Sermons & Writings by Minister

The Fourth Sunday of Easter: Being Sheep (John 10:22-30)

2013-04-22T01:21:24Z

In John’s gospel, we learn of Christ as the Good Shepherd. Christian art abounds, veritably from the earliest centuries, recreating this imagery from the first century gospel. I have stood before many of them, sometimes in art museums, sometimes in the churches where the Shepherd has watched over many, many generations of the faithful. Sometimes, I close my eyes and think back to other places where I have seen sheep grazing, perhaps some old timer out in a pick-up truck watching as his dogs herd the sheep, the dogs’ happy barking echoing across the pastures and hills.

I daydream about standing there in the open fields, watching the shepherd and the sheep. I imagine the sounds of a gentle “baa” here. Then, a little “baa” there. Here a “baa”….There a “baa”….

Sigh!....Everywhere, a baa-baa!

Even though the world’s population tends to live increasingly in urbanized areas, I daresay the open meadow with the sheep grazing peacefully and a shepherd standing watch with his crook still speaks modern day people. In the chaotic hustle and bustle of this noisy global village and unsettling times, I hold out a bit of hope that this image of the Good Shepherd in an open meadow, or gently rolling hills, still speaks to us, its simplicity providing a quiet, contrary word while we keep speeding up the ways we live that still somehow leave us feeling rundown.

That’s why I keep an image of the Good Shepherd in my office, a simple icon of Jesus carrying a shepherd’s crook and placing a benevolent hand upon a small child. I place the icon there with the hope that a person visiting my office, especially in need of a good word in the midst of life’s challenges might see this icon and find a word of peace there in the steady gaze and gentle grace of the Christ welcoming all who come before him.

Throughout the latter chapters of John, Jesus teaches about his ministry and mission, using a series of sayings beginning with “I am….” The “I am” sayings of Jesus use a memorable image that Jesus adds additional commentary to help flesh out what he hopes the disciples will learn and take to heart.

Scholar Gail O’Day observes, “In these “I am” sayings, Jesus identifies himself with symbols and that come from a common fund of ancient Near Eastern religious and human experience” (“John”, New Interpreter’s Bible, vol IX, p. 601). Jesus weaves together a teaching that seems so earthy and understandable, even though his teaching about why this image is apt takes a while to understand. As we learn in the other gospels, Jesus teaches using the everyday (quotidian, if you want to impress at Scrabble), yet his teachings change the ways people understand the world politically, religiously and culturally. Jesus talks in terms of how his audience thinks, even if he’s talking about changing the ways of the listener!

For example, Jesus says, “I am the Good Shepherd” and the rest of John 10 explores the richness of such an image. We know Jesus is not giving up his ministry to be a shepherd off in the hills, yet the image of Jesus as Shepherd (and a good one at that!) draws us into his teaching and more importantly closer to what Jesus is imparting to his disciples about himself, God and the purposes of why he has come to dwell among us. A sheep in a field with a shepherd nearby was common enough. Jesus is asking his listeners to reimagine authority and trust as they know it! The images are serene, yet the implications are game changing. A seemingly simple saying of Jesus is laden with much to think about!

In the “I am the Good Shepherd” teaching, Jesus explores the way a shepherd cares for, even goes well beyond for each and every sheep of his flock. In the first century New Testament era, shepherding was not considered a great line of work to be in, sort of a job for a scruffy type you just hoped bothered to stay awake during the night, let alone stayed put when trouble arose. At first consideration, Jesus as “Shepherd” was a stretch. To most, the shepherd imagery evoked more scorn than warm, fuzzy feelings. How on earth, they thought, could a shepherd be “good”?

Once Jesus establishes the image, he takes and subverts what we assume. In John 10, the fuller story of Jesus in the midst of the world is woven into this text. It is even a teaching with some edge, as we hear of Jesus’ willingness to go well beyond what the rest of us would be willing to do. He speaks of the shepherd willing to lay his life down for the sheep, dramatically illumined in his death on the cross. The Shepherd will die for the flock rather than run the other way when troubles loom. Instead of worrying about how any shepherd can be “good”, we learn instead about how Jesus is the noblest shepherd we could imagine, bearing the shepherd’s staff as well as the Cross!

The “noble death” of the shepherd shatters the tamer images of the Good Shepherd we tend to keep close to our hearts. Jesus is in the midst of the world, dwelling among us, journeying with us, and yet he leads us not down the pathways we would take. Instead, he forges a new way for his sheep to follow, leaving behind the pastures of complacency and into a place where the full goodness of abundance can be found. There are no ruts where Jesus leads, yet when we get to those good pastures, we shall know it as our one true home!

In the meantime, yea verily, we sheep have to realize our “sheep”-ness. Taking this “I am” statement to heart, we have the challenge of living the way of Jesus. Are we able to be sheep, or do we live like we have other shepherds we follow instead?

Such a teaching as this, with admittedly some edges and a history of barbed interpretation, is an invitation to evaluate our lives carefully. We have times of indifference to God or occasions when the gospel is overshadowed by the supposed convenience of another choice. We may even prefer to graze when the voice of the Good Shepherd beckons us to follow.

This past week, we marked a number of tragic circumstances in this country. April 15 will be long remembered as a time for years to come when the Boston Marathon bombings happened. Certainly there will be likewise memories of gratitude for brave first responders and police, working together to deal with those who were wounded, who tended to the dying and the dead, and those who led the way forward as civil, state and federal authorities stepped forward to respond. It was also the same week of the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing, another occasion of great loss. And we must not forget those persons in West, Texas, dealing with the catastrophic effects of a fertilizer plant’s explosion, as well as the sad news yesterday of the house fire on Lincoln Street here in Bennington, claiming the life of one person and seriously injuring another.

During this week of tragic news, I recall with gratitude the good word I heard from Callen Williams. With his permission, I share a bit from our pastor’s class on Thursday evening. I talked about the various news headlines with the mournful notes and the “on edge” feeling many felt, even if a distance from Boston itself. “What do people of faith do in the midst of these times?” I asked.

Callen did not miss a beat. “Help them.”

And as I thought about my sermon, I thought about Callen’s ready response, and I thought, my goodness what a good little sheep!

As for myself, a little note about where I find myself in this teaching. In my role as a minister, the biblical image of “shepherd” is a historic understanding of the Christian minister with the attendant expectation that I’m the one who leads the flock. Indeed, the shepherd’s crook serves as a symbol for ministry, particularly in Episcopal traditions where bishops are easily spotted not only for their cool hats, but also their stylized shepherd’s crooks.

Personally, as a lifelong Baptist I have never been completely comfortable with the language of “shepherd”, as at the end of the day even ordained clergy are “sheep” of the flock. Also, I’ve read the greater narratives of the Bible, and there is much irony used throughout its texts when a ruler of ancient Israel is called a shepherd. The prophets indict those who were supposed to be “good”, yet were as half-baked and undercooked as any of the rest of us!

In a few weeks, I will no longer be with First Baptist. My calling takes me elsewhere on the journey, and I get likewise uncomfortable with being congratulated about a “promotion”. I have been explaining that I am going to a different aspect of Christian ministry. My authority does not increase, just the paperwork and the responsibilities. I’m just a little sheep myself.
And the next ministers (interim and ongoing alike) will be just the same: uniquely herself or himself with all of the strengths, fobiles, weaknesses and joys. You may have a shepherd’s crook awaiting them, but we know (if we are well honest) that it’s a symbol in miniature, a sign of trust between a congregation and a pastor, yet the real Shepherd is made known to us when we listen beyond the voices and noise of this world. It is hard to hear through the fear and anxiety, the appeals and the demands for our attention, yet the Shepherd’s voice can work its way past them all, right into our very hearts.

