Pruning and Grafting

I’m out on a limb here.  Heh, made a pun already and didn’t even mean to.  I was referring to the risk I’m about to undertake.  Referring to the danger of speaking, or writing in this case, beyond my knowledge and experience.  Not the first time I’ve done that, I freely admit.  I have always subscribed to the idea that if you share your ignorance with confidence and conviction, then most folks will believe you know what you are talking about.  Even when you don’t.  I always tell folks asked to read a difficult scripture passage, for example, full of unpronounceable names to just pick a pronunciation and go with it.  No one really knows how it is supposed to sound, so just go with it.

Works most of the time.  My problem here is that I’m not dealing with obscure dead languages or convoluted theological points that even the originators would be hard pressed to put them into an English that normal people understand.  No, I’m going to talk about gardening. 

I hate gardening, let’s just get that out of the way.  That’s a bit harsh, I realize, and not completely true.  There are some things of a gardening nature that I will do without protest.  Too much protest anyway.  Grumbling, maybe, pouting, but not protest.  I appreciate gardens and gardeners.  I loved touring the big houses in Britain and walking through the gardens, formal and informal both.  I just didn’t want to have to do the work.

I know, I know. And that will probably be the subject of another bible study sometime.  But for all I’m admitting is that I’m out on this limb about to talk about something I know little to nothing about.  Yet, here goes.

Well, after a word from our sponsor, so to speak.  The reason why I’m about to launch into a lecture about gardening.  Because He did.

John 15:1-12   "I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinegrower.  2 He removes every branch in me that bears no fruit. Every branch that bears fruit he prunes to make it bear more fruit.  3 You have already been cleansed by the word that I have spoken to you.  4 Abide in me as I abide in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.  5 I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing.  6 Whoever does not abide in me is thrown away like a branch and withers; such branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned.  7 If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask for whatever you wish, and it will be done for you.  8 My Father is glorified by this, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.  9 As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love.  10 If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love.  11 I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.  12 "This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.

I like a good metaphor as much as the next guy.  He could have just mentioned the whole vine thing and left it at that.  “I Am the true vine” was a powerful statement to those first hearers.  Because the image of the vine wove all through the Scriptures of the day.  The prophets loved to talk about the vine.  But for them it was Israel.  A vine uprooted from Egypt and planted in the promised land.  A vine that bears fruit to feed many.  But also a vine that withers when it neglects the source of strength, when it becomes unconnected.  Which sounds surprisingly like what Jesus says here in this farewell discourse.  Stay connected.  Remember the source of strength, bear fruit.  What changes is that instead of a nation, the vine is now a person.  “I Am the true vine” says Jesus.  Startling, no doubt.  And maybe offensive, to a degree?  How could one man replace a nation? 

But look again, Jesus differentiates between vine and branches.  I Am the vine, but you are the branches.  He is simply bringing the source closer to us.  Instead of the people being uprooted and planted by God and sometimes withering when they forget that, now that source of strength is right there with us.  We are connected to it. It is right there, right here.  We abide in it. 

The people of God still produce the fruit, that is how God decided that it would work, God just moved a little closer because we could use the help.  Apart from God, apart from the source of strength, the vine we can do nothing.  And we have to stay close.

“In a vineyard, the best grapes are produced closest to the central vine.”  I read that, didn’t know it, in case you are wondering.  Stay close.  Because we need to be pruned.  I wish it weren’t so.  But we do.

Pruning is an art form, it seems to me, as much as a horticultural technique.  It looks like you are killing it, the plant or bush or whatever that you are pruning.  But if it is done right, then it always comes back stronger.  Always.  It produces more, it flourishes, it grows beyond where it was cut back.  Pruning, I’m told, is necessary for some kinds of plants, or it withers and dies.  Because it is trying to sustain something that isn’t necessary, or isn’t healthy, or is a distraction from its true function of bearing fruit or flower. 

Step away from the metaphor for a moment, and realize that pruning hurts.  Cutting away that which we’ve become attached to, no matter how unhealthy it is for us is hard, is painful.  And it makes us ask that question that we don’t like to admit that we ask: Is it worth it?  Is it worth the struggle, the pain, the self-denial, to live this life that he offers us, to enjoy this abundance that he wants to pour down on us?  Is the fruit that we bear - this commandment to love, God and neighbor with equal amounts of passion and service - worth the effort it takes to bear it?

“These things I have told you that my joy may be in you and your joy may be full.”  I wonder sometimes, to be honest.  But He says it is more than worth it, and I have chosen to trust Him.  And the moments of real joy that I have experienced in my life are always caught up in loving and being loved.  So, I know I want more.  More of Him, more of love, more joy. 

So stay close.  Abide in me, is the way he says it.  I am learning to abide.  To seek those moments when I can be in Christ’s presence, can soak up that word, can sing of praise and healing, loving and reconciling.  I want to stay close.  But how?

