Easter is about the Risen Christ. But wait! To use St Paul’s vision, we are the Risen One’s body in the world! Easter, then, is about the WE and US: holy, eternal, common-union!
Rather than say anything more at this point, I wish to go directly to the Emmaus story and take the risk of interpreting it by changing the text, using collective words for the presence of church—for example, WE and US, in place of names and pronouns for Jesus. I think this moves us away from getting stuck back in history, and brings us into the Living Gift of Christ’s presence here and now. Oh, the sweet fragrance and shock of Easter, now!
So, unleash your creativity and passion for God and encounter again the story of Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35):
Now on [Easter two] were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, WE came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing US. And WE said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” They stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered US, “Are you the only strangers in Jerusalem who do not know the things that have taken place there in these days?”
WE asked them, “What things?” They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem [God’s people]. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early morning, and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.”
Then WE said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into… glory?” Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, WE interpreted to them the things about US in all the scriptures.
As they came near the village to which they were going, WE walked ahead as if WE were going on. But they urged US strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So WE went in to stay with them. When WE were at the table with them, WE took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized US; and WE vanished from their sight.
They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while THEY were talking to us on the road, while THEY were opening the scriptures to us?”
That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, “The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!” Then they told what had happened on the road, and how [the holy common-union, Christ in and as US] had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.
The story, like the Christ, lives today! I have seen and heard exactly such Easter marveling from the newly baptized over their experience of having been gently led into the body of Christ—the scriptures coming alive for them, the sacraments dazzling with divine presence, and for them the almost inexpressible awe and joy of being welcomed and included in the common-union.
Living the Emmaus story is what church at its best, does. We encounter people on life’s journey. We open the scriptures, and engage the conversation. And then, at the table, the bread broken, and everyone is “us”. We look and see—Christ, the eternal Living Word! And our hearts burn within us, and we want to go and tell our friends.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
Out of the Darkness, Life!
Easter Vigil
St John’s Lutheran Church, Sacramento, CA
April 23, 201
John 20:1-18
Mary Magdalene comes to us tonight after some “20 centuries of conscious and unconscious composition," writes James Baker, "she is Bible story, saint, medieval myth, Renaissance legend and [finally] modern pop heroine”--and shady lady, ala Kazantzakis’ novel and later the movie, The Last Temptation of Christ, and Jesus Christ Superstar, and Dan Brown’s novel, The Da Vinci Code.
In the biblical accounts she is one of several women who followed Jesus from Galilee to his appointment with fate in Jerusalem. She is the one out of whom Jesus cast seven devils. She sees Jesus crucified, follows his body to the tomb, returns with the first group on Easter morning, and later in the day is the first to speak with the Risen Christ. The Gospels say no more. By Easter Monday she has disappeared from the record. But she’s never been forgotten.
Mary’s story is a story about any of us people of faith. Easter always begins in darkness. I speak to both you new ones in the faith and you older ones in the faith. I speak to you who have affirmed your faith and you who have accompanied these seekers on their journey into the life of Christ as lived in and through St John’s Lutheran Church. I speak to us all:
Easter always begins in the darkness. For Mary, her darkness began with the mental illness that once oppressed her. Now we have gathered here tonight in the growing darkness that symbolizes the shadows of our lives. We are haunted by our shadows; there is the darkening desolation of our losses, and the agonizing midnight wilderness of our humiliations, shame, and the looming wee hours of anxiety and hopelessness. All the spoken and unspoken truth we bring here tonight. Here, where our very souls cry out for light and life and hope.
And therefore every one of us here tonight, no matter the gender, is Mary Magdalene.
And, like Mary Magdalene drawn to the garden tomb, hoping against hope, here we have been drawn, or in the dark depths of some bottom we’ve hit, been nudged by the Spirit, toward faith and to this gathering. And we hope and pray that in this time and place, especially in the blessed sacraments of Baptism and Holy Communion, we will again, or maybe for the first time, recognize in our own deaths and resurrections the compassionate presence of the One who loves us and with such tenderness speaks our names even in the shadows of our lives.
For this is the night. This is the beginning. This is the dawning of the eternal light for every Mary Magdalene. “Mary”, he says. “Mary”. And she calls him her old familiar name, “Rabbouni”. And he says, “Do not hold onto me.” He means, let go of what you think you must still have from the past. Let go of even your old ideas of me.
“Mary”, he said. In overwhelmed love and gratitude, she lets go of her Jesus, leaves her shadowed old life behind, and in the dawn of the new age goes straight to her friends and proclaims, “I have seen the Lord.”
The One who once was dead is now more alive than any other human being she, or any one of us, has ever known.
Thus, writes Presbyterian Pastor and scholar Craig Barnes,
After the resurrection, things do not return to normal. That’s the good news. It is basic to everything else the New Testament proclaims. After seeing a risen Jesus, we see that there is no normal. Now we can’t even count on the darkness. All we know for sure is that a risen Savior is on the loose. And he knows our names.
Let us be apostles of such an Easter. Amen.
St John’s Lutheran Church, Sacramento, CA
April 23, 201
John 20:1-18
Mary Magdalene comes to us tonight after some “20 centuries of conscious and unconscious composition," writes James Baker, "she is Bible story, saint, medieval myth, Renaissance legend and [finally] modern pop heroine”--and shady lady, ala Kazantzakis’ novel and later the movie, The Last Temptation of Christ, and Jesus Christ Superstar, and Dan Brown’s novel, The Da Vinci Code.
In the biblical accounts she is one of several women who followed Jesus from Galilee to his appointment with fate in Jerusalem. She is the one out of whom Jesus cast seven devils. She sees Jesus crucified, follows his body to the tomb, returns with the first group on Easter morning, and later in the day is the first to speak with the Risen Christ. The Gospels say no more. By Easter Monday she has disappeared from the record. But she’s never been forgotten.
Mary’s story is a story about any of us people of faith. Easter always begins in darkness. I speak to both you new ones in the faith and you older ones in the faith. I speak to you who have affirmed your faith and you who have accompanied these seekers on their journey into the life of Christ as lived in and through St John’s Lutheran Church. I speak to us all:
Easter always begins in the darkness. For Mary, her darkness began with the mental illness that once oppressed her. Now we have gathered here tonight in the growing darkness that symbolizes the shadows of our lives. We are haunted by our shadows; there is the darkening desolation of our losses, and the agonizing midnight wilderness of our humiliations, shame, and the looming wee hours of anxiety and hopelessness. All the spoken and unspoken truth we bring here tonight. Here, where our very souls cry out for light and life and hope.
And therefore every one of us here tonight, no matter the gender, is Mary Magdalene.
And, like Mary Magdalene drawn to the garden tomb, hoping against hope, here we have been drawn, or in the dark depths of some bottom we’ve hit, been nudged by the Spirit, toward faith and to this gathering. And we hope and pray that in this time and place, especially in the blessed sacraments of Baptism and Holy Communion, we will again, or maybe for the first time, recognize in our own deaths and resurrections the compassionate presence of the One who loves us and with such tenderness speaks our names even in the shadows of our lives.
For this is the night. This is the beginning. This is the dawning of the eternal light for every Mary Magdalene. “Mary”, he says. “Mary”. And she calls him her old familiar name, “Rabbouni”. And he says, “Do not hold onto me.” He means, let go of what you think you must still have from the past. Let go of even your old ideas of me.
“Mary”, he said. In overwhelmed love and gratitude, she lets go of her Jesus, leaves her shadowed old life behind, and in the dawn of the new age goes straight to her friends and proclaims, “I have seen the Lord.”
The One who once was dead is now more alive than any other human being she, or any one of us, has ever known.
Thus, writes Presbyterian Pastor and scholar Craig Barnes,
After the resurrection, things do not return to normal. That’s the good news. It is basic to everything else the New Testament proclaims. After seeing a risen Jesus, we see that there is no normal. Now we can’t even count on the darkness. All we know for sure is that a risen Savior is on the loose. And he knows our names.
Let us be apostles of such an Easter. Amen.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Dia-bol and the First Temptation of the Christ and of Christians
With this Sunday’s temptation text (March 13), we begin a season of review of our life together as faith communities, families, and individuals. The church, which is the body of the resurrected Christ, is asked by Matthew’s text to be honest about motives and honest about the need for forgiveness and reconciliation. This is a not a time for a seminar on being Christian, or morbid introspection, but is a time for ongoing prayer and grappling with the ways “the devil” in us and around us is ever tempting us to take neither God nor our common-union seriously. The aim of this “retreat” is not shame and judgment but just the opposite: heading into Easter as healthy, joyous, vital Christian communities, alive with the awareness of the presence of the Christ.
In The Hidden Power of the Gospels, there are helpful reminders about dia-bol. Etymologically dia-bol suggests a “throwing across”, and by extension, situations and inclinations that amount to a “devilish” attempt to obstruct, confuse, or accuse. In common understanding, apparently even with the Greek, diabol was the term for devil, with an allusive sense to disturbing forces of evil beyond our knowledge and control.
The temptations of Jesus, as presented in Matthew’s gospel, are written for a church facing profound change, chaos, and loss. In such a situation, the temptations of the Christ are also the temptations of the church. Diabol is all too real.
