Our callings from God aren't always immediately clear--nor do they always follow a straight line.
That's the essence of a Wise County Messenger article about our pastoral intern, Diane Oswald, and the path she's followed to ministry with the Presbyterian church.
Sunday, March 28, 2004
Are you abundant?
A sermon based on John 12:1-8.
Not far from our house in Fort Worth is a neighborhood the police call The End. It’s less than two miles by car, but a world away by culture.
The End anchors Fort Worth’s drug trade. You can buy crack cocaine or amphetamines on the street corners the way you can buy ice cream from a handcart at the park near my house. The sound of guns is an every-day occurrence.
I try not to go to The End if I can avoid it. But one day, The End came to me.
On a Monday afternoon, a skinny old man knocked on our door.
“Howdy,” he said. “I’m a neighbor of yours and I’ve kind of gotten myself stranded. Do you think you could give me a ride?”
His body odor was overwhelming, and his speech had a rapid, staccato cadence you sometimes hear in a drug addict or a person who is mentally ill. He wanted a ride. My gas tank was on empty; I had a chapter write and a sermon to prepare for; I didn’t really have the time to give the man a ride. But I took him anyway.
Immediately, it became clear that he didn’t live where he’d told me. He wasn’t a “neighbor” at all. The directions he gave after we were driving took us deeper and deeper into The End, and I began to wonder where he was taking me, and why. I was afraid for my safety, if not my life.
And as I drove, surrounded by the stench of this dirty man, I began to wonder: Am I being noble or am I just being stupid?
The end of the story, of course, is that I made out just fine. I dropped him off, he said “God bless,” and I high-tailed it home like a mule deer startled by a gun shot. Nothing dramatic, nothing bad.
For the viewers at home: Do not attempt to replicate this stunt on your own; the driver in this story was a trained professional ignoring all of his professional training.
But the incident left me wondering: What will I do the next time someone—maybe even the same man—comes to my door asking for a ride?
Just what does it mean to be a disciple of Jesus in a situation like that?
II.
Imagine for a moment that you are having a dinner in honor of an out-of-town friend. Yours is a casual house, and everyone is barefoot, seated around the table, laughing, sharing hors d’oeuvres and maybe a glass of wine.
And then your sister walks into the room with a huge, unopened bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume—16 ounces, a whole pound of the stuff—and someone says, “Whoa, Mary! What did you spend on that perfume?”
“Oh, a bit,” Mary says, kneeling before the guest of honor. “About $30,000, I think—a year’s salary.”
And then she empties the entire bottle on the feet of your out-of-town friend. The perfume runs down his ankles, over his toes, puddles on the floor, fills the room with its sweet odor. Then Mary begins to use her long, dark hair to wipe his feet clean. No one says a word. Everyone is stunned.
And then your brother, the one who embezzled all that money from the local Food Bank, explodes: “Geez, Mary! If you wanted to spend your money, why didn’t you give that $30,000 to feed the hungry and poor people of Wise County instead of wasting it like this?!”
You have no idea what to say or what to do. What would it mean to be a disciple of Jesus—not to mention an astonished host or a perfume-drenched guest of honor—what would it mean to be a disciple of Jesus in a situation like this?
III.
It is six days before Passover, and Jesus knows as he walks into Bethany, two miles from Jerusalem, that the countdown has begun. The priests and the Pharisees are waiting for him in Jerusalem, where they will arrest him and put him to death.
In the gospel of John, raising Lazarus from the dead was the act that cinched Jesus’ fate: The powers-that-be cannot tolerate this prophet or the allegiance he’s evoking from the poor and the outcast. He’s becoming too popular, too powerful, and the leaders are worried he will bring the wrath of the Romans down on their heads. So he must die.
But first, he will spend some time at home with Lazarus, with Martha and her sister Mary. In fact, the household is preparing a special dinner tonight for Jesus and his disciples.
Why has Jesus come to Bethany just before his death at the hands of the authorities? After all, this village and the house of Lazarus both are associated with the stench of death. Lazarus had been in the tomb for four days before he was raised—Martha herself complained about the odor even before the stone was rolled away.
Has Jesus returned to Bethany to remind himself of the stink of a decaying body, to meditate on his own impending death?
Or has he returned to Bethany, to the house of Lazarus, to remind himself of the power of God to resuscitate a dead man?
As he sat at the table with Lazarus and the apostles, was Jesus surprised to see Mary approach with a jar of oil usually reserved to anoint the dead? Or did he expect Mary—this woman who had sat at his feet in admiration, listening so closely to his words—did he expect Mary to recognize what was about to happen, to anoint him in preparation for his death, to anoint him in reverence to make up for the rushed and haphazard anointing he would receive in secret after his shameful death on the cross? Is that why he returned to Bethany?
There’s no way we can know why Jesus has come here, to sit at this table, and I suppose the reason isn’t all that important. What is important is that Mary approached him with a pound of oil scented with nard. She knelt at his feet—gnarled and callused, hardened against the rocks and sharp thorns, dusty from his wanderings—she knelt at his feet and gently took them into her own callused hands.
And then she poured the oil, all of it, on his feet, ignoring the way it puddled to the floor, the way its scent filled the entire room, driving away the stench of death. And when his feet were slippery and soft under her fingers, when she had massaged the bruised and aching muscles, she began to wipe his feet clean with her own long, dark hair.
Is there a more sensuous scene in the bible than this incredibly intimate moment between Mary and Jesus, two people who love each other, a moment lived out in the midst of their friends, gathered together at the table for a meal?
It is a moment of worship, pure adoration. I imagine Jesus reclining against the cushions, eyes closed, inhaling the odor of the perfume, a smile of pleasure on his face. It feels good to have someone rub your feet with oil and then wipe them clean.
Mary’s devotion that night at dinner foreshadows the way Jesus will wash the feet of his own disciples before the week is over. It also foreshadows his death six days later.
Mary is anointing Jesus as a dead body would be anointed, but taking it to an extreme. Rather than using a few drops of scented oil, she uses a whole pound. Her act is beyond reason, extravagantly so, a moment of overflowing abundance, a gratuitous response to love that wells up and spills over, enveloping the whole dinner party in its sweet, sweet smell. The fragrance of her love fills the whole house.
And then Judas speaks: “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?”
It is a show-stopping question, and it begs another: What does it mean to be a disciple of Jesus at a moment like this?
IV.
If Mary brings the fragrance of love to this dinner party, Judas is the stench of death. In him, the power of darkness has manifest itself even in the intimate circle of Jesus’ closest friends. And his question—“Why was this perfume not sold and the money given to the poor”—his question seems to negate Mary’s simple act of devotion.
So often in life the stench of death seems to overwhelm the fragrance of love.
There are the times we speak harshly to our child or spouse, spitting out words of death rather than words of life.
There are the times when depression and anxiety fill us with a loathing for ourselves and for all of life.
There are the times when we boast about ourselves instead of celebrating the achievements of others.
There are the times when build ourselves up by tearing others down.
There are times when people we thought were friends hurt us or let us down.
There are the times we choose allegiance to family or the lure of money over the liberating message of the gospel.
There are times . . . there are times. But you know what I’m talking about. You’ve experienced it in your own life. And at some time or another, each of us hears that voice that says: The good you’re doing isn’t good enough. You’re not really a disciple of Jesus.
V.
Some of you might remember the Church Lady, a character that Dana Carvey played twenty years ago on the comedy show “Saturday Night Live.”
Whenever she found someone doing something good, the Church Lady managed to twist it around so that the do-gooder was actually in the service of the devil.
“I notice you’re wearing your red gloves as you shovel the walk of your disabled neighbor,” she would say. “But do we maybe know whose color red is? Hmmm. I don’t know—maybe . . . Satan?”
And then she would do her Superiority Dance to celebrate her status as a true disciple.
That is perhaps the twentieth-century version of what Judas is doing at this dinner party in Bethany. He’s showing off, as if saying, “I have a better grasp of the gospel than you do.”
One of the purposes of this passage in the Gospel of John, I think, is to contrast the false discipleship of Judas with the authentic discipleship of Mary.
Judas thinks he can fake his way through, by appealing to the care of the poor and ignoring the death of Jesus that will occur because of his own betrayal.
Mary, on the other hand, doesn’t try to be a good disciple. She simply pours herself out, overflowing with love and devotion, adoring Jesus with all her being.
She is the first to serve him, the first to love him, the first to prepare his body for burial through the act of anointing. The sweet smell of that perfume fills the room, allowing everyone present to participate in her act of worship and thus in their teacher’s death.
This is what it means to be a disciple of Jesus at a moment like this: to participate in his death while nonetheless acting in ways that proclaim the extravagant love of the living God.
In Mary the stench of death—both death in the past, as represented by Lazarus, and death in the future, as represented by Judas—in Mary, the stench of death is replaced by the fragrance of humble love.
V.
Unless you’re asleep this morning—and I’m not unaware of that possibility—you’ve probably noticed how often this morning I’ve emphasized the extravagance of Mary’s anointing of Jesus.
That image of Mary pouring forth the perfume, the way it cascades over the feet of Jesus and puddles on the floor, the way its scent fills the house, all of those details echo an ancient understanding of God.
Pseudo-Dionysius, a Greek theologian and mystic, wrote of God as a hidden spring, gushing forth, overflowing to fill the world with the power of divine energy so that everything participates in the generous and abundant love of God.
We are made in that image. Each of us. And in anointing the feet of Jesus in her extravagant way, Mary is activating that divine image in herself, living out what it means to be a true disciple of Jesus.
She is being sanctified. In telling Judas to leave her alone, Jesus is choosing Mary as one of his own. And being chosen as God’s own means she is participating in the nature of God. What belongs to God is holy, as God is holy. Those who are sanctified lead a special life because, instead of living according to the ethics of their own society or their own egos, they increasingly live according to the law of God’s kingdom. And God’s kingdom rests on a hidden abundance, an embarrassment of riches, built into the heart of reality and showering down on creation.
To be a disciple of Jesus is to live out of this abundance. To be a disciple of Jesus is to act in ways that communicate the fullness of life to others. To be a disciple of Jesus is to participate in his death, knowing that not even the grave can stop the love of God flowing through us and into the world.