To big a question for the space I have left.  But the short answer is we need to be grafted into the vine.  I know there is nothing about grafting in these verses.  Vines and abiding, pruning and being cut off, yes.  But not grafting.  So, let me venture out a little further on this limb.  Grafting is a process whereby one plant, the scion (or offspring) becomes a part of another, the root stock (or the vine).  The process allows the plants to become one.  But the only way for the scion to be grafted into the root stock is if the stock or the vine is cut, is pierced to make room, to allow entry. 

By His wounds we are healed.

Shalom,
Derek

What the Flock

Already I’ve offended someone.  Sorry, truly, I am sorry.  It has never been my goal to shock or to offend, even though I say and do offensive things sometimes.  Mostly because I don’t know how to say what I want to say without offending. 

But I’ve stumbled over this passage for hours - well, days actually - and am still wishing I had assigned it to Chris this weekend.  Just sayin’.  Not because it is hard, necessarily.  I can understand it.  And I’m sure when you read it you will too.  There is just something unsettling about it.  Something, dare I say it, offensive here.

Wait, isn’t this the bible?  What would be offensive?  At least to us, anyway.  We’ve accepted the authority of these words, we’ve allowed this book to guide our lives, to shape our experience, to govern out understanding, how could it be offensive to us?

Well, of course it isn’t.  And it is.  Sort of.  Kind of.  Depends on how you look at it.  Maybe. ... Equivocating much?  Take a look and see for yourself.  If you dare!

John 10:11-18   "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.  12 The hired hand, who is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and runs away-- and the wolf snatches them and scatters them.  13 The hired hand runs away because a hired hand does not care for the sheep.  14 I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me,  15 just as the Father knows me and I know the Father. And I lay down my life for the sheep.  16 I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.  17 For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again.  18 No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it up again. I have received this command from my Father."

I can hear your confusion from here.  What is difficult about this?, you are pondering.  What could possibly be considered offensive here?, let the head scratching commence.  

OK, let’s look at the easy stuff.  This is a continuation of the previous passage.  Last week Jesus said “I Am the gate for the sheep.”  Now he says “I Am the good shepherd.”  So, which is it?  Well, are you an offspring or a parent?  Are you a sibling or a neighbor?  We’ve all got multiple roles to play.  Jesus is searching for images that will make sense to us, that will connect with us.  We need access and acceptance.  Jesus is the door, the entrance, the way in to an experience of love and transformation.  We need guidance.  Jesus is the one who leads us.

And there it is.  I know it seems innocuous to us.  A no brainer to most of us.  But we live in an “I got this” culture.  “We don’t need no stinking leaders” is the mind-set.  I once heard a commentator sneering at the passage in Matthew where it says that Jesus had compassion on the crowd “because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” (Mt 9:36) Paternalistic, was the cry.  That’s the problem with religion, they would cry, it is a crutch, something to keep us down.  We are meant to pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps.  Our heroes are the ones who made it on their own, the self made men and women who take what is a raw deal and turn it into gold.  Those who push themselves, who claw their way up, who ...

Whoa, slow down there, Sparky.  OK, sure there are those “dog eat dog” types out there, but surely none of them are reading this bible study.  We know better.  We are ready to follow the Shepherd.  So, no controversy here.

I know that.  Just making a point.  Just engaging in some literary banter.  I know that we always turn to the shepherd when it comes to making decisions about how we will live our lives.  I know that we will follow wherever He leads us, and do whatever He tells us to do.  That we are ready and eager to live the life of faith that we are called to live, when we get a moment.  In our spare time, Sunday mornings for sure, most of the time anyway, when we can squeeze it in.  It is a busy life we lead, and we don’t always have room for everything that we would like to be able to do.  Some days we are just getting by with the necessary stuff and are worn out before the extras.  Like faith.  Like life, abundant life.

Hmm.  OK, maybe we all struggle with the idea of a shepherd.  Of needing one, instead of being one, I mean.  Maybe we too are more likely to say we can do it on our own than we need a savior.  Maybe we are part and parcel of our culture more than we really want to admit.

I like the band fun.  That’s how you have to write their name by the way: fun.  Apparently there is a Scandinavian death metal band called Fun, so the pop group fun. had to change its name.  Lover case f with a period at the end.  fun.  Anyway, I got their latest cd and just love it, (yeah, I’m an old guy, I still look for cd’s) but was caught out by one song.  It is titled “One Foot,” and the refrain repeats the phrase “I'll put one foot in front of the other one.”  Catchy, has this “just keep swimming” feel to it (Finding Nemo - keep up here).  But when I listened closer, I was disturbed. 

The second verse goes like this: “Happiness stumbled upon a chapel last night / And I can't help but back up when I think of what happens inside / I've got friends locked in boxes, that's no way to live / What you calling a sin, isn't up to them / Afterall, afterall I thought we were all your children / But I will die for my own sins, thanks a lot / We'll rise up ourselves, thanks for nothing at all / So up off the ground, our forefathers are nothing but dust now.”  Then the refrain: “I'll put one foot in front of the other one / I don't need a new love, or a new life / Just a better place to die.”