To be such sheep is depend less on personality or persuasion. Such sheep give power and authority a wide enough berth that any one of us is not thought to possess it in full or authoritatively. Such sheep know how to be led by the only Shepherd who leads us.

I close with a prayer of Thomas Merton. From his book Thoughts in Solitude, he offers this earnest prayer:

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.

I do not see the road ahead of me.

I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor do I really know myself,

and the fact that I think I am following your will

does not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please you

does, in fact, please you.

And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.

I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

And I know that if I do this

you will lead me by the right road,

though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore, I will trust you always though

I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.

I will not fear, for you are ever with me,

and you will never leave me to face my perils alone. (Thoughts in Solitude, org. 1956; rep.1999, p. 79)

The Fourth Sunday of Easter: Being Sheep (John 10:22-30)

2013-04-22T01:21:24Z

Sigh!....Everywhere, a baa-baa!

Callen did not miss a beat. “Help them.”

And as I thought about my sermon, I thought about Callen’s ready response, and I thought, my goodness what a good little sheep!

I close with a prayer of Thomas Merton. From his book Thoughts in Solitude, he offers this earnest prayer:

My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going.

I do not see the road ahead of me.

I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor do I really know myself,

and the fact that I think I am following your will

does not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please you

does, in fact, please you.

And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing.

I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire.

And I know that if I do this

you will lead me by the right road,

though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore, I will trust you always though

I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.

I will not fear, for you are ever with me,

and you will never leave me to face my perils alone. (Thoughts in Solitude, org. 1956; rep.1999, p. 79)

The Third Sunday of Easter: Gone Fishing (John 21)

2013-04-14T20:33:19Z

The gospel of John ends in a most interesting manner. As the gospel closes, the narration changes from third person suddenly to first person, almost as if the play is over and the author himself comes out to have the last word before the curtain falls:

This is the disciple who is testifying to these things and has written them, and we know that his testimony is true. But there are also many other things that Jesus did; if every one of them were written down, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.

The gospel of John, which some consider the most long-winded, makes this little confession: Everything that Jesus did is not contained in just one narrative. There is so much more to be said. And then that marvelous line: “I suppose the world itself could not contain the books that would be written”. No matter how much we learn and know, believe and take to heart, the story of Jesus in the midst of the world, bringing his teachings, signs and wonders have no chance of ever being contained in one book.

The gospel of John gives us a continual reminder that Jesus is the Light of the World, bringing the light that casts away all the gloom and shadows for us all. Jesus is the Vine and we are the branches. In such a vineyard, the branches are pruned and kept up so they may be the most fruitful, growing stronger by the common vine uniting them all together. Even at the outset, we learn of Jesus as the Word made flesh, not God in the clouds aloof and looking away but the Word in our midst, dwelling right alongside us in the aches and pain, chaos and ambiguity.

And yet, just as you start looking around for your jacket or your purse, readying to leave before the audience crowds the exits, the gospel writer steps forward and reminds us we have not seen everything. The story is not finished. Further, the author maintains we only saw a bit, a foretaste of what Jesus did in the midst of the world. The fullness of Jesus’ witness and ministry is not contained in the unfolding story as told by John. We only saw a bit. It’s a good bit we were able to read; yet more stories, more abundance than we can take in still abounds.

In other words, the story never quite gets finished in its telling. We should keep marveling at what we have heard; yet we cannot just say it’s neatly self-contained. The good news of Jesus Christ is bigger than the gospels recorded in the New Testament. We serve a risen Savior whose life and ministry was even more remarkable than what was written down. Praise be to God!

Yet we live in a world of divided attention, loyalties and trust. We live in an era where fewer people wish to read the sacred texts or consider them sacred. Telling somebody you are shaped by what you read in the Bible is a rarity, as some Christians who claim to follow the Bible so stringently that they veer off into fundamentalism have turned some people away. What the Church sore needs are people who hear the Word and follow with a graceful awareness that we live in the midst of the world, alongside those who are in sore need of the gloom being cast away, and it’s our job to follow Jesus into those places to live out the gospel in the midst of places of power and places far away at the margins created by those in power. We are a people who see the deathly ends of the world and boldly seek signs of Christ’s new life promised by Christ in this life and in the life yet to come.

The gospel writer’s advice that all the deeds of Jesus could not be fit into one gospel is a helpful follow-up to the stories taking place just before. We find the scene that takes place after Easter with the great plot twist of Resurrection countering the fear and sorrow of Holy Week and Good Friday. Yet the disciples, those who have followed Jesus for a long stretch, are out on the waters, casting their nets for a big catch of fish.

At this point, I offer a little memory from seminary days. In a New Testament class, the professor drew our attention to this passage while we studied the Gospel of John. He asked why the disciples would be out fishing when they have been through the glory of Easter. I raised a hand and offered, “For starters, these disciples are from rural Galilee. They were peasant workers, so like any other redneck, we know that when life’s gotten too much to handle, the best thing is to go fishing!”

I imagine the professor would have been better off gently reminding me that I have the most obscure interpretation of this text in the history of biblical scholarship, yet he agreed that the idea might fit. After the death of Jesus, the disciples took some convincing that life as they knew it had changed fundamentally. Some scholars debate if this particular chapter might have been added on later, as the previous chapter with the more famous story of Doubting Thomas seems to be the “last word” of John’s Gospel, yet here is this last scene, somewhat narratively repetitive, giving us another glimpse into the need for Jesus to coax his disciples into seeing the fullness of God’s glory made known in the resurrected Christ.

Note that the disciples have been out long hours at night. At the first light, Jesus is spotted on the shoreline. Careful readers take note: Jesus is seen when the gloom is going away, echoing the language found earlier in John’s gospel. When he calls out to those on shore, it’s almost like they need another round of reminders to be shaken from their difficult time of believing what Jesus is telling them about the new way God has made possible through the Cross and the Empty Tomb.

The nets have been maddeningly empty all night. The disciples ache from the exertion of hauling the nets in and out of the waters, each time making them more frustrated than the last casting out only to find empty nets. Will they listen to this stranger on the beach? They do not know it is Jesus, and the text implies (like other gospels are known to do) that only when you have come to belief may you find the Christ being made known in your midst. All they see is a lot of frustration, failure and futility.

Yet when they take his advice to cast the nets on the other side, they begin to see more perceptively. Even though their nets are now laden with fish, an impossibility all night long, they are seeing beyond what’s in front of them. They see a different sort of evidence about the world, as it made known by God through Jesus Christ. Peter is so excited he leaps into the waters to swim to shore to accompany Jesus. The other disciples will get there, yet they have to make it back to shore with due care. Now their empty nets may just snap from the weight of the catch of fish.

Seeing abundance despite what you fear is a good definition of faith. We live in a world that was quite capable of putting Jesus to death, yet he came back in resurrection glory not to ascend readily to heaven, but to stay for awhile to gather his faithful, instruct them and then gently break the news that he would depart and they would have to depend on things seen and unseen. He promised the Comforter, the Holy Spirit, to be in their midst, yet it would not be the same as being alongside Jesus, the Word made flesh. Besides the unseen yet present Spirit, these disciples would have the seen part of faith: living through life with one another, encouraging each other to keep true to the faith and giving themselves over to the command to go and tell the gospel of Jesus to places near and far. The disciples tend to be people ready to lock themselves away in fear or to amble off to life as they knew it, not realizing the necessity of embracing the new life being made known to them by the resurrected Christ.