Reformed theologian Jurgen Moltmann writes:
If whatever God has made and loves is holy, then life is holy in itself, and to live life with love and joy means sanctifying it. . . . To sanctify life does not mean manipulating it religiously and morally. It means being freed and justified, loved and affirmed, and more and more alive. Life in God’s Spirit is a life entrusted to the guidance and drive of the Spirit, a life that lets the Spirit come. . . . The Spirit of life is poured out and flows. . . . Through the Holy Spirit, God’s eternal life brims over, as it were, and its overflowing powers and energies fill the earth.
No one can “make” this life happen, be it through giving money to the poor or doing things intended to make us “better Christians.” One can only let this life be and let it come, as Mary did when she anointed the feet of Jesus. The life that Moltmann writes about is not achieved by works, but received as a gift, a gift of God’s grace flowing into the world through the presence and power of the Holy Spirit.
Receiving that gift and becoming a channel by which it flows into the world to bless the life of others is what it means to be a disciple of Jesus at any time.
As Lent comes to an end and we move into the passion of Holy Week, may we prepare a way in the wilderness of our lives so that the living waters of the Lord might flow through us and into the life of others.
As God claimed us in the waters of baptism, so might we also claim God’s grace, participating in the death of Christ by which the fragrance of love replaced the stench of death for all time.
To that God of overflowing abundance, whose passionate love creates and sustains the universe as a graceful gift to those chosen as God’s own, be blessing and glory and wisdom and power forever and ever! Amen.
Not far from our house in Fort Worth is a neighborhood the police call The End. It’s less than two miles by car, but a world away by culture.
The End anchors Fort Worth’s drug trade. You can buy crack cocaine or amphetamines on the street corners the way you can buy ice cream from a handcart at the park near my house. The sound of guns is an every-day occurrence.
I try not to go to The End if I can avoid it. But one day, The End came to me.
On a Monday afternoon, a skinny old man knocked on our door.
“Howdy,” he said. “I’m a neighbor of yours and I’ve kind of gotten myself stranded. Do you think you could give me a ride?”
His body odor was overwhelming, and his speech had a rapid, staccato cadence you sometimes hear in a drug addict or a person who is mentally ill. He wanted a ride. My gas tank was on empty; I had a chapter write and a sermon to prepare for; I didn’t really have the time to give the man a ride. But I took him anyway.
Immediately, it became clear that he didn’t live where he’d told me. He wasn’t a “neighbor” at all. The directions he gave after we were driving took us deeper and deeper into The End, and I began to wonder where he was taking me, and why. I was afraid for my safety, if not my life.
And as I drove, surrounded by the stench of this dirty man, I began to wonder: Am I being noble or am I just being stupid?
The end of the story, of course, is that I made out just fine. I dropped him off, he said “God bless,” and I high-tailed it home like a mule deer startled by a gun shot. Nothing dramatic, nothing bad.
For the viewers at home: Do not attempt to replicate this stunt on your own; the driver in this story was a trained professional ignoring all of his professional training.
But the incident left me wondering: What will I do the next time someone—maybe even the same man—comes to my door asking for a ride?
Just what does it mean to be a disciple of Jesus in a situation like that?
II.
Imagine for a moment that you are having a dinner in honor of an out-of-town friend. Yours is a casual house, and everyone is barefoot, seated around the table, laughing, sharing hors d’oeuvres and maybe a glass of wine.
And then your sister walks into the room with a huge, unopened bottle of Chanel No. 5 perfume—16 ounces, a whole pound of the stuff—and someone says, “Whoa, Mary! What did you spend on that perfume?”
“Oh, a bit,” Mary says, kneeling before the guest of honor. “About $30,000, I think—a year’s salary.”
And then she empties the entire bottle on the feet of your out-of-town friend. The perfume runs down his ankles, over his toes, puddles on the floor, fills the room with its sweet odor. Then Mary begins to use her long, dark hair to wipe his feet clean. No one says a word. Everyone is stunned.
And then your brother, the one who embezzled all that money from the local Food Bank, explodes: “Geez, Mary! If you wanted to spend your money, why didn’t you give that $30,000 to feed the hungry and poor people of Wise County instead of wasting it like this?!”
You have no idea what to say or what to do. What would it mean to be a disciple of Jesus—not to mention an astonished host or a perfume-drenched guest of honor—what would it mean to be a disciple of Jesus in a situation like this?
III.
It is six days before Passover, and Jesus knows as he walks into Bethany, two miles from Jerusalem, that the countdown has begun. The priests and the Pharisees are waiting for him in Jerusalem, where they will arrest him and put him to death.
In the gospel of John, raising Lazarus from the dead was the act that cinched Jesus’ fate: The powers-that-be cannot tolerate this prophet or the allegiance he’s evoking from the poor and the outcast. He’s becoming too popular, too powerful, and the leaders are worried he will bring the wrath of the Romans down on their heads. So he must die.
But first, he will spend some time at home with Lazarus, with Martha and her sister Mary. In fact, the household is preparing a special dinner tonight for Jesus and his disciples.
Why has Jesus come to Bethany just before his death at the hands of the authorities? After all, this village and the house of Lazarus both are associated with the stench of death. Lazarus had been in the tomb for four days before he was raised—Martha herself complained about the odor even before the stone was rolled away.
Has Jesus returned to Bethany to remind himself of the stink of a decaying body, to meditate on his own impending death?
Or has he returned to Bethany, to the house of Lazarus, to remind himself of the power of God to resuscitate a dead man?
As he sat at the table with Lazarus and the apostles, was Jesus surprised to see Mary approach with a jar of oil usually reserved to anoint the dead? Or did he expect Mary—this woman who had sat at his feet in admiration, listening so closely to his words—did he expect Mary to recognize what was about to happen, to anoint him in preparation for his death, to anoint him in reverence to make up for the rushed and haphazard anointing he would receive in secret after his shameful death on the cross? Is that why he returned to Bethany?
There’s no way we can know why Jesus has come here, to sit at this table, and I suppose the reason isn’t all that important. What is important is that Mary approached him with a pound of oil scented with nard. She knelt at his feet—gnarled and callused, hardened against the rocks and sharp thorns, dusty from his wanderings—she knelt at his feet and gently took them into her own callused hands.
And then she poured the oil, all of it, on his feet, ignoring the way it puddled to the floor, the way its scent filled the entire room, driving away the stench of death. And when his feet were slippery and soft under her fingers, when she had massaged the bruised and aching muscles, she began to wipe his feet clean with her own long, dark hair.
Is there a more sensuous scene in the bible than this incredibly intimate moment between Mary and Jesus, two people who love each other, a moment lived out in the midst of their friends, gathered together at the table for a meal?
It is a moment of worship, pure adoration. I imagine Jesus reclining against the cushions, eyes closed, inhaling the odor of the perfume, a smile of pleasure on his face. It feels good to have someone rub your feet with oil and then wipe them clean.
Mary’s devotion that night at dinner foreshadows the way Jesus will wash the feet of his own disciples before the week is over. It also foreshadows his death six days later.
Mary is anointing Jesus as a dead body would be anointed, but taking it to an extreme. Rather than using a few drops of scented oil, she uses a whole pound. Her act is beyond reason, extravagantly so, a moment of overflowing abundance, a gratuitous response to love that wells up and spills over, enveloping the whole dinner party in its sweet, sweet smell. The fragrance of her love fills the whole house.
And then Judas speaks: “Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?”
It is a show-stopping question, and it begs another: What does it mean to be a disciple of Jesus at a moment like this?
IV.
If Mary brings the fragrance of love to this dinner party, Judas is the stench of death. In him, the power of darkness has manifest itself even in the intimate circle of Jesus’ closest friends. And his question—“Why was this perfume not sold and the money given to the poor”—his question seems to negate Mary’s simple act of devotion.
So often in life the stench of death seems to overwhelm the fragrance of love.
There are the times we speak harshly to our child or spouse, spitting out words of death rather than words of life.
There are the times when depression and anxiety fill us with a loathing for ourselves and for all of life.
There are the times when we boast about ourselves instead of celebrating the achievements of others.
There are the times when build ourselves up by tearing others down.
There are times when people we thought were friends hurt us or let us down.
There are the times we choose allegiance to family or the lure of money over the liberating message of the gospel.
There are times . . . there are times. But you know what I’m talking about. You’ve experienced it in your own life. And at some time or another, each of us hears that voice that says: The good you’re doing isn’t good enough. You’re not really a disciple of Jesus.
V.
Some of you might remember the Church Lady, a character that Dana Carvey played twenty years ago on the comedy show “Saturday Night Live.”
Whenever she found someone doing something good, the Church Lady managed to twist it around so that the do-gooder was actually in the service of the devil.
“I notice you’re wearing your red gloves as you shovel the walk of your disabled neighbor,” she would say. “But do we maybe know whose color red is? Hmmm. I don’t know—maybe . . . Satan?”
And then she would do her Superiority Dance to celebrate her status as a true disciple.
That is perhaps the twentieth-century version of what Judas is doing at this dinner party in Bethany. He’s showing off, as if saying, “I have a better grasp of the gospel than you do.”
One of the purposes of this passage in the Gospel of John, I think, is to contrast the false discipleship of Judas with the authentic discipleship of Mary.
Judas thinks he can fake his way through, by appealing to the care of the poor and ignoring the death of Jesus that will occur because of his own betrayal.
Mary, on the other hand, doesn’t try to be a good disciple. She simply pours herself out, overflowing with love and devotion, adoring Jesus with all her being.
She is the first to serve him, the first to love him, the first to prepare his body for burial through the act of anointing. The sweet smell of that perfume fills the room, allowing everyone present to participate in her act of worship and thus in their teacher’s death.
This is what it means to be a disciple of Jesus at a moment like this: to participate in his death while nonetheless acting in ways that proclaim the extravagant love of the living God.
In Mary the stench of death—both death in the past, as represented by Lazarus, and death in the future, as represented by Judas—in Mary, the stench of death is replaced by the fragrance of humble love.
V.
Unless you’re asleep this morning—and I’m not unaware of that possibility—you’ve probably noticed how often this morning I’ve emphasized the extravagance of Mary’s anointing of Jesus.
That image of Mary pouring forth the perfume, the way it cascades over the feet of Jesus and puddles on the floor, the way its scent fills the house, all of those details echo an ancient understanding of God.
Pseudo-Dionysius, a Greek theologian and mystic, wrote of God as a hidden spring, gushing forth, overflowing to fill the world with the power of divine energy so that everything participates in the generous and abundant love of God.