Another slam against the church, and maybe we deserve it.  We’ve spent more time calling out sins than we have claiming all as God’s children.  But along with throwing off the authority of the church, comes the decision that we don’t need a savior “I’ll die for my own sins, thanks a lot.”  OK, I get that, again, we probably need to take some of the blame for that kind of attitude.  If we don’t live as though we are following a savior, but instead are relying on our own righteousness, then what else can we expect from our children? 

But what really got me was what we are left with when we stand on our own: “I'll put one foot in front of the other one / I don't need a new love, or a new life / Just a better place to die.”  The One who came that we might have life, weeps when his children only have aspirations for a better place to die.  These are the ones for whom He was willing to lay down his life.  These are the ones He wanted to gather in.  These, and so many others who are wandering around out there harassed and helpless are in need of shepherd. 

Which I guess means that maybe we should worry less about offending and work more on following, and welcoming, and loving, and laying down ... our tendency to be offended by those who don’t act like we do.

Shalom,
Derek

Safely Gathered In

“Pastor!”  I was passing through the Connection (or as every other church in the world calls it - the narthex) on my post worship mission of checking lights and locking doors.  Almost everyone had left, the youth bell choir was practicing in the sanctuary, a few hangers on were clinging to the feeling of fellowship that a Sunday morning brings, and others were waiting for someone to finish whatever servant task they had undertaken that morning.  Almost time to head home.  It had been a good morning, second Sunday of Lent and the One who said “I Am the light of the world” was present among us that morning.

“Pastor!” We used to sneer at those primitive cultures who talk about the power of knowing someone’s name.  We dismissed it as a belief magic, a fundamental misunderstanding of how the world really works.  Yet, when that “Pastor!” rang out through the Connection it was as if I had been lassoed by a passing cowboy and drawn into a conversation I didn’t know I was going to have. 

“Pastor!”  It was Fred.  Great guy, Fred.  Probably the best dresser in the whole congregation.  Always has opinions and isn’t afraid of sharing them.  And, frankly, they are usually pretty good ones.  So, I wasn’t sure if I was going to get a congratulations on a great service kind of comment, or a suggestion on how we ought to conduct some item of business in a more efficient manner.  “You should have gone to see her dance,” he said.  “Time goes fast, and she’ll be gone before you are ready.”

I concluded my sermon last week by letting everyone know that Maddie wasn’t in church that day because her mother took her to the Dance Showcase in Merrillville.  And how while I didn’t like that the Showcase took place on Sunday morning, that this time I wasn’t going to complain.  Then I compared (rather cleverly, I thought) Maddie’s dancing to the worship and celebration that took place during the Festival of the Booths when the people would dance in front of the four lamps in the courtyard.  Jesus claim to be the light of the world, I suggested, was an invitation to dance in that Presence.

I felt pretty good about it all, or I had been, until Fred.  “You should have gone to see her dance.”  Don’t you think I wanted to?  I have responsibilities, you know, I have a job to do.  I can’t help it they picked a Sunday morning for her to dance.  Can I?  It’s not my fault that I couldn’t be there, was it?  Who can be that present?

Uh, well, ok.  Besides Him, I mean.  That’s an unreal standard, don’t you think?  Well, don’t you?

John 10:1-10   "Very truly, I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit.  2 The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep.  3 The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.  4 When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice.  5 They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers."  6 Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them.  7 So again Jesus said to them, "Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep.  8 All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them.  9 I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture.  10 The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.

I Am the gate.  Gates speak to us of access, of limited access.  A gate usually is accompanied by a “no trespassing” sign.  Or even a “keep out” notice.  Gates are about keeping people out, about dividing, about separating, about filtering.  And certainly in this passage there is a certain amount of that.  Thieves and bandits abound, we believe, coming to steal and kill and destroy.  So, keep out!  Keep away.  Let’s be careful as to who we let in, about who we admit into the community of faith.  We have to be careful.  We have to decide who is worthy of entrance into our midst.  We have to build big gates to protect ourselves, from a big bad world.

Except, look again.  He doesn’t tell us to build a gate.  He doesn’t tell us to become a gated community.  He says “I Am the gate.”  He is taking from us the responsibility of keeping the undesirables out.  He is claiming the task of determining who is worthy and who isn’t.  We can’t figure that out, we get confused, we are likely to follow any voice that sounds interesting.

Which means our job is very different.  We aren’t to be the one ones passing judgement on those around us.  Our job is to get to know his voice.  We need to spend time in his presence.  We need to listen to him, to study his word, to follow his practice.  We need to spend our lives getting to know him so that when we hear our name called we will know who is calling.  “The sheep follow him because they know his voice.” 

We follow because he knows us.  We follow because he loves us.  We follow because he defines us, we are his, shaped in his image, empowered by his love, transformed by his presence.  Because he wants to be with us.

