentiles not to return to their former pagan religious practices. This was not a trivial issue for them, as much of their business and social life would formerly have centered around the temple – not unlike our own society a generation or two ago. What is more important is the reminder that, through Christ, gentiles have been brought into the covenant that God had established first with the Jews: “So then, remember that at one time you Gentiles by birth … that you were … without Christ, aliens from the commonwealth of Israel…. But now in Christ Jesus you who were once far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ (2:11-13). Therefore the followers of Jesus now constitute a new community, unified by the work of Christ: “So you are then no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone. In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God” (2:19-22).
In the second half of the letter, the writer explains what it means to be a Christian community. Christians are called, we have heard, especially to live lives that reflect their commitment to Jesus, to honor his call to live in unity and peace, to give up immoral practices, and to seek wisdom. Because “the days are evil,” Christians are also called to “be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time” (5:15-16).
Now, finally, we have come to the end of the letter. We have come to what scholars the “peroration.” This is a technical term for a “battle charge.” This is what a general would say before sending troops into battle, or a coach would say before sending players onto the field or court. It’s the rhetorical equivalent of “Go get ‘em!” Now Christians were called to be peaceful, to even fly under the radar, so why did the writer use military imagery here? Think about it. What did ancient people see around them all the time? Roman foot soldiers! People were as familiar with the foot soldiers’ armor as we are today with the uniforms of law enforcement officers or Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts. But there is more here than simply familiarity. Jews are also reminded of similar images in the Hebrew Scriptures, especially, for example, Isaiah’s description of Israel’s coming savior: “Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist….” In the third part of Isaiah, we hear again that God, in avenging injustice, “put on righteousness like a breastplate, and a helmet of salvation on his head….” And finally, all the hearers, both Jews and Gentiles, are reminded that they, as followers of Jesus, are not lone rangers, but rather, like common soldiers, are part of a community, a company or platoon, a regiment in God’s forces.
What is the battle charge for the Ephesians, and by extension, for us? To what are we called as committed followers of Jesus? First, we are called to stand firm, to stand ready to do God’s work, even if that work is not popular. More important, we are called to acknowledge that there are real forces arrayed against us. These forces are not “enemies of flesh and blood,” that is our personal enemies. In the ancient world, for the writer of the letter to the Ephesians, these forces are characterized as demonic forces: rulers, authorities, “cosmic powers of this present darkness,” and “spiritual forces in the heavenly places.” We might characterize those forces differently. Certainly we can point to human beings whom we consider evil. Just this week Islamic State extremists beheaded Khaled Asaad, the eighty-two year old Syrian archeologist who gave his life defending the Roman ruins of Palmyra. However, beyond even ISIS, reprehensible though it may be, some of us might name those systemic forces against which we feel powerless. What might be such forces for us? Consider these: segregation, apartheid, and racism, the Mafia and other organized crime, terrorism of all kinds, the easy availability in this country of deadly weapons, drug and alcohol addiction, human trafficking, a celebrity culture of Bad Boys and Girls, global warming, political corruption, and unjust incarceration, just to name a few.
As Christians, we are called to participate in the struggle against all these forces of darkness. But – and this is a huge but – we are called not to depend solely on our own selves and our own efforts, but always on God’s grace. We are called to be first and foremost members of Jesus’ regiment, to put on the armor issued to us, the belt, breastplate, and shoes that are standard issue in his service. We are called to accept the protection and word, the helmet and the sword, that come from him. We are called to remember that, even with God’s grace, Christian life is a struggle against powerful forces, especially if we are imitating Jesus, who exemplified for us the ultimate struggle against evil. Finally, we are called to remember that we are already victors in this struggle, that Christ, through his resurrection, has already won for us the victory against evil and death.
And how might we remember all that? We gain the strength to combat the dark forces by remaining always in prayer, our writer tells us, prayer both for ourselves and for others. We do have spiritual resources available to us, if we would but avail ourselves of them. We do have the encouraging words of Scripture, especially Jesus’ promise that “The words I have spoken to you are spirit and life.” We do have the nourishment of Christ’s Body and Blood and his promise, which we have been hearing all this month in one form or another, that, “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them….” And we do have the encouragement, grace, and experience of transformation that comes to us through our own practices of prayer. When we remain firmly devoted to Jesus, through reading Scripture, letting ourselves be regularly nourished in communion, and deepening our relationship with him in prayer, we begin to become the Christians described by St. Teresa of Avila, when she reminded us that, “We are all vassals of the of the King. May it please his Majesty that, like brave soldiers, we may look only where the banner of our king is flying and thus follow his will.” As we follow his banner, we also have his promise that we will grow in our ability to share the good news with others and establish a community of peace, love, and unity.
You’ve heard the call to arms. With the Ephesians, go, stand firm against indifference, scorn, and evil in high places. Stand firm in your commitment to Jesus. Stand up, stand up for Jesus, ye soldiers of the cross!
Actually, you can visit the ruins of ancient Ephesus. Today, Ephesus entertains many tourist groups, and cruise ships regularly call at the port of Kusadasi nearby. The city lies on the southwestern coast of Turkey on the eastern shore of the Ionian Sea. Archeologists have been at work there since the 1860s and have to date unearthed about 15% of the ancient city. So visitors can see wonderful Roman ruins. There’s an imposing gate and a second-century library. There’s the Temple of Artemis, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, and many other temples, including one dedicated to the emperor Domitian. Among other sites you can even see an ancient theater and a marketplace.
The city had been founded in the early 10th century BC by a Hittite king. By the time that Christian communities were being established there, i.e., in the first and second centuries AD, Ephesus was a thriving commercial center with a population of about 50,000 people. Of those, a small minority had become followers of the itinerant rabbi who had been executed by the Roman establishment in Jerusalem. Comprising a small number of Jews among many gentiles, these earliest Christian communities were socially mixed and were subject to persecution and discrimination, chiefly for refusing to worship the Roman emperors.
We’ve been calling what we’ve been hearing an “epistle” or “letter,” but scholars believe that our text was probably more like an encyclical, i.e., a letter not addressed to a specific community but rather intended for circulation among several different communities. We are not sure who wrote it. Traditionally it was ascribed to Paul. However, much internal evidence suggests that it was probably written by a disciple of Paul who was writing in Paul’s name – a common practice in the ancient world.
The first half of the letter, as we’ve heard this past month and a half, deals with theological issues. The writer begins by warning the gentiles not to return to their former pagan religious practices. This was not a trivial issue for them, as much of their business and social life would formerly have centered around the temple – not unlike our own society a generation or two ago. What is more important is the reminder that, through Christ, gentiles have been brought into the covenant that God had established first with the Jews: “So then, remember that at one time you Gentiles by birth … that you were … without Christ, aliens from the commonwealth of Israel…. But now in Christ Jesus you who were once far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ (2:11-13). Therefore the followers of Jesus now constitute a new community, unified by the work of Christ: “So you are then no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God, built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the cornerstone. In him the whole structure is joined together and grows into a holy temple in the Lord; in whom you also are built together spiritually into a dwelling place for God” (2:19-22).
In the second half of the letter, the writer explains what it means to be a Christian community. Christians are called, we have heard, especially to live lives that reflect their commitment to Jesus, to honor his call to live in unity and peace, to give up immoral practices, and to seek wisdom. Because “the days are evil,” Christians are also called to “be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time” (5:15-16).
Now, finally, we have come to the end of the letter. We have come to what scholars the “peroration.” This is a technical term for a “battle charge.” This is what a general would say before sending troops into battle, or a coach would say before sending players onto the field or court. It’s the rhetorical equivalent of “Go get ‘em!” Now Christians were called to be peaceful, to even fly under the radar, so why did the writer use military imagery here? Think about it. What did ancient people see around them all the time? Roman foot soldiers! People were as familiar with the foot soldiers’ armor as we are today with the uniforms of law enforcement officers or Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts. But there is more here than simply familiarity. Jews are also reminded of similar images in the Hebrew Scriptures, especially, for example, Isaiah’s description of Israel’s coming savior: “Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist….” In the third part of Isaiah, we hear again that God, in avenging injustice, “put on righteousness like a breastplate, and a helmet of salvation on his head….” And finally, all the hearers, both Jews and Gentiles, are reminded that they, as followers of Jesus, are not lone rangers, but rather, like common soldiers, are part of a community, a company or platoon, a regiment in God’s forces.
What is the battle charge for the Ephesians, and by extension, for us? To what are we called as committed followers of Jesus? First, we are called to stand firm, to stand ready to do God’s work, even if that work is not popular. More important, we are called to acknowledge that there are real forces arrayed against us. These forces are not “enemies of flesh and blood,” that is our personal enemies. In the ancient world, for the writer of the letter to the Ephesians, these forces are characterized as demonic forces: rulers, authorities, “cosmic powers of this present darkness,” and “spiritual forces in the heavenly places.” We might characterize those forces differently. Certainly we can point to human beings whom we consider evil. Just this week Islamic State extremists beheaded Khaled Asaad, the eighty-two year old Syrian archeologist who gave his life defending the Roman ruins of Palmyra. However, beyond even ISIS, reprehensible though it may be, some of us might name those systemic forces against which we feel powerless. What might be such forces for us? Consider these: segregation, apartheid, and racism, the Mafia and other organized crime, terrorism of all kinds, the easy availability in this country of deadly weapons, drug and alcohol addiction, human trafficking, a celebrity culture of Bad Boys and Girls, global warming, political corruption, and unjust incarceration, just to name a few.
As Christians, we are called to participate in the struggle against all these forces of darkness. But – and this is a huge but – we are called not to depend solely on our own selves and our own efforts, but always on God’s grace. We are called to be first and foremost members of Jesus’ regiment, to put on the armor issued to us, the belt, breastplate, and shoes that are standard issue in his service. We are called to accept the protection and word, the helmet and the sword, that come from him. We are called to remember that, even with God’s grace, Christian life is a struggle against powerful forces, especially if we are imitating Jesus, who exemplified for us the ultimate struggle against evil. Finally, we are called to remember that we are already victors in this struggle, that Christ, through his resurrection, has already won for us the victory against evil and death.