We are made in that image. Each of us. And in anointing the feet of Jesus in her extravagant way, Mary is activating that divine image in herself, living out what it means to be a true disciple of Jesus.
She is being sanctified. In telling Judas to leave her alone, Jesus is choosing Mary as one of his own. And being chosen as God’s own means she is participating in the nature of God. What belongs to God is holy, as God is holy. Those who are sanctified lead a special life because, instead of living according to the ethics of their own society or their own egos, they increasingly live according to the law of God’s kingdom. And God’s kingdom rests on a hidden abundance, an embarrassment of riches, built into the heart of reality and showering down on creation.
To be a disciple of Jesus is to live out of this abundance. To be a disciple of Jesus is to act in ways that communicate the fullness of life to others. To be a disciple of Jesus is to participate in his death, knowing that not even the grave can stop the love of God flowing through us and into the world.
Reformed theologian Jurgen Moltmann writes:
If whatever God has made and loves is holy, then life is holy in itself, and to live life with love and joy means sanctifying it. . . . To sanctify life does not mean manipulating it religiously and morally. It means being freed and justified, loved and affirmed, and more and more alive. Life in God’s Spirit is a life entrusted to the guidance and drive of the Spirit, a life that lets the Spirit come. . . . The Spirit of life is poured out and flows. . . . Through the Holy Spirit, God’s eternal life brims over, as it were, and its overflowing powers and energies fill the earth.
No one can “make” this life happen, be it through giving money to the poor or doing things intended to make us “better Christians.” One can only let this life be and let it come, as Mary did when she anointed the feet of Jesus. The life that Moltmann writes about is not achieved by works, but received as a gift, a gift of God’s grace flowing into the world through the presence and power of the Holy Spirit.
Receiving that gift and becoming a channel by which it flows into the world to bless the life of others is what it means to be a disciple of Jesus at any time.
As Lent comes to an end and we move into the passion of Holy Week, may we prepare a way in the wilderness of our lives so that the living waters of the Lord might flow through us and into the life of others.
As God claimed us in the waters of baptism, so might we also claim God’s grace, participating in the death of Christ by which the fragrance of love replaced the stench of death for all time.
To that God of overflowing abundance, whose passionate love creates and sustains the universe as a graceful gift to those chosen as God’s own, be blessing and glory and wisdom and power forever and ever! Amen.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Light
Thought I'd share this poem received today from Liz Budd Ellman, executive director of Spiritual Directors International.
It's from the artist and poet John Squadra who wrote This Ecstasy, which is recommended reading at Heron Dance:
If you listen,
not to the pages or preachers
but to the smallest flower
growing from a crack
in your heart,
you will hear a great song
moving across a wide ocean
whose water is the music
connecting all the islands
of the universe together,
and touching all
you will feel it
touching you
around you. . .
embracing you
with light.
Liz followed the poem with this prayer:
"In the northern hemisphere, we move into increasing light as we approach the sacred Passover and Easter season. In the southern hemisphere, our members move into an increased awareness of diminishing light as the winter
months approach. Loving Creator, we ask your blessing on our search for new light among us, wherever we live, and that your light touch us in a new way during this sacred season."
It's from the artist and poet John Squadra who wrote This Ecstasy, which is recommended reading at Heron Dance:
If you listen,
not to the pages or preachers
but to the smallest flower
growing from a crack
in your heart,
you will hear a great song
moving across a wide ocean
whose water is the music
connecting all the islands
of the universe together,
and touching all
you will feel it
touching you
around you. . .
embracing you
with light.
Liz followed the poem with this prayer:
"In the northern hemisphere, we move into increasing light as we approach the sacred Passover and Easter season. In the southern hemisphere, our members move into an increased awareness of diminishing light as the winter
months approach. Loving Creator, we ask your blessing on our search for new light among us, wherever we live, and that your light touch us in a new way during this sacred season."
Sunday, March 21, 2004
A tale of two sisters
A sermon based on Luke 15:11-32.
*********
The week started out quiet in Deep Root County, but it ended in a party—and not everyone was happy about it.
All week, Liza Tuttle had watched the wildflowers blossom in her yard, the grey rain clouds blow in from the west and sail past without a drop of rain, and—through the gap in her Venetian blinds—the comings and goings of her neighbor and best friend, Sharon. Just the usual sort of March week in their little town. Sharon even waved once or twice because she knew Liza was watching, even though she couldn’t see her.
But on Saturday afternoon, Liza heard a rumble that rattled the windows of her house, and she peeked through the blinds just in time to see a ton-and-a-half Mastercab pickup pull up in front of Sharon’s house.
Four doors popped open, and out tumbled three people Liza didn’t recognize—and one she did. That old grey woman walking spryly up to Sharon’s front door could only be her sister Angela. Liza was shocked.
Angela and Sharon hadn’t seen each other in 17 years, since their daddy’s funeral at First Presbyterian where they’d had a fight over Aunt Sissy’s egg plate and Angela had driven off in a huff with the plate and the rest of the china their daddy had inherited from his sister.
Sure, they kept in touch—birthday cards and Christmas cards and an occasional tense phone call when they needed to conduct some sort of family business. But they lived a thousand miles apart, and their relationship just sort of drifted to nothing over the years.
Angela had even been to Texas several times since then, but she never stopped by to see her sister. Sharon always found out about the trips after-the-fact, and she was always bitter about that; anyone who knew her knew what she thought about her sister, and warn’t none of it good. She thought about how to get revenge nearly every single day.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, out-of-the-blue, Sharon got an e-mail from Angela.
Hey, little sister, it said. I guess you know my grandson’s going to college in Fort Worth now. My daughter and I are going to drive down to visit him over spring break, and it’d be nice to drive up and see you one afternoon.
That e-mail caught Sharon off-guard. She didn’t quite trust it—in fact, she’d told her own children a hundred times she didn’t want a thing to do with her stuck-up, better-than-everyone-else sister. She wondered what Angela really wanted. But she e-mailed back anyway:
It’d be great to see you—I’ll even cook supper if you’ll bring along that grandson of yours. He was in diapers the last time I saw him.
That’d been at their daddy’s funeral, and Sharon almost mentioned that, but then she thought, “Why not let by-gones be by-gones?” Even so, she hid her own egg plate out in the garage under the old newspapers where she was sure Angela wouldn’t see it.
And she didn’t tell a soul her sister was coming to visit. It’d just be too hard to explain, after all the bad things she’d said about Angela over the years.
It was funny, the effect that e-mail exchange had on Sharon. She found herself looking forward to the visit, planning a special menu—15-layer lasagna, a special dish she usually only made for weddings and anniversaries; the women of the church had been begging her for years to bring it to one of their pot-lucks, but Sharon didn’t think that occasion was special enough to warrant all the work.
The morning that Angela was scheduled to arrive, Sharon found herself up early, pulling out the nice linen table cloth and her own wedding china—she hadn’t used either in years—and arranging the table, setting a vase of yellow daffodils in the center of the table and putting a silver candlestick on either side.
She cooked all day—not just the 15-layer lasagna, but Italian herb bread from scratch, a cold green-bean salad, and special cannoli for dessert that she’d gotten at her favorite bakery in Fort Worth the day before, when she’d driven down to get her hair done for this special occasion. And she put a special bottle of wine to chill in the refrigerator.
And about one o’clock, she started peering out the window, looking down the street to see if Angela was coming. It sort of embarrassed her, how much she was looking forward to seeing her sister.
And it was sort of embarrassing when Angela arrived—before she was half-way up the walk, Sharon found herself hurrying as fast as she could to swallow her sister up in a hard bear hug that lasted for a long time. She even had tears in her eyes.
And they had a wonderful visit—Angela’s grandson was as intelligent and funny and polite as Sharon had imagined he wouldn’t be, and they caught up on all the extended family, and her niece even said, “I don’t know why it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”
Angela and Sharon knew, of course. And Sharon said, “I’m sort of sorry that happened,” and Angela said, “I am too. And I never use that old egg plate, by the way—would you like me to send it to you?” and both of them knew that whatever had been broken between them had been restored.
When they left, Sharon stood out on the front porch and waved goodbye until that huge pickup had turned out onto the road that goes to the highway.
But before she could turn around and go inside, her friend Liza Tuttle was striding across the yard saying, “Sharon Fisher! Was that your sister Angela I saw spending the afternoon over here?”
It was, Sharon said.
“Well,” said Liza, “I hope you gave her a piece of your mind—let her know what you think of her. And I hope you asked for that egg plate back.”
Sharon just shook her head. “No,” she said. “I didn’t do any of that. Oh, Liza! We had the most wonderful visit, and I made my 15-layer lasagna, and Angela’s grandson . . . .”
Liza looked at her sternly. “After everything she’s done to you, I can’t believe you let that woman into your house,” she said, “How could you even trust her to come inside? And then you made her your special lasagna?! Sharon, we’ve been friends for twenty years and I’ve asked you to make that lasagna for me and you’ve always refused. How could you do this to me? How could you have done this to yourself? You should’ve gotten revenge instead of cooking for her!”
“Well,” Sharon said. “You’re always there for me, Liza. And I’d do anything for you—you know that. But that sister of mine—I thought I’d never see her again. I had to make that lasagna—and my best bread and that green-bean salad everyone loves, and serve that special wine from the vineyard down in Veal Station. Can you understand that?”
We’ll never know what caused Angela to come to herself and send that e-mail to her sister. And we’ll never know what caused Sharon to come to herself and hit “reply.”
I guess all of us have someone we wish would come back to our table—someone we’ve wronged or someone who’s wronged us, someone we haven’t stopped loving despite years of silence or anger or disregard. We want justice to be done—but oh, wouldn’t it be nice to set justice aside just for awhile and share a meal together?
All of us probably also long to go back to some table, somewhere, too—to pull our chair up with the others, to soak in the warmth of those old relationships, old friendships, to laugh and eat and say a toast and let the layers of resentment peel away, to feel good enough and worthy enough to share a meal.
We all return home as sinners—people who’ve done something wrong, nursed our anger, harbored resentment, hurt someone.
And those of us who live by the standards of justice and merit—getting what we deserve, earning our rewards, finally collecting on all our good deeds and faithful living—find it hard to believe that grace trumps justice every time.
But that’s the way it happened for Sharon and Angela. And that’s the way it can happen for us.