Traveling across the wilds of Scotland, we noticed these odd little shelters scattered around on the hillsides.  They were sheepfolds, we were told.  It was essentially a circular construction of walls, not very high, but with an opening on one side.  There was no gate or door, just an opening.  The shepherd, we were told, would lie down in the opening and thus provide the protection at night.  He put his body in between the flock and the dangers of the world around them. 

That’s what he offers, a place to belong, a place to be safe, a place of acceptance and grace and joy and love.  A place where we can grow into what is within us to be.  A place where we can test the limits of our abilities, where we can trust that we are valued.  It can even be a place where we fail from time to time, but it isn’t the end of the world because there is always forgiveness and transformation.  That’s what he offers, that is the life abundant that he so much wants to give us, wants to open to us.  And, he promises he will be there.

I should have gone, Fred was right.  I see that now.  I haven’t figured out how to be in two places at the same time.  I wanted to see her dance, but I missed it.  I see the photos that were taken.  I’ve heard tell the story.  But I wasn’t there.  And I regret that now.  Because there will come a time when I will put her in the hands of another, and my presence with her will be rare and fleeting.

Praise be to God that there is One who promises to hold her close, to lie as a gate to guard her when she sleeps.  Praise be to God that there is One who is with her always, and who offers her life, abundant and joyous life.

Offers her life.  And me too.  And you.  Praise be to God.

Shalom,
Derek

A Light in the Darkness

I don’t know Oscar Pistorius, besides what was presented to the world in all the information broadcast around the Olympic Games in London last summer.  All I know, then, is that he was the first double amputee to compete in the “regular” Olympic games against “able-bodied” athletes.  I know that he was nicknamed “the blade runner” because of the design of the prostheses that he used to run.  I know that despite winning multiple medals in the paralympic games, he did not finish in the medal in the Olympics, but that it was a monumental achievement that he competed at all, and the world watched with hope in our hearts, urging him to do well, and was encouraged by the power of the human spirit as we watched him run.

The media plays tricks on us, making us feel as though we know someone by presenting them “up close and personal,” telling their story as though they were next-door neighbors or long lost brothers or sisters, inviting us to care about them.  Not a bad technique, frankly.  It works so well that we are stunned when this person we know so well does something that seems out of character, when this person falls from the pedestal we’ve put them on. 

I don’t know Oscar Pistorius.  I don’t know what he has done, whether the emotion displayed in that South African courtroom was the ravages of guilt for an heinous act or the despair of an individual caught in an unimaginable circumstance that he was helpless to control.  I don’t know.  I don’t know whether to be angry, or to feel sorry or cynical about people in general.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that Oscar Pistorius was walking in darkness.

Duh.  I’m sorry, you’re thinking, that’s the best you can do?  In the face of this international tragedy you fall back on banalities?  You trot out cliches that sound marginally pious but don’t say anything other than the obvious.  I mean, come on.  You can do better than that, can’t you?

Well, no, I don’t think so.  Except perhaps to say something like there is darkness in the world.  And the darkness is really dark.  Therefore, it should be our strongest desire, our deepest passion to seek the light.  And not just any light.  But a light that gives life.

OK, I can hear your eyes rolling from here.  Take a look at the text for this week while I consider how to say this in a way that doesn’t sound like something you’d read on a bumper sticker.

John 8:12-19  Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life."  13 Then the Pharisees said to him, "You are testifying on your own behalf; your testimony is not valid."  14 Jesus answered, "Even if I testify on my own behalf, my testimony is valid because I know where I have come from and where I am going, but you do not know where I come from or where I am going.  15 You judge by human standards; I judge no one.  16 Yet even if I do judge, my judgment is valid; for it is not I alone who judge, but I and the Father who sent me.  17 In your law it is written that the testimony of two witnesses is valid.  18 I testify on my own behalf, and the Father who sent me testifies on my behalf."  19 Then they said to him, "Where is your Father?" Jesus answered, "You know neither me nor my Father. If you knew me, you would know my Father also."

I could have simply chosen verse 12 as the text for this second week of Lent.  That is where the “I Am” saying is found.  So, we could have read one verse and then all nodded our heads and gone home.  Yep, Jesus is the light.  Got it, thanks.

The purpose of the subsequent verses is to show us that this isn’t as easy as it first seems.  This isn’t a throw away that Jesus just tosses out one fine afternoon.  This isn’t just one more metaphor being presented to help us wrap our minds around the reality of Jesus.  Or rather it isn’t just that.  It is, instead, an offer.  It is an invitation to enter into a relationship that takes us to whole new reality, a different way of being alive in the world.

To say that there is resistance is an serious understatement.  Jesus’ hearers are stunned, shocked, offended by his words.  “Who do you think you are?”, they shout red-faced at him. “What gives you the right?”  And worst of all, “Who are you to tell us we don’t know God?  We are God experts, we are black belt in God, we have PhD’s in God! You, on the other hand are a nothing nobody from nowhere!!”