Long-time Presbyterian minister and editor of The Christian Century, the Rev. Dr. John Buchanan observes,

I understand the impulse to stay in that room [and I add, out on the waters]. The world looks ominous and disconcerting and frightening. North Korea has nuclear weapons and seems ready to use them. Iran continues, undeterred, to develop nuclear capacity. Israel does not seem much interested in a resolution with the Palestinians. Suicide bombers in Iraq, Afganistan and Pakistan do their ghastly work as American troops prepare to come home. At home, fiscal issues seem unresolvable” (The Christian Century, April 3, 2013, p. 3)

Indeed, we can lock ourselves away or just try to retread the old ground of the world as we knew it once, either path leading to a passivity or anxiety driven way of living. Instead, Jesus walks through the locked door or stands off on the shoreline calling out to us (or is it better said, calling us out) to move away from the fear-based patterns we have known so well and tread and retreat until they’ve become ruts leading nowhere fast. The decision is as it always will be in following Jesus: will we let ourselves trust God when the nets seem to be empty, when the future ahead seems bereft of certainty?

I could tell you more stories about how Jesus has proved over and over to be the one leading us forward, yet I settle for those in this morning’s gospel reading. Indeed, if every example of Jesus bringing us into the light away from the gloom “were written down, I suppose that the world itself could not contain the books that would be written.”

Second Sunday of Easter: The Resurrection and Our Response" (John 20:19-31)

2013-04-09T00:00:31Z

In July 1997, a professor of preaching found herself nearing her last days, after a struggle with cancer. Lucy Rose Atkinson was well regarded and loved by her seminary colleagues and students for her gifts in teaching new preachers the craft of preparing sermons. Diagnosed with breast cancer, Lucy sought treatment for four years, yet her health continued to decline. She was resolute to keep up with her course lecturing, needing assistance to get to and from the classroom yet at the start of class launching into her instruction with remarkable levels of focus and energy all things considered. In those moments, friends said Lucy’s passion for teaching made the long months of struggle seem a distant memory.

After her death, friends and family assembled materials written by Lucy over those last years, drawn from her preaching, theological reflections, journal entries, and letters to friends and family. She spoke of the challenges of her illness and the experience of living with cancer. Entitled Songs in the Night: A Witness to God’s Love in Life and in Death (CTS Press, 1998), the book is filled with an earnest frankness, talking of her weakness as well as her abundant hope.

In the latter section, Lucy’s friend Marilyn Washburn, a doctor and an ordained minister, offers a concluding reflection on the last five days of Lucy Atkinson Rose. She sat by her bedside, tending her needs and helping her family through the difficult time of watching and waiting. Such time was leavened by the frequent turn to worship and talk of Christian beliefs about life and death. Washburn writes,

Several times during the night, she called my name, stroked my cheek and ran her fingers through my hair. It was tender, comforting, very maternal, as if she were trying to comfort me in my pain. About 5:30 AM, she again roused momentarily from her dreaming and said very deliberately, “The important thing to me is that our God is so magnificent…came to walk among us…knows the depths of our suffering…and loves us and loves us and loves us.

Washburn recounts over the next thirty minutes Lucy began struggling to breathe. The family was called in to be at her side and say those words you find so important to say at a time like this. She notes, “Lucy’s breathing slowed and stopped at 6:02 a.m. The group stood by her bed and sang the Doxology”.

I remain deeply moved by this account. Such a remarkable story, even if the events regard a time in life when health has failed and life itself seems to ebb away before us. Ever the preacher, Lucy Rose Atkinson filled her last moments with a good word to stir the heart and warm the spirit, surely what every preacher aims to do, even on those days where words are hard to find or we pray and preach at best with clenched teeth, dealing with our pain, those of our beloved congregants or the pain of the world.

When I read Lucy’s last words, her last “sermon”, I immediately thought of the gospel of John. Such language of God’s desire to “walk among us…[to know] the depth of our suffering” sounds so much like the message of John’s gospel. We hear it early on in John’s gospel, with his elegant “prologue” in the first chapter, as we hear of Jesus as the Word brought by God into the world, proclaiming

the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.

No abstract understanding of God is to be found in the gospels, and most certainly not in the midst of John’s gospel. We tend to think of the Gospel of John as a little lost up in the clouds with lofty language and not necessarily known for its brevity in telling the story of Jesus. Nonetheless, the more I learn about the Gospel of John, the more I grow to appreciate how well woven together this particular gospel is for the reader who returns again and again to what N.T. Wright calls “the spiritual Himalayas” of John’s gospels.

In this story of “Doubting Thomas” and the rest of the disciples somewhere between deep shock and deep joy after Christ’s resurrection, we find the faith that inspired Lucy Atkinson Rose’s last words, not due to the pain of her failing health but to the resplendent hope she learned to love and call upon through her Christian beliefs. Jesus appears after his own death, and indeed, he bears the marks of his wounds even in resurrection. Yet the gospel proclaims this event not as medical mystery or a matter of deep befuddlement like a riddle to be solved. This happy post-Easter appearance lifts up what John’s gospel has been saying since the very beginning. In the Word made flesh, we behold the fullness of God’s glory made known to the world. Yet we have to invest our hearts in such belief before we can truly believe as John’s gospel challenges.

In this morning’s gospel reading, we encounter a disciple “on the fence” about this whole “He is risen!” talk. Thomas earns his centuries-old title as “Disciple most likely to doubt” as a very rational person, wanting to see before he can believe. Walter Wink notes,

Thomas represents this modern demand for historical proof: he wants empirical evidence. When Jesus appears to him, he appears to forget all about actually placing his finger in the nail holes and his hand in Jesus’ side…Thomas wants proof; he gets presence (“Resonating with God’s song”, Christian Century, March 23-30, 1994, p. 309).

John’s gospel asks us to enter into a different way of understanding the world. Christians take greater stock in God’s way than whatever the latest ideology or political worldview is in vogue. We know the world and its brokenness, just as surely as we know our own, yet the gospel of Jesus Christ opens us to a new vision, the shorthand for this is called “Easter”, celebrating the world understood through Christ’s life, death and resurrection. Belief itself changes its tune “show me proof” to “I know that my Redeemer liveth”. Such faith is not naïve or innocent. It knows how to confess such hope and trust, even when we are taking our last breath and our faithful friends can cry yet still sing the Doxology.

The Vermont author and minister Frederick Buechner observes,

Eight days later, when Jesus did come back, Thomas was there and got his wish. Jesus let him see him and hear him and touch him, and not even Thomas could hold out against evidence like that. He had no questions left to ask and not enough energy left to ask them with even if he'd had a couple. All he could say was, "My Lord and my God!" (John 20:28), and Jesus seemed to consider that under the circumstances that was enough.

Then Jesus asked a question of his own. "Have you believed because you have seen me?" he said and then added, addressing himself to all the generations that have come since, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe" (John 20:29).

Even though he said the greater blessing is for those who can believe without seeing, it's hard to imagine that there's a believer anywhere who wouldn't have traded places with Thomas, given the chance, and seen that face and heard that voice and touched those ruined hands. (Beyond Words, HarperSF, 2006).

Easter 2013: Let Him Easter In Us

2013-03-31T18:29:54Z

The gospel of Luke, chapter 24, verses 1-12:

But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. ²They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, ³but when they went in, they did not find the body. ⁴While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. ⁵The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. ⁶Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, ⁷that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” ⁸Then they remembered his words, ⁹and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. ¹⁰Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. ¹¹But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them. ¹²But Peter got up and ran to the tomb; stooping and looking in, he saw the linen cloths by themselves; then he went home, amazed at what had happened.

The 19^th century poet Gerard Manley Hopkins penned this marvelous line: “Let him easter in us”. Upon reading it, one might pause and wonder why the word easter appears in lowercase letters and as a verb. Hopkins calls upon another use of the word, which means a wind from the east, or a wind that “easters”.

Hopkins uses this curious phrase in a poem about an imperiled ship at sea, something very familiar from his upbringing. His father founded a marine insurance firm, so Hopkins grew up in a household where talk of seafaring was common, especially when his father was in the midst of managing shipwreck insurance claims. His father wrote write a book about safe sailing, entitled “The Port of Refuge, or Advice and instructions to the Master-Mariner in situations of doubt, difficulty and danger”. (Yes, only an insurance executive could come up with this title….)