Nothing in creation is ever so lost that it’s beyond God’s finding, and in that finding, condemnation and judgment give way to a homecoming filled with feasting, and forgiveness.
May it be so among us this very day, in the name of the God who seeks us out and carries us home. Amen.
*********
The week started out quiet in Deep Root County, but it ended in a party—and not everyone was happy about it.
All week, Liza Tuttle had watched the wildflowers blossom in her yard, the grey rain clouds blow in from the west and sail past without a drop of rain, and—through the gap in her Venetian blinds—the comings and goings of her neighbor and best friend, Sharon. Just the usual sort of March week in their little town. Sharon even waved once or twice because she knew Liza was watching, even though she couldn’t see her.
But on Saturday afternoon, Liza heard a rumble that rattled the windows of her house, and she peeked through the blinds just in time to see a ton-and-a-half Mastercab pickup pull up in front of Sharon’s house.
Four doors popped open, and out tumbled three people Liza didn’t recognize—and one she did. That old grey woman walking spryly up to Sharon’s front door could only be her sister Angela. Liza was shocked.
Angela and Sharon hadn’t seen each other in 17 years, since their daddy’s funeral at First Presbyterian where they’d had a fight over Aunt Sissy’s egg plate and Angela had driven off in a huff with the plate and the rest of the china their daddy had inherited from his sister.
Sure, they kept in touch—birthday cards and Christmas cards and an occasional tense phone call when they needed to conduct some sort of family business. But they lived a thousand miles apart, and their relationship just sort of drifted to nothing over the years.
Angela had even been to Texas several times since then, but she never stopped by to see her sister. Sharon always found out about the trips after-the-fact, and she was always bitter about that; anyone who knew her knew what she thought about her sister, and warn’t none of it good. She thought about how to get revenge nearly every single day.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, out-of-the-blue, Sharon got an e-mail from Angela.
Hey, little sister, it said. I guess you know my grandson’s going to college in Fort Worth now. My daughter and I are going to drive down to visit him over spring break, and it’d be nice to drive up and see you one afternoon.
That e-mail caught Sharon off-guard. She didn’t quite trust it—in fact, she’d told her own children a hundred times she didn’t want a thing to do with her stuck-up, better-than-everyone-else sister. She wondered what Angela really wanted. But she e-mailed back anyway:
It’d be great to see you—I’ll even cook supper if you’ll bring along that grandson of yours. He was in diapers the last time I saw him.
That’d been at their daddy’s funeral, and Sharon almost mentioned that, but then she thought, “Why not let by-gones be by-gones?” Even so, she hid her own egg plate out in the garage under the old newspapers where she was sure Angela wouldn’t see it.
And she didn’t tell a soul her sister was coming to visit. It’d just be too hard to explain, after all the bad things she’d said about Angela over the years.
It was funny, the effect that e-mail exchange had on Sharon. She found herself looking forward to the visit, planning a special menu—15-layer lasagna, a special dish she usually only made for weddings and anniversaries; the women of the church had been begging her for years to bring it to one of their pot-lucks, but Sharon didn’t think that occasion was special enough to warrant all the work.
The morning that Angela was scheduled to arrive, Sharon found herself up early, pulling out the nice linen table cloth and her own wedding china—she hadn’t used either in years—and arranging the table, setting a vase of yellow daffodils in the center of the table and putting a silver candlestick on either side.
She cooked all day—not just the 15-layer lasagna, but Italian herb bread from scratch, a cold green-bean salad, and special cannoli for dessert that she’d gotten at her favorite bakery in Fort Worth the day before, when she’d driven down to get her hair done for this special occasion. And she put a special bottle of wine to chill in the refrigerator.
And about one o’clock, she started peering out the window, looking down the street to see if Angela was coming. It sort of embarrassed her, how much she was looking forward to seeing her sister.
And it was sort of embarrassing when Angela arrived—before she was half-way up the walk, Sharon found herself hurrying as fast as she could to swallow her sister up in a hard bear hug that lasted for a long time. She even had tears in her eyes.
And they had a wonderful visit—Angela’s grandson was as intelligent and funny and polite as Sharon had imagined he wouldn’t be, and they caught up on all the extended family, and her niece even said, “I don’t know why it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.”
Angela and Sharon knew, of course. And Sharon said, “I’m sort of sorry that happened,” and Angela said, “I am too. And I never use that old egg plate, by the way—would you like me to send it to you?” and both of them knew that whatever had been broken between them had been restored.
When they left, Sharon stood out on the front porch and waved goodbye until that huge pickup had turned out onto the road that goes to the highway.
But before she could turn around and go inside, her friend Liza Tuttle was striding across the yard saying, “Sharon Fisher! Was that your sister Angela I saw spending the afternoon over here?”
It was, Sharon said.
“Well,” said Liza, “I hope you gave her a piece of your mind—let her know what you think of her. And I hope you asked for that egg plate back.”
Sharon just shook her head. “No,” she said. “I didn’t do any of that. Oh, Liza! We had the most wonderful visit, and I made my 15-layer lasagna, and Angela’s grandson . . . .”
Liza looked at her sternly. “After everything she’s done to you, I can’t believe you let that woman into your house,” she said, “How could you even trust her to come inside? And then you made her your special lasagna?! Sharon, we’ve been friends for twenty years and I’ve asked you to make that lasagna for me and you’ve always refused. How could you do this to me? How could you have done this to yourself? You should’ve gotten revenge instead of cooking for her!”
“Well,” Sharon said. “You’re always there for me, Liza. And I’d do anything for you—you know that. But that sister of mine—I thought I’d never see her again. I had to make that lasagna—and my best bread and that green-bean salad everyone loves, and serve that special wine from the vineyard down in Veal Station. Can you understand that?”
We’ll never know what caused Angela to come to herself and send that e-mail to her sister. And we’ll never know what caused Sharon to come to herself and hit “reply.”
I guess all of us have someone we wish would come back to our table—someone we’ve wronged or someone who’s wronged us, someone we haven’t stopped loving despite years of silence or anger or disregard. We want justice to be done—but oh, wouldn’t it be nice to set justice aside just for awhile and share a meal together?
All of us probably also long to go back to some table, somewhere, too—to pull our chair up with the others, to soak in the warmth of those old relationships, old friendships, to laugh and eat and say a toast and let the layers of resentment peel away, to feel good enough and worthy enough to share a meal.
We all return home as sinners—people who’ve done something wrong, nursed our anger, harbored resentment, hurt someone.
And those of us who live by the standards of justice and merit—getting what we deserve, earning our rewards, finally collecting on all our good deeds and faithful living—find it hard to believe that grace trumps justice every time.
But that’s the way it happened for Sharon and Angela. And that’s the way it can happen for us.
Nothing in creation is ever so lost that it’s beyond God’s finding, and in that finding, condemnation and judgment give way to a homecoming filled with feasting, and forgiveness.
May it be so among us this very day, in the name of the God who seeks us out and carries us home. Amen.
Workaholic . . .
It's a term coined by the late, great Wayne Oates.
But it's also a national epidemic--people investing more of themselves and their lives in the work they do than in the vocation God has called them to take part in.
But some people are working to reverse this trend. And check out the Faith and Values portal on work and spirituality.
But it's also a national epidemic--people investing more of themselves and their lives in the work they do than in the vocation God has called them to take part in.
But some people are working to reverse this trend. And check out the Faith and Values portal on work and spirituality.
Friday, March 19, 2004
Passionate about theology
A couple in Georgia was arrested this month after a debate about Mel Gibson's film The Passion of the Christ turned violent.
She stabbed him with scissors; he punched a hole in the wall. They were arguing about whether God the Father is human or symbolic.
"Really, it was kind of a pitiful thing, to go to a movie like that and fight about it. I think they missed the point," said Gene McDaniel, chief sheriff's deputy.
She stabbed him with scissors; he punched a hole in the wall. They were arguing about whether God the Father is human or symbolic.
"Really, it was kind of a pitiful thing, to go to a movie like that and fight about it. I think they missed the point," said Gene McDaniel, chief sheriff's deputy.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Pinch me . . .
. . . I'm not wearing green on St. Patrick's Day!
Playful holiday customs aside, the real St. Patrick has a lot to teach us about adventure and faith, slavery and liberation, and forgiveness and love.
He was a British slave who brought Christianity to the pagan Celts in fifth-century Ireland. In the process, he helped create a type of Christianity that we--who know the church as dominated by Greek thought and culture--are just beginning to appreciate.
It's closely tied to nature, to a sense of mystery, to artistic expression, and a lived sense of companionship with a God who is Friend before Sovereign. St. Patrick himself summed it up this way:
“Christ, shield me this day: Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I arise, Christ in the heart of every person who thinks of me, Christ in the eye that sees me, Christ in the ear that hears me.”
Playful holiday customs aside, the real St. Patrick has a lot to teach us about adventure and faith, slavery and liberation, and forgiveness and love.
He was a British slave who brought Christianity to the pagan Celts in fifth-century Ireland. In the process, he helped create a type of Christianity that we--who know the church as dominated by Greek thought and culture--are just beginning to appreciate.
It's closely tied to nature, to a sense of mystery, to artistic expression, and a lived sense of companionship with a God who is Friend before Sovereign. St. Patrick himself summed it up this way:
“Christ, shield me this day: Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I arise, Christ in the heart of every person who thinks of me, Christ in the eye that sees me, Christ in the ear that hears me.”
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Turn the soil, bear fruit in time
This sermon is based on Luke 13.1-9.
I spent much of December, January and February in a sort of pain-induced haze. Two herniated disks in my neck were pressing against my spinal cord, creating a thunderstorm of pain down my arms and across my shoulders—even a mild breeze could set off a flash of pain so severe I would cry. And when I coughed, or sneezed—unbelievable pain!
And in the midst of it, folded into an overstuffed chair one night, eyes closed tight, choking back a sneeze, I had that thought we all have from time to time: “What did I do to deserve this?!”
“What did I do to deserve this?” When was the last time you said or thought that? It happens almost automatically—pops into our minds and out of our mouths before we even really think about it.
It’s as if we’re computers—if something bad happens to us, we have a built-in mechanism that scans our moral life for corrupted files or bad sectors. We start to look for the “something” we’ve done to bring on our fate, to cause such woe to fall on our heads. The English pop performer Travis sings, “Why does it always rain on me?/Is it because I lied when I was 17?”