This was because Jesus pokes them with a sharp stick, trying to get their attention, and they don’t like it.  They are trying to take him to court, to follow the legal rules of witness and testimony.  He says, I’m not here for that.  “I judge no one,” isn’t an abdication of his role as the Lord of Lords, but an indication that he isn’t here for rules right now, but for relationships.  It’s not time for rules, it’s not time for courts, for trials and affidavits - if it was you’d be in even more trouble than you are right now. 

He gets a little heated, it seems to me.  Because they threw in his face the standard line from any who would oppose us, who would stand in our way, who would challenge our word and our faith: “Prove it!”  Arghh, I hate that line.  Whether I get it from my kids, or the pagan down the street, or the seeker in the pew, or the soul lost in the darkness of his own making, or of her circumstance.  Prove it.  And what makes this question so daggone frustrating is that I find it on my own lips, in my own heart from time to time.  “Prove it, Jesus.”  Prove you are who you say you are, prove it to me so that there is no shadow of doubt, no dark corner of suspicion in the worldly part of me, prove it so that I never waver in my allegiance, never stray from your path, never lose my grip on that strong hand folded around mine.  Prove it.  Please.

If you take out the verses at the beginning of Chapter 8 here in John (a story which many say is in the wrong place and messes up the order of things), and look back to the beginning of this long debate, you’ll discover that Jesus is in Jerusalem for the Festival of Tabernacles.  Like all the great festivals, this one is marked by ritual and ceremony, by tradition and celebration.  On the first night of the festival, four lamps, or large torches were brought out to the court of the women, one of the outer courts and lit up to chase away the darkness.  It was said that when these torches were lit there was no courtyard in Jerusalem that couldn’t see the light.  In the light of the these festival lamps, the leaders and the followers, the wise and the foolish, the saints and the sinners, the rich and the poor would dance.  It was the very Presence of God that brought them through the darkness of the exodus, so what else could you do but dance?  It was an expression of Joy, bubbling forth from the least and the greatest, made equal by the grace of that light. 

It was in that light that Jesus said “I Am the light of the world,” the source of true joy, the fulness of life.  You can’t prove it, you have to experience it.  You can’t prove it, you have to accept it.  If he did prove it for us, he would remove from us the opportunity to choose.  Or as Maddie shows me, He holds out his hand and gives us the grace to accept the invitation to dance.  He gives us the opportunity, the joy of saying yes.  The only proof he allows for those who still walk in darkness is the dance of those who have said yes.  We are the proof, our lives lived out in joy and hope and sometimes terrifying desperation.

I don’t know Oscar Pistorius.  But when the news broke of his alleged crime my heart sank.  What keeps coming to mind, however, was the photo of Oscar the blade runner holding the hand of a little girl in a pink dress and two tiny replicas of those prostheses.  Her look of pride and hope and confidence learned from a man who had overcome a disability just like hers spoke volumes.  It was a dance in the light for that moment.  No, of course, that moment does not excuse whatever crime he may have committed.  But then neither does that darkness take away the power of that moment of light.  Any more than our repeated failures diminish the good that we can do when we walk in the light, when we prove Jesus is the great I Am by how we live our lives, when we dance with joy in the presence of the light of the world.  

So, keep dancing, no matter what, just keep dancing.

Shalom,
Derek

Got Bread?

“The Gospel of John is a veritable symphony of incomprehension.”  Bishop William Willimon, in Feasting on the Word, Year B, Volume 3, p. 309.

We are launching a Lent of incomprehension.  And I, for one, couldn’t be more excited.  I know, it seems odd.  Isn’t my job to make sense of things?  Aren’t I a communicator, and shouldn’t I be marked down if folks come out of a worship or learning experience with a look of puzzlement on their faces?  Didn’t I fail at my task in confusion reigns? 

Well, I used to think so.  Still do, if I’m honest.  I want everyone to get it.  Get it?  I want a morning’s worth of ah-ha moments.  I want insight and understanding, I want clarity and decision, I want commitment and determination.  That’s what I want.  Certainly, I do.

So, to help get us there, I chose a Lenten series on the “I Am” sayings in the Gospel of John.  The veritable symphony of incomprehension, that gospel. You know, the he didn’t get it one.  The she missed the point narrative.  The “and the crowd threw up their hands in confusion and wandered of bewildered” story of Jesus.

I know that some of these sayings are favorite verses of many.  “I am the Good Shepherd.” “I am the Gate.”  “I am the Bread of Life.”  But almost all of them come in the midst of some of the most confusing dialogue in the whole bible.  It almost sounds as though Jesus doesn’t really want people to get it.  Like he is being deliberately obscure.  Like he wants to leave us with mouths agape and fingers scratching wrinkled brows, and eyes looking in vain to see if anyone else has a clue.

John 6:26-35   Jesus answered them, "Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.  27 Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you. For it is on him that God the Father has set his seal."  28 Then they said to him, "What must we do to perform the works of God?"  29 Jesus answered them, "This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent."  30 So they said to him, "What sign are you going to give us then, so that we may see it and believe you? What work are you performing?  31 Our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness; as it is written, 'He gave them bread from heaven to eat.'"  32 Then Jesus said to them, "Very truly, I tell you, it was not Moses who gave you the bread from heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the true bread from heaven.  33 For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world."  34 They said to him, "Sir, give us this bread always."  35 Jesus said to them, "I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.

