And The Well Is Deep

We’re breaking new ground around here these days, crossing boundaries previously uncrossed.  And it is nerve-wracking, unsettling, to say the least.  The new ground isn’t all that dramatic, really.  Many of you have crossed it before, maybe even a long time ago, and now it’s no big deal.  But the unknown is always sobering if not terrifying.  This particular new ground is that of home ownership. I have lived in parsonages all my life - except when I was in university housing.  And my wife and kids have known only this somewhat nomadic kind of life, relying, as Blanche DuBois says in “Streetcar Named Desire,” on the kindness of strangers.

But now it is all about to change.  The new church doesn’t own a parsonage, and instead provides a housing allowance.  Which means we are moving into the undiscovered country of home ownership. At this stage in our lives to be first time home buyers is a bit daunting, to say the least.  And that we were unprepared to make this leap is also something of an understatement.  But here we go, crossing a line, taking a risk.  Holding our breath, with lots of prayers, we’re stepping out.

Crossing boundaries is never easy.  There is always risk involved.  And it could go terribly wrong. Sometimes those boundaries are there for protection, sometimes they are necessary, sometimes they are helpful to us.  But other times they limit us.  Even worse they keep us from being who we are called to be, who we could be, who our hearts long to be.  And the sooner we can cross over the better.  

Our passage this week has boundaries all over the place.  You almost have to have a scorecard to keep track of them.  The reading starts with verse five of chapter four of the Gospel of John.  But to get the mood, we really need verse four.  And then it just goes on and on, crossing boundaries, stepping into the unknown.  So, hold on to your hats.

John 4:4-42 4 But he had to go through Samaria. 5 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." 

16 Jesus said to her, "Go, call your husband, and come back." 17 The woman answered him, "I have no husband." Jesus said to her, "You are right in saying, 'I have no husband'; 18 for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband. What you have said is true!" 19 The woman said to him, "Sir, I see that you are a prophet. 20 Our ancestors worshiped on this mountain, but you say that the place where people must worship is in Jerusalem." 21 Jesus said to her, "Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. 22 You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews. 23 But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father seeks such as these to worship him. 24 God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth." 25 The woman said to him, "I know that Messiah is coming" (who is called Christ). "When he comes, he will proclaim all things to us." 26 Jesus said to her, "I am he, the one who is speaking to you." 

27 Just then his disciples came. They were astonished that he was speaking with a woman, but no one said, "What do you want?" or, "Why are you speaking with her?" 28 Then the woman left her water jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, 29 "Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?" 30 They left the city and were on their way to him. 31 Meanwhile the disciples were urging him, "Rabbi, eat something." 32 But he said to them, "I have food to eat that you do not know about." 33 So the disciples said to one another, "Surely no one has brought him something to eat?" 34 Jesus said to them, "My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to complete his work. 35 Do you not say, 'Four months more, then comes the harvest'? But I tell you, look around you, and see how the fields are ripe for harvesting. 36 The reaper is already receiving wages and is gathering fruit for eternal life, so that sower and reaper may rejoice together. 37 For here the saying holds true, 'One sows and another reaps.' 38 I sent you to reap that for which you did not labor. Others have labored, and you have entered into their labor." 

39 Many Samaritans from that city believed in him because of the woman's testimony, "He told me everything I have ever done." 40 So when the Samaritans came to him, they asked him to stay with them; and he stayed there two days. 41 And many more believed because of his word. 42 They said to the woman, "It is no longer because of what you said that we believe, for we have heard for ourselves, and we know that this is truly the Savior of the world."

“He had to go through Samaria.”  Actually He didn’t.  In fact most travelers of the time would have done all they could do to avoid going through Samaria.  If there is any had to, it is they had to not go. But Jesus had to.  Why?  Because it was His business to cross boundaries.  He had to so that He could do the job, so that He could live the life He came to live.  He had to.  

He had to step across social convention and speak to a woman on her own at the well in the middle of the day.  No, wait.  He had to speak to a Samaritan woman at the well in the middle of the day.  A Samaritan woman alone, possibly shunned, looked down upon, a woman who out of self-defense and shame made her trip to gather water in the heat of the day, when no one else in their right mind would venture out.  Not just speak to, but ask for a drink. A drink of water, from her personal flask, the one she drank from to quench her personal thirst.  Now this Jew, obviously lost, wandering around an unwelcome land, asks to drink from her hand, almost.  She’s shocked, the disciples when they return are shocked.  That Jesus so cavalierly steps over boundaries into the new world, a new way of living in community.  

We know the conversation, that’s usually the content of the study and the sermon.  How she stubbornly missed the point, kept Him at arms length, tried to turn a discussion about a hurting heart into a theological/worship preference conflict. But Jesus kept crossing boundaries, kept getting closer, kept getting deeper.  She knew it was deep.  She didn’t want to go there.  The well is deep she said, hoping He would give up His pursuit of her soul.  But He kept crossing the line, asking more intimate questions, wanting more of her.  Finally she waved it all off, Yeah, well, someday, she said, quoting the line everyone knew and no one really believed, someday, the Messiah will come and sort out all the brokenness, all the abuse, all the boundaries that keep us from knowing and living love. Someday. He smiled.  Today, He said.  That day is today.  