And how might we remember all that? We gain the strength to combat the dark forces by remaining always in prayer, our writer tells us, prayer both for ourselves and for others. We do have spiritual resources available to us, if we would but avail ourselves of them. We do have the encouraging words of Scripture, especially Jesus’ promise that “The words I have spoken to you are spirit and life.” We do have the nourishment of Christ’s Body and Blood and his promise, which we have been hearing all this month in one form or another, that, “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them….” And we do have the encouragement, grace, and experience of transformation that comes to us through our own practices of prayer. When we remain firmly devoted to Jesus, through reading Scripture, letting ourselves be regularly nourished in communion, and deepening our relationship with him in prayer, we begin to become the Christians described by St. Teresa of Avila, when she reminded us that, “We are all vassals of the of the King. May it please his Majesty that, like brave soldiers, we may look only where the banner of our king is flying and thus follow his will.” As we follow his banner, we also have his promise that we will grow in our ability to share the good news with others and establish a community of peace, love, and unity.
You’ve heard the call to arms. With the Ephesians, go, stand firm against indifference, scorn, and evil in high places. Stand firm in your commitment to Jesus. Stand up, stand up for Jesus, ye soldiers of the cross!
Sunday, August 2, 2015
What Sign Will You Give Us?
“What sign are you going to give us then, so that we may see it and believe you?” The Gospel of John, or the Fourth Gospel, as many scholars call it, is a Gospel of Signs. In this gospel, the story of Jesus is structured around seven “signs,” miracles that are meant to clarify and concretely reveal Jesus’ identity to everyone who might hear or read this account. In this sixth chapter, which we began hearing last week, we encountered one of those miraculous signs. We watched Jesus’ enabling the feeding of the crowds who were following him. The other signs in the gospel story, most of which we hear about in our three-year lectionary, include the wedding at Cana, where Jesus’ turning water into wine is the first sign, the healing of the royal official’s son in Capernaum, the healing of a paralytic at the pool of Bethzatha, Jesus’ walking on water, which we also heard about last week, the healing of the man born blind, and the raising of Lazarus.
In the gospel, these seven signs reveal Jesus’ power over disease, sickness, and death. They show that Jesus brings wholeness to what is broken, that he is master of the created world, and that he rules over a realm that is greater than any earthly realm. What is more important, these miracles are powerful symbols. They show us something about God through elements of our lives with which we are already familiar, through healing, and through water, food, and wine. For those with eyes to see, these signs reveal God’s glory and deepen trust in the Word made flesh, God’s self-revelation in Jesus.
Is it surprising then that the miracles in the Fourth Gospel did not often lead the people who witnessed them to deeper faith in Jesus? More often than not, the signs caused confusion, division, and even hostility among those who witnessed them, including Jesus’ very own disciples. Lest we become judgmental or think ourselves superior to the people who interacted with Jesus in the flesh, remember that the people who misunderstood Jesus’ signs were not stupid, hard-hearted, or evil. Rather, those who witnessed Jesus’ signs missed their meaning, because what they were seeing in Jesus was completely beyond anything they had encountered before. Scripture and the traditions that ordered their lives were also no help in explaining what they were seeing.
The community for whom John was writing in the late 90’s AD may also have been confused as to Jesus’ true identity. We believe that the people for whom this gospel was written were mostly Jewish followers of Jesus who now found themselves in conflict with the wider Jewish community and its leaders. They were struggling to understand the Jesus to whom they had committed themselves and to define themselves as a community. The miraculous signs of this gospel were meant to fill out their understanding of Jesus, bolster their faith in him, and reassure them that they had made the right choice in responding to Jesus’ call. At the end of chapter 20, the writer reminds the hearers that, “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.”
Are we also confused by the signs in the Fourth Gospel? If we’re honest, we might admit that we too find it hard to comprehend Jesus’ true identity. Week by week, we say, in the words of the Nicene Creed, “[T]rue God from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father…. By the power of the Holy Spirit, he became incarnate from the Virgin Mary and was made man.” What are we saying when we say that? More to the point, is our faith only in a past event? Do we also seek signs? Can we see signs of God at work in the world around us now? Where might we look for signs that will clarify Jesus’ identity and reveal God’s glory for us? Ultimately, we must learn from our own experience Who Jesus is. Even so, I’d like to suggest that the experiences of two people might help open our eyes to see the signs of God at work more clearly.
The first person is Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Society of Jesus, or Jesuits, who lived from 1491 to 1556. Born into a Basque family, Iñigo, as he was known, began his adult life as a soldier. However, he was seriously wounded in the Battle of Pamplona in 1521. While he was recovering, he underwent a spiritual conversion and resolved to join a Benedictine order. In 1534, in the wake of the stirring of the Protestant Reformation, he resolved to found his own order, the Jesuits, which would be dedicated to evangelism, education, and prayer. During his earlier convalescence, Ignatius had read De Vita Christi, by Ludolph of Saxony, a commentary on the life of Jesus that encourages us to place ourselves in the scene of the Gospel story. From this method of “simple contemplation,” Ignatius developed his Spiritual Exercises, a set of meditations, prayers, and other mental exercises on the life of Jesus, designed to be carried out over a period of 28–30 days.
Among the most influential prayer practices in the history of the church, the Spiritual Exercises are regularly used by those who wish to deepen their relationship with Jesus. Right here in Ohio, at the Jesuit Spiritual Center in Milford, you can undertake weekend, week long, or even thirty day Ignatian retreats. What is more important, as those of you who have experienced even brief Ignatian prayer can testify, immersing yourself into a gospel scene, experiencing the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and touches of the scene, seeing Jesus at work, looking into his eyes, and conversing with him, enable us to open our hearts to him, to know him in our hearts, and not just in our heads, and to experience him as friend and brother. Dare I say that we may even come to love Jesus more deeply and to discern the love he has for us? If nothing else, when the “eyes of our hearts” are opened, we may also be able to begin sharing with others the love that we experience in Jesus’ presence.
Jeanne Bishop also came to see more clearly the signs of Jesus’ presence in her life. In time, she even was moved to act on what she saw. The day before Palm Sunday in 1990, Bishop’s twenty-five year old sister, Nancy, Nancy’s husband Richard, and their unborn child were shot to death by sixteen-year old David Biro, who had broken into their home in a Chicago suburb. David was convicted and sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. Bishop later said, “When he got that sentence, I was glad. It meant I never had to think about the murderer again. I could leave him behind, go forward in my life thinking only of Nancy and Richard and how to honor their lives with my own.” Bishop forgave her sister’s murderer, but, for more than a decade, refused to have any contact with him. Even though she was a lawyer and a public defender, she argued vigorously for life sentences without the possibility of parole even for juveniles.
But God would not let Bishop alone. “God changed my heart,” she said, “made me turn and look back, go back to reach out to the killer, to tell him that God loved him, that I forgave him, that he is not alone.” In her moving book, Change of Heart, Bishop describes how she came to the point of being able to visit Biro. She wrote to him and received a surprisingly penitent letter in return. She began visiting him, and little by little, she was able to accept him as a human being in need of and deserving of God’s love. She has since also become an outspoken opponent of the death penalty. Although her family does not agree with her, she also now opposes mandatory life sentences without parole for juveniles. Where are the signs of Jesus’ presence? In the healing and reconciliation that Jeanne Bishop has both experienced and helped to bring about.
Signs of Jesus’ presence, signs that signal who Jesus is, are all around us, if we could but open our eyes to see them. Whenever we turn to God in prayer, and especially when we bring ourselves more directly into Jesus’ presence through practices like Ignatian prayer, we see Jesus more clearly. We experience his love more deeply. More important, when we do the works of mercy, when we become instruments of God’s grace for others, then not only do we ourselves see Jesus, but we also enable others to perceive his presence and to understand his work.
Gracious God, open our eyes to see you and the signs of your presence everywhere we look. Let us be instruments of your peace, and of your grace and mercy.
In the gospel, these seven signs reveal Jesus’ power over disease, sickness, and death. They show that Jesus brings wholeness to what is broken, that he is master of the created world, and that he rules over a realm that is greater than any earthly realm. What is more important, these miracles are powerful symbols. They show us something about God through elements of our lives with which we are already familiar, through healing, and through water, food, and wine. For those with eyes to see, these signs reveal God’s glory and deepen trust in the Word made flesh, God’s self-revelation in Jesus.
Is it surprising then that the miracles in the Fourth Gospel did not often lead the people who witnessed them to deeper faith in Jesus? More often than not, the signs caused confusion, division, and even hostility among those who witnessed them, including Jesus’ very own disciples. Lest we become judgmental or think ourselves superior to the people who interacted with Jesus in the flesh, remember that the people who misunderstood Jesus’ signs were not stupid, hard-hearted, or evil. Rather, those who witnessed Jesus’ signs missed their meaning, because what they were seeing in Jesus was completely beyond anything they had encountered before. Scripture and the traditions that ordered their lives were also no help in explaining what they were seeing.
The community for whom John was writing in the late 90’s AD may also have been confused as to Jesus’ true identity. We believe that the people for whom this gospel was written were mostly Jewish followers of Jesus who now found themselves in conflict with the wider Jewish community and its leaders. They were struggling to understand the Jesus to whom they had committed themselves and to define themselves as a community. The miraculous signs of this gospel were meant to fill out their understanding of Jesus, bolster their faith in him, and reassure them that they had made the right choice in responding to Jesus’ call. At the end of chapter 20, the writer reminds the hearers that, “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.”