See what I mean?  A couple of weeks ago he was offering water so that we would never be thirsty, now he is offering bread so that we would never be hungry.  No, he is bread.  Is bread.  Some argue this is a hint about communion.  He is telling the church to be that one day we will engage in a ritual that will use bread to remind us of him.  Well, sure.  But there has to be more here than a future liturgical hint.

Maybe what we are tripping over here is not the bread.  I know that seems to be the confusion.  Jesus says to the crowds who have hunted him down that they were there for the wrong reasons.  They were there to get something to eat.  They were there to fill their bellies, to see that trick with the few loaves of bread that fed five thousand.  But when Jesus points it out to them, they are surprisingly amenable to change.  “Don’t work for food that perishes,” he says, “but for the food that endures for eternal life.”  Well, duh, they say to him, that’s why we’re here.  What you’ve been handing out is different than what we can pick up at Mejier’s or even Fresh Market!  So, hand over that “special” stuff!

Wait, he said work for it.  OK, what’s the work we’ve got to do?  “Believe in the one whom God sent.”  It was Lewis Carroll’s White Queen who claimed that in her youth she could believe six impossible things before breakfast.  Is that the kind of workout that Jesus invites us to undertake?  Get those believing muscles a-workin’!

There’s the rub, it seems to me.  We don’t normally associate believing with work.  Believing is a mental exercise, an internal activity that might be difficult but not really strenuous.  Jesus is asking for an intellectual assent, right?  He’s asking us to wrap our minds around the knowledge of who he is.  He wants us to understand, and agree, to sign on the dotted line of faith.  Right?

Wrong.  I think that this is why we (and they, those first followers struggle with it too) are so confused by what Jesus has to say.  Jesus never asks for understanding.  He doesn’t come and say “figure me out!”  “I’m a puzzle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma and once you puzzle it out you’ve got it made!”  Like some holy Rubik’s cube, or those golf tee peg things at Cracker Barrel.  Figure it out and you win, faith becomes easy. 

Jesus isn’t some puzzle to solve, but a companion to walk with.  When Jesus invites us to believe in him, he isn’t talking about an intellectual exercise as much as an act of will.  He is asking us to put our lives in his hands.  To commit to living the way he lives, to dedicate our lives to the priorities that he holds, to becoming like him, loving like him.  That’s the work he invites us to enter.  The is the bread he invites us to consume. 

You are what you eat.  That’s the faith declaration that Jesus claims in this passage.  So, eat this bread, drink from this belief.  And what you will find is that which you have longed for, that which you have hungered for is already within you.

Bread is the staple of life, some argue.  It is the ubiquitous food that sustains and fills.  It represents what we need to survive.  It stands for the sign of our dependance, but also our ability to be nourished by what is provided.  Bread is an acknowledgment that we do indeed hunger but also that we know how to fill those hungers.

Got bread? 

Shalom,
Derek

Sleeping in Church

Uh oh, you’re thinking, I’ve been caught.  He’s going to point fingers and name names!  No more Mister Nice Pastor.  Yeah, that’s right.  I’ve seen you nodding off out there.  Trying to pretend that you are being devout.  Or contemplative.  The finger to the pursed lips, the heavy lidded eyes as though considering some cogent argument the preacher was making, I see you.  All belied by the hypnic jerk and the furtive glances around to see if anyone noticed.  They did, by the way, but they pretend like they didn’t.  Their eyes are forward; tongues are clamped between teeth so they don’t giggle as you trying to pretend like you aren’t falling asleep.  Don’t worry, you are providing a public service by keeping them awake, given them something - anything - to focus on to distract their minds during the dull bits.  Like the sermon.

But don’t worry, I’m not going to out you.  At least this time.  I understand.  We lead such active lives that sometimes the simple act of sitting down causes our eyes to drift closed despite our best efforts.  Long distance driving can be filled with terror for many riding along with a driver fighting sleep.  I know it is hard to sit attentively when the choir sings a soft and soothing anthem, when you are invited to close your eyes in silent prayer, when the preacher drones on and on about who knows what barely comprehensible theological drivel.  I know, don’t worry.

And not only that but you’re in good company.  Falling asleep when worship is called for is a repeated biblical theme.  There’s Jacob dozing on a heavenly landing strip.  The prophets shouting at people to wake up and see what is going on around them.  Proverbs says that too much sleeping leads to poverty.  And the Psalmist even asks God to wake up and get to work rescuing us!  There’s that kid who dozed off during one of Paul’s sermons and fell out a window and died.  Thankfully, Paul got to a benediction in time to raise him up again.   In a few weeks we’ll make our journey with Jesus through some of the most significant moments of his earthly life and find guards dozing at a tomb and  his closest followers unable to keep their eyes open.