Years later, after he become a priest, Gerard Manley Hopkins returned to his poetry upon reading newspaper accounts of a shipwreck that claimed many lives, including five nuns aboard. These stories troubled him greatly, and just like his father, Hopkins felt compelled to write words of refuge, advice and instructions, though of a more religious tone. Hopkins created a stirring poem about faith and tragedy and the assurance of the five nuns as they met their end.

The poem’s closing lines are the words of the last nun to perish. On the decks of the doomed ship, she cries out,

Let him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east,

More brightening her, rare-dear Britain, as his reign rolls,

Pride, rose, prince, hero of us, high-priest,

our hearts' charity's hearth's fire, our thoughts' chivalry's throng's Lord.

The poem astounds in its faith that something greater shall come than destruction and death. A bold testimony, the nun’s last words are of resolute trust, not fear or anger. The poem soars well beyond the newspaper headlines, defying the reader to leave the poem unmoved by such a passionate end.

Likewise, we encounter the same spirit suffusing the gospels, taking the readers beyond the trauma of Good Friday and into the challenging encounters with the risen Lord. Does the story end with the body of Jesus placed in a tomb, or in the hazy morning of Easter, when the women at the tomb discover something astounding in the emptiness of the vacant burial site? The gospel makes its case abundantly clear with the women leaving the tomb to go and tell the good news. Otherwise, we are left with the wreckage of a body coming down from the cross, with just the remains of a dream and a hope left unfilled, a terminal Friday with no hope of Resurrection morn.

In the alleluias then and now, Death is given its comeuppance each time the word spreads. Whether by whispers and shouts, face-to-face testimony or second hand proclamation, we share the Easter faith and its remapping of the world as we knew it. “He is risen!” becomes code language, or better said life-defining language, for a group of people, first around Jerusalem and later to the ends of the earth.

The gospel cautions us that we can hear eyewitness accounts galore, yet it is up to each of us to see and believe in Christ, the risen Lord. Without the faith backing it, Easter worship becomes hollow ritual and watered down praise. We leave little room within us for belief and discipleship to flower.

In short, Easter must take place within us, laying claim to our very being. Easter faith redirects our hearts and minds and leads us down paths otherwise not taken. At Easter and beyond, we hear the good news, yet it is our own trust and belief that allows such a word into our hearts and minds, and then go forth as witnesses, humble servants, ones who love God and neighbor, and keep a deep and abiding commitment to follow the way of Jesus Christ in word and deed alike.

Are we ready for the journey beyond the world’s chaos and sadness? Will we be able to embrace gladly this story of the life, death AND resurrection of Jesus and let it reshape our lives? How will we let “Easter” be our compass and redefine the ways in which we live in the world? Only then shall we respond boldly and with great hope and trust to the ancient testimony of “Christ is risen!”

May we echo those great words from our worship service’s opening:

“Alleulia! Christ is risen!”

“Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia! AMEN.”

NOTE: Information regarding Hopkins and his poetry is available via www.poetryfoundation.org. I am grateful for the wealth of materials about Hopkins and the influences leading him to pen “The Wreck of the Deutschland”.

Palm Sunday: A Tragedy Unfolds

2013-03-25T02:47:02Z

The scene still lingers in my memory. I was not present that day, yet I remember it well. In fact, the image haunts me.

You would think a single image would be erased from my mind. After all, we live in a world laden with images, supersaturated by hundreds of cable channels, let alone the Internet’s ever-widening “world wide web”. Why does this compelling image linger so in my mind, just as surely as the treasured images of a long deceased grandparent or the happy smile of my wife as we exchanged our vows nearing thirteen years ago?

The image was fleeting enough. A man stepped out into a street. Nothing really exciting, let alone extraordinary about that. What he did in the middle of the street, however, captured a moment the world populace felt a little cheer welling up even as it surely angered those in power.

Nobody else appears in this image. It’s down to the lone image of a man standing in front of a tank. In fact, it was a column of tanks he stood in front of, all lined up coming to enforce orders given by the powers that be.

Do you recall it now?

The man on the street, in front of a tank recalls a student uprising in China back in 1989. The location of Tiananmen Square was seared into the world’s mind as a place where student-led protests against the government turned into a massacre still not completely accounted, given the government crackdown swiftly following. The world news headlines spoke of very little else, while the Chinese government aimed to ensure nobody inside the country spoke little of the uprising.

As for this lone protestor, he stopped the tanks, moving to stand in front of them as the lead tank tried to get past and continue on. Eventually, a stand off happened. The tanks would move on eventually, yet for those fleeting moments, the world got a glimpse of a brave, non-violent moment in the midst of a period of time remembered for its brutality and hostile military action toward hundreds, if not thousands of citizens.

One man stood there in front of a tank. Most would suggest he did not do anything. Others said it meant everything.

Jesus enters into Jerusalem astride a young colt. It seems merriment and great fun, yet it is really a thumbing of nose at Rome. The grand procession of palms and cheer certainly dissolve by Friday into jeers and scorn, yet for now, Jesus is testing the boundaries, if not his luck with the Roman and religious authorities. He enters the city on a lowly donkey, yet it’s really Rome who is being made to look foolish.

When Roman dignitaries, especially military leaders, arrived in Jerusalem, it was a show of power and might. The entourage was replete with soldiers, slaves, and horses. The noise was deafening, and that was the point, making sure all other claims to power and authority were covered over by Rome’s might. It was a time of Pax Romana, peace to Romans, and the people of Jerusalem knew they were not Romans, just the oppressed people in a faraway territory. The Roman Pontius Pilate and the “puppet king” Herod Antipas watched over the populace, benignly smiling yet enforcing Rome’s interests with the swords of the legions stationed there. Yet no Roman dignitary is present, just this backwater rabbi who was known to be a thorn in the side of the religious elite.

What could one man on a young donkey really say to such unimaginable power? The people around him seem somewhere between fanciful religion and subversive speech. After all, “hosanna” means “praise to God” or “save us now”.

Jesus enters into Holy Week knowing that the chips are down already, the handwriting already dry on the wall. This is not a social call or a simple preaching tour of the capital. He knows why he is here, even as his own followers, let alone the populace, see his humble entrance yet dream of Jesus being something more like the great conqueror, though this time with Rome tossed out on their ear.

They will not know what to make of the Cross still ahead, let alone Jesus’ predictions of his passion and his rising reshaping the world as we know it. By the story that unravels this week, we learn that God works well and above human ways, being made known to us in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus.

Few will understand why he does not incite riots. Even his disciples will be stunned when one of them attacks a slave in the crowd of those arresting Jesus, slicing off the man’s ear. Jesus condemns such violence, even healing the man. He looks at his disciples and says, “No more of this.”

Nonviolence and humility weave through this tragedy. Instead of the sword or the iron fist of Rome, we see the healing touch and the considered word of a man marked for death yet obedient to God as he goes into custody, stands before the authorities, and receives the greatest sentence meted out by Rome. Crucifixion was the ultimate crackdown, an intimidation and a humiliation. Yet Jesus, celebrated with hosannas and later condemned by the crowd’s jeers, opts to stand right in front of Rome and the Temple’s swift and silencing form of justice.

So what are we to do as we go about this week, revered by our tradition as “Holy”, yet still embedded in the world of deadlines, stress and the usual press to keep rushing lest we be late or lose out? Is it not tempting just to say, “I’ll wait between Sundays. It’ll be Easter soon enough. Time for grand meal, or at least one we go out to lunch in search of after worship”?