Are we also confused by the signs in the Fourth Gospel? If we’re honest, we might admit that we too find it hard to comprehend Jesus’ true identity. Week by week, we say, in the words of the Nicene Creed, “[T]rue God from true God, begotten, not made, of one Being with the Father…. By the power of the Holy Spirit, he became incarnate from the Virgin Mary and was made man.” What are we saying when we say that? More to the point, is our faith only in a past event? Do we also seek signs? Can we see signs of God at work in the world around us now? Where might we look for signs that will clarify Jesus’ identity and reveal God’s glory for us? Ultimately, we must learn from our own experience Who Jesus is. Even so, I’d like to suggest that the experiences of two people might help open our eyes to see the signs of God at work more clearly.
The first person is Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Society of Jesus, or Jesuits, who lived from 1491 to 1556. Born into a Basque family, Iñigo, as he was known, began his adult life as a soldier. However, he was seriously wounded in the Battle of Pamplona in 1521. While he was recovering, he underwent a spiritual conversion and resolved to join a Benedictine order. In 1534, in the wake of the stirring of the Protestant Reformation, he resolved to found his own order, the Jesuits, which would be dedicated to evangelism, education, and prayer. During his earlier convalescence, Ignatius had read De Vita Christi, by Ludolph of Saxony, a commentary on the life of Jesus that encourages us to place ourselves in the scene of the Gospel story. From this method of “simple contemplation,” Ignatius developed his Spiritual Exercises, a set of meditations, prayers, and other mental exercises on the life of Jesus, designed to be carried out over a period of 28–30 days.
Among the most influential prayer practices in the history of the church, the Spiritual Exercises are regularly used by those who wish to deepen their relationship with Jesus. Right here in Ohio, at the Jesuit Spiritual Center in Milford, you can undertake weekend, week long, or even thirty day Ignatian retreats. What is more important, as those of you who have experienced even brief Ignatian prayer can testify, immersing yourself into a gospel scene, experiencing the sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and touches of the scene, seeing Jesus at work, looking into his eyes, and conversing with him, enable us to open our hearts to him, to know him in our hearts, and not just in our heads, and to experience him as friend and brother. Dare I say that we may even come to love Jesus more deeply and to discern the love he has for us? If nothing else, when the “eyes of our hearts” are opened, we may also be able to begin sharing with others the love that we experience in Jesus’ presence.
Jeanne Bishop also came to see more clearly the signs of Jesus’ presence in her life. In time, she even was moved to act on what she saw. The day before Palm Sunday in 1990, Bishop’s twenty-five year old sister, Nancy, Nancy’s husband Richard, and their unborn child were shot to death by sixteen-year old David Biro, who had broken into their home in a Chicago suburb. David was convicted and sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. Bishop later said, “When he got that sentence, I was glad. It meant I never had to think about the murderer again. I could leave him behind, go forward in my life thinking only of Nancy and Richard and how to honor their lives with my own.” Bishop forgave her sister’s murderer, but, for more than a decade, refused to have any contact with him. Even though she was a lawyer and a public defender, she argued vigorously for life sentences without the possibility of parole even for juveniles.
But God would not let Bishop alone. “God changed my heart,” she said, “made me turn and look back, go back to reach out to the killer, to tell him that God loved him, that I forgave him, that he is not alone.” In her moving book, Change of Heart, Bishop describes how she came to the point of being able to visit Biro. She wrote to him and received a surprisingly penitent letter in return. She began visiting him, and little by little, she was able to accept him as a human being in need of and deserving of God’s love. She has since also become an outspoken opponent of the death penalty. Although her family does not agree with her, she also now opposes mandatory life sentences without parole for juveniles. Where are the signs of Jesus’ presence? In the healing and reconciliation that Jeanne Bishop has both experienced and helped to bring about.
Signs of Jesus’ presence, signs that signal who Jesus is, are all around us, if we could but open our eyes to see them. Whenever we turn to God in prayer, and especially when we bring ourselves more directly into Jesus’ presence through practices like Ignatian prayer, we see Jesus more clearly. We experience his love more deeply. More important, when we do the works of mercy, when we become instruments of God’s grace for others, then not only do we ourselves see Jesus, but we also enable others to perceive his presence and to understand his work.
Gracious God, open our eyes to see you and the signs of your presence everywhere we look. Let us be instruments of your peace, and of your grace and mercy.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Standing in the Need of Prayer
David again. How can we be hearing the story of David and Bathsheba this week and next? To begin with, ancient texts did not typically criticize successful and powerful kings, and they did not boldly show the kings’ behaving so badly as today’s reading from the Hebrew Bible does. More to the point, how is it that God’s anointed one, the one specifically chosen out of all of Jesse’s sons, sins as deeply as David does in this story? After all, this is the David who was so successful in subduing Israel’s enemies that God allowed him to bring the sacred ark into Jerusalem. God allowed him to dance and sing in front of the ark as it came up to the city, and David had even briefly entertained the possibility that he might build a permanent house for God. How could this David sin so egregiously? How could this powerful man make such bad choices, totally disregard the rights of those loyal to him, and use his power for such inhumane and evil ends?
And yet here we have the wrenching story of David and Bathsheba, a story so wrenching that some of us feel deep grief as we read it or hear it read. Idling in Jerusalem when he should have been commanding his troops in battle, David spied the lovely Bathsheba purifying herself after her period. His first wrong choice: even after he found out that Bathsheba was married – married to a Hittite, a foreigner from eastern Anatolia who was serving in David’s army – David commanded Bathsheba to have sexual relations with him, raped her really. When she revealed that she was pregnant as a result, David made another poor choice: he tried to cover up what he had done by recalling Bathsheba’s husband Uriah from the front and telling Uriah to have sex with his wife. When they were on duty, soldiers did not generally sleep with their wives, so, instead of going home, the loyal and dutiful Uriah stayed at the palace with his men. Even when David got Uriah drunk, Uriah refused to desert his men. And so David did something truly heinous. Trusting that Uriah would not open the message to Joab, David commanded Joab to send Uriah onto the front line of battle, where he was sure to be killed. And as we learn two verses beyond today’s reading, Uriah and several other officers indeed met their deaths.
In the story of David and Bathsheba do we confront a rare and isolated incident in human history? Would that it were so! I have been reading a lot lately about both the English Reformation, in which the mother of our church was born, and the twentieth-century Holocaust in Europe. In fact, if you would like an up-close view of the Reformation in England, I recommend a series of mysteries set between the years 1536 and 1547, i.e., between the dissolution of the monasteries in England and the death of Henry VIII, by the English writer C.J. Sansom. If you want to go a few years back, check outr the trilogy by Hilary Mantel, the first book of which is Wolf Hall, which portrays the role of Thomas Cromwell in the break with Rome, beginning in 1533.
Both the English Reformation and the Holocaust period provide excellent examples of sinful political leaders, much like David in their manipulative use of power for destructive ends. As some of you may know, Henry VIII, who lived from 1509 to 1547, was at first so strongly Catholic that, in the earlier years of his reign, he sanctioned the burning at the stake of many “heretics,” i.e., people whose crime was endorsing the writings of Martin Luther, or reading the English Bible produced by the exile Englishman William Tyndale, or questioning the doctrine of transubstantiation in the mass. After Henry’s break with Rome, his marriage to Anne Boleyn, and the establishment of an English church under the control of the crown, Henry then systematically persecuted those who disapproved of these developments. Most notable of those who felt Henry’s wrath was Thomas More, who remained staunchly Catholic and was beheaded in 1535. In the wake of his death, the Roman Catholic Church proclaimed More to be a saint. For somewhat different reasons, Thomas Cromwell met the same fate in 1540.
Closer to our time, it is hard to overlook the methodical and intentional destruction of the vibrant Jewish community in Eastern Europe that was undertaken by the Nazis. Personal accounts and photographs of the Holocaust portray unimaginable cruelty and destruction. Indeed one might even argue that Europe is the poorer today for the lost talent and devotion that perished with the six million. Needless to say, methodical and intentional genocide continues into our own day. Cambodia? Rwanda? South Sudan? And even closer, the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, 9/11, Tucson, Arizona, Aurora, Colorado, Newtown, Connecticut, Charleston, South Carolina, Lafayette, Louisiana. Dear God, when does it stop?
And ourselves? We are not plotting murder, we are not rapists, but are we too capable of sin? Does the story of David, heinous as his behavior is, call us to look at our own bad choices and sinful behavior? As we look closely at ourselves, would we confess to neglect of our responsibilities, hostility towards coworkers or relatives, malicious gossip, angry and hurtful outbursts? Would we confess to addiction, to alcohol, drugs, gambling, or something else? Are we judgmental? Have we taken advantage of others? Are we stingy, envious, or wasteful? When we look honestly at the face in the mirror, we know that at least some of those words describe us.
Let’s turn back to David’s story. Actually it gets worse, as we’ll hear next week. God was, as you might imagine, extremely displeased with David. So God sent the prophet Nathan to David. Through a clever parable, Nathan made David see the truth of what he had done. Nathan warned David that the sword would never depart from his house. Then, David did what all of us must eventually do. He said, “I stand guilty before the Lord.” Nathan pronounced God’s forgiveness, but warned him that Bathsheba’s child would die. But there was also good news: God did not abandon David, as he had abandoned David’s predecessor Saul. More important, Bathsheba had another son, Solomon. A wise and good king, Solomon built the first temple. Most important for us, he was an ancestor of Jesus – as Matthew tells us in the beginning of his gospel – through whom God transformed the greatest evil anyone could face into something greater than anyone could imagine.