Then there’s this, the quintessential mountain top experience.  And in the midst of it, a nap attack.

Luke 9:28-36   Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray.  29 And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white.  30 Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him.  31 They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem.  32 Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him.  33 Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, "Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah"-- not knowing what he said.  34 While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud.  35 Then from the cloud came a voice that said, "This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!"  36 When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.

They fought it off.  Maybe that’s the message here.  They fought off the sleep enough to see what they were supposed to see.  Sort of.  I think they saw.  Then Peter mumbles something about booths, about dwelling places.  And even Luke is embarrassed by it.  “He didn’t know what he was saying.”  Excuse him, folks, he just woke up.  And we smirk at his lack of couth, even though we don’t have a clue what was wrong with what he said.  Yeah, ok, it’s a little goofy.  But we’ve been taught that hospitality is an important thing.  So, he was doing the best he could, maybe we should cut him a little slack.

I mean who knows what’s going on here anyway.  A fancy light show and a rumbling voice from the heavens, we should be glad he could string two words together in a sentence that is more than confused babbling.  The Jesus they thought they knew was revealed to be more than even they suspected.  You can’t expect eloquence in a moment like that.  Can you?

Well, no, of course not.  Would we have done any better?  In the face of such glory, in the presence of the only Son of God, with the Voice of God directing our attention in the background, with the history of the people of God standing in support, on the mountain of the Lord - would we have a hope of making any sense whatsoever, of signaling our presence without putting our foot in our mouth, of basking in the glory without falling on our faces in shame?

Well, last I looked out, folks seemed to be doing just fine.  A little bored, here and there, some sleepy ones, plenty of clock watchers, a few crowd gazers, and one or two that seemed to be wrapped up in the glory revealed in that moment.  One or two.  And even more who were hoping and wanting and leaning toward it, but not quite sure what they were looking for.  The disappointment - in the worship, in themselves, in something they couldn’t quite name - was palpable. 

Hang on a minute, I hear you thinking, are you trying to imply that our weekly hour in the sanctuary at our local church is even a little bit equivalent to that wondrous moment on a mountain we call the Transfiguration?  I mean that was a singular experience, so powerful that they didn’t even know how to talk about it when they came back down the mountain.  I mean, Matthew and Mark report that Jesus told them to keep it a secret, Luke says they just didn’t talk about it.  Like it was too personal.  Too powerful.  Too ... too ... indescribable to describe. 

Surely you don’t mean to imply that worship week by week is like that.  What a ludicrous idea, I mean, come on!  Who would claim such a thing?  That what we do week by week is somehow done in the presence of the glory of the Son?  I wouldn’t dream of making such a claim.  But He did.  “Wherever two or three are gathered in my Name, I am there.”

That was the embarrassment of Peter’s comment.  He wasn’t prepared to worship in that moment.  He wanted to contain it, to hold it, to preserve it.  He was asking for a doggy bag, so that he could take it home and get to it later.  The proper response to that moment was attentive presence.  Pay attention, stay awake - one of Jesus favorite commands - watch and wait.  Be present. 

Worship.  Bring your whole self.  Set aside the agendas that you are trying to sort out for the rest of the day or week.  Stop trying to compare the music to the concert you attended the night before.  Quit expecting the preacher to entertain you like the comedians at the club.  Instead, listen for a Spirit speaking the Word through the words, ride the winds of grace in the music that echoes to sounds of creation itself, enter into the prayers as if they were your words or better yet the groans and sighs that you don’t even have words for yet.  Be present at God’s table.  Wake up, there is glory all around, Christ is revealing His true self in those moments. 

Shame on me if I ever present worship as something boring, something ordinary.  Shame on you if you accept a less than dynamic experience, or come expecting nothing more than a momentary diversion on a Sunday morning.  Shame on us all if we ask Jesus to tone it down so we can get our nap in.  And praise God for meeting us in our worship, even when we forget to look. 

I’m climbing a mountain to gaze at Christ this Sunday.  Care to join me?

Shalom,
Derek

Shadows and Sun

How do you pronounce Punxsutawney anyway?  Happy Groundhog’s Day!  One of those celebrations that remind us that everyone goes a little crazy in the winter.  Long term climate prognostication by large rodents in unpronounceable Pennsylvania towns, sure, why not?  Although, it makes as much sense as anything else this season.  Apparently, he didn’t see his shadow which means a quick end to winter.  OK, I can buy that.  How many times has this winter ended already?  Wasn’t it over 60 degrees just a few days ago?  So, old Phil is right winter will end soon.  And start up again ... soon.  And then end again ... soon.  Trust me on this.

But scared of shadows?  That I understand.   Well, more metaphysically than in reality.  Shadows are about absence.  Shadows are about lack, about emptiness.  And there isn’t anything scarier than that, it seems to me.  What’s that poem?  “I met a man who wasn’t there / he wasn’t there again today / Oh how I wish he’d go away!”  Absence is terrifying.  Even the crazy dogs know it.  Every now and then they’ll start barking, but when I look there isn’t anything there.  “You’re barking at nothing!” I’ll shout at them.  “We know that,” they’ll reply, “but isn’t it scary?” Well, with you making all that racket, yes, it is!  “Told ya,” they’ll smirk, in between barks.