The Episcopal priest Fleming Rutledge tells a story about her husband calling her with a possible sermon illustration. While out shopping, he spotted a sign in “a gift and card shop”. The sign read: “We make Easter easy!” The store wished to convey how “they were offering one-stop shopping for all the eggs, flowers, cards and bunnies you might need…” (Rutledge, The Undoing of Death, p. 5)

Rutledge declared the sign “an absolutely classic example of the human tendency to flee as far away as from the Cross as we possibly can.” She noted, “The churches are no exception. In at least the sense it’s true that Easter is easy. Everybody loves Easter.” She notes, only a dedicated few are present for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday.

Rutledge declares Palm Sunday “the Trojan horse of the Christian year”. We arrive for the grand palm branches, even singing about it in this morning’s hymns and anthem, yet Palm Sunday is “the introduction to Holy Week”.

The heaviness of what happens in the Passion of the Christ is not for those who want Easter to be a sweet confection. We have to stand up and be resolute, letting the narrative shape our lives. Following Jesus really means we follow Jesus. We are a people who realize all too well he meant what he said as he called his faithful to follow him, even as a tragedy unfolds.

Lent 5: An Odd Funeral Dinner (John 12:1-8)

2013-03-18T21:54:23Z

Have you even attended a funeral dinner? Have you ever gone away from one hungry? It is nigh impossible, given the sheer volume of casseroles, salads, and those little desserts with marshmallows (or at least you hope they were marshmallows….).

In my family, funeral dinners depended on which side of the family was involved. My dad’s side of the family tended to be quieter, a gathering of farmer-types talking about the old days or grain futures while plowing through a plate of mashed potatoes and roast beef. My mother’s side of family tended to be a noisy bunch, telling stories (some of which were not meant for the church fellowship hall) before heading back to the buffet to graze.

Inevitably, both sides of my family did one important thing the same way. At the end of the feast, a representative from the family would head over to the dinner’s host to shake their hand, and say, “Thank you!”

In John’s gospel, we have one of the more bizarre funeral dinners known. For starters, the recently deceased is back among us! Lazarus, brother of Mary and Martha, had died. Jesus arrived four days after Lazarus’ death and raised him from the dead. The meal is now taking place a little later, just before Passover, and the conversation is still a bit strained.

On one hand, the family and friends of Lazarus are overjoyed that Lazarus is back among the living. On the other, the incredible power Jesus evidenced did not go unnoticed. Rumors abounded that the religious elite were plotting to harm Jesus. In the midst of great joy is also great uncertainty. A man who died is eating at table with Jesus, a man marked for death.

The story of Jesus and Lazarus eating together is a remarkable bit of narrative development. I marvel at the juxtaposition of Lazarus and Jesus here. The dead man is walking again. Jesus, the one who raised Lazarus, is soon to enter Jerusalem where betrayal and death await him. Even though it is before the Passion begins, John is fairly clear in this gospel story: Lazarus may live, but Jesus will soon die.

The story of Lazarus and Jesus gives us a glimpse of the questions Good Friday and Easter ask of the world. What do we make of the Christian faith’s claim that death is not the final answer? We can understand the sad inevitability of Good Friday, for death comes for us all. Each one of us is mortal, and we live a limited life span. Whether it is illness or accident, old age or “going too soon”, we humans are not masters of our own destiny.

We get to Good Friday of Holy Week, and we should take an appreciative pause, living in the valley between Good Friday and Easter Sunday morning. Lazarus smelled strongly of death. What are we to make of a faith that includes this odor of a body beginning to decay while gearing up for the Easter hymns of resurrection?

Also around the table for this odd funeral dinner are the sisters of Lazarus, Mary and Martha. They provide hospitality for the gathering in different ways. Martha serves the meal, a customary role for her to play at the dinner table. Mary does something less customary, in fact, acts in a way that the disciples find a little unsettling. Taking her hair down, she uses her hair to anoint Jesus’ feet. It is scandalous behavior for a woman, considered rather forward in her familiarity with Jesus. She anoints his feet with an expensive perfume, an extravagant act that fills the house with its smell.

In contrast, Judas, the disciple who will be the one betraying Jesus in a few short days, reacts to this. The gospel writer takes especial care to highlight how hollow Judas’ words are, being considered a scoundrel as well as suspect in his behavior. Judas believes Mary is behaving in a foolishly wasteful manner. He does not see the devotion that prompts her humble act.

It is Judas that Jesus rebukes, surprisingly siding with the scandalous behavior of Mary anointing his feet. Jesus understands where his journey will take him. He is not afraid to be confronted with his own death. He knows of the other side of death, citing throughout John’s gospel that death is not the last word. Resurrection is part of Jesus’ vocabulary. He also includes space for “death” as well.

This past fall, we invited death into our conversation. We hosted a conference on End-of-Life Care, listening to wise advice from legal and medical professionals. We invited a funeral director, a hospice chaplain and a social worker to add in their own perspective about caregivers and “after-care” considerations when a person dies and loved ones have the tasks necessary at that time to carry out.

Such a conversation understood that candor is needed. We do not get anywhere with the avoidance of talking about death. Indeed, such conversation in advance makes the actual situation of death and dying easier when we encounter our inevitable reality of our lives coming to an end.

I reaffirmed these thoughts when I received sad news from Kansas about a pastoral colleague being diagnosed unexpectedly with an aggressive form of leukemia. He made the decision not to pursue “heroic measures”. Being a hospice chaplain himself, he considered his choices with his loved ones and entered into the same hospice that employed him before he retired. As he wished, the pastor had his loved ones close by his side, and a recording of Handel’s Hallelujah chorus to accompany his last moments. In the process, he did not take leave of his death and welcomed others to journey with him with deep confidence and trust in God’s provision for him. It is a deeply Christian response he made.

Hearing such good stories of death and dying, and admitting to myself that the better path is one I hope to take myself someday, I thought about the considerations of loved ones and music meaningful to me. I also pondered a good last word, surely a goal of persons like myself who love words so. One particular word came to mind. It’s one word I tend to carry around with me. It’s a word that goes with me throughout the day. Sometimes, I drop it and have to remember to pick it up again. Other times, I lend it to people to try out to see if it helps them

The word I like to take along with me is “hope”.

We cannot get through this life without hardship and encounters with our own frailty and weakness. Hope is not for the faint-hearted. To be a person with hope, you take for granted that the world will be a rough go. Nonetheless, you see a different outcome is possible. The last word shall not be pain or death. Hope leads us to see the last word as God’s alone. In that hope, we find our faith, which is shaped by the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, offers us something more than the odor of death. In Mary’s extravagant gift, we sense a fragrance of something far more precious than we can assign a cost.

A few years ago, the seminary we attended was going through a critical time in its history. The issues were numerous, and the feeling on campus was veritably funereal in tone. Was the school going to pull through?

I remember our New Testament professor observed that the school was dealing with difficult matters. He observed, “But we are a people of resurrection.”

I find myself recalling that story fairly often. It might be when the 11 o’clock news is reporting the latest calamity to strike an already struggling nation. Or when a family calls me to come and be with them as a loved one is in critical condition. I think of it when in other situations where the temptation is quite palpable (and in some cases, quite understandable) just to give in to the futility of the moment.

The story of Lazarus eating and drinking again at the table and Mary giving herself over to a great act of devotion beckons us to see the world through a different lens. Jesus shall indeed suffer death, yet this will not be the last word. Judas, in his bluster, shows us what happens when someone can be so close to the truth yet miss it altogether.

The fragrance that lingers is one quite marvelous that fills the air. It hints of the joy, the love, and the new life that shall overcome any trace of death. The devotion of Mary, sister of Lazarus is a prelude to Easter. Hope shall keep us, even in those times where the stench of death nearly overpowers.

May we strive to be a people of resurrection.