It is no different for us. Certainly, we would prefer good to come from good. But the truth is that from our sin and brokenness God can – and does – bring redemption and good. From the atrocities of the English Reformation has come a strong, vibrant, distinctively English church. By God’s grace, our church continues to walk the via media, the middle road between the orthodoxy of Rome and the freedom and independence of the Protestant churches. Today, we are rediscovering the gifts and graces of contemplative spirituality, even as God leads us to greater concern for our neighbors. I have yet to see good come from the Holocaust – indeed the second and even third generations are still struggling to understand how their grandparents could have committed or consented to such evil – but I trust that the God of David can, in God’s good time, redeem even those events.
And then I look at myself. I look at my own sins and shadows. Slowly, I begin to face them, to confess them, to acknowledge them, to say, “I stand guilty before the Lord.” We must all do the same. If it is helpful to you, you may do that self-examination and confession in the presence of a priest and receive a priestly absolution; confession is still available in the Episcopal Church. As people lie dying, often a chaplain will ask, “Are you at peace with God.” The confession that may follow in answer, and the assurance of God’s forgiveness, is often a great gift to the dying person. Are you at peace with God? It’s a good question to ask yourself at any time, and then seek to answer it as honestly as you can.
And when we do answer that question honestly, we know that while we don’t condone David’s actions – or anyone’s sinful actions – neither can we stand on the sidelines in judgment. We are all, as Luther said, simul justus et peccator, simultaneously righteous and sinful. I’m reminded of the old spiritual, “It's me, it's me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer; it's me, it's me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer.” We are all standing in the need of prayer and grace. And here’s the good news: we can rejoice that God did not reject David but continually offered him forgiveness when he repented. That offer continues to this day. That grace comes to us, freely, whenever we seek it. Thanks be to God!
And yet here we have the wrenching story of David and Bathsheba, a story so wrenching that some of us feel deep grief as we read it or hear it read. Idling in Jerusalem when he should have been commanding his troops in battle, David spied the lovely Bathsheba purifying herself after her period. His first wrong choice: even after he found out that Bathsheba was married – married to a Hittite, a foreigner from eastern Anatolia who was serving in David’s army – David commanded Bathsheba to have sexual relations with him, raped her really. When she revealed that she was pregnant as a result, David made another poor choice: he tried to cover up what he had done by recalling Bathsheba’s husband Uriah from the front and telling Uriah to have sex with his wife. When they were on duty, soldiers did not generally sleep with their wives, so, instead of going home, the loyal and dutiful Uriah stayed at the palace with his men. Even when David got Uriah drunk, Uriah refused to desert his men. And so David did something truly heinous. Trusting that Uriah would not open the message to Joab, David commanded Joab to send Uriah onto the front line of battle, where he was sure to be killed. And as we learn two verses beyond today’s reading, Uriah and several other officers indeed met their deaths.
In the story of David and Bathsheba do we confront a rare and isolated incident in human history? Would that it were so! I have been reading a lot lately about both the English Reformation, in which the mother of our church was born, and the twentieth-century Holocaust in Europe. In fact, if you would like an up-close view of the Reformation in England, I recommend a series of mysteries set between the years 1536 and 1547, i.e., between the dissolution of the monasteries in England and the death of Henry VIII, by the English writer C.J. Sansom. If you want to go a few years back, check outr the trilogy by Hilary Mantel, the first book of which is Wolf Hall, which portrays the role of Thomas Cromwell in the break with Rome, beginning in 1533.
Both the English Reformation and the Holocaust period provide excellent examples of sinful political leaders, much like David in their manipulative use of power for destructive ends. As some of you may know, Henry VIII, who lived from 1509 to 1547, was at first so strongly Catholic that, in the earlier years of his reign, he sanctioned the burning at the stake of many “heretics,” i.e., people whose crime was endorsing the writings of Martin Luther, or reading the English Bible produced by the exile Englishman William Tyndale, or questioning the doctrine of transubstantiation in the mass. After Henry’s break with Rome, his marriage to Anne Boleyn, and the establishment of an English church under the control of the crown, Henry then systematically persecuted those who disapproved of these developments. Most notable of those who felt Henry’s wrath was Thomas More, who remained staunchly Catholic and was beheaded in 1535. In the wake of his death, the Roman Catholic Church proclaimed More to be a saint. For somewhat different reasons, Thomas Cromwell met the same fate in 1540.
Closer to our time, it is hard to overlook the methodical and intentional destruction of the vibrant Jewish community in Eastern Europe that was undertaken by the Nazis. Personal accounts and photographs of the Holocaust portray unimaginable cruelty and destruction. Indeed one might even argue that Europe is the poorer today for the lost talent and devotion that perished with the six million. Needless to say, methodical and intentional genocide continues into our own day. Cambodia? Rwanda? South Sudan? And even closer, the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, 9/11, Tucson, Arizona, Aurora, Colorado, Newtown, Connecticut, Charleston, South Carolina, Lafayette, Louisiana. Dear God, when does it stop?
And ourselves? We are not plotting murder, we are not rapists, but are we too capable of sin? Does the story of David, heinous as his behavior is, call us to look at our own bad choices and sinful behavior? As we look closely at ourselves, would we confess to neglect of our responsibilities, hostility towards coworkers or relatives, malicious gossip, angry and hurtful outbursts? Would we confess to addiction, to alcohol, drugs, gambling, or something else? Are we judgmental? Have we taken advantage of others? Are we stingy, envious, or wasteful? When we look honestly at the face in the mirror, we know that at least some of those words describe us.
Let’s turn back to David’s story. Actually it gets worse, as we’ll hear next week. God was, as you might imagine, extremely displeased with David. So God sent the prophet Nathan to David. Through a clever parable, Nathan made David see the truth of what he had done. Nathan warned David that the sword would never depart from his house. Then, David did what all of us must eventually do. He said, “I stand guilty before the Lord.” Nathan pronounced God’s forgiveness, but warned him that Bathsheba’s child would die. But there was also good news: God did not abandon David, as he had abandoned David’s predecessor Saul. More important, Bathsheba had another son, Solomon. A wise and good king, Solomon built the first temple. Most important for us, he was an ancestor of Jesus – as Matthew tells us in the beginning of his gospel – through whom God transformed the greatest evil anyone could face into something greater than anyone could imagine.
It is no different for us. Certainly, we would prefer good to come from good. But the truth is that from our sin and brokenness God can – and does – bring redemption and good. From the atrocities of the English Reformation has come a strong, vibrant, distinctively English church. By God’s grace, our church continues to walk the via media, the middle road between the orthodoxy of Rome and the freedom and independence of the Protestant churches. Today, we are rediscovering the gifts and graces of contemplative spirituality, even as God leads us to greater concern for our neighbors. I have yet to see good come from the Holocaust – indeed the second and even third generations are still struggling to understand how their grandparents could have committed or consented to such evil – but I trust that the God of David can, in God’s good time, redeem even those events.
And then I look at myself. I look at my own sins and shadows. Slowly, I begin to face them, to confess them, to acknowledge them, to say, “I stand guilty before the Lord.” We must all do the same. If it is helpful to you, you may do that self-examination and confession in the presence of a priest and receive a priestly absolution; confession is still available in the Episcopal Church. As people lie dying, often a chaplain will ask, “Are you at peace with God.” The confession that may follow in answer, and the assurance of God’s forgiveness, is often a great gift to the dying person. Are you at peace with God? It’s a good question to ask yourself at any time, and then seek to answer it as honestly as you can.
And when we do answer that question honestly, we know that while we don’t condone David’s actions – or anyone’s sinful actions – neither can we stand on the sidelines in judgment. We are all, as Luther said, simul justus et peccator, simultaneously righteous and sinful. I’m reminded of the old spiritual, “It's me, it's me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer; it's me, it's me, O Lord, standing in the need of prayer.” We are all standing in the need of prayer and grace. And here’s the good news: we can rejoice that God did not reject David but continually offered him forgiveness when he repented. That offer continues to this day. That grace comes to us, freely, whenever we seek it. Thanks be to God!
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Lord of the Dance
It was at an Easter Vigil in an old Episcopal church. The liturgy began in the darkness of Saturday evening with the lighting of the new fire. The Paschal candle was then lit, from which the worshippers lighted their own candles. The deacon processed into the church singing, “The Light of Christ.” Then the deacon sang the joyful Exsultet, “Rejoice now heavenly host and choirs of angels….” With only candlelight to see by, the lectors read the traditional nine lessons from the Hebrew Bible. The priest said a short prayer and then joyfully shouted, “Alleluia, Christ is risen!” The people joyfully responded, “The Lord is risen, indeed, alleluia!” As the lights blazed on, organ and people broke into a joyful “Gloria,” the people accompanying the organ with bells and tambourines. There followed the reading of the Epistle and Gospel for the Eucharist, the Prayers of the People, and the Peace. The offertory hymn was a kind of dancy number, with a strong rhythm. The choir began to sway as they sang. The rhythm was contagious. The priest began to sway and move his hands to the music. By the last verse, the rest of the altar party members were dancing in place, while the congregation had begun to clap.
Could this really have happened in an Episcopal church? We have such a strong tradition of dignified – almost staid – worship. “All things decently and in order,” we like to say. Part of the reason why we insist on order is that our liturgy follows the Latin mass. This is a form of worship, in medieval times at least, in which most folks were mere spectators. Another reason is that our liturgy came of age in the 16th and 17th centuries, a time that emphasized a penitential spirituality, somber sorrow for one’s sins rather than joyful praise of God. Add to that the emphasis on propriety in the Victorian era, and in most places we have a very sober style of worship indeed.
Of course, we do now have a robust musical tradition. If you look through our current hymnal, you’ll see that some of the hymns are translations of Latin hymns. Lutherans were ahead of us in adopting congregational singing, but we quickly caught up and translated the best of the German hymns. Eighteenth-century hymnodists such as Charles Wesley and Isaac Watts, Victorian hymn writers, and twentieth century writers and composers added to our store of English hymns, and collections such as LEVAS have given us back African American hymnody. So, some of us are perfectly comfortable with music in worship. But dance?