First Temptation: Go ahead, make some bread! In the pattern of the first path, dealing with profound change, temptation one for Jesus is to misuse who he is for self-centered purposes. Why is that? The very human Jesus is now identified also as God’s Beloved Son. Jesus is led by the Spirit into the wilderness to get clear on that profound identification, one that for him changed everything. Notice that the diabol does not dispute who Jesus is, but simply raises the sly question, “if you are the Son of God…”. Does being the beloved of God change everything for us?
Often diabol’s first subtle ploy is to confuse or distract from, or question, our essential place in the scheme of things. Are we in Christ now or are we not? Are we the body of Christ? If so, whispers diabol, then why shouldn’t we be given what we want, especially in scary times of change? But, Church does not live by balanced budgets, growing numbers, elegant or jazzy liturgies, or the absence of change and suffering. Church lives “by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” Christ (and church as koinonia) as the marriage of the divine and the human, is a common-union more important than anything else. Any short term, self-serving gain, is truly a long term loss. The living Word of God is our life and hope and strength.
Second Temptation: Make your test God’s test! Climb up to the pinnacle of things religious and then show off! This is a crass sort of throwing something across our path as we wind our way amid the ruins and wilderness of the world. Seek glory! Seek miracles! Escape the chaos and confusion, by scaling the ladder of pretension, and then jump into “glory”, assuming God will take care of you!
Ouch, this one hurts, as we consider the pathetic falls and collapse of too many proud religious leaders and churches. Risking in it all for acclaim and glory, leaping into the cynical world with a pretense of faithfulness to God, foolish narcissists only confirm again and again the basis for cynicism. Lent is a good time to be reminded of our own folly, the way we “test” God in the midst of loss and confusion instead of worshiping the Holy One. Test God enough and one day we may find that we are worshiping only ourselves and the adoration we temporarily receive from others. And thus the “leap of faith” turns out to be a leap into spiritual bankruptcy and death.
Jesus, and hopefully the church of the Risen One, keeps it simple—not easy, to be sure, but simple and focused: “You shall not test the Lord your God.” Why test God when God gives us God’s very self? Or isn’t God enough for us?
Third Temptation: Become General Manager of the Universe! It’s easy! All we have to do is let diabol put asunder what God has brought together. In playing God (oh, the splendor of the nations and of the emperors’ powers!) Christians and the church are often led astray by the trappings of power and glory and thereby divorce God by forsaking the common-union God shares with us. In these times of the shaking of the foundations, in this era in which the human world seems to be shifting on its axis, when fear and trepidation rise in our hearts, pay attention, oh Church, to the faith of our Leader: “Worship and serve God alone.”
Of course, we cannot do this on our own. The gift of baptism is the gift of living in the resurrected Christ, and it is in the embrace of Christ’s steadfast faith (not our belief system) that we live, and move, and have our being. This is something far beyond mere religion.
I have a hunch that is what St Paul was getting at in his answer to the church’s struggle with diabol, an answer appropriate whenever we are tempted to lust after power and glory on either the world’s or religion’s terms by exalting the law over the gospel: “The life I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God”. (Gal. 2:20)
I hope this Lenten retreat on which we now embark will mean for us such a simple and deeply humble answer: from beginning to end, it’s all about God.
And then the angels come and wait on us: in this wilderness world, a foretaste of the feast to come.
In The Hidden Power of the Gospels, there are helpful reminders about dia-bol. Etymologically dia-bol suggests a “throwing across”, and by extension, situations and inclinations that amount to a “devilish” attempt to obstruct, confuse, or accuse. In common understanding, apparently even with the Greek, diabol was the term for devil, with an allusive sense to disturbing forces of evil beyond our knowledge and control.
The temptations of Jesus, as presented in Matthew’s gospel, are written for a church facing profound change, chaos, and loss. In such a situation, the temptations of the Christ are also the temptations of the church. Diabol is all too real.
First Temptation: Go ahead, make some bread! In the pattern of the first path, dealing with profound change, temptation one for Jesus is to misuse who he is for self-centered purposes. Why is that? The very human Jesus is now identified also as God’s Beloved Son. Jesus is led by the Spirit into the wilderness to get clear on that profound identification, one that for him changed everything. Notice that the diabol does not dispute who Jesus is, but simply raises the sly question, “if you are the Son of God…”. Does being the beloved of God change everything for us?
Often diabol’s first subtle ploy is to confuse or distract from, or question, our essential place in the scheme of things. Are we in Christ now or are we not? Are we the body of Christ? If so, whispers diabol, then why shouldn’t we be given what we want, especially in scary times of change? But, Church does not live by balanced budgets, growing numbers, elegant or jazzy liturgies, or the absence of change and suffering. Church lives “by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” Christ (and church as koinonia) as the marriage of the divine and the human, is a common-union more important than anything else. Any short term, self-serving gain, is truly a long term loss. The living Word of God is our life and hope and strength.
Second Temptation: Make your test God’s test! Climb up to the pinnacle of things religious and then show off! This is a crass sort of throwing something across our path as we wind our way amid the ruins and wilderness of the world. Seek glory! Seek miracles! Escape the chaos and confusion, by scaling the ladder of pretension, and then jump into “glory”, assuming God will take care of you!
Ouch, this one hurts, as we consider the pathetic falls and collapse of too many proud religious leaders and churches. Risking in it all for acclaim and glory, leaping into the cynical world with a pretense of faithfulness to God, foolish narcissists only confirm again and again the basis for cynicism. Lent is a good time to be reminded of our own folly, the way we “test” God in the midst of loss and confusion instead of worshiping the Holy One. Test God enough and one day we may find that we are worshiping only ourselves and the adoration we temporarily receive from others. And thus the “leap of faith” turns out to be a leap into spiritual bankruptcy and death.
Jesus, and hopefully the church of the Risen One, keeps it simple—not easy, to be sure, but simple and focused: “You shall not test the Lord your God.” Why test God when God gives us God’s very self? Or isn’t God enough for us?
Third Temptation: Become General Manager of the Universe! It’s easy! All we have to do is let diabol put asunder what God has brought together. In playing God (oh, the splendor of the nations and of the emperors’ powers!) Christians and the church are often led astray by the trappings of power and glory and thereby divorce God by forsaking the common-union God shares with us. In these times of the shaking of the foundations, in this era in which the human world seems to be shifting on its axis, when fear and trepidation rise in our hearts, pay attention, oh Church, to the faith of our Leader: “Worship and serve God alone.”
Of course, we cannot do this on our own. The gift of baptism is the gift of living in the resurrected Christ, and it is in the embrace of Christ’s steadfast faith (not our belief system) that we live, and move, and have our being. This is something far beyond mere religion.
I have a hunch that is what St Paul was getting at in his answer to the church’s struggle with diabol, an answer appropriate whenever we are tempted to lust after power and glory on either the world’s or religion’s terms by exalting the law over the gospel: “The life I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God”. (Gal. 2:20)
I hope this Lenten retreat on which we now embark will mean for us such a simple and deeply humble answer: from beginning to end, it’s all about God.
And then the angels come and wait on us: in this wilderness world, a foretaste of the feast to come.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Yes, Yes, No, No
In Matthew's gospel—the First Path/Chapter of the Gospel journey—Jesus is forcefully blunt. In the face of chaos, shame, and blame, do not flee to what is less than the reality of the actual situation. Do not make more of something than it is, and do not make less of it, either. Let your response for this time, and in this first path, be simply Yes, Yes, or No, No. Given the struggles and challenges faced by Matthew's community this must have been hard to hear and accept, let alone live. And it is likely hard for us when we encounter our “Matthew moments”, or Matthew weeks or months. In fact, our response to what Jesus states in Matthew 5:21-37 may be that this is impossible!
I am reminded of Scott Peck who began his marvelous book, The Road Less Traveled, with this statement: “Life is difficult.” And then he goes on the say that most of our difficulties would be greatly eased if it were possible for us to accept those three words as reality. It is our fighting against them and our fleeing from the difficulties we encounter that bring forth a large number of our problems.
In times of significant change the temptation is to knee jerk our way out of the situation, as though that were in fact actually possible. And the knee jerk is almost always an “objectification” of a situation or a person. All objectification is a refusal to accept a fuller version of our situation, and a dehumanizing of ourselves and the “other.” Gone is acknowledgment of the ambiguous layering of human reality. Gone is a narrative of a broken human life. Gone is any desire to listen, seek understanding or show mercy.
Take the teaching about murder and anger. To kill another human being is to say that they are nothing but an impediment or an offense to me, or to us, as in the case of war or capital punishment. They cease being human, and instead are an object of our fear and loathing.
To be angry with a brother or sister, to engage in name-calling of a person, group, culture, is a rejection of the rich tapestry others bring to us. To commit adultery harms marriage and friendship and the community, but to harbor lust for another person does so also: again, such a thing turns another human being into an object for one's lust (I was about to write, satisfaction, but in fact, if lust is our modus operandi, we will never be satisfied). What is missing is real love with its eagerness to truly know another human being in order to accept the fullness of their experience and story, and their hopes and dreams.