Lent 4: A parable for all (Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32)

2013-03-11T04:17:57Z

Of all Jesus’ parables, this particular one is the most popular. You cannot go too far in a book about Jesus and his teachings without the parable being highlighted. Legions of artists, novelists, playwrights, and screenwriters have drawn upon the drama within this parable for their artistic pursuits. Among their number are William Shakespeare and Rembrandt, whose works enshrine the parable in iconic language and imagery as only such great masters can add luster to an already great story.

For most of us, we know the story after a spell sitting in the pews or in Bible studies. You cannot attend a Christian congregation of any denominational background without hearing this one. Along the way, everybody tends to refer to this story by a certain title: The Prodigal Son.

Why do we call the parable “The Prodigal Son”? We tend to go with the tradition handed down to us, not noticing that the word “prodigal” never appears once in the Greek text or English translations! The word is not a “biblical” term, though the word “prodigal” indicates the type of person the younger son is in this story. “Prodigal” draws its roots from the Latin and indicates a person is a wastrel, an squanderer of resources or assets, and an inconsiderate or foolish person who has money “burning a hole in his pocket” as we say back home.

Indeed, the scenes of this parable set-up a great fall. Half the inheritance due, he demands. Soon he’s far from home and the life of the party, buying a round for everybody. A 1970s “Christian comic book” depicts the prodigal son going clubbing at all the discos surrounded by all the drugs, booze and women. (Somehow, our Lord and Savior never imagined his characters in bell-bottoms, but I digress….)

The son lived hard, and he crashed hard. He winds up in the worst of places. Broke and far from home, he’s reduced to feeding pigs and so hungry, he eats what they eat. This is one farm kid from Galilee who lived like a rock star, and now he barely can get by. The black sheep, the ne’er-do-well, the idiot child—the list of names we could call him right now could go on. Likely we might find ourselves thinking about our own family trees and saying, “I know just the person who can play this part.”

Yet, Jesus, not you or me, is telling the parable. The parable is more likely titled as “A man with two sons”, for that gives us the idea of the cast of characters are equally important. The father and the elder brother have roles to play in this family drama: while one son goes wayward, an elder brother toils on the farm, diligent yet dismayed, and out there every night, staring at the horizon, just hoping as best he can, we find a father who wears his worry and his hope on his sleeve. To understand this parable, you also have to deal with the challenging actions taken by the elder son and the father.

The elder son is often the second most talked about character of this parable. The elder son makes the most sense to many readers, as he is hardworking, earnest and most certainly did not pull the same stunt his younger brother did. Not every reader has a “prodigal story” in his or her past (or present), though the elder brother’s part in the story rings true for many: do what’s right and still find that the other person got ahead of you. The parable sounds too close to real life as you recall instances like a co-worker who gets praise the boss, even when you saw them slacking off while you worked the entire shift. It’s hard for some readers not to feel the angst of the elder brother, as it feels too close to reality that the younger brother gets such grand treatment that you just know is undeserved.

Yet, it’s Jesus, not you or me, telling this parable. He tells of a plot twist unexpected. As he stands in that pig pen, the younger son comes to his senses. He realizes how low he has sunk and takes responsibility. When he arrives back on the farm, he is coming to seek a job as a farm hand. He does not want his old status back. He hoping for a place to sleep in the barn, not in the fine house he grew up in. Instead of shame, he is embraced joyfully and given a homecoming celebration. His father won’t hear of him being a farm hand. The father is tearful even, as his son thought long gone (dead, even) has come home.

Parables are not “mere stories”. You can tell them to children, and they will get it to a limited extent. More truthfully, you keep telling them this parable as you help them grow up in life and in the faith, for the story never stops being a new wonder each time it is told. As we grow up, the hollow appeal of the prodigal lifestyle is likely explored first hand, as we see far better things that we think we’ll ever find if we stick close to home and just stay “a good son”.

Garrison Keillor has observed quite wisely that we tell the story of the Prodigal to our children, “so that when they grow up, they will know how the story ends”. Indeed, we find that the story we keep hearing from time to time at church becomes a life lesson and a lifeline. It teaches children how to be good and reasonable, and it also gives some important parenting skills for dads and moms trying to get over the disappointment or bitterness or anger of a wayward child.

The story ends in a way I wish all stories about family relationships would end. I have been a pastor long enough now to see all manner of strife and challenge, estrangement and silence percolate under the surface of conversations in my office or over the phone or in the midst of all manner of settings. I know it firsthand from some of my own experiences of family where adults can act like children and children can claim they are now adults so why bother listening to the voice of pleading reason offered by a parent or another loved one.

I know how many family stories end in stalemate or uneasy, perhaps temporary at best reconciliation. I hear the Prodigal story, the story of the man with two sons, and I sometimes think it has an ending that is storybook at best. Then I tell myself Jesus is telling this parable, not you or me. Learning this parable as part of the gospel way of Jesus Christ asks us to turn not to our own family experiences and the “scripts” that drive them. Instead, the parable twists and turns as we see a young son get his head back on straight (and by his own effort!). The parable challenges as we look at the elder son’s reaction and the gospel nudges us to see that he is not the person Jesus is calling us to be. The parable drags us through all this drama so we can see the paths taken and not taken drawn in sharp relief. And then we realize that it is the father who brings us to the reason this parable actually stands the test of time.

What the father treasured (his sons, not his “stuff”) was lost. Then it was found (in part to the younger son desiring to be found). Coming back to the farm, the younger son allows the father to enjoy the full joy of having what he though unrecoverable back in his possession. The younger son and the elder son are now on the farm again. The father does not have to linger at the end of the road, sighing as no figure comes over the horizon and weeping at night when he thinks his wife hasn’t heard him (she does, as she too must surely weep this loss).

The fatted calf and the neighborhood block party he throws, the grand extravagance of a robe and a ring for the dusty, pig-sty smelling younger son—it is all secondary to the tears welling up in his eyes (and if you look closely, the younger son’s as well). The dollar signs of money squandered are a distant memory (forgiven, even!) as he yells for the farm hands to string up balloons. Most of us would think the younger son should count himself lucky for such a welcome. (The elder son encourages us to think that way!) Yet the father’s weeping and shouts of joy, the dance and the smell of good BBQ ready by supper tell us something else, an unanticipated ending.

Jesus tells this parable, not you or me, yet he tells this parable for you and me. In such hope, he offers a story reimagining the way the world works when God is at the center of things. No more shall the last word be the prodigal is cast aside or never forgiven. No more shall the last word be the bitterness of an elder brother scorning the very thought of his brother’s repentance and reconciliation. No more shall a father (or a mother) have to endure the deep heartache of sons and daughters gone off the deep end or trying to write off their own siblings. This story retells the story of humanity—as God wants us to be known.

Jesus tells this parable so you and me are able to bear the good word of the gospel into the world. We are to preach and model love, grace, repentance and reconciliation in extravagant measures, not as beliefs and practices to be rationed out begrudgingly or as we feel like it. Jesus tells this parable so all of us can see that sign hanging above the heavenly feast.

The sign reads, “Welcome home”.

Lent 3: Bearing the Good (Luke 13:1-9)

2013-03-04T12:44:46Z

Do you remember the daily newspaper comic strip “Family Circus”? I loved that comic when I was a kid, as I could identify with some of the humor, especially when the kids were in trouble. When Mom or Dad asked them why the cookie jar was suddenly empty, one of the kids would look innocent and say, “Not me”. Cartoonist Bil Keane had a little ghost-like figure running away (with a cookie in hand) with the words “Not Me” written on his outfit. He was often accompanied co-conspirator and lady friend “Ida Know”.

I was well acquainted with those characters, and quite frankly, I invoked them for the blame (even as I had cookie crumbs all over myself). I did have one other friend not seen in Family Circus. His name was Mr. Mean.

Did you have “Mr. Mean” around your house growing up? He was mentioned when I was doing something foolish. I’d do something my mother told me not to do, and sometimes, it ended in tears or everything came crashing down. My mother would observe, “Mr. Mean got you, didn’t he?”