And yet, why not? Dancing was a regular part of religious life in ancient Israel. In fact, Scripture gives us many different examples of people dancing in praise of God. The book of Exodus tells us that, after the Israelites walked through the Sea of Reeds, Miriam, Aaron’s sister, “took a tambourine in her hand; and all the women went out with her with tambourines and with dancing” (15:20). After Judith assured the victory of the Israelites over the Assyrians by killing Holofernes, “All the women of Israel gathered to see her, and blessed her, and some of them performed a dance in her honor” (Judith 15:12). And, of course, we hear the explicit command in Psalm 150 to praise God with “trumpet sound; praise him with lute and harp! Praise him with tambourine and dance; praise him with strings and pipe! Praise him with clanging cymbals; praise him with loud clashing cymbals!”
Today’s reading from 2 Samuel shows David doing just that. The shepherd boy, the youngest of all of Jesse’s sons, was unexpectedly chosen by God to be Israel’s next king. Now grown up, he has defeated his enemies, the Philistines, and Israel’s first king, Saul, whom God had rejected. Two weeks ago, we heard David’s lament over the deaths of his beloved friend Jonathan and of Saul. Now he is going up to Jerusalem in triumph. Showing that Jerusalem is both the political and religious capital of Israel, David leads those bearing the Ark, the sacred chest that is a sign of God’s presence with Israel. David is wearing a priestly garment, the ephod, as he exuberantly praises God in dance. The Tanakh, the Jewish translation of the Hebrew Bible, tells us that David was leaping and “whirling.” Can you picture it? Certainly, you can almost hear the shouting and the sounds of harps, tambourines, castanets, and cymbals that accompanied David’s leaping and whirling. Talk about “making a joyful noise to the Lord,” as six of the psalms tell us to do!
The text does allude to Michal’s reaction to David’s dancing. Here, we might infer that Michal thought David’s dancing was unseemly for a king. Yet there’s much more to the story than that. Michal was Saul’s daughter, and she was married off to David without her consent. We might imagine that her reaction to David’s dancing reflects not only her grief at her father’s death but also her resentment at having been a political pawn between Saul and David and having been mistreated by both of them. Clearly, everyone else in the story views David’s exuberant worship positively, not only because the Ark is installed in its rightful place, but also because, after the worship is concluded, David blesses the people and generously feeds them.
So, what can we learn from this story? Do we ever get as excited about worship as David? I’m not suggested that we dance with only an ephod on, but shouldn’t we dance in some way? Does worship ever fill us with joy and amazement, when we realize that God is with us and in us? Or are we just bored and disengaged from worship? Or worse, does the very thought of God depress and frighten us, as we wait for God to condemn us for our sins and brokenness? Perhaps we’re afraid of the Michals among us, of those who would frown at any sign of joyful celebration in our worship.
Yet, why shouldn’t be exuberantly joyful in worship? Why shouldn’t we dance and shout? We just heard, in the opening verses of the letter to the Christians at Ephesus, that, through Christ, God has adopted us as God’s children, and that we have been blessed “with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.” Do we forget that we are truly and irrevocably God’s children, and do we listen instead to the voices that harp on our sinfulness and brokenness?
My friends, am I being sacrilegious in suggesting that we should praise God in joyful song and dance? Theologians remind us that the Trinity is a relationship among the three persons of God, a relationship of never-ending, ever-circling praise, joy, and love. There is even a name for this relationship: perichoresis, which can be translated as “rotation” or “dance.” In fact, our Lutheran brothers and sisters even have a hymn that expresses this relationship: “Come, Join the Dance of Trinity.” They even set it to an English folk tune! Here’s just the first verse: “Come, join the dance of Trinity, before all worlds begun – the interweaving of the Three, the Father, Spirit, Son. The universe of space and time did not arise by chance, but as the Three, in love and hope, made room within their dance.”
And consider this: when Katherine Jefferts Schori was invested as Presiding Bishop at the Washington National Cathedral in November, 2006, the liturgy included lovely, expressive liturgical dance. I have no idea what Bp. Michael Curry is planning for his investiture, but I have no doubt that it will include loud, exuberant, joyful praise of God in music and dance.
And what of us? We no longer localize God in an Ark, but can we acknowledge that it is important to experience delight and passion in worship? Can we find a way of dancing our praise of God?
In 1963 English song writer Sidney Carter wrote a hymn entitled “Lord of the Dance.” It was sung to a Shaker tune, “Simple gifts,” and tells the gospel story in Jesus’ own voice. Carter was inspired to write it by a statue of Shiva Nataraj, Lord of the Dance in Hinduism, and by the Shakers, who incorporated dance into their worship. Carter later said of the hymn, "I did not think the churches would like it at all. I thought many people would find it pretty far flown, probably heretical and anyway dubiously Christian. But in fact people did sing it and, unknown to me, it touched a chord.... I see Christ as the incarnation of the piper who is calling us. He dances that shape and pattern which is at the heart of our reality. I sing of the dancing pattern in the life and words of Jesus.”
I invite you to share the dance. Listen as “The Lord of the Dance” is sung by the Resurrection Singers, a group of former orphan boys now a part of the St. Joseph’s Family in Port au Prince, Haiti. Stand if you can or want to and join the dance. If the Spirit can catch a congregation at an Easter Vigil, why can’t the Spirit catch us?
Could this really have happened in an Episcopal church? We have such a strong tradition of dignified – almost staid – worship. “All things decently and in order,” we like to say. Part of the reason why we insist on order is that our liturgy follows the Latin mass. This is a form of worship, in medieval times at least, in which most folks were mere spectators. Another reason is that our liturgy came of age in the 16th and 17th centuries, a time that emphasized a penitential spirituality, somber sorrow for one’s sins rather than joyful praise of God. Add to that the emphasis on propriety in the Victorian era, and in most places we have a very sober style of worship indeed.
Of course, we do now have a robust musical tradition. If you look through our current hymnal, you’ll see that some of the hymns are translations of Latin hymns. Lutherans were ahead of us in adopting congregational singing, but we quickly caught up and translated the best of the German hymns. Eighteenth-century hymnodists such as Charles Wesley and Isaac Watts, Victorian hymn writers, and twentieth century writers and composers added to our store of English hymns, and collections such as LEVAS have given us back African American hymnody. So, some of us are perfectly comfortable with music in worship. But dance?
And yet, why not? Dancing was a regular part of religious life in ancient Israel. In fact, Scripture gives us many different examples of people dancing in praise of God. The book of Exodus tells us that, after the Israelites walked through the Sea of Reeds, Miriam, Aaron’s sister, “took a tambourine in her hand; and all the women went out with her with tambourines and with dancing” (15:20). After Judith assured the victory of the Israelites over the Assyrians by killing Holofernes, “All the women of Israel gathered to see her, and blessed her, and some of them performed a dance in her honor” (Judith 15:12). And, of course, we hear the explicit command in Psalm 150 to praise God with “trumpet sound; praise him with lute and harp! Praise him with tambourine and dance; praise him with strings and pipe! Praise him with clanging cymbals; praise him with loud clashing cymbals!”
Today’s reading from 2 Samuel shows David doing just that. The shepherd boy, the youngest of all of Jesse’s sons, was unexpectedly chosen by God to be Israel’s next king. Now grown up, he has defeated his enemies, the Philistines, and Israel’s first king, Saul, whom God had rejected. Two weeks ago, we heard David’s lament over the deaths of his beloved friend Jonathan and of Saul. Now he is going up to Jerusalem in triumph. Showing that Jerusalem is both the political and religious capital of Israel, David leads those bearing the Ark, the sacred chest that is a sign of God’s presence with Israel. David is wearing a priestly garment, the ephod, as he exuberantly praises God in dance. The Tanakh, the Jewish translation of the Hebrew Bible, tells us that David was leaping and “whirling.” Can you picture it? Certainly, you can almost hear the shouting and the sounds of harps, tambourines, castanets, and cymbals that accompanied David’s leaping and whirling. Talk about “making a joyful noise to the Lord,” as six of the psalms tell us to do!
The text does allude to Michal’s reaction to David’s dancing. Here, we might infer that Michal thought David’s dancing was unseemly for a king. Yet there’s much more to the story than that. Michal was Saul’s daughter, and she was married off to David without her consent. We might imagine that her reaction to David’s dancing reflects not only her grief at her father’s death but also her resentment at having been a political pawn between Saul and David and having been mistreated by both of them. Clearly, everyone else in the story views David’s exuberant worship positively, not only because the Ark is installed in its rightful place, but also because, after the worship is concluded, David blesses the people and generously feeds them.
So, what can we learn from this story? Do we ever get as excited about worship as David? I’m not suggested that we dance with only an ephod on, but shouldn’t we dance in some way? Does worship ever fill us with joy and amazement, when we realize that God is with us and in us? Or are we just bored and disengaged from worship? Or worse, does the very thought of God depress and frighten us, as we wait for God to condemn us for our sins and brokenness? Perhaps we’re afraid of the Michals among us, of those who would frown at any sign of joyful celebration in our worship.
Yet, why shouldn’t be exuberantly joyful in worship? Why shouldn’t we dance and shout? We just heard, in the opening verses of the letter to the Christians at Ephesus, that, through Christ, God has adopted us as God’s children, and that we have been blessed “with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.” Do we forget that we are truly and irrevocably God’s children, and do we listen instead to the voices that harp on our sinfulness and brokenness?
My friends, am I being sacrilegious in suggesting that we should praise God in joyful song and dance? Theologians remind us that the Trinity is a relationship among the three persons of God, a relationship of never-ending, ever-circling praise, joy, and love. There is even a name for this relationship: perichoresis, which can be translated as “rotation” or “dance.” In fact, our Lutheran brothers and sisters even have a hymn that expresses this relationship: “Come, Join the Dance of Trinity.” They even set it to an English folk tune! Here’s just the first verse: “Come, join the dance of Trinity, before all worlds begun – the interweaving of the Three, the Father, Spirit, Son. The universe of space and time did not arise by chance, but as the Three, in love and hope, made room within their dance.”