And what complexity and pain is inherent in divorce! In Jesus' day it was possible for a man to divorce his wife by simply writing, I divorce you, and the woman was cast out into a world on her own, disgraced or worse. Divorces like that still happen, and the objectification of a spouse in such cases is obvious. More likely for most people now to divorce a wife or a husband is a painful last resort of a badly deteriorated situation often involving betrayal or irresponsibility on someone's part (including a refusal to work on the relationship or becoming “bored” and yearning for the excitement of someone or something new), leading to what is experienced as relational futility. Divorce, as a poignant example of our human brokenness, often leads to great difficulties for one or both partners, the extended families, the circle of friends and/or faith community, and even the larger community in some cases, and along the way, it is almost impossible to avoid objectifications. This, too, is a feature of our humanness.
All this is enough to make us feel like cursing, the very thing Jesus commands we must not do! And why not? Again, objectification of the world and our place in it. Cursing is a way of pretending we have more power than we do. Did you see that cute Super Bowl commercial with the little boy in Darth Vader costume, attempting to use “The Force” to make things happen? He has no luck until he aims his hands a daddy's new car, and then the car turns on! (Daddy of course making this happen by the remote key.) But the childlike desire to have such power is what connects us with that little guy in the commercial. We know that desire, that dream. And every curse and sworn vow is a sign that we have objectified God into a robotic wish-granter or ourselves into something we are not: a god-like being, whose will ought to be done.
For our own sakes and the sake of the world we now face, in the chaos and challenges of this first path passage, wisdom says, keep it simple. Pray to see reality for what it is. Be humble enough to know that you do not know everything! It is sufficient for you (both the personal you and the communal you) to know to the best of your ability who and what you are, and to withhold condemnation of others, even when those others may betray us with a kiss and mock us in our troubles.
The apostle Paul wrote to his really messed up congregation in Corinth (who gave him no end of trouble), 'As surely as God is faithful, our word to you has not been “Yes and No.” For the Son of God, Jesus Christ, whom we proclaimed among you, Silvanus and Timothy and I, was not “Yes and No”; but in him it is always “Yes.”' [2 Corinthians 1:18-19]
Of course, Paul had plenty of No to say to them on a number of issues, but it was never a No regarding their essential worth and dignity as children of God. It was a No to all that detracted from that worth and dignity.
“Let your word be ‘Yes, Yes’ or ‘No, No’; anything more than this comes from the evil one,” commanded Jesus.
This is wisdom: to say Yes, to community and to the ambiguity and complexity of what is truly human in all we meet, know, see, and hear; and to say, No, to attitudes driven by anger, lust, or fear that prevent us from agreeing with Christ in the deep and abiding Yes of God for us and for all.
I am reminded of Scott Peck who began his marvelous book, The Road Less Traveled, with this statement: “Life is difficult.” And then he goes on the say that most of our difficulties would be greatly eased if it were possible for us to accept those three words as reality. It is our fighting against them and our fleeing from the difficulties we encounter that bring forth a large number of our problems.
In times of significant change the temptation is to knee jerk our way out of the situation, as though that were in fact actually possible. And the knee jerk is almost always an “objectification” of a situation or a person. All objectification is a refusal to accept a fuller version of our situation, and a dehumanizing of ourselves and the “other.” Gone is acknowledgment of the ambiguous layering of human reality. Gone is a narrative of a broken human life. Gone is any desire to listen, seek understanding or show mercy.
Take the teaching about murder and anger. To kill another human being is to say that they are nothing but an impediment or an offense to me, or to us, as in the case of war or capital punishment. They cease being human, and instead are an object of our fear and loathing.
To be angry with a brother or sister, to engage in name-calling of a person, group, culture, is a rejection of the rich tapestry others bring to us. To commit adultery harms marriage and friendship and the community, but to harbor lust for another person does so also: again, such a thing turns another human being into an object for one's lust (I was about to write, satisfaction, but in fact, if lust is our modus operandi, we will never be satisfied). What is missing is real love with its eagerness to truly know another human being in order to accept the fullness of their experience and story, and their hopes and dreams.
And what complexity and pain is inherent in divorce! In Jesus' day it was possible for a man to divorce his wife by simply writing, I divorce you, and the woman was cast out into a world on her own, disgraced or worse. Divorces like that still happen, and the objectification of a spouse in such cases is obvious. More likely for most people now to divorce a wife or a husband is a painful last resort of a badly deteriorated situation often involving betrayal or irresponsibility on someone's part (including a refusal to work on the relationship or becoming “bored” and yearning for the excitement of someone or something new), leading to what is experienced as relational futility. Divorce, as a poignant example of our human brokenness, often leads to great difficulties for one or both partners, the extended families, the circle of friends and/or faith community, and even the larger community in some cases, and along the way, it is almost impossible to avoid objectifications. This, too, is a feature of our humanness.
All this is enough to make us feel like cursing, the very thing Jesus commands we must not do! And why not? Again, objectification of the world and our place in it. Cursing is a way of pretending we have more power than we do. Did you see that cute Super Bowl commercial with the little boy in Darth Vader costume, attempting to use “The Force” to make things happen? He has no luck until he aims his hands a daddy's new car, and then the car turns on! (Daddy of course making this happen by the remote key.) But the childlike desire to have such power is what connects us with that little guy in the commercial. We know that desire, that dream. And every curse and sworn vow is a sign that we have objectified God into a robotic wish-granter or ourselves into something we are not: a god-like being, whose will ought to be done.
For our own sakes and the sake of the world we now face, in the chaos and challenges of this first path passage, wisdom says, keep it simple. Pray to see reality for what it is. Be humble enough to know that you do not know everything! It is sufficient for you (both the personal you and the communal you) to know to the best of your ability who and what you are, and to withhold condemnation of others, even when those others may betray us with a kiss and mock us in our troubles.
The apostle Paul wrote to his really messed up congregation in Corinth (who gave him no end of trouble), 'As surely as God is faithful, our word to you has not been “Yes and No.” For the Son of God, Jesus Christ, whom we proclaimed among you, Silvanus and Timothy and I, was not “Yes and No”; but in him it is always “Yes.”' [2 Corinthians 1:18-19]
Of course, Paul had plenty of No to say to them on a number of issues, but it was never a No regarding their essential worth and dignity as children of God. It was a No to all that detracted from that worth and dignity.
“Let your word be ‘Yes, Yes’ or ‘No, No’; anything more than this comes from the evil one,” commanded Jesus.
This is wisdom: to say Yes, to community and to the ambiguity and complexity of what is truly human in all we meet, know, see, and hear; and to say, No, to attitudes driven by anger, lust, or fear that prevent us from agreeing with Christ in the deep and abiding Yes of God for us and for all.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Reflections on Matthew 11:2-11 Of Prisons and Witnesses
Prisons are not good places to be. Prisoners are dehumanized, often brutalized. Prison is not a place where hope is easily kept alive. So John the Baptizer, messenger of God, now in prison has questions. What about his own ministry and his hopes for the renewal of his people? What about this Jesus? He looked so promising, and John even dared to believe, but now, in this dark, dank, inhuman place, he wonders. His hope and his dreams of the promised new day are collapsing. So he needs to hear from his closest friends about what's going. What the buzz about Jesus now?
Matthew's gospel is written to a community dealing with shattering change. Matthew and his community know very well that too much change overwhelms. Individually and as communities the experience is like being in prison: a prison of our own dark worries and demons, or of the oppressive regime around us, or of the polarized and thus demoralized culture in which we live.
In such dire circumstances, the ministry of witnesses is crucial. When our confidence in God wavers we need those who are in a better place and free, to come and witness to us again of what the Christ is up to in the world. In my view, that's just what John's disciple-friends likely did for him—at his request.
The Matthew 11 story reminds me of the situation of Martin Luther, the genius reformer. His theological insight and passion for the gospel was the driving force of most of his career. Yet he was also a deeply troubled soul and every so often descended into a prison of darkness where he felt that he was losing faith and confidence in the gospel as he had experienced, preached and taught it. So what did he do? Somewhat like John the Baptizer, he asked his friends, who were in a better place faith-wise, to surround him and “preach” the gospel to him until once again his faith was renewed. He needed to be reminded again and again about the works of God in Jesus the Christ.
Remember that Quadratos is based on the supposition that each of the gospels was written in and/or to a particular community. Matthew's gospel itself is a witness to the acts of the Christ in the midst of great change. Witnessing is powerful stuff when it is done in community and as compassionate friendship, not as arrogant theological bullying. There are times when liturgy becomes that for the people of God. There are other times when the ministry of friends does the witnessing.
Think of how Jesus' words in Matthew 11can be taken as metaphor, and thus help us to bear witness in specific ways to persons and perhaps faith communities in crisis:
“Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.”
Where is this happening now? What does it look like in your corner of the world? Or are you in prison and longing for hope and reassurance?
In this Matthean Advent we are blessed if we recognize our imprisonment and ask for friends to speak the good news to us and our community; and we are just as blessed if we discover that we are free enough to see what the Christ is doing even now, in this time of the shaking of the foundations.
Either way, blessed is anyone who takes no offense at him who lives the way of God in a world and time of change.
Matthew's gospel is written to a community dealing with shattering change. Matthew and his community know very well that too much change overwhelms. Individually and as communities the experience is like being in prison: a prison of our own dark worries and demons, or of the oppressive regime around us, or of the polarized and thus demoralized culture in which we live.
In such dire circumstances, the ministry of witnesses is crucial. When our confidence in God wavers we need those who are in a better place and free, to come and witness to us again of what the Christ is up to in the world. In my view, that's just what John's disciple-friends likely did for him—at his request.