I began to wonder where Mr. Mean lived. He must have had his own room in our house, as he seemed to be working long hours keeping me in line (or better said, taking me to task when I was naughty). Was he salaried or did he work just for room and board?

Mr. Mean was known to travel with the family on occasion. One time at my mother’s parents, I was playing hide and seek with my cousins. I found a great hiding place: the little door of my grandparents’ pop-up camper, which was in storage mode, so not “popped up”. I opened the door and crawled into the child-sized space I found just inside. When I heard my cousin who was the “seeker” of our game shout out “Ready or not, here I come”, I reached up and ensured I flipped the latch.

Needless to say, I was the last cousin to be found, and I spent the time growing more and more aware that messing with the lock was a bad idea. I couldn’t get it back open. Soon, I gave up my desire to win (and make the 11 o’clock news as the child found after a tri-county search), and I started to holler, “Help!”

After a few minutes, I heard cousins nearby. They heard me, and despite their better judgment, they told my parents I was trapped in the camper. My grandmother brought out the keys, and soon I was out, kissing the ground like the Pope on a first-time visit to a new country. I looked up, and my mother said, “Well, son, it looks like Mr. Mean got you.”

The next day, I called a lawyer. Apparently six year olds cannot get restraining orders on fictional characters. Oh well….

All this talk of “Mr. Mean” stuck with me over the years as a childhood memory, mock-worthy indeed. It’s silly, but when Kerry needs to correct me, I am laying there on the ground, dazed and realizing that it wasn’t such a great idea to try fixing that without adult supervision, she will laugh and say, “Your mother called. Mr. Mean got ya all the way from Kansas.”

Mr. Mean served as a way of calling out your child (or husband) when they did something foolish. Somehow, when you were in pain from a bad decision or doing something you were not allowed to do, the concept gave the parents a chance to say something on a kid-level. Not likely found (or condoned) in any parenting books today, Mr. Mean served a particular purpose, just as surely as the kids offered “Not me” or “Ida Know” when surrounded by the smashed objects or cookie crumbs.

Oddly enough, looking back at those memories, I realize this story of Mr. Mean has some bearing on the questions being posed by the Luke reading. Mr. Mean can be a childhood memory or a parenting choice. Mr. Mean can represent how some folks view matters human and divine!

Throughout his ministry, Jesus was asked all manner of questions. Sometimes, it was the Pharisees and the Sadducees trying to trap him in a religious matter where his answer could be criticized or held against him. Other times, it was somebody in a crowd or among the inner circle of disciples who posed a question. More often than not, Jesus found himself getting a bit exasperated at the questions and having to do as a teacher has to do: patiently (or less so) explaining out the answer to these questions and often pointing out the fallacies behind why the question was being posed.

Behind the question of Pilate callously and brutally having some worshippers murdered, Jesus hears the subtext. The people raising the question have a belief at work, connecting the tragic circumstances with the thought the violence befalling them was connected to something sinful on the part of those who died. In some ways, what they were implying was a “Mr. Mean” type of rationale, though worse, as it implied that they had somehow earned divine wrath or retribution.

Jesus reframes the conversation, citing another tragedy, though one more likely a very unfortunate accident. It is not a matter of sin that Pilate’s victims were killed (well at least on the part of the victims. Pilate is a different story!), just as surely as it was not some sort of sin that a tower collapsed and killed eighteen people. We are in need of repentance, yet Jesus gives no credence to God taking out folks as if God is playing some cosmic carnival game of “Whack a Mole”. (Don’t look up, that mallet’s a comin’!)

This reading of the text may cause some to raise a hand and ask about the many instances in the Hebrew Scriptures where divine judgment rains down. I have heard a number of Christians speak of “the God of the New Testament is one of love, and the God of the Old Testament is one of wrath”. The Hebrew Scriptures are not as neat and tidy to be summarized, or worse, caricatured!

For example, the same God who tells ancient Israel through the prophet Isaiah they will be punished for their waywardness when Babylon comes to sack Jerusalem is the same God who speaks through Isaiah the splendid and graceful word found in the Isaiah reading heard earlier this morning (Isaiah 55). Most people take one of these strands (“God is bringing down the hammer” or “God is offering a loving and redemptive path”) often do not recognize how these strands intertwine in the Hebrew Scriptures. The ancient texts are filled with cities and people said to be under God’s indictment for their foolish or arrogant ways, yet the last word of either Testament is not “fear” but “love”.

I cannot read Isaiah without being caught up in the deep hope that suffuses the time of Israel’s wandering away and coming back. The canon of Scripture is not easily read in one-size fits all interpretations, yet some of these become very popular (and less scrutinized). Indeed, if we did not recognize the complexity of such texts as this with the “both/and” qualities, we might as well say, “Look out, the divine Mr. Mean is coming for us.”

The people questioning Jesus see the world as a matter of “sin = divine consequences” in a much too “black and white” manner. Certainly, Christianity has to take the issue of sin seriously, yet connecting “punishment” with any little incident, accident, or tragedy is not a reasonable understanding of the faith. This idea found in the gospels that some call the victims of such matters “sinners” is denied by Jesus.

Sadly, it is not just a “first century” issue. I recall with great disappointment and again some theological heartburn when the tragic events of 9/11 happened and two prominent fundamentalist preachers (Baptists even!) had a televised conversation where they claimed 9/11 happened because of God removing divine protection around the United States for a long list of issues they termed quite readily as sinful.

A couple of years ago at Southern Vermont College, I was asked to give a lecture on fundamentalism, and I showed the video clip to a group of undergraduates, many of whom were in elementary or middle school in 2001. After the clip played, I had the lights turned back on to continue the class, and half the room was staring in disbelief and the other half had tears or verbalized a visceral reaction. Pat Robertson and the late Jerry Falwell thought they had it all figured out, and I observed to the class that they articulated a religious worldview that believed God was really mad and brought down the hammer. To the students, I assured them as a minister of the gospel, such talk is not of God or Allah for that matter.

As for Jesus, he reorients the questions and the answers back to a more level headed understanding of sin. We are quite capable of doing bad things to one another and to the greater world, and we can be a force of negative speech, speak falsely, and behave insensitively or inhumanely. In the biblical concepts, sin can be understood as “missing the mark”, and I assure we can and will do that, myself included.

What Jesus wants us to do is focus more on the need for honesty, found in the acts of self-examination and repentance. When we are truthful before God and confess ourselves to God (and sometimes to others as well), we begin to dismantle our ways and habits that lead us to sin. We become more balanced and able to live lives that are approvable before God. Talking about sin is part of the faith, just as surely as preaching God’s mercy, peace, and love.

We cannot enjoy the fullness of the faith, which involves our transformation and our reconciliation with God and one another, without traversing the difficult terrain of our sin, but we need not complicate it further by adding in this idea that we should flinch and wonder when the lightning bolt is coming for us.

My brothers and my sisters in Christ, hear always the good news:

When we are truthful before God, we are set free of those things entangling us from having a full and meaningful relationship with God.

Hear the good news of God’s desire for us to live not in fear but in love.

Hear the good news, taking it to heart so we may share this word confidently and boldly with all nations and peoples. AMEN.

Lent 2: A Story with Consequences (Luke 13:31-35)

2013-03-02T03:18:55Z

Vermont senator Patrick Leahy has had a long career in politics. Perhaps less known is the little personal biographical fact he shares on his Senate website. Among his Senate committees, Leahy is the only Washington politician to list his favorite super-hero as Batman.

When Leahy was in town two years ago, the senator was quite glad to stop and talk with me for a few minutes about his interest in Batman, including the two recent Batman films he appeared in briefly with a few lines. I brought along a DVD for his autograph. (Always a collector, I tell you!)