And consider this: when Katherine Jefferts Schori was invested as Presiding Bishop at the Washington National Cathedral in November, 2006, the liturgy included lovely, expressive liturgical dance. I have no idea what Bp. Michael Curry is planning for his investiture, but I have no doubt that it will include loud, exuberant, joyful praise of God in music and dance.
And what of us? We no longer localize God in an Ark, but can we acknowledge that it is important to experience delight and passion in worship? Can we find a way of dancing our praise of God?
In 1963 English song writer Sidney Carter wrote a hymn entitled “Lord of the Dance.” It was sung to a Shaker tune, “Simple gifts,” and tells the gospel story in Jesus’ own voice. Carter was inspired to write it by a statue of Shiva Nataraj, Lord of the Dance in Hinduism, and by the Shakers, who incorporated dance into their worship. Carter later said of the hymn, "I did not think the churches would like it at all. I thought many people would find it pretty far flown, probably heretical and anyway dubiously Christian. But in fact people did sing it and, unknown to me, it touched a chord.... I see Christ as the incarnation of the piper who is calling us. He dances that shape and pattern which is at the heart of our reality. I sing of the dancing pattern in the life and words of Jesus.”
I invite you to share the dance. Listen as “The Lord of the Dance” is sung by the Resurrection Singers, a group of former orphan boys now a part of the St. Joseph’s Family in Port au Prince, Haiti. Stand if you can or want to and join the dance. If the Spirit can catch a congregation at an Easter Vigil, why can’t the Spirit catch us?
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Whenever I am Weak, then I am Strong
“For whenever I am weak, then I am strong.” You have just heard the gospel in a nutshell! Yet, isn’t it a truly paradoxical statement? Certainly it is for most Americans. We live in a culture that emphasizes rugged individualism, competitiveness, and aggressive strength. And now, God help us, in the wake of the tragedy in Charleston, SC, die-hard gun advocates are suggesting that churches should have armed guards, and that pastors should be armed. Can you see it here at St. Peter’s?
No? Then hear the truly counter-cultural message in Paul’s second letter to the Christian community in Corinth. We’ve been hearing excerpts from this letter since the beginning of June. Actually, most commentators think that this is probably not a single letter – it’s too fragmentary. Rather, the letter seems to be a composite of several letters that Paul wrote to the Corinthians. The passage that we heard today is the last part of what some have called Paul’s “fool’s speech.” In it, Paul addresses criticism of his ministry by some “super apostles,” as he calls them, who have boasted that they are the true spokesmen for Christ. They have also claimed that Paul is not a true apostle, and that he is neither sufficiently Jewish nor sufficiently charismatic. Should Paul respond in kind?
While you wait for the answer to that question, fast-forward to December 27th of last year. In the evening of that wintry day, Heather Cook, the then suffragan bishop of Maryland, struck forty-one year old cyclist Thomas Palermo, killing him almost instantly. Cook was texting at the time of the accident and initially fled the scene. When she surrendered and was tested, she had a blood alcohol level of .22. (Remember that .08 is the level for driving under the influence of alcohol.) Three years prior to this accident, Cook had had another DUI conviction. However, she had spent only a short time in rehab and apparently had been receiving no follow-up care. The diocesan search committee that presented her for election as suffragan bishop knew of Cook’s prior conviction. After her election, diocesan officials even suspected that Cook was drunk at a dinner party the night before her September consecration, but it is unclear whether they took any action. Cook was arraigned in February on charges of driving under the influence resulting in a homicide, vehicular manslaughter, criminal negligent manslaughter, texting while driving, and fleeing the scene of an accident. Her trial will take place September. Cook was deposed from holy orders on May 1 of this year, one day after the twenty-seventh anniversary of her ordination as priest.
As we grieve the death of Thomas Palermo and ponder how Heather Cook might have avoided wrecking her life, does Paul’s response to his critics offer us any wisdom or hope? Paul begins his response by trotting out what we might call his “apostolic resume,” his list of qualifications and accomplishments. First he asserts his Jewish credentials: “Are they Hebrews? So am I. Are they Israelites? So am I. Are they descendants of Abraham? So am I.” Then he goes on to list the hardships he has endured in his work as an evangelist: “Are they ministers of Christ? I am talking like a madman – I am a better one: with far greater labors, far more imprisonments, with countless floggings, and often near death.”
Then, as we heard, Paul alludes to his own experiences of visions and revelations: “I know a person in Christ….” Although Paul is speaking here in the third person, scholars generally agree that he is speaking of his own experiences. We are not sure to what exactly he is referring, whether his experiences on the Damascus road or some other visions. Is Paul boasting here in the same way that he has accused his rivals of boasting?
Actually, Paul is doing just the opposite. After soaring into the “third heaven,” Paul crashes to earth. In the frankest, most personal passage in all of his letters, Paul alludes to a weakness or limitation, the famous “thorn in the flesh.” No one knows what this “thorn” was, although guesses have ranged from the psychological, to external opposition, to physical maladies such as migraines, epilepsy, and eye infections. Although Paul asked for deliverance from the thorn, he did not receive it. Instead, he received another revelation: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” And so the thorn has become for Paul a perpetual reminder of his need for God’s grace, not only in enduring this limitation, but in his entire ministry. The thorn also reminds Paul – and by extension us – that although God does not inflict suffering on us, God can bring life out of suffering. Most important, the thorn reminds Paul and us that when we acknowledge our weakness, when we let go of the desire to be in control, when we give up the belief that we can fix the difficulties and tragedies of our lives by ourselves, when we acknowledge our dependence on God and on a supportive community, then – and only then – can we draw on the power of Christ, and – finally – allow God’s grace to work in us.
God willing, Heather Cook has reached or will reach that place of putting aside her own ego and drawing on God’s strength. Needless to say, Cook’s accident and Palermo’s death drew much commentary in both secular and Episcopal media. Some appropriately criticized the search committee for downplaying the seriousness of her previous DUI conviction and presenting her for election. However, what was much more important, for the first time in a long time Episcopal media began to question the role of alcohol in the Episcopal Church, both for individuals and for many parishes. We learned that a disproportionate number of Episcopal clergy are alcoholics. Many of us acknowledged the truth of the unfortunate epithet “Whiskypalians,” or in the saying – which I heard when I first came into the church almost fifty years ago – “Wherever there are four Episcopalians, there’s a fifth.” We also discovered that, after General Convention of 1979 approved a resolution addressing alcohol abuse, Recovery Ministries of the Episcopal Church was formed to provide a network of clergy and laity concerned with addiction and treatment.
On July 1, at this year’s General Convention in Salt Lake City, Bishop Mark Hollingsworth, of the Diocese of Ohio, rose in front of the House of Bishops and said, “I’m Mark and I’m an alcoholic.” Bp. Hollingsworth was speaking as chair of the Legislative Committee on Alcohol and Drug Abuse, a committee that had been created in response to numerous requests by delegates and others for the church to examine the role of alcohol in our life. Bp. Hollingsworth acknowledged his own journey of addiction and recovery and then introduced three resolutions which were subsequently passed by the bishops and affirmed by the deputies.
The first resolution recommends that ordinands be questioned at the very beginning of the discernment process about addiction and substance use in their lives and family systems. The second resolution acknowledges the role of the church in a culture of alcohol and drug abuse and “directs dioceses to work in partnership with The Episcopal Church Medical Trust, Recovery Ministries of The Episcopal Church, and community-based organizations in order to address most effectively prevention, intervention/diversion, education, advocacy, treatment, and recovery, including developing a list of trained therapists and consultants who are available to assist clergy and laity in this education process.” The third resolution creates a task force to review and revise policy on substance abuse, addiction, and recovery and recommends that, where possible, non-alcoholic wine be provided as an alternative to communion wine.
The Rev. Steve Lane, treasurer of Recovery Ministries of The Episcopal Church, was excited to see the church finally beginning to face the challenges of addiction. “The best known solution for [addiction] is a spiritual one,” he said, “but our church needs to be aware of it and see our own shortcomings and be aware of our own failures first before we can reach out and help others.” Retired Bishop Chilton Knudsen of Maine, who will begin assisting in the Maryland diocese in October, is a recovering alcoholic, an experience that is central to her ministry. “When the case in Maryland happened, my heart broke, as everybody’s did,” she said. Rather than advocating abstinence, Knudsen embraces the call for intentional awareness about alcohol abuse. Most important, Knudsen said, becoming healthy requires telling the truth about who we are and telling our stories. Deputy Doris Westfall of Missouri agreed. “The church holds out the hope of living into recovery, which is no less than resurrection,” she said.
Perhaps we have as a church begun to understand that, with alcoholism, drug abuse, and many other human weaknesses, denying reality or thinking we can find healing through our own efforts alone will not help us. Rather, perhaps we finally understand that, when we, like Paul, acknowledge our weaknesses and limitations, when we, like Bill W., the founder of AA, “made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him,” then we can open ourselves to the possibility of God’s grace working within us. Certainly, addictions are serious diseases, with both physical and spiritual aspects. But here is the good news: when we honestly examine our lives, acknowledge our need for God’s grace, and conscientiously avail ourselves of helpful organizations, Christ’s power and grace will support, uphold, and transform us. And then, by God’s grace, like Paul, like Bill W., and like Bps. Hollingsworth and Knudsen, we too might become instruments of grace for others.