The Matthew 11 story reminds me of the situation of Martin Luther, the genius reformer. His theological insight and passion for the gospel was the driving force of most of his career. Yet he was also a deeply troubled soul and every so often descended into a prison of darkness where he felt that he was losing faith and confidence in the gospel as he had experienced, preached and taught it. So what did he do? Somewhat like John the Baptizer, he asked his friends, who were in a better place faith-wise, to surround him and “preach” the gospel to him until once again his faith was renewed. He needed to be reminded again and again about the works of God in Jesus the Christ.
Remember that Quadratos is based on the supposition that each of the gospels was written in and/or to a particular community. Matthew's gospel itself is a witness to the acts of the Christ in the midst of great change. Witnessing is powerful stuff when it is done in community and as compassionate friendship, not as arrogant theological bullying. There are times when liturgy becomes that for the people of God. There are other times when the ministry of friends does the witnessing.
Think of how Jesus' words in Matthew 11can be taken as metaphor, and thus help us to bear witness in specific ways to persons and perhaps faith communities in crisis:
“Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news brought to them. And blessed is anyone who takes no offense at me.”
Where is this happening now? What does it look like in your corner of the world? Or are you in prison and longing for hope and reassurance?
In this Matthean Advent we are blessed if we recognize our imprisonment and ask for friends to speak the good news to us and our community; and we are just as blessed if we discover that we are free enough to see what the Christ is doing even now, in this time of the shaking of the foundations.
Either way, blessed is anyone who takes no offense at him who lives the way of God in a world and time of change.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Just Because You're Paranoid Doesn't Mean They're Not Out to Get You
In response to working on this apocalypse in Luke 21 I decided to reread Cormac McCarthy's “The Road.” His bleak novel is a walk through an unnamed and undefined but dreadful apocalypse.
As with “The Road”, being on the road with the Christ will take us into bleak and terrifying landscapes and events not well-defined, and not given a date on the calendar. And then, the kicker: after rumors of wars and insurrections—which I take to mean the socio/politico/religious systems stressed and collapsing—what comes next is the persecution of Christians. And then what follows that is cosmic apocalypse, which I do not take to be literal, but rather archetypal and much deeper than typical “end of the world” speculation.
Ready for all this? Luke's Jesus expects us to be. On this road, the Christ asks us to open our hearts to the agonies and sorrows of the world. This is not easy. It will give us broken hearts, wounds, and sorrows not originally our own. In fact, the more I work my way in Luke, the more I sense how severe is the call in the fourth path of maturing service. In Luke, the only creative response to a future yet unknown, but loaded with the stealthy shadows of war, evil, and persecutions, is to live faithfully in the present, serving those in need along the way. To serve like that we need see, hear, and feel the pain right in front us, and then seek to do something about it, one way or another.
But every step brings risk. We may trip over a “roadside bomb”, or encounter the shadowy lurking “they” whom Jesus references several times (“they will arrest you and persecute you, they will hand you over, they will put some of you to death...”). Even betrayal by family and friends is a feature of the this fourth path, this “Way”.
Luke's community lived all that stuff. Opposition to the Way is real because the Way is real and runs counter to the systems that ruin life and the world.
Therefore we are asked to continue down this road, this Way of maturing, difficult service, knowing that what may be around the next bend in the road is trouble greater than we've imagined: apocalypse now.
But knit together in a community of faith and service, we are given the wisdom and comfort of the Holy Spirit. Our answer is God, not timetables or doctrines about eschatology. In Christ we endure, and doing so, we gain more than mere physical survival. We gain our souls, a transcendent gift of the grace of God.
As with “The Road”, being on the road with the Christ will take us into bleak and terrifying landscapes and events not well-defined, and not given a date on the calendar. And then, the kicker: after rumors of wars and insurrections—which I take to mean the socio/politico/religious systems stressed and collapsing—what comes next is the persecution of Christians. And then what follows that is cosmic apocalypse, which I do not take to be literal, but rather archetypal and much deeper than typical “end of the world” speculation.
Ready for all this? Luke's Jesus expects us to be. On this road, the Christ asks us to open our hearts to the agonies and sorrows of the world. This is not easy. It will give us broken hearts, wounds, and sorrows not originally our own. In fact, the more I work my way in Luke, the more I sense how severe is the call in the fourth path of maturing service. In Luke, the only creative response to a future yet unknown, but loaded with the stealthy shadows of war, evil, and persecutions, is to live faithfully in the present, serving those in need along the way. To serve like that we need see, hear, and feel the pain right in front us, and then seek to do something about it, one way or another.
But every step brings risk. We may trip over a “roadside bomb”, or encounter the shadowy lurking “they” whom Jesus references several times (“they will arrest you and persecute you, they will hand you over, they will put some of you to death...”). Even betrayal by family and friends is a feature of the this fourth path, this “Way”.
Luke's community lived all that stuff. Opposition to the Way is real because the Way is real and runs counter to the systems that ruin life and the world.
Therefore we are asked to continue down this road, this Way of maturing, difficult service, knowing that what may be around the next bend in the road is trouble greater than we've imagined: apocalypse now.
But knit together in a community of faith and service, we are given the wisdom and comfort of the Holy Spirit. Our answer is God, not timetables or doctrines about eschatology. In Christ we endure, and doing so, we gain more than mere physical survival. We gain our souls, a transcendent gift of the grace of God.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Pray Always and Do Not Lose Heart
Luke18:1-8
1Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. 2He said, “In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for people. 3In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him and saying, ‘Grant me justice against my opponent.’ 4For a while he refused; but later he said to himself, ‘Though I have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, 5yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.’” 6And the Lord said, “Listen to what the unjust judge says. 7And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? 8I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them. And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”
——————————————————
Christ is the model of praying always and not losing heart.
His life was (and is) a continuous day and night cry, a consciousness of and witness to the injustice and suffering everywhere present in humanity. And not just in humanity, but in all creation, which, St Paul states, groans like a woman in childbirth–so great is the longing of all beings for the ultimate revelation of divine justice, consolation, peace, and deep communion. The four chapters of the great gospel also are such a form of prayer, bearing witness to the sins of the world and the hope of God. For the pattern of the way of the Christ gives voice to the passion of God’s great dream of shalom and becomes a sign of it.
Since this is a lot to understand, Luke writes in a very pointed manner to his fledgling church and to us: “And the Lord (Jesus!) said: “Listen to what the unjust judge says”—the judge who finally announces he will grant the widow her justice. I wonder how this resonated in the ears and the heart of Luke’s community, as they experienced the “great divorce” of Judaism and the fledgling Christian movement. Ostracized, shunned, and persecuted, they may have seen themselves as very much in the same fix as the basically powerless widow. And the ever present temptation surely must have to been to give into the ways things were and give up on God.
Listen to what the judge says and remember the widow! She “won her case”, finally, yet what power did the widow have? Most likely none but the power of persistence, the deep courage of never giving up until justice is done.
What does this mean for us? In the post-modern age, when Christianity and (real) faith are largely passe, we may also experience now what many others have endured: marginalization and a feeling of powerlessness. Longing for the past triumphalism of Christendom is neither prayer nor faith, but rather seeking to have power that is not from God.
Therefore, the sign of faith on earth are the “chosen ones”, who in their weakness are finally attentive to the primary call: unceasing prayer for people in every circumstance, friends and enemies alike, and for all creation. Such prayer gives voice to the cry of the Christ, day and night, by both words and actions. This difficult enterprise of unceasing prayer brings into ever growing consciousness the sins of the world and the hope of God.
Thus we affirm the inescapable mission of those who would follow The Way: pray always and never lose heart. That is the sign of faith on earth
1Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. 2He said, “In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for people. 3In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him and saying, ‘Grant me justice against my opponent.’ 4For a while he refused; but later he said to himself, ‘Though I have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, 5yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.’” 6And the Lord said, “Listen to what the unjust judge says. 7And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? 8I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them. And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”
——————————————————
Christ is the model of praying always and not losing heart.
His life was (and is) a continuous day and night cry, a consciousness of and witness to the injustice and suffering everywhere present in humanity. And not just in humanity, but in all creation, which, St Paul states, groans like a woman in childbirth–so great is the longing of all beings for the ultimate revelation of divine justice, consolation, peace, and deep communion. The four chapters of the great gospel also are such a form of prayer, bearing witness to the sins of the world and the hope of God. For the pattern of the way of the Christ gives voice to the passion of God’s great dream of shalom and becomes a sign of it.
Since this is a lot to understand, Luke writes in a very pointed manner to his fledgling church and to us: “And the Lord (Jesus!) said: “Listen to what the unjust judge says”—the judge who finally announces he will grant the widow her justice. I wonder how this resonated in the ears and the heart of Luke’s community, as they experienced the “great divorce” of Judaism and the fledgling Christian movement. Ostracized, shunned, and persecuted, they may have seen themselves as very much in the same fix as the basically powerless widow. And the ever present temptation surely must have to been to give into the ways things were and give up on God.
Listen to what the judge says and remember the widow! She “won her case”, finally, yet what power did the widow have? Most likely none but the power of persistence, the deep courage of never giving up until justice is done.