Maybe if Phil could bark he wouldn’t have to run back into his burrow for six more weeks of winter, on those Groundhog Days when he does see his shadow.  Maybe if we knew how to fill the emptiness, we wouldn’t be so frightened.  Maybe if we knew how to resolve the loneliness, we wouldn’t feel so hollow.  Maybe if we could find a way to fill the void that is darkness, we could see our way through again.  Maybe, when we are so dry we are parched, we could find something so we wouldn’t be so thirsty anymore.

We all have our thirsty days.  Even Jesus had them.  At least if John is right about the story that he tells.  But the difference is, for Jesus, a thirsty day was an opportunity rather than a terror.  It was a chance to give out of abundance, rather than a panic to fill an emptiness.

If that makes sense.  Take a look:

John 4:5-15  So he came to a Samaritan city called Sychar, near the plot of ground that Jacob had given to his son Joseph.  6 Jacob's well was there, and Jesus, tired out by his journey, was sitting by the well. It was about noon.  7 A Samaritan woman came to draw water, and Jesus said to her, "Give me a drink."  8 (His disciples had gone to the city to buy food.)  9 The Samaritan woman said to him, "How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria?" (Jews do not share things in common with Samaritans.)  10 Jesus answered her, "If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, 'Give me a drink,' you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water."  11 The woman said to him, "Sir, you have no bucket, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water?  12 Are you greater than our ancestor Jacob, who gave us the well, and with his sons and his flocks drank from it?"  13 Jesus said to her, "Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again,  14 but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life."  15 The woman said to him, "Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water."

There is more to the story, of course, as my Wednesday morning bible study was quick to point out.  But I chose to focus on this part of the narrative with the intention of making it about us rather than about her.  Her, the woman at the well.  One of the many nameless women in the bible, without whom we would be even more lost than we are.  Not that she is merely a literary device, a cipher for our needs.  She was a flesh and blood person, because that is who Jesus came to save.  Like us.  Her need is our need, her thirst is our thirst, her fears our fears.

Jesus comes, across all the barriers that we have set up to keep him out.  The scandal of this story is that Jesus would even talk to this woman, let alone want to love her.  Wait, love her?  Wasn’t this just about a drink of water on a hot and thirsty day?  No, never.  There is no “just” with Jesus.  And there need be no “just” with us.  Everything is deeper if we choose to let it be so.  Everything is layered with meaning if we seek it.  Every encounter - in the grocery store or sidewalk - is with a genuine human being with a story we may not know, indeed may never know, but can still honor if we choose.  If we choose to see them as a person with a bucket and a thirst.

Give me a drink, he asked her.  He asked her.  Jesus doesn’t come and say let me fix you.  He meets us in a shared need.  He emptied himself so that he would know our emptiness.  He succumbed to the ravages, the needs of the flesh so that he could find us in our need, in our thirsts.  Then, faced with our shock, he says I can help you with your thirst as easily as you could have helped me with mine. 

But we are skeptical.  You don’t have a bucket, we say.  You don’t have what I need.  You’ve got words and ideas, you’ve got emotions and philosophies.  Thanks, but what I really need is some water.  What I really need is what I can hold in my hand, or put in my pocket.  What I really need is recognition from people like me.  What I really need is stuff I can get with my own bucket.  So, thanks but no thanks.

And we drop our own bucket in the well and we drink.  And we drop it again and we drink again.  And drop and drink.  Drop and drink.  And still we thirst.  It isn’t enough.  It is never enough.  Is it?  We thirst.  We search.  We settle for a while, but it is never enough.

Give me this water always.  She didn’t know what he offered.  Not really.  She didn’t understand what he brought.  All she knew was that there was something here that she wanted.  Some whisper of hope.  Some relieving of long help pain.  And she leaned toward it with a hand outstretched.

Jesus never seems to need a lot of response.  A note of hope in the voice is enough.  A willingness to see him as the source of that which will quench our thirsts.  That’s all it takes, it seems.  We don’t have to understand completely.  We don’t have to write an essay on salvation theology.  We don’t have to recite a complex creed or make a well defined statement of faith.  We don’t have to perform elaborate rituals or make sacrificial offerings.  We just have to want it.

The question I heard asked some time ago that still echoes in my soul is this: Jesus says if we drink of the water he offers us, we will never be thirsty.  So, why are we still thirsty?

Why do we still run from shadows?  Why do we still live in emptiness? Is it because we don’t ask?  We think our own buckets are sufficient?  Why do we not embrace the life that he offers?  It can’t be that simple, can it?  Just ask?  Just want it and he will give it?  What’s the catch?  Maybe we should just give it a try.

Give me this water always.  Fill this emptiness.  Chase away these shadows.  Please. ...  Please? 

Shalom,
Derek