We say it about other people, too: He got cancer because he was so angry all those years; people with AIDS are being punished for their sins; God will get her if she doesn’t change her ways.
It’s a very human way of thinking about things. But it’s a way of thinking that Jesus is radically opposed to in this morning’s gospel reading.
II.
When members of the crowd tell Jesus about the Galileans slaughtered by Pilate—a clear example of human evil—his response is to ask, “Do you think it happened to them because they were worse sinners than all the others? No!”
And then he asks, “What about those 18 people who died when the tower of Siloam fell on them?”—a clear example of non-human evil, a natural event with a bad outcome—“Were those 18 people worse sinners than everyone else living in Jerusalem? I don’t think so!
“But: Unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.”
This scripture passage is full of tension for me because it’s so confusing. On one hand, Jesus is very clear about saying: Those people didn’t die because of their own sinfulness. God was not punishing them when that tower fell or when Pilate ordered his guards to cut the throats of the Galilean worshipers.
But on the other hand—and this is a very big “BUT”!—Jesus is also very clear about saying: “Unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”
How confusing is that? Jesus gives comfort with one breath—“No, my friends, the bad things that happen aren’t punishment for your sins”—and hits us with a zinger in the very next—“unless you repent, you’ll die just like everyone else.”
It seems to me that Jesus is less concerned with the particularities of “sin” and “evil” here than with the need of all of humanity repent.
“Repent.” We hear that word a lot, especially in the season of Lent. But what does it mean?
The dictionary defines “repent” this way:
To feel sorry or self-reproachful for what one has done or failed to do; to be conscience-stricken or contrite; to feel regret or dissatisfaction over some past action, inaction, etc.
This definition focuses on how we feel when we repent. And it’s pretty much was “repent” means to us, isn’t it? But what did “repent” mean to Jesus?
I would suggest that a definition or understanding of “repent” that focuses on feelings can’t capture the full meaning of the Greek word for “repent” that Jesus uses in our text. In addition to feelings, there are whole other dimensions to the meaning of Jesus’ words, “Unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”
The Greek word Jesus uses for “repent” is metanoia. It literally means, “a change of mind, a new mind, or a higher mind.” It means, “conversion, turning about, turning toward something or turning away from something, the beginning of a new religious and moral life.”
It seems to me that Jesus is asking for something different than simply feeling sorry for what we’ve done or not done. He’s calling us not just to feel but also to act, to reorient our entire lives, switch tracks the way a train changes from one direction to another, to acknowledge the presence and action of God’s goodness in the world.
Listen to the Word of the Lord:
Jesus said: “Unless you raise your mind to a higher level, you will all perish just as they did.”
Jesus said: “Unless you start living an entirely new religious and moral life, you will all perish just as they did.”
Jesus said, “Unless you turn away from things that humans value and toward things that God values, you will all perish just as they did.”
My, those words sound different from, “Unless you fell sorry, self-reproachful, and contrite, you will all perish just as they did”! I mean, feeling sorry is easy next to what Jesus is asking us to do.
He isn’t just asking us to feel regretful or disappointed in ourselves. He is also asking us to change our minds, to change the ways we think about reality and about who God is, about what the true center of life might be. He’s saying: “Unless you change your mind—unless you make a turn with your life, reorient yourself and live differently—you will all perish just as they did.”
And how did they perish? The Galileans slaughtered by Pilate and the Jerusalemites crushed by the falling tower died, apparently, with “old minds” or “lower minds”—minds that hadn’t turned toward the truth at the heart of the gospel, minds that hadn’t ascended to an understanding of God consistent with who God is revealed to be in the life, person, teachings, death and resurrection of Jesus. The Galileans and Jerusalemites died without understanding and living into that truth.
“Unless you have different minds, higher minds,” Jesus warns, “you will all perish just as they did—without knowledge, experience, or understanding of who God really is. Unless you turn toward life, you’ll die just as they did, turned toward death with your back to God.”
III.
And then he tells a story:
Once upon a time a man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?” The gardener replied, “Sir, leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it with manure. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; if not, you can cut it down.”
Here is the grace in the two-edged message Jesus gave about not being punished for sin but nonetheless needing to repent. That grace is this: God is not an angry land owner who chops down the fruitless tree; God is a merciful gardener who cultivates and nourishes that tree, patiently waiting for it to bear fruit.
The owner of the vineyard wants to judge the tree solely on its past performance. The gardener wants to see what the tree will become in the future. With the gardener, there is an openness to new possibilities—especially the possibility that the fig tree might yet bear fruit.
This story seems to be saying: God judges us, and yet offers an opportunity to repent. No matter how barren our lives might be right now or have been in the past, there is still time in which to bear spiritual fruit. Attending to our relationship with God is urgent, yet God is patient and open to new possibilities.
IV.
There is a method of reading scripture called lectio divina or “divine reading.” We’ve used it in our “Praying with Scripture” group this Lenten season. In reading scripture this way, you can imagine yourself becoming one of the characters in a particular bible story. So as I read today’s lesson, I started asking myself: What would it be like to be the owner of the vineyard? What would it be like to be the gardener? How would it feel to be the fruitless fig tree?
I can easily imagine myself as the owner of the vineyard and the fruitless fig tree. I get angry and exasperated at times by people who don’t do what they’ve promised or don’t do what I’ve asked. Everyone who’s ever chaired a committee or participated in a church knows that feeling. Often, it’s easier just to take charge and do things ourselves than to rely on someone else. But then we get angry and want to punish the folk who’ve failed to bear fruit.
I can also imagine myself as the fig tree: Sometimes the soil of my heart needs loosening if anything new is going to grow. And sometimes my heart and soul need to be nourished, watered, carefully and tenderly cared for. It would feel so good to be that fig tree, cared for by that gardener, receiving what it needs to bear fruit! And, thank God, I have people in my life who do nurture me and nourish me and loosen the hard soil of my heart. Thank God!
While it’s easy to imagine being the landowner or the fig tree, though, it’s hard to imagine myself as the gardener. Like the owner of the fig tree, I’m more inclined to chop down whatever’s not bearing fruit and put something useful, something productive, in its place rather than nursing what’s there. I will sometimes turn away from injustice rather than ask for mercy on behalf of someone else, saying, “Sir, let it alone for one more year.” I rarely have the patience to dig deep around the roots and then work smelly, dirty manure into the loosened soil. And I certainly don’t have the patience to wait another year to see if that fig tree bears fruit.
But if I am a disciple of the Christ, if it’s really true that Jesus is my model for living, if the God in whose image I am made is a patient, nurturing gardener who cares for unproductive fig trees—if all of these things are true, then I need to repent, to turn away from the life where I behave like the owner of the fig tree and turn toward a different way of living. I need dig in, cultivate a new mind, a higher mind that leads me to get my hands grubby, that enjoys the smell of the earth and knows the nourishing power of manure. I need to convert myself into the type of person who begs for mercy on behalf of others and then patiently coaxes new life from barren old trees.
This type of repentance isn’t just for individuals, either. It’s for congregations too.
Think back over the history of this church. When has it been like the owner of the fig tree, chopping down the unproductive trees in the garden so the soil won’t be wasted on them? When has the church acted rashly, suddenly, rather than loosening the soil and fertilizing the garden and waiting to see what grows?
And when has this church been like the fig tree, not bearing fruit but needing to be nourished and cared for? Who loosened its soil? Who provided the manure—other than the preacher, of course!—to nourish this place? Who tended it through lean years and nurtured it into a sturdy, productive part of God’s great garden, the church?
Finally, when has this church acted as the gardener, intervening with the angry landowner, showing mercy, patiently loosening soil and nourishing a tree so that new fruit might grow? Where does this church need to be nourished right now? Where has the soil in this garden gotten hard and unproductive? Where does the gardener need to invest time and energy to make the tree grow in ways it isn’t growing right now? What would it look like if this church were to repent and make new things possible?
V.
In this Lenten season, God is calling us to repent, both as individuals and as a congregation. God is asking us to reorient our lives, to change our minds, so that new and great fruits might grow.
Yes, God convicts us for our past, and yes, our past is over. It can’t be changed.
But God has left the future open: there is time to repent, to demonstrate our ability to bear new fruit.
It is urgent that we attend to our relationship with God. Now, when the hour is late, but not too late.
It is not too late because our God is a patient God. There is time to repent, to change our minds and to live in new ways.
It is not too late because our God is Emmanuel—God-with-us—a God who has intervened with mercy on our behalf, a God who cares for us as a good gardener cares for her tomato plants or a good rancher cares for a newborn calf and its momma.
It is not too late because even before we repent, God is loosening the soil of our lives and making it richer and more productive. Even before we repent, God is waiting to see if the tiny green buds of spring will bear summer fruit.
May we find ourselves nourished and tended to during this Lenten season. May we feel the energy of the love of God flowing into our lives and through us into the lives of others.
And when the harvest comes, may it be bountiful indeed.
To that God who in Jesus was plucked from the tree, buried in the earth, and blossomed as the first fruits of the dead, to that God who both convicts and forgives us, who holds us accountable for our ways and yet waits patiently for new fruit in our lives, be honor and thanksgiving forever and ever. Amen.
I spent much of December, January and February in a sort of pain-induced haze. Two herniated disks in my neck were pressing against my spinal cord, creating a thunderstorm of pain down my arms and across my shoulders—even a mild breeze could set off a flash of pain so severe I would cry. And when I coughed, or sneezed—unbelievable pain!
And in the midst of it, folded into an overstuffed chair one night, eyes closed tight, choking back a sneeze, I had that thought we all have from time to time: “What did I do to deserve this?!”
“What did I do to deserve this?” When was the last time you said or thought that? It happens almost automatically—pops into our minds and out of our mouths before we even really think about it.
It’s as if we’re computers—if something bad happens to us, we have a built-in mechanism that scans our moral life for corrupted files or bad sectors. We start to look for the “something” we’ve done to bring on our fate, to cause such woe to fall on our heads. The English pop performer Travis sings, “Why does it always rain on me?/Is it because I lied when I was 17?”
We say it about other people, too: He got cancer because he was so angry all those years; people with AIDS are being punished for their sins; God will get her if she doesn’t change her ways.
It’s a very human way of thinking about things. But it’s a way of thinking that Jesus is radically opposed to in this morning’s gospel reading.
II.