What does this mean for us? In the post-modern age, when Christianity and (real) faith are largely passe, we may also experience now what many others have endured: marginalization and a feeling of powerlessness. Longing for the past triumphalism of Christendom is neither prayer nor faith, but rather seeking to have power that is not from God.
Therefore, the sign of faith on earth are the “chosen ones”, who in their weakness are finally attentive to the primary call: unceasing prayer for people in every circumstance, friends and enemies alike, and for all creation. Such prayer gives voice to the cry of the Christ, day and night, by both words and actions. This difficult enterprise of unceasing prayer brings into ever growing consciousness the sins of the world and the hope of God.
Thus we affirm the inescapable mission of those who would follow The Way: pray always and never lose heart. That is the sign of faith on earth
Monday, May 31, 2010
The Spirit of Truth
Parents know they cannot leave their little children home alone. And Jesus knew his church could not be abandoned, left all on its own. An Advocate was necessary, the Advocate, the Holy Spirit. Why? Being a human organization as well as body of Christ, the church is flawed, and from time to time congregations and members of them lose their way. As the Spirit of Truth, the Paraclete keeps calling us back to clarity about the way of the Christ, for the sake of the well-being of our life and mission. Pentecost: many languages, yes, but the bottom line was truth telling.
During my term as bishop of the synod, I spent a lot of time dealing with the significant level of congregational discontent around the synod. At first this really offended me. What on earth is going on in this synod? I anguished over it, became discouraged. Then, after about a year and half in office, the Advocate whacked me alongside the head, so to speak, with the amazing insight that when trouble breaks out in a congregation, in spite of all the meanness and nastiness around that trouble, the trouble itself is a good thing! The Spirit is bringing forth truth!
Does this sound crazy? Well, since the Spirit, the Advocate, is the Spirit of Truth, then in times of congregational trouble, there is cause for rejoicing, because now the reality about their actual situation is beginning surface after perhaps years of secret power moves, weakened mission, and general failure to be the lively, compassionate community Christ’s body is called to be. Naturally when I shared this perspective with congregational leaders in the midst of the storming chaos, it was not exactly greeted with rejoicing, since in times of trouble, we just want someone come and make the trouble go away.
Facing reality, in depth, is tremendously difficult work Whether in our personal lives or in congregations, we never initially welcome the truth with open arms. Indeed, we resist it. Yet the Advocate stays with us, not to abuse us, but to bring us to life and health and purposeful well-being. We are neither abandoned nor are we just coddled in our denial, but rather helped to accept responsibility for ourselves, face reality, and endure the suffering truth-telling brings. When that happens, over time we discover we’ve been born into a new life! This is the joy and well-being the Advocate brings us to: the other side of truth, the common-union, burden-bearing, forgiving, welcoming, and rejoicing in Christ that spirituality that healthy congregations are about!
Pentecost continues! The Holy Spirit, the Advocate walks us through change, suffering, joy, and service to the gospel cause, in order to align us with God’s work, and to deepen our commit to the church’s mission, following the way of our Lord Jesus Christ in whom we live, and move and have our being. And that’s the truth! Amen.
During my term as bishop of the synod, I spent a lot of time dealing with the significant level of congregational discontent around the synod. At first this really offended me. What on earth is going on in this synod? I anguished over it, became discouraged. Then, after about a year and half in office, the Advocate whacked me alongside the head, so to speak, with the amazing insight that when trouble breaks out in a congregation, in spite of all the meanness and nastiness around that trouble, the trouble itself is a good thing! The Spirit is bringing forth truth!
Does this sound crazy? Well, since the Spirit, the Advocate, is the Spirit of Truth, then in times of congregational trouble, there is cause for rejoicing, because now the reality about their actual situation is beginning surface after perhaps years of secret power moves, weakened mission, and general failure to be the lively, compassionate community Christ’s body is called to be. Naturally when I shared this perspective with congregational leaders in the midst of the storming chaos, it was not exactly greeted with rejoicing, since in times of trouble, we just want someone come and make the trouble go away.
Facing reality, in depth, is tremendously difficult work Whether in our personal lives or in congregations, we never initially welcome the truth with open arms. Indeed, we resist it. Yet the Advocate stays with us, not to abuse us, but to bring us to life and health and purposeful well-being. We are neither abandoned nor are we just coddled in our denial, but rather helped to accept responsibility for ourselves, face reality, and endure the suffering truth-telling brings. When that happens, over time we discover we’ve been born into a new life! This is the joy and well-being the Advocate brings us to: the other side of truth, the common-union, burden-bearing, forgiving, welcoming, and rejoicing in Christ that spirituality that healthy congregations are about!
Pentecost continues! The Holy Spirit, the Advocate walks us through change, suffering, joy, and service to the gospel cause, in order to align us with God’s work, and to deepen our commit to the church’s mission, following the way of our Lord Jesus Christ in whom we live, and move and have our being. And that’s the truth! Amen.
Monday, March 22, 2010
The Passion of our Lord according to St Luke
The reader’s theater proclamation of the Passion of our Lord according to St Luke was going well; each of the readers ably bringing forth the various parts and voices, and the narrator, a young woman with a confident public voice added gravitas to the whole thing. And then we got to the portion where Jesus is abused by the authorities and mocked and flogged by the soldiers and then dragged off to be killed. Her voice broke and she began to sob, unable to continue for some moments.
The waiting readers began to weep and so did most of the congregation. I could tell by the hankies and tissues up patting at eyes. But what was this moment about? Pious emotion overflowing for a time, feeling bad for Jesus, experiencing a bit of heartbreak over what he suffered?
I wonder if, on a deep, mostly unconscious level, we were weeping for ourselves, because so to speak, God showed up. We were caught up in the deep truth of Luke’s passion narrative. The women who witnessed his lurching steps toward crucifixion were wailing for him, and Jesus shouted to them, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and your children.”
This is about more than history or Jesus’ biography. The vignette needs to be honored as a vital part of what Alexander Shaia has called the annual church retreat. The examination of conscience, both individually and corporately, will reveal our entrapment in inescapable history and cultural milieu. Especially in this year of our Fourth Path call to service, such reality is difficult to face: not only do we hurt one another, but we are in turn hurt, abused, limited, enslaved to our pasts and mocked by the present. Why wouldn’t we weep?
Every experience of suffering and crucifixion and resurrection are apocalyptic, world-ending, rebirthing moments—truth be told, God moments, times when the reality of Christ as us is all too real. During this Lenten retreat, we have permission, even a mandate, to get so honest about ourselves personally and corporately, that we become able to let go and “weep for ourselves and our children.” Tears, like baptism, welcome us into both the death and the new life of the Christ.
Even Easter includes the startling, frightening presence of Christ, who announces: “Peace be with you.” In that moment, the universe lights up like a neon sign and we see: our journey is not about us, but about God and our neighbor and what happens when both show up in our lives—for real.
The waiting readers began to weep and so did most of the congregation. I could tell by the hankies and tissues up patting at eyes. But what was this moment about? Pious emotion overflowing for a time, feeling bad for Jesus, experiencing a bit of heartbreak over what he suffered?
I wonder if, on a deep, mostly unconscious level, we were weeping for ourselves, because so to speak, God showed up. We were caught up in the deep truth of Luke’s passion narrative. The women who witnessed his lurching steps toward crucifixion were wailing for him, and Jesus shouted to them, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and your children.”
This is about more than history or Jesus’ biography. The vignette needs to be honored as a vital part of what Alexander Shaia has called the annual church retreat. The examination of conscience, both individually and corporately, will reveal our entrapment in inescapable history and cultural milieu. Especially in this year of our Fourth Path call to service, such reality is difficult to face: not only do we hurt one another, but we are in turn hurt, abused, limited, enslaved to our pasts and mocked by the present. Why wouldn’t we weep?
Every experience of suffering and crucifixion and resurrection are apocalyptic, world-ending, rebirthing moments—truth be told, God moments, times when the reality of Christ as us is all too real. During this Lenten retreat, we have permission, even a mandate, to get so honest about ourselves personally and corporately, that we become able to let go and “weep for ourselves and our children.” Tears, like baptism, welcome us into both the death and the new life of the Christ.
Even Easter includes the startling, frightening presence of Christ, who announces: “Peace be with you.” In that moment, the universe lights up like a neon sign and we see: our journey is not about us, but about God and our neighbor and what happens when both show up in our lives—for real.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
God with Skin On
“I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”
Just as his first listeners had a hard time with what Jesus said, even today his words may seem difficult, if not gross. It will get yet more graphic next Sunday when you will hear Jesus declaring this: “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.” We know he is not advocating cannibalism, but still…Christ’s words give us pause. What was he talking about?
Here’s a story to get us started in our exploration of his words. A terrified four year old woke up in night convinced that in the darkness monsters were waiting to grab her. She ran to her parent’s bedroom, wailing in fear. Her mother calmed her down, and taking her hand, led her back to her room, and tried to comfort the child by saying, “You don’t need to be afraid, you’re not alone here. God is in the room with you.” And the child replied, “I know that God is here, but I need someone in this room who has some skin!”