No? Then hear the truly counter-cultural message in Paul’s second letter to the Christian community in Corinth. We’ve been hearing excerpts from this letter since the beginning of June. Actually, most commentators think that this is probably not a single letter – it’s too fragmentary. Rather, the letter seems to be a composite of several letters that Paul wrote to the Corinthians. The passage that we heard today is the last part of what some have called Paul’s “fool’s speech.” In it, Paul addresses criticism of his ministry by some “super apostles,” as he calls them, who have boasted that they are the true spokesmen for Christ. They have also claimed that Paul is not a true apostle, and that he is neither sufficiently Jewish nor sufficiently charismatic. Should Paul respond in kind?
While you wait for the answer to that question, fast-forward to December 27th of last year. In the evening of that wintry day, Heather Cook, the then suffragan bishop of Maryland, struck forty-one year old cyclist Thomas Palermo, killing him almost instantly. Cook was texting at the time of the accident and initially fled the scene. When she surrendered and was tested, she had a blood alcohol level of .22. (Remember that .08 is the level for driving under the influence of alcohol.) Three years prior to this accident, Cook had had another DUI conviction. However, she had spent only a short time in rehab and apparently had been receiving no follow-up care. The diocesan search committee that presented her for election as suffragan bishop knew of Cook’s prior conviction. After her election, diocesan officials even suspected that Cook was drunk at a dinner party the night before her September consecration, but it is unclear whether they took any action. Cook was arraigned in February on charges of driving under the influence resulting in a homicide, vehicular manslaughter, criminal negligent manslaughter, texting while driving, and fleeing the scene of an accident. Her trial will take place September. Cook was deposed from holy orders on May 1 of this year, one day after the twenty-seventh anniversary of her ordination as priest.
As we grieve the death of Thomas Palermo and ponder how Heather Cook might have avoided wrecking her life, does Paul’s response to his critics offer us any wisdom or hope? Paul begins his response by trotting out what we might call his “apostolic resume,” his list of qualifications and accomplishments. First he asserts his Jewish credentials: “Are they Hebrews? So am I. Are they Israelites? So am I. Are they descendants of Abraham? So am I.” Then he goes on to list the hardships he has endured in his work as an evangelist: “Are they ministers of Christ? I am talking like a madman – I am a better one: with far greater labors, far more imprisonments, with countless floggings, and often near death.”
Then, as we heard, Paul alludes to his own experiences of visions and revelations: “I know a person in Christ….” Although Paul is speaking here in the third person, scholars generally agree that he is speaking of his own experiences. We are not sure to what exactly he is referring, whether his experiences on the Damascus road or some other visions. Is Paul boasting here in the same way that he has accused his rivals of boasting?
Actually, Paul is doing just the opposite. After soaring into the “third heaven,” Paul crashes to earth. In the frankest, most personal passage in all of his letters, Paul alludes to a weakness or limitation, the famous “thorn in the flesh.” No one knows what this “thorn” was, although guesses have ranged from the psychological, to external opposition, to physical maladies such as migraines, epilepsy, and eye infections. Although Paul asked for deliverance from the thorn, he did not receive it. Instead, he received another revelation: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” And so the thorn has become for Paul a perpetual reminder of his need for God’s grace, not only in enduring this limitation, but in his entire ministry. The thorn also reminds Paul – and by extension us – that although God does not inflict suffering on us, God can bring life out of suffering. Most important, the thorn reminds Paul and us that when we acknowledge our weakness, when we let go of the desire to be in control, when we give up the belief that we can fix the difficulties and tragedies of our lives by ourselves, when we acknowledge our dependence on God and on a supportive community, then – and only then – can we draw on the power of Christ, and – finally – allow God’s grace to work in us.
God willing, Heather Cook has reached or will reach that place of putting aside her own ego and drawing on God’s strength. Needless to say, Cook’s accident and Palermo’s death drew much commentary in both secular and Episcopal media. Some appropriately criticized the search committee for downplaying the seriousness of her previous DUI conviction and presenting her for election. However, what was much more important, for the first time in a long time Episcopal media began to question the role of alcohol in the Episcopal Church, both for individuals and for many parishes. We learned that a disproportionate number of Episcopal clergy are alcoholics. Many of us acknowledged the truth of the unfortunate epithet “Whiskypalians,” or in the saying – which I heard when I first came into the church almost fifty years ago – “Wherever there are four Episcopalians, there’s a fifth.” We also discovered that, after General Convention of 1979 approved a resolution addressing alcohol abuse, Recovery Ministries of the Episcopal Church was formed to provide a network of clergy and laity concerned with addiction and treatment.
On July 1, at this year’s General Convention in Salt Lake City, Bishop Mark Hollingsworth, of the Diocese of Ohio, rose in front of the House of Bishops and said, “I’m Mark and I’m an alcoholic.” Bp. Hollingsworth was speaking as chair of the Legislative Committee on Alcohol and Drug Abuse, a committee that had been created in response to numerous requests by delegates and others for the church to examine the role of alcohol in our life. Bp. Hollingsworth acknowledged his own journey of addiction and recovery and then introduced three resolutions which were subsequently passed by the bishops and affirmed by the deputies.
The first resolution recommends that ordinands be questioned at the very beginning of the discernment process about addiction and substance use in their lives and family systems. The second resolution acknowledges the role of the church in a culture of alcohol and drug abuse and “directs dioceses to work in partnership with The Episcopal Church Medical Trust, Recovery Ministries of The Episcopal Church, and community-based organizations in order to address most effectively prevention, intervention/diversion, education, advocacy, treatment, and recovery, including developing a list of trained therapists and consultants who are available to assist clergy and laity in this education process.” The third resolution creates a task force to review and revise policy on substance abuse, addiction, and recovery and recommends that, where possible, non-alcoholic wine be provided as an alternative to communion wine.
The Rev. Steve Lane, treasurer of Recovery Ministries of The Episcopal Church, was excited to see the church finally beginning to face the challenges of addiction. “The best known solution for [addiction] is a spiritual one,” he said, “but our church needs to be aware of it and see our own shortcomings and be aware of our own failures first before we can reach out and help others.” Retired Bishop Chilton Knudsen of Maine, who will begin assisting in the Maryland diocese in October, is a recovering alcoholic, an experience that is central to her ministry. “When the case in Maryland happened, my heart broke, as everybody’s did,” she said. Rather than advocating abstinence, Knudsen embraces the call for intentional awareness about alcohol abuse. Most important, Knudsen said, becoming healthy requires telling the truth about who we are and telling our stories. Deputy Doris Westfall of Missouri agreed. “The church holds out the hope of living into recovery, which is no less than resurrection,” she said.
Perhaps we have as a church begun to understand that, with alcoholism, drug abuse, and many other human weaknesses, denying reality or thinking we can find healing through our own efforts alone will not help us. Rather, perhaps we finally understand that, when we, like Paul, acknowledge our weaknesses and limitations, when we, like Bill W., the founder of AA, “made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him,” then we can open ourselves to the possibility of God’s grace working within us. Certainly, addictions are serious diseases, with both physical and spiritual aspects. But here is the good news: when we honestly examine our lives, acknowledge our need for God’s grace, and conscientiously avail ourselves of helpful organizations, Christ’s power and grace will support, uphold, and transform us. And then, by God’s grace, like Paul, like Bill W., and like Bps. Hollingsworth and Knudsen, we too might become instruments of grace for others.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Hope and Trust
What do you hear in today’s Scripture readings? Do any of today’s readings speak to your own experience? Perhaps you empathize with David’s grief over the death of his beloved friend Jonathan, even as you might wonder how David can also grieve the death of his old enemy Saul. Perhaps you too have known the depths of sorrow – over the death of a loved one, over the deaths of nine innocent people sharing study of the Bible or of innocent tourists on a beach, over the betrayal of someone close to you, over the loss of a job, over continued war and poverty. Perhaps you too cry out with the psalmist, “Out of the depths have a I called to you, O Lord; Lord hear my voice!” Perhaps, like Paul, you have begged others to respond to a need or cause about which you feel passionate. Or perhaps, like the people in today’s Gospel stories, you have begged for healing, either for another person, or for yourself. Perhaps you’ve been in all these places, and you know, from your own deep experience, how Scripture continues to speak to our condition, continues to offer us words of hope and lead us to a deeper trust in God’s saving power.
Our reading from 2 Samuel, catches up with David after he has defeated the Philistines. Despite the fact that the way is now open for David to become king over Israel, and despite his bitter conflict with Saul, David pours out his grief over both Saul’s and Jonathan’s death. More important perhaps for us, the account of David’s grief allows us to see David expressing deep emotion. No “stiff upper lip” or “men don’t cry” here. Perhaps we might, like David, understand our emotions as gifts from God. Perhaps we might even trust that God’s shares our emotions and seeks to console and comfort us in our grief.
Certainly, the psalmist trusts that God shares our griefs and sorrows. The psalmist also reminds us that, eager as we are for God’s comfort, we must wait patiently. And we must never let go of our hope that, in God’s good time, God will restore all things.
St. Paul also counsels the Corinthian Christians to wait patiently – and to also act in faith. As he wrote to the Christians in Corinth, the faithful in Jerusalem were suffering from famine. Now Paul was certain that Jesus would quickly return, probably within Paul’s own lifetime. Yet Paul does not hesitate to look after the living. He does not say, “Ignore the poor, and hungry, because all of us will soon be taken up.” Instead, he asks for help from those he himself had brought to faith in Christ. He knows that life is a gift of God, that it is good, and that the bodies of children and adults must be fed. He knows what matters – and he trusts that the Corinthians will respond to his request – because he compares everything to God’s great gift: “For you know the generous act of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich.”
Our reading from the Gospel according to Mark offers another of Mark’s gospel “sandwiches:” one story nested within another, each speaking to us in different ways. Here, we catch up with Jesus, just as he has arrived from the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Despite Jesus’ best efforts, his fame as a miraculous healer has spread. As the crowds of the hopeful – and the curious – press in on him, a wealthy and important man, a leader in the synagogue, falls on his knees in front of Jesus, and begs Jesus to save his daughter. Jesus attends to the father in need and turns to accompany him.