When members of the crowd tell Jesus about the Galileans slaughtered by Pilate—a clear example of human evil—his response is to ask, “Do you think it happened to them because they were worse sinners than all the others? No!”
And then he asks, “What about those 18 people who died when the tower of Siloam fell on them?”—a clear example of non-human evil, a natural event with a bad outcome—“Were those 18 people worse sinners than everyone else living in Jerusalem? I don’t think so!
“But: Unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.”
This scripture passage is full of tension for me because it’s so confusing. On one hand, Jesus is very clear about saying: Those people didn’t die because of their own sinfulness. God was not punishing them when that tower fell or when Pilate ordered his guards to cut the throats of the Galilean worshipers.
But on the other hand—and this is a very big “BUT”!—Jesus is also very clear about saying: “Unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”
How confusing is that? Jesus gives comfort with one breath—“No, my friends, the bad things that happen aren’t punishment for your sins”—and hits us with a zinger in the very next—“unless you repent, you’ll die just like everyone else.”
It seems to me that Jesus is less concerned with the particularities of “sin” and “evil” here than with the need of all of humanity repent.
“Repent.” We hear that word a lot, especially in the season of Lent. But what does it mean?
The dictionary defines “repent” this way:
To feel sorry or self-reproachful for what one has done or failed to do; to be conscience-stricken or contrite; to feel regret or dissatisfaction over some past action, inaction, etc.
This definition focuses on how we feel when we repent. And it’s pretty much was “repent” means to us, isn’t it? But what did “repent” mean to Jesus?
I would suggest that a definition or understanding of “repent” that focuses on feelings can’t capture the full meaning of the Greek word for “repent” that Jesus uses in our text. In addition to feelings, there are whole other dimensions to the meaning of Jesus’ words, “Unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”
The Greek word Jesus uses for “repent” is metanoia. It literally means, “a change of mind, a new mind, or a higher mind.” It means, “conversion, turning about, turning toward something or turning away from something, the beginning of a new religious and moral life.”
It seems to me that Jesus is asking for something different than simply feeling sorry for what we’ve done or not done. He’s calling us not just to feel but also to act, to reorient our entire lives, switch tracks the way a train changes from one direction to another, to acknowledge the presence and action of God’s goodness in the world.
Listen to the Word of the Lord:
Jesus said: “Unless you raise your mind to a higher level, you will all perish just as they did.”
Jesus said: “Unless you start living an entirely new religious and moral life, you will all perish just as they did.”
Jesus said, “Unless you turn away from things that humans value and toward things that God values, you will all perish just as they did.”
My, those words sound different from, “Unless you fell sorry, self-reproachful, and contrite, you will all perish just as they did”! I mean, feeling sorry is easy next to what Jesus is asking us to do.
He isn’t just asking us to feel regretful or disappointed in ourselves. He is also asking us to change our minds, to change the ways we think about reality and about who God is, about what the true center of life might be. He’s saying: “Unless you change your mind—unless you make a turn with your life, reorient yourself and live differently—you will all perish just as they did.”
And how did they perish? The Galileans slaughtered by Pilate and the Jerusalemites crushed by the falling tower died, apparently, with “old minds” or “lower minds”—minds that hadn’t turned toward the truth at the heart of the gospel, minds that hadn’t ascended to an understanding of God consistent with who God is revealed to be in the life, person, teachings, death and resurrection of Jesus. The Galileans and Jerusalemites died without understanding and living into that truth.
“Unless you have different minds, higher minds,” Jesus warns, “you will all perish just as they did—without knowledge, experience, or understanding of who God really is. Unless you turn toward life, you’ll die just as they did, turned toward death with your back to God.”
III.
And then he tells a story:
Once upon a time a man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?” The gardener replied, “Sir, leave it alone for one more year, and I’ll dig around it and fertilize it with manure. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; if not, you can cut it down.”
Here is the grace in the two-edged message Jesus gave about not being punished for sin but nonetheless needing to repent. That grace is this: God is not an angry land owner who chops down the fruitless tree; God is a merciful gardener who cultivates and nourishes that tree, patiently waiting for it to bear fruit.
The owner of the vineyard wants to judge the tree solely on its past performance. The gardener wants to see what the tree will become in the future. With the gardener, there is an openness to new possibilities—especially the possibility that the fig tree might yet bear fruit.
This story seems to be saying: God judges us, and yet offers an opportunity to repent. No matter how barren our lives might be right now or have been in the past, there is still time in which to bear spiritual fruit. Attending to our relationship with God is urgent, yet God is patient and open to new possibilities.
IV.
There is a method of reading scripture called lectio divina or “divine reading.” We’ve used it in our “Praying with Scripture” group this Lenten season. In reading scripture this way, you can imagine yourself becoming one of the characters in a particular bible story. So as I read today’s lesson, I started asking myself: What would it be like to be the owner of the vineyard? What would it be like to be the gardener? How would it feel to be the fruitless fig tree?
I can easily imagine myself as the owner of the vineyard and the fruitless fig tree. I get angry and exasperated at times by people who don’t do what they’ve promised or don’t do what I’ve asked. Everyone who’s ever chaired a committee or participated in a church knows that feeling. Often, it’s easier just to take charge and do things ourselves than to rely on someone else. But then we get angry and want to punish the folk who’ve failed to bear fruit.
I can also imagine myself as the fig tree: Sometimes the soil of my heart needs loosening if anything new is going to grow. And sometimes my heart and soul need to be nourished, watered, carefully and tenderly cared for. It would feel so good to be that fig tree, cared for by that gardener, receiving what it needs to bear fruit! And, thank God, I have people in my life who do nurture me and nourish me and loosen the hard soil of my heart. Thank God!
While it’s easy to imagine being the landowner or the fig tree, though, it’s hard to imagine myself as the gardener. Like the owner of the fig tree, I’m more inclined to chop down whatever’s not bearing fruit and put something useful, something productive, in its place rather than nursing what’s there. I will sometimes turn away from injustice rather than ask for mercy on behalf of someone else, saying, “Sir, let it alone for one more year.” I rarely have the patience to dig deep around the roots and then work smelly, dirty manure into the loosened soil. And I certainly don’t have the patience to wait another year to see if that fig tree bears fruit.
But if I am a disciple of the Christ, if it’s really true that Jesus is my model for living, if the God in whose image I am made is a patient, nurturing gardener who cares for unproductive fig trees—if all of these things are true, then I need to repent, to turn away from the life where I behave like the owner of the fig tree and turn toward a different way of living. I need dig in, cultivate a new mind, a higher mind that leads me to get my hands grubby, that enjoys the smell of the earth and knows the nourishing power of manure. I need to convert myself into the type of person who begs for mercy on behalf of others and then patiently coaxes new life from barren old trees.
This type of repentance isn’t just for individuals, either. It’s for congregations too.
Think back over the history of this church. When has it been like the owner of the fig tree, chopping down the unproductive trees in the garden so the soil won’t be wasted on them? When has the church acted rashly, suddenly, rather than loosening the soil and fertilizing the garden and waiting to see what grows?
And when has this church been like the fig tree, not bearing fruit but needing to be nourished and cared for? Who loosened its soil? Who provided the manure—other than the preacher, of course!—to nourish this place? Who tended it through lean years and nurtured it into a sturdy, productive part of God’s great garden, the church?
Finally, when has this church acted as the gardener, intervening with the angry landowner, showing mercy, patiently loosening soil and nourishing a tree so that new fruit might grow? Where does this church need to be nourished right now? Where has the soil in this garden gotten hard and unproductive? Where does the gardener need to invest time and energy to make the tree grow in ways it isn’t growing right now? What would it look like if this church were to repent and make new things possible?
V.
In this Lenten season, God is calling us to repent, both as individuals and as a congregation. God is asking us to reorient our lives, to change our minds, so that new and great fruits might grow.
Yes, God convicts us for our past, and yes, our past is over. It can’t be changed.
But God has left the future open: there is time to repent, to demonstrate our ability to bear new fruit.
It is urgent that we attend to our relationship with God. Now, when the hour is late, but not too late.
It is not too late because our God is a patient God. There is time to repent, to change our minds and to live in new ways.
It is not too late because our God is Emmanuel—God-with-us—a God who has intervened with mercy on our behalf, a God who cares for us as a good gardener cares for her tomato plants or a good rancher cares for a newborn calf and its momma.
It is not too late because even before we repent, God is loosening the soil of our lives and making it richer and more productive. Even before we repent, God is waiting to see if the tiny green buds of spring will bear summer fruit.
May we find ourselves nourished and tended to during this Lenten season. May we feel the energy of the love of God flowing into our lives and through us into the lives of others.
And when the harvest comes, may it be bountiful indeed.
To that God who in Jesus was plucked from the tree, buried in the earth, and blossomed as the first fruits of the dead, to that God who both convicts and forgives us, who holds us accountable for our ways and yet waits patiently for new fruit in our lives, be honor and thanksgiving forever and ever. Amen.
Friday, March 12, 2004
God is dog spelled backwards
Nature is God's book, and we have a lot to learn from our fellow creatures--as Elizabeth Canham describes here.
Also: the face of Jesus as glimpsed in nature, courtesy of Rejesus.
Also: the face of Jesus as glimpsed in nature, courtesy of Rejesus.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Dream a little dream . . .
Scripture is full of stories about people hearing from God in the midst of a dream. Why not do a little dreaming yourself as a part of your Lenten preparation?
Sit down, clear your mind and relax your body (deep breaths are helpful here!), say a brief prayer of intention (such as, "God, I give myself to you for the next few moments; speak to me about your call in my life"), and then write a quick response--not a lot of thought or preparation, just a from-the-heart answer--to this question:
"If time, talent, and training were not obstacles, what would I really like to do for God in the church or the world?"
Put your answer away for a day or two. Pray about it. Then see if there's anything you'd change about what you wrote.
I hope you'll share your response(s) with me--I'm very curious about what God has in store for you and for our congregation!
Sit down, clear your mind and relax your body (deep breaths are helpful here!), say a brief prayer of intention (such as, "God, I give myself to you for the next few moments; speak to me about your call in my life"), and then write a quick response--not a lot of thought or preparation, just a from-the-heart answer--to this question:
"If time, talent, and training were not obstacles, what would I really like to do for God in the church or the world?"
Put your answer away for a day or two. Pray about it. Then see if there's anything you'd change about what you wrote.