Perhaps then, we could think of Jesus as God with skin on. John’s gospel insists that the Word (that is the Second Person of the Trinity by whom and through whom all things were made) became flesh (in Greek, the word is sarx). Sarx is more than a matter of, say, meat. Sarx is a word for the human condition, a plunge into and acceptance of humanity just as humanity was and still is: entering flesh and blood, to be sure, but beyond that taking on the glorious things humanity accomplishes with awesome intelligence and creativity, and the nastiness, cruelty, hypocrisy, immorality, and arrogance, we practice in utterly godlessness ways. The whole plateful—or the whole loaf—of the human condition, all wrapped up in Christ, deeply accepted by him: that is what we are also asked to accept--to stomach.
Jesus’ early critics could not swallow the concept of God in a real flesh and blood human being. They began to complain about him because he said, “I am the bread that came down from heaven.” They were saying, “Is not this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know? How can he now say, ‘I have come down from heaven’?” In other words, “Hey, we know his family and his background. Sure, we see that he is a gifted speaker and leader—but come on, he is not a Messiah, not some kind of god. He is just like us.”
Unlike his first critics, we church folks find that we can believe that Jesus embodied the eternal Christ, the Word, the Second person of the Trinity, and we find in his life and teaching great hope and wisdom. What may be harder for us to swallow is that after Jesus suffered, died, was buried, rose again and ascended into heaven the Christ plunged into the human condition all the more. In giving up the body of one man, the resurrection life of the Christ is now extended and present through time and space in the church, which, as St. Paul so clearly taught, is the body of Christ. In other words, the actual church, the gatherings of the faithful everywhere, like here, right now, is God present with skin on. For many people then and now, that, too, is hard to swallow! Too much sarx!
The very, very incarnational “sarxy” quality of the church as the body of the resurrected Christ leads present day outsiders and sometimes even we insiders rather to conclude of any ordinary congregation: “Hey, I know what I’m like and I know what other members are like—not exactly very Christ-like most of the time! How can we be the skin of God, how can we literally be the body of Christ?” We put Christ on a pedestal, pure and above all ordinary human stuff. Yet the gospel says, Christ is in precisely the all too human stuff.
The gospel calls us to be honest. The actual human condition—both the faithfulness and the rebellious sarx motivated behaviors—is inescapably present in the very real church which, as Luther so brilliantly stated, is always and everywhere the gathering of people who are simultaneously saints and sinners. For that reason anyone who’s been with the church for any time at all knows that it simply a fantasy that if you join a congregation you are going to live happily ever after. To quote Luther, “This is most certainly true!”
The problem is, it’s the ordinary sins and failings of the church that draws too much of our attention, instead of the faithful ministries and mission and compassion God’s people practice everyday. Dwelling on the dark side may cloud our perception of that deeper life—which prompted one smart aleck, to say in a moment deep cynicism: “The church would be great if weren’t for the people!”
The truth is this: if we want God, want Christ, then we must not only join the church, but we must also come to accept it as it is and, especially when things get rough, what can sometimes be the hardest thing of all: stay in the church, when everything inside us cries out, “I’ve had enough! I just can’t stand this anymore!”
But the church is always something both incredibly glorious and incredibly damaged. There never has been and never will be on this earth a perfect church, a problem free church, a church with no hypocrites, a church where no one is ever mean or nasty or gets hurt.
Even so, if we’re here, it’s because God has drawn us here, and the Holy Spirit has made us parts of the body of Christ. We journey and serve together, both wonderfully and imperfectly. In this sarx, in this our altogether human condition, this common-union becomes a loaf of the bread of heaven, fragrant with Christ’s resurrection. In this church we are forever joined to Christ, and in him we die and rise to new life daily—broken again and again to be offered as nourishment, hope, and Life for the world.
If we can swallow that, if we accept as reality that Christ is truly present because we sinner-saints are present, then by God’s grace we truly taste the bread of life—this sarx of the Christ. Then during the communion, hearing the words, “This is my body, given for you; this is my blood, shed for you,” we may look around and see, feel, and know that beyond the signs of the bread and the wine, are the bodies, faces, hands, feet, and voices in which God dwells. God present with skin on. Here and now and always--until the last day.
Just as his first listeners had a hard time with what Jesus said, even today his words may seem difficult, if not gross. It will get yet more graphic next Sunday when you will hear Jesus declaring this: “Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.” We know he is not advocating cannibalism, but still…Christ’s words give us pause. What was he talking about?
Here’s a story to get us started in our exploration of his words. A terrified four year old woke up in night convinced that in the darkness monsters were waiting to grab her. She ran to her parent’s bedroom, wailing in fear. Her mother calmed her down, and taking her hand, led her back to her room, and tried to comfort the child by saying, “You don’t need to be afraid, you’re not alone here. God is in the room with you.” And the child replied, “I know that God is here, but I need someone in this room who has some skin!”
Perhaps then, we could think of Jesus as God with skin on. John’s gospel insists that the Word (that is the Second Person of the Trinity by whom and through whom all things were made) became flesh (in Greek, the word is sarx). Sarx is more than a matter of, say, meat. Sarx is a word for the human condition, a plunge into and acceptance of humanity just as humanity was and still is: entering flesh and blood, to be sure, but beyond that taking on the glorious things humanity accomplishes with awesome intelligence and creativity, and the nastiness, cruelty, hypocrisy, immorality, and arrogance, we practice in utterly godlessness ways. The whole plateful—or the whole loaf—of the human condition, all wrapped up in Christ, deeply accepted by him: that is what we are also asked to accept--to stomach.
Jesus’ early critics could not swallow the concept of God in a real flesh and blood human being. They began to complain about him because he said, “I am the bread that came down from heaven.” They were saying, “Is not this Jesus, the son of Joseph, whose father and mother we know? How can he now say, ‘I have come down from heaven’?” In other words, “Hey, we know his family and his background. Sure, we see that he is a gifted speaker and leader—but come on, he is not a Messiah, not some kind of god. He is just like us.”
Unlike his first critics, we church folks find that we can believe that Jesus embodied the eternal Christ, the Word, the Second person of the Trinity, and we find in his life and teaching great hope and wisdom. What may be harder for us to swallow is that after Jesus suffered, died, was buried, rose again and ascended into heaven the Christ plunged into the human condition all the more. In giving up the body of one man, the resurrection life of the Christ is now extended and present through time and space in the church, which, as St. Paul so clearly taught, is the body of Christ. In other words, the actual church, the gatherings of the faithful everywhere, like here, right now, is God present with skin on. For many people then and now, that, too, is hard to swallow! Too much sarx!
The very, very incarnational “sarxy” quality of the church as the body of the resurrected Christ leads present day outsiders and sometimes even we insiders rather to conclude of any ordinary congregation: “Hey, I know what I’m like and I know what other members are like—not exactly very Christ-like most of the time! How can we be the skin of God, how can we literally be the body of Christ?” We put Christ on a pedestal, pure and above all ordinary human stuff. Yet the gospel says, Christ is in precisely the all too human stuff.
The gospel calls us to be honest. The actual human condition—both the faithfulness and the rebellious sarx motivated behaviors—is inescapably present in the very real church which, as Luther so brilliantly stated, is always and everywhere the gathering of people who are simultaneously saints and sinners. For that reason anyone who’s been with the church for any time at all knows that it simply a fantasy that if you join a congregation you are going to live happily ever after. To quote Luther, “This is most certainly true!”
The problem is, it’s the ordinary sins and failings of the church that draws too much of our attention, instead of the faithful ministries and mission and compassion God’s people practice everyday. Dwelling on the dark side may cloud our perception of that deeper life—which prompted one smart aleck, to say in a moment deep cynicism: “The church would be great if weren’t for the people!”
The truth is this: if we want God, want Christ, then we must not only join the church, but we must also come to accept it as it is and, especially when things get rough, what can sometimes be the hardest thing of all: stay in the church, when everything inside us cries out, “I’ve had enough! I just can’t stand this anymore!”
But the church is always something both incredibly glorious and incredibly damaged. There never has been and never will be on this earth a perfect church, a problem free church, a church with no hypocrites, a church where no one is ever mean or nasty or gets hurt.
Even so, if we’re here, it’s because God has drawn us here, and the Holy Spirit has made us parts of the body of Christ. We journey and serve together, both wonderfully and imperfectly. In this sarx, in this our altogether human condition, this common-union becomes a loaf of the bread of heaven, fragrant with Christ’s resurrection. In this church we are forever joined to Christ, and in him we die and rise to new life daily—broken again and again to be offered as nourishment, hope, and Life for the world.
If we can swallow that, if we accept as reality that Christ is truly present because we sinner-saints are present, then by God’s grace we truly taste the bread of life—this sarx of the Christ. Then during the communion, hearing the words, “This is my body, given for you; this is my blood, shed for you,” we may look around and see, feel, and know that beyond the signs of the bread and the wine, are the bodies, faces, hands, feet, and voices in which God dwells. God present with skin on. Here and now and always--until the last day.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Meditation on Christ’s words: whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood will have eternal life.
Christ, why this cannibalism? Do I really have to eat you? Your words are offensive and disgusting: eating your flesh, drinking your blood.
I confess that my inclination is to spiritualize what you ask for. Let's make this about believing the right things about you, or about the pursuit of some sort of warm religious experience of union and bliss. Show me a pathway away from your flesh and blood. Show me an escape from the human condition you entered. Show me how to avoid the sweaty, stinky, bad-breathed, farting, hard-faced, arm-crossed chests of the people who are your body. Show me a way to escape from the homeless with their signs at the freeway exits; the gangsters driving their booming cars; this aging body; the moldering grave; the death of those I love and those I fear; the horror and brutality of the murderous human condition: from your tortured corpus on the Cross.