Just then, the bleeding woman, outcast from all polite society because of her illness, approaches Jesus. She is convinced that she will be healed by just touching Jesus’ outer garment, and that, because of the crowds, no one will notice her. But Jesus notices her, or rather notices that something has happened. Perhaps the energy of the woman’s immense faith was more powerful than all the shoving and pushing of the crowd. Perhaps that energy was enough to call forth God’s healing power.
As we follow Jairus home, we hear that by the time he and Jesus finally arrive, the child has already been declared dead, and the professional mourners have begun to gather. Why is Jairus still bringing Jesus into the house? What can the rabbi do now? Even so, Jesus turns to the sad father and says the words that we all need to hear over and over again, “Do not fear. Only believe.” As Jairus leads Jesus into the child’s room, Jesus shocks him by saying, “The child is not dead but sleeping.” And then another miracle of healing occurs. Perhaps hinting at the end of Mark’s story, Jesus gently says, “Young woman, get up.” The onlookers collectively let out their breaths, and life returns.
Two instances of healing, for two different kinds of people, that came about in two different ways. In the frame story, Jesus offered healing to the daughter of a wealthy, powerful family. In the nested story, an outcast woman, a woman shunned because of her illness, claimed Jesus’ healing power for herself. What is more important, the healing of Jairus’s daughter was a public event: the crowds knew where he was going, and Jairus himself witnessed it. By contrast, the healing of the bleeding woman was a private event. Even Jesus wasn’t sure what had happened, until the woman, trembling and afraid, fell down before him and told him everything.
Does any of this resonate with our own experience? One thing these stories should tell us is that God offers healing to everyone. You do not need to be rich and powerful, you do not need to have a Cadillac health insurance plan, to claim God’s healing power. Indeed, as Mark and Luke suggest over and over, God has a preference for the poor, the outcast, and the marginalized, and God will attend to their needs, just as God attends to our needs.
Moreover, perhaps we too have experienced healing – or offered it – in these two different ways. An aside here: We hear the gospel stories of miraculous healings so that we can learn something about what God is like, not so that we can think that Jesus came to be a 24/7 medical savior. It is not impossible, though it is extremely rare, for miraculous healings, to actually occur. And if they do not, it is never because our faith was insufficient.
However, we all do experience open, public healing: through our medical facilities, through support groups, and even through our ministries as a church. What’s even more important, we can experience – and offer – healing more indirectly and privately, in the “random acts of kindness” through which God operates in the world. Such healing can happen anywhere. A twelve-step meeting was just ending when a young woman suddenly blurted out her name, shouted that she was an alcoholic, and rushed out of the room. An older woman followed her and saw her sitting in a dark corner weeping uncontrollably. The older woman came over to the younger woman and embraced her. She said gently, “My dear, just let us love you until you can come to love yourself.”
We may not even be aware when such healing occurs. Theologians who have studied the science of cosmology speak of “quantum entanglement,” the idea that ultimately all life, indeed all creation, has a common origin in God, and that we are all ultimately connected. Or perhaps you’ve heard of the “butterfly effect.” This is a term used in chaos theory to describe how small changes to a seemingly unrelated thing or condition can affect large, complex systems. The term comes from the suggestion that the flapping of a butterfly's wings in South America could affect the weather in Texas, meaning that the tiniest influence on one part of a system can have a huge effect on another part. If you think about it, perhaps this is the way prayer works. Our lives are connected. Like Jesus, we may receive healing from someone or some circumstance unknown to us, or we may be the agent of healing for someone, simply by virtue of how we live out our lives. Needless to say, as followers of the one who offered himself in love to all comers, we are called to be grateful to God for any healing in our lives that does occur, and we are called to treat lovingly all who approach us for help and healing.
My brothers and sisters, here is the good news. Much of our lives are out of our control. But as followers of Jesus we believe that we are connected to God and to one another, and that God will respond to our needs, directly or indirectly, in God’s good time. We may not be able to predict when or how God will act, but we can continue to live out our lives with hope and trust in God’s deep care.
Our reading from 2 Samuel, catches up with David after he has defeated the Philistines. Despite the fact that the way is now open for David to become king over Israel, and despite his bitter conflict with Saul, David pours out his grief over both Saul’s and Jonathan’s death. More important perhaps for us, the account of David’s grief allows us to see David expressing deep emotion. No “stiff upper lip” or “men don’t cry” here. Perhaps we might, like David, understand our emotions as gifts from God. Perhaps we might even trust that God’s shares our emotions and seeks to console and comfort us in our grief.
Certainly, the psalmist trusts that God shares our griefs and sorrows. The psalmist also reminds us that, eager as we are for God’s comfort, we must wait patiently. And we must never let go of our hope that, in God’s good time, God will restore all things.
St. Paul also counsels the Corinthian Christians to wait patiently – and to also act in faith. As he wrote to the Christians in Corinth, the faithful in Jerusalem were suffering from famine. Now Paul was certain that Jesus would quickly return, probably within Paul’s own lifetime. Yet Paul does not hesitate to look after the living. He does not say, “Ignore the poor, and hungry, because all of us will soon be taken up.” Instead, he asks for help from those he himself had brought to faith in Christ. He knows that life is a gift of God, that it is good, and that the bodies of children and adults must be fed. He knows what matters – and he trusts that the Corinthians will respond to his request – because he compares everything to God’s great gift: “For you know the generous act of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich.”
Our reading from the Gospel according to Mark offers another of Mark’s gospel “sandwiches:” one story nested within another, each speaking to us in different ways. Here, we catch up with Jesus, just as he has arrived from the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Despite Jesus’ best efforts, his fame as a miraculous healer has spread. As the crowds of the hopeful – and the curious – press in on him, a wealthy and important man, a leader in the synagogue, falls on his knees in front of Jesus, and begs Jesus to save his daughter. Jesus attends to the father in need and turns to accompany him.
Just then, the bleeding woman, outcast from all polite society because of her illness, approaches Jesus. She is convinced that she will be healed by just touching Jesus’ outer garment, and that, because of the crowds, no one will notice her. But Jesus notices her, or rather notices that something has happened. Perhaps the energy of the woman’s immense faith was more powerful than all the shoving and pushing of the crowd. Perhaps that energy was enough to call forth God’s healing power.
As we follow Jairus home, we hear that by the time he and Jesus finally arrive, the child has already been declared dead, and the professional mourners have begun to gather. Why is Jairus still bringing Jesus into the house? What can the rabbi do now? Even so, Jesus turns to the sad father and says the words that we all need to hear over and over again, “Do not fear. Only believe.” As Jairus leads Jesus into the child’s room, Jesus shocks him by saying, “The child is not dead but sleeping.” And then another miracle of healing occurs. Perhaps hinting at the end of Mark’s story, Jesus gently says, “Young woman, get up.” The onlookers collectively let out their breaths, and life returns.
Two instances of healing, for two different kinds of people, that came about in two different ways. In the frame story, Jesus offered healing to the daughter of a wealthy, powerful family. In the nested story, an outcast woman, a woman shunned because of her illness, claimed Jesus’ healing power for herself. What is more important, the healing of Jairus’s daughter was a public event: the crowds knew where he was going, and Jairus himself witnessed it. By contrast, the healing of the bleeding woman was a private event. Even Jesus wasn’t sure what had happened, until the woman, trembling and afraid, fell down before him and told him everything.
Does any of this resonate with our own experience? One thing these stories should tell us is that God offers healing to everyone. You do not need to be rich and powerful, you do not need to have a Cadillac health insurance plan, to claim God’s healing power. Indeed, as Mark and Luke suggest over and over, God has a preference for the poor, the outcast, and the marginalized, and God will attend to their needs, just as God attends to our needs.
Moreover, perhaps we too have experienced healing – or offered it – in these two different ways. An aside here: We hear the gospel stories of miraculous healings so that we can learn something about what God is like, not so that we can think that Jesus came to be a 24/7 medical savior. It is not impossible, though it is extremely rare, for miraculous healings, to actually occur. And if they do not, it is never because our faith was insufficient.
However, we all do experience open, public healing: through our medical facilities, through support groups, and even through our ministries as a church. What’s even more important, we can experience – and offer – healing more indirectly and privately, in the “random acts of kindness” through which God operates in the world. Such healing can happen anywhere. A twelve-step meeting was just ending when a young woman suddenly blurted out her name, shouted that she was an alcoholic, and rushed out of the room. An older woman followed her and saw her sitting in a dark corner weeping uncontrollably. The older woman came over to the younger woman and embraced her. She said gently, “My dear, just let us love you until you can come to love yourself.”
We may not even be aware when such healing occurs. Theologians who have studied the science of cosmology speak of “quantum entanglement,” the idea that ultimately all life, indeed all creation, has a common origin in God, and that we are all ultimately connected. Or perhaps you’ve heard of the “butterfly effect.” This is a term used in chaos theory to describe how small changes to a seemingly unrelated thing or condition can affect large, complex systems. The term comes from the suggestion that the flapping of a butterfly's wings in South America could affect the weather in Texas, meaning that the tiniest influence on one part of a system can have a huge effect on another part. If you think about it, perhaps this is the way prayer works. Our lives are connected. Like Jesus, we may receive healing from someone or some circumstance unknown to us, or we may be the agent of healing for someone, simply by virtue of how we live out our lives. Needless to say, as followers of the one who offered himself in love to all comers, we are called to be grateful to God for any healing in our lives that does occur, and we are called to treat lovingly all who approach us for help and healing.
My brothers and sisters, here is the good news. Much of our lives are out of our control. But as followers of Jesus we believe that we are connected to God and to one another, and that God will respond to our needs, directly or indirectly, in God’s good time. We may not be able to predict when or how God will act, but we can continue to live out our lives with hope and trust in God’s deep care.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)