I hope you'll share your response(s) with me--I'm very curious about what God has in store for you and for our congregation!
Sunday, March 07, 2004
The Fox and the Hen
A sermon on Luke 3:31-35:
When my mother was a little girl, she had a pet fox. My grandfather found him while plowing, a tiny pup small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. She named the pup “Foxy,” and used an eye dropper and then a baby bottle to nurse the little fox into adolescence. When he was older, Foxy used to sit at the table in a high chair, using the Sears catalog as a booster seat, and join my mother eating fried eggs off a plate for breakfast before she left for school.
The problem with wild animals as pets, though, is that they are always wild. No matter how docile Foxy could seem, or how cute he’d been when he was little, no matter how much my mother loved him or trusted him, or how often they shared breakfast, he started to get mean. He would snap and bite without warning. He was simply too dangerous to keep.
And, as her parents reminded her, it wasn’t really good to have a fox hanging around the barnyard when there were chickens to protect. So she let him go in a field far from home.
I thought about Foxy when I read this morning’s gospel lesson. Jesus calls the Roman governor of Galilee, a “fox.” To be “foxy” for a person, of course, is to be cunning and sly and clever—someone not to be trusted.
It’s a fitting description for Herod, who has been curious about Jesus, friendly, asking about his teachings, wanting to get to know him. But Herod has already beheaded John the Baptist on a whim, as a reward for a dancing child, and now the Pharisees report that he wants to kill Jesus too. Jesus certainly knew what he was doing when he called Herod a “fox”!
I think Luke, too, knew what he was doing when he opened this scene by reporting Herod’s threat against Jesus. Like a television cliff-hanger at the end of the season, it creates a dramatic tension as Jesus journeys toward Jerusalem: Who’s will will prevail—that of the good and gentle prophet or the evil king?
II.
Jesus, of course, isn’t alarmed by the report that Herod wants him dead. Jesus knows that he will die in Jerusalem and sends a message to Herod, saying, “I must be on my way there, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.”
And then he begins a lament: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it. How often I have desired to gather you together beneath my sheltering wings—and you were not willing.”
Such a tender image, a deep yearning for an outcome different than the one the people of Jerusalem will choose. Jesus comes to Jerusalem with outstretched arms, and yet he knows that the people there will reject him, take those arms opened wide in an embrace and stretch them out literally on the hard wood of the cross and jeer at him while he dies. There is such a sharp contrast between Jesus’ will for Jerusalem and Jerusalem’s own will for itself.
Jerusalem, after all, doesn’t have a good track record with prophets. Uriah was killed there, and Zechariah, and Isaiah, and others whose names are less familiar. Again and again, God sent someone to the people of Jerusalem to speak God’s word, and again and again, the people would slap away the hand extended in love and kill whomever it was who carried God’s message.
But this time is different. This time, God hasn’t just sent a human prophet. God has taken on human flesh to walk beside God’s chosen people and show them the divine Word and will for how they are to live their lives. But this time will be no different for the people of Jerusalem. This time, they will again reject God’s overture. They will kill a prophet and reject the Holy One who has come to them in flesh and blood.
III.
Sometimes when I pull out my driver’s license, I half-way expect it to show my address as “Jerusalem.” Like the city that Jesus is lamenting over, I have rejected God’s overtures in my life so many times. I’m sure I am an honorary citizen of that city that kills prophets and stones those who come to it in love even though their words are sometimes hard to hear.
We say “no” to God’s faithful call in our lives so often, just as the people of Jerusalem said “no” to the invitation offered in Jesus Christ. We turn away from those sheltering arms and instead embrace the sly and cunning ways of a world ruled by sin.
True, we don’t do it all the time. Sometimes, we’re right on target, listening for and responding affirmatively to God’s presence in our lives. But so often we forget even to listen for the presence of God. And sometimes we confuse what we want with what God wants for us.
Lent is a season of repentance, an invitation to look back over our lives and identify—and ask forgiveness for—those times when we have failed to “hit the mark,” to tune our lives to those signals broadcast by the Wisdom of God and obey the words God is speaking to us.
How many times have you heard God call and willfully turned away? How many times have stamped your foot like an angry child, throwing a tantrum because God has suggested that you not do things your own way? How many times has God called and you have simply pretended you haven’t heard?
I’m not going to chant a litany of my own sins or of the sins that all of us share; I just want to reiterate that sinfulness is a foxy critter, an evil king so clever that we trust what he says and does, believe his sweet and docile manner, only to be surprised when he turns and snaps.
We get ourselves caught in the web of temptations that sinfulness casts deep into our lives, and the more we struggle to get ourselves out of that sticky web, the harder it seems to get ourselves free. And right there is the rub: We can’t get ourselves free. Only God can rescue us. And yet we stone the ones God has sent in order to keep living in a Jerusalem of our own making:
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills prophets and stones those who are sent to it! Look, God will leave your house to you alone if that’s how you want it. But I tell you, you will not see God again until the time comes when you say ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.’”
IV.
Do you notice how Jesus responds to the people of Jerusalem, though? He knows how they are going to act, the choices they are going to make, and he still offers that incredibly tender image: “How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings.”
Have you ever seen a hen gather her chicks when they’re in danger—when the shadow of a hawk flits across the yard or there’s a fox slinking around the hen house? The way she ruffles up those feathers into a soft shelter, holding helpless, downy chicks close to her warm breast?
I imagine for the chicks it’s kind of like snuggling under a heavy quilt with someone you love, while cold winds and sleet blow outside, or the way it felt when you were little to snuggle in your grandma’s lap. It would feel safe. Protected. Warm.
What a contrast, this image for God that Jesus provides, from the image he provides for the very human governor of Galilee: God is a mother hen, clasping her babies close; Herod is a fox, a wily and cunning predator waiting for an opportunity to snatch God’s own son from the world.
There are those who would have us believe that God is a fox, too, a fox like my mother’s childhood pet: seemingly docile and friendly, but apt to snap and bite without warning if something we do threatens or displeases. For these folk, God is a legalist, an unpredictable power apt to lash out in punishment if we transgress God’s law.
I don’t want to discount the idea that God holds us accountable for our behaviors. But I do want to suggest that Jesus softens the image of God, presenting the earthly king as foxy and unpredictable and the heavenly king as a caring and nurturing mother. In this scripture, Jesus is presented not only as our redeemer, but as a loving protector who holds us close when danger is near.
The question raised by this image, I suppose, is this: What happens to the young who avoid the mother’s protective wings, who insist on scurrying about the barnyard as if they can protect themselves?
V.
We don’t know what will happen to those who refuse the safety of God’s sheltering wings. The Reformed doctrine of predestination affirms that God desires salvation for all people—but it also affirms that we cannot be certain what will happen to those outside the fold.
“I longed to gather you together,” Jesus laments to the people of Jerusalem, “but you were not willing.”
The NRSV of the bible follows that statement by saying, “See, your house is left to you.” Other translations phrase it, “Can’t you see your house will be abandoned?” or “Look, your house will be left to you, desolate.”
Some hear in that phrase the fate that actually befalls Jerusalem some thirty years after the death of Jesus: the Romans will sack the city and destroy the temple, just as the Babylonians had destroyed it centuries before.
But at this point in the story, the city’s desolation is a fate not yet accomplished; Jesus hasn’t actually gone to Jerusalem, and the people there haven’t actually rejected him yet. This story in Luke, placed where it is in the gospel narrative, serves as a reminder that although Israel’s house might be forsaken, there is still time to repent, time to receive pardon for sin, and time to welcome the reign of God.
It is late, but not too late.
No matter how often we have cast our fate with the fox slinking about the barnyard, God’s wings long to gather us in, to pull us close, to protect us and keep us whole.
Certainly, Jesus understands the temptations of the world, the cunning kingdom of sinfulness that keeps us apart from God. After all, the devil tempted Jesus in the wilderness, and Herod’s death threat is a temptation to avoid the streets of Jerusalem and escape the death that waits for him there.
But in both cases, Jesus is obedient. He turns his feet toward Jerusalem not because it is his inescapable fate, but because that is what God has asked him to do.
And that raises the question: What will you do, this Lenten season, as you listen for the call of God in your life?
Will you retain your citizenship in the city of Jerusalem, risk having your house abandoned? Or will you join the crowd outside the city walls on Palm Sunday, chanting, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”
Will the fox lure you away from the safety of the barnyard, or will you allow yourself to be gathered and protected under the divine wings?
No matter how far you feel from God right now, no matter what you have done or not done that you think has sealed your fate, Jesus stands before you with open arms—not only to redeem, but to protect and nourish and nurse you to a spiritual adulthood beyond your wildest fantasies.
It is late, but not too late. There’s time for a new beginning, another chance to build a new life outside the walls of Jerusalem beneath the protective shadow of God’s wings.
And to that God of overwhelming love, whose protective wings enfold us even as we turn away, be thanks and glory forever and ever. Amen.
When my mother was a little girl, she had a pet fox. My grandfather found him while plowing, a tiny pup small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. She named the pup “Foxy,” and used an eye dropper and then a baby bottle to nurse the little fox into adolescence. When he was older, Foxy used to sit at the table in a high chair, using the Sears catalog as a booster seat, and join my mother eating fried eggs off a plate for breakfast before she left for school.
The problem with wild animals as pets, though, is that they are always wild. No matter how docile Foxy could seem, or how cute he’d been when he was little, no matter how much my mother loved him or trusted him, or how often they shared breakfast, he started to get mean. He would snap and bite without warning. He was simply too dangerous to keep.
And, as her parents reminded her, it wasn’t really good to have a fox hanging around the barnyard when there were chickens to protect. So she let him go in a field far from home.
I thought about Foxy when I read this morning’s gospel lesson. Jesus calls the Roman governor of Galilee, a “fox.” To be “foxy” for a person, of course, is to be cunning and sly and clever—someone not to be trusted.
It’s a fitting description for Herod, who has been curious about Jesus, friendly, asking about his teachings, wanting to get to know him. But Herod has already beheaded John the Baptist on a whim, as a reward for a dancing child, and now the Pharisees report that he wants to kill Jesus too. Jesus certainly knew what he was doing when he called Herod a “fox”!
I think Luke, too, knew what he was doing when he opened this scene by reporting Herod’s threat against Jesus. Like a television cliff-hanger at the end of the season, it creates a dramatic tension as Jesus journeys toward Jerusalem: Who’s will will prevail—that of the good and gentle prophet or the evil king?