But, you say, "I am the bread of life." You call me to open the mouth of mind and heart wide, to take in and chew on the realities of the human condition you entered and loved and saved. Eat my flesh! Take all this in, swallow it, digest it, excrete that which is mere waste, and live on the rest.
Christ, if the only escape from you and all that you entered is soul death, then give me the grace and courage to eat--your flesh, the flesh of us all. Eating you, I chew on eternal life.
Monday, May 4, 2009
The Truth Shall Make Us Free
We know that torture was done in the name of the United States of America.
But we don't know enough yet, not if we want to be set free from evil that, corporately, we did.
I am seeing the need for the very opposite of the usual politicized hunt for convenient scapegoats. I look for our president and other leaders, both political and religious, to find ways for the citizens of the United States of America to know who did what and when. We don't need to hear justifications or excuses. And though there probably need to be prosecutions (since we are under the rule of the law), pointing fingers of blame as though any of us are thereby exonerated, will not get us where we need to go.
We the people had hears but we didn't hear;
we had eyes, but we didn't see;
we had voices, and we were silent.
If that weren't the truth, the atrocities of the torture would not have been allowed. Now we must hear, see, and find our voices once again.
We the people must be led to face the truth head on, accept corporate responsibility for the evil done, and allow ourselves to be led to lament and I pray, humility. Only in this way will we as a people grow into maturity.
Mature people know: only the truth, the whole truth, the real truth, unadorned with pieties and excuses, can set us free.
But we don't know enough yet, not if we want to be set free from evil that, corporately, we did.
I am seeing the need for the very opposite of the usual politicized hunt for convenient scapegoats. I look for our president and other leaders, both political and religious, to find ways for the citizens of the United States of America to know who did what and when. We don't need to hear justifications or excuses. And though there probably need to be prosecutions (since we are under the rule of the law), pointing fingers of blame as though any of us are thereby exonerated, will not get us where we need to go.
We the people had hears but we didn't hear;
we had eyes, but we didn't see;
we had voices, and we were silent.
If that weren't the truth, the atrocities of the torture would not have been allowed. Now we must hear, see, and find our voices once again.
We the people must be led to face the truth head on, accept corporate responsibility for the evil done, and allow ourselves to be led to lament and I pray, humility. Only in this way will we as a people grow into maturity.
Mature people know: only the truth, the whole truth, the real truth, unadorned with pieties and excuses, can set us free.
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Head and the Body are One
Taking direction from St. Paul, it is common to claim that Christ (crucified and risen) is the head of the church, his body--a very organic, biological metaphor.
Some theologians assert that as the body of Christ, the church is the presence of God on earth. Considering that the church is most definitely a slow-moving, often curmudgeonly, and frequently sinful and fractious entity, claiming it is the presence of God (or the risen Christ) can seem daring, if not blasphemous.
I think of the statement the New Testament character Nathanael (John 1) made when excited friends had announced to him that they had found the Messiah (the Christ), "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?!"
Often those in the first bloom of their welcome into the Church are thrilled. Later, disillusionment may set in, as the sorry reality of congregational life seems anything but the presence of God.
But the Apostle Paul, dealing with his troubled congregations kept seeing them as, and naming them as, the body of Christ. Most remarkable.
What if we look at things this way: the head is the seat of consciousness, of will, or intention, of setting direction. True, the head, that is the brain, is most definitely also body, but body with a special function, and a wise head will pay attention to body language.
The body (the church) in all its various parts and expressions will do well do recall, as best each part can, that the head is greater consciousness, knows more of what the realities are, knows what the overall plan is, and directs the body--not the other way around.
Mini versions of this metaphorical example can be pondered: parents and children share a common flesh and family structure, but parents always (one hopes) know more about the overall scope of the world and helpful and necessary responses to it. Another example: anyone who's ever held a key leadership position in an organization, especially a large organization is in some sense the "head" of the organization, and knows more about (has a greater conscious awareness of) the issues, policies, and politics inherent in that organization--and may be privy to some aspects of the organizational life that much be carrried quietly and not shared with everyone).
So with Christ as the head of the church. Our faith is not in our believing, but in the faithfulness, wisdom, and purposes of Christ, whose vision and consciousness of the whole picture (even the cosmos) so far exceeds ours that humility is our only wise option. Wise also to live trusting that the head, the Christ, pays constant attention to the pains, moods, dysfunctions, illnesses, efforts, sorrows and joys of the body, and leads it forward in helpful, healthful ways, even when it sometimes is a painful thing.
Nazareth is the incarnation of the Christ into real humanity in real time and in full reality, just as it is, with a future yet unseen.
Some theologians assert that as the body of Christ, the church is the presence of God on earth. Considering that the church is most definitely a slow-moving, often curmudgeonly, and frequently sinful and fractious entity, claiming it is the presence of God (or the risen Christ) can seem daring, if not blasphemous.
I think of the statement the New Testament character Nathanael (John 1) made when excited friends had announced to him that they had found the Messiah (the Christ), "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?!"
Often those in the first bloom of their welcome into the Church are thrilled. Later, disillusionment may set in, as the sorry reality of congregational life seems anything but the presence of God.
But the Apostle Paul, dealing with his troubled congregations kept seeing them as, and naming them as, the body of Christ. Most remarkable.
What if we look at things this way: the head is the seat of consciousness, of will, or intention, of setting direction. True, the head, that is the brain, is most definitely also body, but body with a special function, and a wise head will pay attention to body language.
The body (the church) in all its various parts and expressions will do well do recall, as best each part can, that the head is greater consciousness, knows more of what the realities are, knows what the overall plan is, and directs the body--not the other way around.
Mini versions of this metaphorical example can be pondered: parents and children share a common flesh and family structure, but parents always (one hopes) know more about the overall scope of the world and helpful and necessary responses to it. Another example: anyone who's ever held a key leadership position in an organization, especially a large organization is in some sense the "head" of the organization, and knows more about (has a greater conscious awareness of) the issues, policies, and politics inherent in that organization--and may be privy to some aspects of the organizational life that much be carrried quietly and not shared with everyone).
So with Christ as the head of the church. Our faith is not in our believing, but in the faithfulness, wisdom, and purposes of Christ, whose vision and consciousness of the whole picture (even the cosmos) so far exceeds ours that humility is our only wise option. Wise also to live trusting that the head, the Christ, pays constant attention to the pains, moods, dysfunctions, illnesses, efforts, sorrows and joys of the body, and leads it forward in helpful, healthful ways, even when it sometimes is a painful thing.
Nazareth is the incarnation of the Christ into real humanity in real time and in full reality, just as it is, with a future yet unseen.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
In these trying times, try Psalm 73
Outrage and anger toward the smart guys at the top.
Worry and anxiety in the loss of job, home.
Rage, rage, rage.
But is that the best we can do?
Read Psalm 73 for a profoundly helpful piece of spiritual direction.
For a real hoot, read it in Eugene Peterson's The Message.
Ponder.
Worry and anxiety in the loss of job, home.
Rage, rage, rage.
But is that the best we can do?
Read Psalm 73 for a profoundly helpful piece of spiritual direction.
For a real hoot, read it in Eugene Peterson's The Message.
Ponder.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
What if there were no malls?
I am thinking of something that I believe Harvey Cox suggested sometime ago: the real religion of at least the western world (and now, perhaps more globally) is money.
If that is the case, then malls, especially the newer ones, are the cathedrals to the great god money. Jesus warned us about “mammon”, asserting that one cannot worship both the real God and mammon (projected as a god with the inherent powers and blessing of money, wealth, shadowed by greed and avarice and dedication to piling up ever more).
Consider then our existence in 21st century if there were no malls. What would people do? What would we do if we lacked the pilgrimages of shopping? How would we spend our time on Sunday afternoons—or mornings for that matter?
Our lives are so intertwined with the economic system—including the ever-present hype of advertising—that we would have a hard time figuring how to live without it. Our purpose and self-image are produced and given purpose by it; or, if our circumstances are not affluent, we may rage against the weight of oppression and marginalization we experience.
Whether well-off or poor, the warning in this scenario is the great danger of becoming utterly lost in a wilderness of human invention, slyly encouraged by the "god" mammon: the system of this world. We become lost in the sense of having lost our way, and our true life and true community, because even though some of us still show up for "church", in daily life we've forsaken the mystery of the Divine One who is the heart of everything.
We can turn around and head back home! In this time of economic convulsion, of mammon's shock and awe, there is the possibility for more than outrage and hand-wringing and despair:
“Return to the Lord your God, who is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love…”
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Quadrinity?!
In his work on Quadratos (a made up word, signifying something fourfold) Alexander Shaia brings to our attention that it is no accident of history that the canon of the Scriptures includes four gospels. He notes that from ancient times the fourfoldness of creation and of the work of God was self-evident. Indeed, Irenaeus insisted that there must be four gospels, exactly, because this is how God works: the divine pattern is always fourfold.
Pondering this the other day I was thinking, how odd then, that Christians developed the doctrine of the Trinity! Why not a "quadrinity"? But no, the long tradition of the church insists on the one-in-threeness of the divine mystery.