In the second Batman film directed by Christopher Nolan, Leahy had the opportunity to appear in a crowd scene where the Joker (played by Heath Ledger) terrorizes the good people of Gotham. Like any other film production, the scenes Leahy appears in took a good part of the day to complete. Part of Leahy’s work involved him shooting various takes of his character coming face-to-face with the Joker, the only person in the room who will speak up against the chaotic force that is Heath Ledger’s Joker. The senator admitted the director kept asking him to try the same line (“We’re not intimidated by thugs”) a number of times so they could choose the best take for the subsequent master editing session of the film.

Actors have to work carefully with how they approach a scene, even just one moment. You can have a great line written by a leading screenwriter, yet if you do not consider and rehearse things out, a bad delivery can squash that line. If you wish to get the right word in, if the scene is to be memorable, you have to be quite confident and on your game.

The Pharisees come to Jesus with a warning. The ruler Herod has made it known that Jesus is a marked man. Usually, we consider the Pharisees by and large no great fans of Jesus themselves, yet they arrive with deep concern. They want Jesus to make a run for it, perhaps with the hopes he won’t come back. Nonetheless, they know things are dire, and they don’t want the blood on their hands in any way.

Jesus takes a different approach. Rather than pack his bags, Jesus opts to stand his ground. And he tells the Pharisees to ensure Herod knows it. Jesus says, “Tell Herod, that old fox….”

A note for the reader: Jesus hears what the Pharisees are warning, and he uses a bit of humor to address the situation. Sure, it is a dire warning the Pharisees bring to his attention. He does not have any delusions that this threat of violence is somehow easily dismissed or cast aside. Read ahead in Luke, and you realize that these rulers would make good on their threats, bringing Jesus in for a show trial and a politically expedient crucifixion.

The Pharisees knew quite well that Herod was not to be dismissed. Even as a puppet of Rome, Herod Antipas was just like other Herods of this time period: rulers with deeply flawed, vain and destructive ways. It was not easy to be under Herod, and anybody, including Jesus, knew firsthand of this experience of Herod’s set-up where the rich and powerful controlled state and Temple alike from Jerusalem with the rural areas, including Galilee, bearing the brunt socially, economically and politically.

The New Testament scholar Richard Horsley observes,

Galileans, who had recently come under Jerusalem rule, would likely have had a great deal of ambivalence about the Temple and high priesthood, to whom they had not previously owed tithes and other dues. Moreover, the peasantry of Galilee had borne the brunt of repeated Roman conquests of Palestine, with major massacres in the areas of Nazareth and Magdala (and Capernaum). The Roman imposition of Herod Antipas as a ruler who for the first time in history lived directly in Galilee surely meant an unprecedented rigor in the collection of taxes. His ambitious construction of two capital cities within two decades meant an unusual economic drain on the Galilean peasantry precisely during the lifetime of Jesus and those who would join his movement. Further, to the Galileans the Roman-style cities Antipas built with such revenues were constant reminders of Roman imperial rule.

Horsley concludes, “It is not surprising that popular protest and resistance erupted with increasing frequency precisely during the lifetime of Jesus and his followers.” (cf. Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom of God and the New World Disorder, Fortress Press, 2003, p. 86).

Calling Herod “an old fox” is tinged with humor, yet Jesus is offering a pointed criticism of the ruler and his ways. In many cultures, the fox appears as a trickster or a shady character not to be trusted. Herod may have promised great things, yet the people see how Herod’s rule really plays out in their daily lives.

Like any other oppressor, Herod has gained his power not by respect or merit. He has taken what he wants, often in the bluntest ways possible, and spends his time trying desperately to keep his rule iron clad. Of course Herod wants to show his power by threatening any resistance, including this Galilean peasant rabbi of no great family or means. Herod is a fox, Jesus observes. Surely everyone, including Herod, knows it!

Such humor is right in line with the prophetic tradition. The prophets of God are those who speak a contrary yet truthful word. To hear the prophet well, we have to let the scales fall away from our eyes and see those who are often in power are the most dubious or not to be trusted. As the comedian Jon Stewart once observed about interviewing politicians: “I’m not here so much for the comedy. My job is to say, ‘Sir, your pants are on fire.’” So goes the vocation of God’s prophet.

In Jesus’ teachings, we learn of a different sort of Kingdom, where God is the sole Sovereign, the monarch who does not exploit the people or allow great disparities of resources and rights to carry out. The parables, the miracles, the teachings and other parts of Jesus’ teaching: these are not lightweight little stories we tell on a Sunday morning and leave alone the rest of the week. Hearing the word of Jesus is a transformative moment where we learn how thin the powers that be really are when they make their pronouncements about what is best for the order of things. We are a people who are not ruled by human ideology. The way of Jesus drives us to rise above the ways of Herod and his successors and embrace the more inclusive, peaceable and non-violent way of Jesus.

In his response to the Pharisees, Jesus calls Herod an old fox and likens God, the true Ruler, as a mother hen gathering and brooding over her chicks. For some readers, they love this “brooding” image, as it connects back to Genesis where God is said to be hovering/brooding over Creation. It’s a strong, maternal image of God the nurturer and protector.

Others suggest danger lurks in the comparison. If you have a fox and a hen together, guess who wins? The choice is given: do you trust the stories told by that fox who rules in the courts of power or in the greater stories of God, maker of Heaven and earth?

Again Jesus confronts the fear and anxiety Herod has cultivated well, even in the hearts of these religious types who are treated better in his political structures. Just as he collaborates with Caesar, so the Pharisees seem to buy wholesale into the Temple leadership’s ways. Jesus knows the fear Herod and his winged monkeys depend on. He knows that Herod means it when he says he’s coming for Jesus.

Instead, Jesus tells the Pharisees he’s not finished with his work. In fact, he will come to Jerusalem, knowing full well what surely awaits him. It’s not Herod’s call how things are going to play out. Everything that will come to pass is very much in the hands of God, not human rulers. It’s a non-violent response in a time when violent revolution was thought to be the answer. My, what a different approach Jesus models for those who follow him!

In this scene, we encounter the radical obedience and trust Jesus keeps with God. Nothing will keep him from his mission, and he will not go into hiding or head for parts unknown just because the most powerful man in Galilee, backed up by the most powerful in the Temple and Jerusalem, has made such threats. Jesus will move forward, embracing his faithful calling to be the Son of God, the Beloved, the Messiah/Christ.

Hence, the reason Jesus can crack a joke while the Pharisees stand there quivering. Not as the world gives will Jesus give to Herod’s threats. Instead of looking for a sword, Jesus laughs. The prophet may know hardship, yet the ability to laugh at the powers that think they are the last word is part of the benefit of such a prophetic call.

It’s like the story of 20^th century Baptist Clarence Jordan, who started an racially integrated farm in the deep South even before the Civil Rights era moved into high gear. It does not surprise anyone acquainted with history that the local branch of the Ku Klux Klan threatened Jordan’s ministry and mission constantly.

One day, Jordan found some pick-ups coming onto the farm property, filled with Klansman. He went out to see them standing there in their white outfits and hoods. One KKKer sneered, “We don’t let the sun set on people like you around here”.

Jordan replied, “Pleased to meet y’all. I’ve been waiting all my life to meet someone who could make the sun stand still” (excerpted by Shane Claiborne, et al, Common Prayer).

The prophetic word is to be used cautiously, reverently and with the hope that the world will be brought back into God’s loving and peaceable kingdom. There are times to speak and times to act, just as surely as there are times to be quiet or to refrain. Prophets do indeed run a higher risk than others, no doubt in my mind about that.

What I learn from this passage is the call Jesus has for those who follow his ways. Always stay true to the gospel and live in a Christ like way. Know that no matter what you are told about the world and its ways, we Christians are to live intentionally and fully as people who know God has the last word.