II.
Jesus, of course, isn’t alarmed by the report that Herod wants him dead. Jesus knows that he will die in Jerusalem and sends a message to Herod, saying, “I must be on my way there, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.”
And then he begins a lament: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it. How often I have desired to gather you together beneath my sheltering wings—and you were not willing.”
Such a tender image, a deep yearning for an outcome different than the one the people of Jerusalem will choose. Jesus comes to Jerusalem with outstretched arms, and yet he knows that the people there will reject him, take those arms opened wide in an embrace and stretch them out literally on the hard wood of the cross and jeer at him while he dies. There is such a sharp contrast between Jesus’ will for Jerusalem and Jerusalem’s own will for itself.
Jerusalem, after all, doesn’t have a good track record with prophets. Uriah was killed there, and Zechariah, and Isaiah, and others whose names are less familiar. Again and again, God sent someone to the people of Jerusalem to speak God’s word, and again and again, the people would slap away the hand extended in love and kill whomever it was who carried God’s message.
But this time is different. This time, God hasn’t just sent a human prophet. God has taken on human flesh to walk beside God’s chosen people and show them the divine Word and will for how they are to live their lives. But this time will be no different for the people of Jerusalem. This time, they will again reject God’s overture. They will kill a prophet and reject the Holy One who has come to them in flesh and blood.
III.
Sometimes when I pull out my driver’s license, I half-way expect it to show my address as “Jerusalem.” Like the city that Jesus is lamenting over, I have rejected God’s overtures in my life so many times. I’m sure I am an honorary citizen of that city that kills prophets and stones those who come to it in love even though their words are sometimes hard to hear.
We say “no” to God’s faithful call in our lives so often, just as the people of Jerusalem said “no” to the invitation offered in Jesus Christ. We turn away from those sheltering arms and instead embrace the sly and cunning ways of a world ruled by sin.
True, we don’t do it all the time. Sometimes, we’re right on target, listening for and responding affirmatively to God’s presence in our lives. But so often we forget even to listen for the presence of God. And sometimes we confuse what we want with what God wants for us.
Lent is a season of repentance, an invitation to look back over our lives and identify—and ask forgiveness for—those times when we have failed to “hit the mark,” to tune our lives to those signals broadcast by the Wisdom of God and obey the words God is speaking to us.
How many times have you heard God call and willfully turned away? How many times have stamped your foot like an angry child, throwing a tantrum because God has suggested that you not do things your own way? How many times has God called and you have simply pretended you haven’t heard?
I’m not going to chant a litany of my own sins or of the sins that all of us share; I just want to reiterate that sinfulness is a foxy critter, an evil king so clever that we trust what he says and does, believe his sweet and docile manner, only to be surprised when he turns and snaps.
We get ourselves caught in the web of temptations that sinfulness casts deep into our lives, and the more we struggle to get ourselves out of that sticky web, the harder it seems to get ourselves free. And right there is the rub: We can’t get ourselves free. Only God can rescue us. And yet we stone the ones God has sent in order to keep living in a Jerusalem of our own making:
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills prophets and stones those who are sent to it! Look, God will leave your house to you alone if that’s how you want it. But I tell you, you will not see God again until the time comes when you say ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.’”
IV.
Do you notice how Jesus responds to the people of Jerusalem, though? He knows how they are going to act, the choices they are going to make, and he still offers that incredibly tender image: “How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings.”
Have you ever seen a hen gather her chicks when they’re in danger—when the shadow of a hawk flits across the yard or there’s a fox slinking around the hen house? The way she ruffles up those feathers into a soft shelter, holding helpless, downy chicks close to her warm breast?
I imagine for the chicks it’s kind of like snuggling under a heavy quilt with someone you love, while cold winds and sleet blow outside, or the way it felt when you were little to snuggle in your grandma’s lap. It would feel safe. Protected. Warm.
What a contrast, this image for God that Jesus provides, from the image he provides for the very human governor of Galilee: God is a mother hen, clasping her babies close; Herod is a fox, a wily and cunning predator waiting for an opportunity to snatch God’s own son from the world.
There are those who would have us believe that God is a fox, too, a fox like my mother’s childhood pet: seemingly docile and friendly, but apt to snap and bite without warning if something we do threatens or displeases. For these folk, God is a legalist, an unpredictable power apt to lash out in punishment if we transgress God’s law.
I don’t want to discount the idea that God holds us accountable for our behaviors. But I do want to suggest that Jesus softens the image of God, presenting the earthly king as foxy and unpredictable and the heavenly king as a caring and nurturing mother. In this scripture, Jesus is presented not only as our redeemer, but as a loving protector who holds us close when danger is near.
The question raised by this image, I suppose, is this: What happens to the young who avoid the mother’s protective wings, who insist on scurrying about the barnyard as if they can protect themselves?
V.
We don’t know what will happen to those who refuse the safety of God’s sheltering wings. The Reformed doctrine of predestination affirms that God desires salvation for all people—but it also affirms that we cannot be certain what will happen to those outside the fold.
“I longed to gather you together,” Jesus laments to the people of Jerusalem, “but you were not willing.”
The NRSV of the bible follows that statement by saying, “See, your house is left to you.” Other translations phrase it, “Can’t you see your house will be abandoned?” or “Look, your house will be left to you, desolate.”
Some hear in that phrase the fate that actually befalls Jerusalem some thirty years after the death of Jesus: the Romans will sack the city and destroy the temple, just as the Babylonians had destroyed it centuries before.
But at this point in the story, the city’s desolation is a fate not yet accomplished; Jesus hasn’t actually gone to Jerusalem, and the people there haven’t actually rejected him yet. This story in Luke, placed where it is in the gospel narrative, serves as a reminder that although Israel’s house might be forsaken, there is still time to repent, time to receive pardon for sin, and time to welcome the reign of God.
It is late, but not too late.
No matter how often we have cast our fate with the fox slinking about the barnyard, God’s wings long to gather us in, to pull us close, to protect us and keep us whole.
Certainly, Jesus understands the temptations of the world, the cunning kingdom of sinfulness that keeps us apart from God. After all, the devil tempted Jesus in the wilderness, and Herod’s death threat is a temptation to avoid the streets of Jerusalem and escape the death that waits for him there.
But in both cases, Jesus is obedient. He turns his feet toward Jerusalem not because it is his inescapable fate, but because that is what God has asked him to do.
And that raises the question: What will you do, this Lenten season, as you listen for the call of God in your life?
Will you retain your citizenship in the city of Jerusalem, risk having your house abandoned? Or will you join the crowd outside the city walls on Palm Sunday, chanting, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”
Will the fox lure you away from the safety of the barnyard, or will you allow yourself to be gathered and protected under the divine wings?
No matter how far you feel from God right now, no matter what you have done or not done that you think has sealed your fate, Jesus stands before you with open arms—not only to redeem, but to protect and nourish and nurse you to a spiritual adulthood beyond your wildest fantasies.
It is late, but not too late. There’s time for a new beginning, another chance to build a new life outside the walls of Jerusalem beneath the protective shadow of God’s wings.
And to that God of overwhelming love, whose protective wings enfold us even as we turn away, be thanks and glory forever and ever. Amen.
Saturday, March 06, 2004
Mission, models, and mirrors
are all elements of an ethical business life, the Christian Science Monitor reported this week.
Living a Christian life is, in large part, about ethics--how we live in ways that are responsible, honest, and maintain integrity.
Given that, these three bywords--mission, models and mirrors--seem a helpful way of looking at our life during Lent:
Whose mission are we serving with a particular action or entire way of life--our own, our culture's, or God's?
What role models do we have for the different parts of our lives--as professionals, as parents, as church members, as Christians, and as church members?
What mirrors do we peer into in order to reflect on our actions and ways of living--scripture, pop culture, confession in worship, prayer, conversation with other Christians? Do we have reflection time built into our lives, or is reflection something we rarely do?
Living a Christian life is, in large part, about ethics--how we live in ways that are responsible, honest, and maintain integrity.
Given that, these three bywords--mission, models and mirrors--seem a helpful way of looking at our life during Lent:
Whose mission are we serving with a particular action or entire way of life--our own, our culture's, or God's?
What role models do we have for the different parts of our lives--as professionals, as parents, as church members, as Christians, and as church members?
What mirrors do we peer into in order to reflect on our actions and ways of living--scripture, pop culture, confession in worship, prayer, conversation with other Christians? Do we have reflection time built into our lives, or is reflection something we rarely do?
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Making sense of The Passion
Seems like the whole world's passionate about The Passion, Mel Gibson's new blockbuster about the final twelve hours of Jesus' life.
Questions about faith virtually drip from this film, and to help sort through it all, Presbyterians Today Online has prepared a helpful viewer's guide that looks at the (Roman Catholic) movie through Reformed eyes.
Take a look at the viewer's guide in preparation for our congregation's potluck meal at 6p Sunday--we'll be talking about the theology behind the film, using Diane Sawyer's interview with Gibson as a launching pad for conversation.
Questions about faith virtually drip from this film, and to help sort through it all, Presbyterians Today Online has prepared a helpful viewer's guide that looks at the (Roman Catholic) movie through Reformed eyes.
Take a look at the viewer's guide in preparation for our congregation's potluck meal at 6p Sunday--we'll be talking about the theology behind the film, using Diane Sawyer's interview with Gibson as a launching pad for conversation.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
"Selling Ourselves Short"
That's the title of a new book reviewed this week on the Christianity Today website.
Here's the plug:
"Selling Ourselves Short: Why We Struggle to Earn a Living and Have a Life, by Catherine Wallace (Brazos Press). Why, Wallace wonders, is it only paid work that seems to count in our society? What is work, anyway? How have we been led astray by the notion of "vocation"? Is there any prospect for a truce in the Mommy Wars? Reviewer Randi Sider-Rose finds Wallace a guide worth attending to."
Here's the plug:
"Selling Ourselves Short: Why We Struggle to Earn a Living and Have a Life, by Catherine Wallace (Brazos Press). Why, Wallace wonders, is it only paid work that seems to count in our society? What is work, anyway? How have we been led astray by the notion of "vocation"? Is there any prospect for a truce in the Mommy Wars? Reviewer Randi Sider-Rose finds Wallace a guide worth attending to."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)