Then I thought about Rublev's famous icon of the Trinity. Many have commented on how the figures in the icon are clearly in communication with one another, and yet the figures are arranged in a way that faces outward toward the viewer--an openness, an invitation, a sense of welcome. Thus the pray-ers of the icon are invited into communion with the Holy Three. The deep koinonia of the Trinity becomes a gift to us all.
If so, then those who pray the icon, i.e., the church, complete the Trinity. And thus the Trinity becomes "quadrinity", now and forever. Amen.
Pondering this the other day I was thinking, how odd then, that Christians developed the doctrine of the Trinity! Why not a "quadrinity"? But no, the long tradition of the church insists on the one-in-threeness of the divine mystery.
Then I thought about Rublev's famous icon of the Trinity. Many have commented on how the figures in the icon are clearly in communication with one another, and yet the figures are arranged in a way that faces outward toward the viewer--an openness, an invitation, a sense of welcome. Thus the pray-ers of the icon are invited into communion with the Holy Three. The deep koinonia of the Trinity becomes a gift to us all.
If so, then those who pray the icon, i.e., the church, complete the Trinity. And thus the Trinity becomes "quadrinity", now and forever. Amen.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Prayer, Psalms, Openness to the mystery of God
Prayer is many things:asking, begging, pleading, lamenting, cursing, praising, thanking, murmured or shouted into the great mystery called God.
The Psalms model the diversity of prayer, and, it occurred to me today, something more. For all their variety of expression, the Psalms share not only a sense of divine reality, they also share an evident openness to God. Their honesty (so very human) is shocking to some of our pious notions about what prayer should or should not be. But such is their openness. It is as though praying like a psalmist is a matter of a no-secrets radical openness. After all, God already is well aware of everything anyway, so why not let your guard down and get real!
Such (radical) prayer is less about requesting this or that of God, and more a matter of baring one's soul with a sense of God's mysteriously reliable and merciful presence, and that presence in and of itself is worth everything, is what fills the "hole in the soul."
"As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God." (Ps. 42)
The Psalms model the diversity of prayer, and, it occurred to me today, something more. For all their variety of expression, the Psalms share not only a sense of divine reality, they also share an evident openness to God. Their honesty (so very human) is shocking to some of our pious notions about what prayer should or should not be. But such is their openness. It is as though praying like a psalmist is a matter of a no-secrets radical openness. After all, God already is well aware of everything anyway, so why not let your guard down and get real!
Such (radical) prayer is less about requesting this or that of God, and more a matter of baring one's soul with a sense of God's mysteriously reliable and merciful presence, and that presence in and of itself is worth everything, is what fills the "hole in the soul."
"As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God." (Ps. 42)
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The Cross and Jesus' Other Friends
The Christ asks his church to take up its cross and follow--him.
The Cross is his inevitable way. Not a pretty picture. Not prosperity gospel. Not good times all around always.
One cross is already visible, and we are tempted to drop it: a disenfranchised religion, struggling along into the post-modern world where most everyone is suspicious of any one who too strongly holds on to anything. Triumphalism is futile and foolish. A good worship service alone, as the prophets made clear long ago, is not necessarily pleasing to God.
The issue: to let go of our "life" in order to find it, that is, to actually receive the life of the Christ. Our illusions and delusions about our churchly life, our piety, our righteousness, our being better than "those others"--all this must go, because of course the worst kept secret in the world is that no one in the church--any church--is better than "those others."
Here is a hint for us. Christ is not captive to the church buts gazes upon us through the eyes of the panhandler, the homeless kids, the shy visitor to our congregations, the old person mostly forgotten in the nursing home, the stranger, the immigrants, the employee in the next cubicle over whose life, one overhears too many times, is clearly a living hell.
Those who would follow Christ must risk taking up the cross of non-judgment, welcome and mercy, and stumble after him right into the messy unfamiliar existences of his other beloved friends--our neighbors.
That's the issue for the church--Jesus' other friends. Seek, invite, and gather a community like that, and having our lost our life, we've found it.
The Cross is his inevitable way. Not a pretty picture. Not prosperity gospel. Not good times all around always.
One cross is already visible, and we are tempted to drop it: a disenfranchised religion, struggling along into the post-modern world where most everyone is suspicious of any one who too strongly holds on to anything. Triumphalism is futile and foolish. A good worship service alone, as the prophets made clear long ago, is not necessarily pleasing to God.
The issue: to let go of our "life" in order to find it, that is, to actually receive the life of the Christ. Our illusions and delusions about our churchly life, our piety, our righteousness, our being better than "those others"--all this must go, because of course the worst kept secret in the world is that no one in the church--any church--is better than "those others."
Here is a hint for us. Christ is not captive to the church buts gazes upon us through the eyes of the panhandler, the homeless kids, the shy visitor to our congregations, the old person mostly forgotten in the nursing home, the stranger, the immigrants, the employee in the next cubicle over whose life, one overhears too many times, is clearly a living hell.
Those who would follow Christ must risk taking up the cross of non-judgment, welcome and mercy, and stumble after him right into the messy unfamiliar existences of his other beloved friends--our neighbors.
That's the issue for the church--Jesus' other friends. Seek, invite, and gather a community like that, and having our lost our life, we've found it.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Look what happens to God's Beloved
The First Sunday Lent tells the story: Jesus is baptized. The "beloved" one is then driven into the wilderness to meet Satan and the wild beasts.
This is Jesus as the scapegoat, the sinner-bearer. The rest of the gospel is perhaps an unfolding narrative of temptation at every juncture of Jesus' mission and ministry. Lauded by the common folk, Jesus met the "wild beasts": hated by the authorities who steadfastly opposed both his methods and his teaching of the Kingdom of God. Finally comes Holy Week and the Cross. Mocked, whipped, spit upon, jeered, and duly executed. The beasts of power and authority licked their chops, and then, satiated, padded off to their dens, believing themselves secure in their positions and rectitude.
Jesus suffering is what happens to God's "beloved." I doubt that most of us are really ready for this. And only the insane among us will consider themselves Christ. But it is not insane to believe in the church as the body of Christ. And if the body of Christ, then the church as community can and should expect to suffer as Jesus suffered--but that God-born suffering will happen only when and where the church is intent on living its corporate life as Jesus lived his: steadfastly on the side of the poor, the outcast, the marginalized. Criticizing the powers that rule us. Naming oppression for what it is for the sake of announcing and living into the coming reign of God.
The beloved of God--the body of Christ--will do such things. And perhaps more. Quietude in the church is not necessary a virtue. It is often the greatest of sins, when, for fear of losing face, position, or experiencing conflict, the church remains silent at precisely those points where it ought to speak--and act.
This is Jesus as the scapegoat, the sinner-bearer. The rest of the gospel is perhaps an unfolding narrative of temptation at every juncture of Jesus' mission and ministry. Lauded by the common folk, Jesus met the "wild beasts": hated by the authorities who steadfastly opposed both his methods and his teaching of the Kingdom of God. Finally comes Holy Week and the Cross. Mocked, whipped, spit upon, jeered, and duly executed. The beasts of power and authority licked their chops, and then, satiated, padded off to their dens, believing themselves secure in their positions and rectitude.
Jesus suffering is what happens to God's "beloved." I doubt that most of us are really ready for this. And only the insane among us will consider themselves Christ. But it is not insane to believe in the church as the body of Christ. And if the body of Christ, then the church as community can and should expect to suffer as Jesus suffered--but that God-born suffering will happen only when and where the church is intent on living its corporate life as Jesus lived his: steadfastly on the side of the poor, the outcast, the marginalized. Criticizing the powers that rule us. Naming oppression for what it is for the sake of announcing and living into the coming reign of God.
The beloved of God--the body of Christ--will do such things. And perhaps more. Quietude in the church is not necessary a virtue. It is often the greatest of sins, when, for fear of losing face, position, or experiencing conflict, the church remains silent at precisely those points where it ought to speak--and act.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
A child on Ash Wednesday
Ash Wednesday
The procession up to receive the imposition of ashes.
The movement back to our pews,
dark, messy crosses thumbed on our foreheads.
Down the aisle returns the crossed mother with her child,
Less than two years old,
The solemn smudge on her little forehead, too.
She too had heard the words:
"Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."
What did she understand of that?
What did I understand of that?
Seeing her, my heart ached.
We are united in the great sorrow and suffering of being human.
Along the way, she will suffer.
Long after I am dead and gone,
She too will die.
Yet her eyes sparkled,
Her smile beamed benediction across the gathering.
I remembered the ancient words:
"If we have been united with him in a death like his,
We will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his."
We live the cross,
But ineffable is the joy of the saints.
The procession up to receive the imposition of ashes.
The movement back to our pews,
dark, messy crosses thumbed on our foreheads.
Down the aisle returns the crossed mother with her child,
Less than two years old,
The solemn smudge on her little forehead, too.
She too had heard the words:
"Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."
What did she understand of that?
What did I understand of that?
Seeing her, my heart ached.
We are united in the great sorrow and suffering of being human.
Along the way, she will suffer.
Long after I am dead and gone,
She too will die.
Yet her eyes sparkled,
Her smile beamed benediction across the gathering.
I remembered the ancient words:
"If we have been united with him in a death like his,
We will certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his."
We live the cross,
But ineffable is the joy of the saints.
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