Was she sure?  Was she convinced?  Or did she just want to hope?  She ran off and spoke to those who had shunned her, tossed her aside.  Spoke to those she had come to the well in the heat of the day to avoid.  Could this be, she said breathlessly, could this be?  And something about her boldness, something about her disregard of proper behavior made them curious enough to come and see for themselves.  So, they came and saw and believed.  

Meanwhile the disciples sat in stunned amazement.  He talked about food they couldn’t see, and He ignored boundaries they could see.  But He came relentlessly closer.  Crossing into territory they had never entered. But like the villagers, they had decided to believe, which meant their lives were in His hands.  So, they followed Him.  Across the boundaries, into a new way of living.    

Shalom, 

Derek 

Speak of What We Know

Transitions are hard.  I’m leaving in a few months.  And this transition seems harder than most.  But maybe necessary.  The latest manifestation of the need for change arose in the conversation of a group of leaders of the church who are charged with finding a way forward, who truly do, I am confident, want what is best for the church as they see it.  Someone said maybe we should wait for the new pastor to come and see what vision is brought for the church and see how we can support that.  Someone else said, no, the new pastor will want to know what our vision is and then help us fulfill that.  And then the question came: Do we have a vision?  “No, we don’t” was the response.  We don’t have a vision here.

For ten years I have been pastor to this congregation.  I have taught children and youth and adults.  I have visited the sick and comforted the grieving.  I have presided over death and celebrated life.  I have performed weddings and given ritual prayers at social occasions. I have met late at night with those who are hurting, tried to mend broken hearts and broken relationships and broken hopes.  And I have preached.  For ten years, I’ve preached that we are here to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.  I talked about the absurdity of that calling and yet the compelling hope and challenge of it.  For a good part of my time I tried to live into the words given by my predecessor, “Creating Contagious Christian Community” as a way to live into that vision of making disciples.  We even spent some considerable time talking about reclaiming it, a refreshing of all the time that was spent in creating that statement.  We enhanced it, added dimensions and layers.  But it never became a part of the conversation of the church, beyond a few grumbles that it made us uncomfortable, that contagious thing you know.  So I came at it from a different angle, tried to build on what was there but to grasp what was becoming the identity of Aldersgate.  I presented some words at a council meeting.  “Feeding Hungry People.”  That’s who we are and who we can be, I said.  If we choose.  If we wish to claim them.  To catch the vision.  I presented them as a possibility and invited conversation, meetings, debate, other suggestions.  I heard a few conversations, answered questions and shared ideas when asked.  But just wanted to let them lie there and see what would grasp the attention of the body.  Finally someone asked are we ever going to vote on this statement?  So we did.  And “Feeding Hungry People”, bodies, minds souls became the statement of the body by council vote.  We chose it together.  Yet, I still heard “We don’t have a vision here.”

John 3:1-17 Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. 2 He came to Jesus by night and said to him, "Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God." 3 Jesus answered him, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above." 4 Nicodemus said to him, "How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother's womb and be born?" 5 Jesus answered, "Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. 6 What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. 7 Do not be astonished that I said to you, 'You must be born from above.' 8 The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit." 9 Nicodemus said to him, "How can these things be?" 10 Jesus answered him, "Are you a teacher of Israel, and yet you do not understand these things? 11 "Very truly, I tell you, we speak of what we know and testify to what we have seen; yet you do not receive our testimony. 12 If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things? 13 No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. 14 And just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, 15 that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. 16 "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. 17 "Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.

Nicodemus was a leader of the people of God.  He was a Pharisee and a member of the Sanhedrin, the governing body of the Jews in Israel at Jesus’ time.  He comes at night, maybe because serious study takes place at night, or maybe because he was afraid to be seen associating with this questionable Rabbi from the backwoods.  He comes with social niceties, a bit of flattery to grease the wheels of conversation.  But Jesus immediately changes the subject.  Jesus immediately puts him on the defensive.  You have to be a different person to be a part of what God has in store.  “What?”  Nicodemus is reeling almost immediately.  Knocked off his feet and he spends the rest of the conversation trying to catch up. 

He makes a feeble joke, about climbing back in his mother’s womb, hoping to disarm the intensity of the Teacher.  Because the being a different person was couched in a metaphor about birth.  Born again, he said, born from above.  The word in Greek means both things, a reference to time and to direction.  Born again, as if the first time wasn’t traumatic enough, again as if the first time wasn’t as full of potential as it needed to be, again as if drawing breath like never before, filling your lungs with more than air, breathing in Spirit instead, in addition.  Spirit from above, as if you were too focused on this life, the one lived out in front of your eyes and anything invisible isn’t real.  Anything invisible, like love and hope and joy and transformation and possibility, isn’t what life was about when born from below.  It’s not a bad life, just a shallow one, just a nose to the grindstone and find your meaning in successes and failures each and every day and not in the love of a creator who stands ready to fill you with vision.

Let go, Nicodemus, let go of the need to control, your need to have everything your way. Let go of the belief that you can build a better world, a more vibrant community by shaping it along the lines of your own preferences and understandings.  Grab hold of the Spirit, and be blown about, from one world to the next, from one joy to the next, from one soul to the next.  Be born into a new way of seeing, let go of what was, no matter how satisfying it may have been.  Grab hold of where God is calling you to go, who God is calling you to be.  

I’m not telling you anything new, Nicodemus.  I’ve been saying these things since I got here, since the beginning of time.  This is all I have to say, this is all I know, this God thing, this vision of the people of God, the community of faith.  I have not stopped saying this.  And you are a leader of people and somehow don’t get it.  How can this be, Nicodemus?  What did you miss?  Get ready, it’s about to get even more intense.

Jesus gave Nicodemus a whole lot of stuff to think about, to process.  We don’t know how it all impacted him, what he went away with that night.  But a few chapters later, when the rest of the leadership is complaining that the police didn’t arrest Jesus for speaking of the kingdom of God, Nicodemus speaks up and says, don’t we have due process?  Not an affirmation of faith, by any means, but at least he attempts to stand on the side of right.  They sneered at him and accused him of being a hick from the sticks like Jesus.  Then Nicodemus shrinks from sight completely.  

Well, not completely.  He doesn’t speak again.  But he shows up in the darkness again, the afternoon darkness of a weeping world, and gathers up the body from a horrible death, and wraps it up with about a hundred pounds of spices and puts it in the tomb of another Pharisee named Joseph.  A hundred pounds of spices?  Was that really necessary?  I don’t know.  Maybe.  Or maybe it was overkill.  Overboard.  Maybe it was apology spice, maybe he finally understood what he had missed that night in the darkness and wanted to make up for it by bringing so much that he could barely carry it, a penance of spice poured out over a dead body that wasn’t going to stay dead, though he didn’t know that yet. 

Summing up this story is a verse we all know.  Know by heart.  Or maybe know by rote, not yet by heart.  For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son, that whosoever believes in Him may have eternal life.  Believes as in puts their life in, surrenders everything to, joins completely.  Shares the vision.  Having a vision means more than a slogan we can recite, though that can be helpful.  It means grabbing hold of the wind, it means leaning into the Spirit, even when it blows you out of your comfortable spot.  So, I’m leaning into the Spirit and will go where I’m sent.  I pray you will too.

Shalom, 

Derek 

If You Will Fall Down

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”  Thank you Lao Tzu.  Whatever that means.  I mean we think we know.  It sounds great.  Something powerful, something that sounds impossible, has humble beginnings.  Actually, supposedly the original quote said a thousand li journey.  A li was an ancient Chinese measurement that equaled three hundred and sixty miles.  So, he actually said a journey of 360,000 miles begins with a single step.  Wow.  How far do you have to go today?  More than a quarter of a million, but just short of a half a million miles!  Yikes, better sit down.  You realize that is more than a hundred thousand miles past the moon?  OK, now I’m tired. Thanks Lao Tzu.

We’re on a journey.  That’s how we describe the season of Lent.  It’s our Lenten Journey.  The devotional we are using is titled “Moving Toward the Cross.”  It is a daily reflection based on the writings of Frederick Buechner, one of my long time favorite writer/preachers.  

The Lenten Journey. The very concept implies at least two things.  One that we are moving.  This isn’t a static, sit and contemplate event.  I know we often think of Lent as a time of consideration, self-reflection, introspection.  And certainly there is an element of that inherent in the design of the season.  But movement is built into the pattern of the season.  We are walking with Christ.  And Christ is on his way somewhere.

That’s the second implication of the season: we have a destination.  This journey isn’t just random wandering in the wilderness, even though it often feels like it.  We are on a path, and I’ve already given it away in the devotional title.  Moving Toward the Cross.  That’s our destination.  The culmination of our Lenten journey is not Easter sunrise, as much as we wish it was.  No, Easter is something completely different.  We can no more journey to Easter than we could travel a hundred thousand miles past the moon.  Easter is another dimension of time and of space.  No, actually it is beyond time and space.  It is completely out of reach.  More on that to come ... really.

No, our destination is much more earthy.  Much more real.  And, unfortunately, more painful. Requiring more sacrifice, more surrender.  The journey to the cross is a journey laden with struggle, with a wrestling match with our greatest foe.  Ourselves.  I know, you were hoping for an enemy to conquer.  A stranger who’s a threat.  The bad guy.  Them.  You know those people, that type, the evil empire, all that stuff.  Yeah, no, sorry.  It’s you.  Old Pogo had it right.  We have met the enemy and he is us.  And because he is us, because this journey is an inner journey at least in part, we’d just as soon not.  We’d give it a pass, and most of the time we do.  No thanks, I’m fine.  Our usual social response.  No thanks, I’m fine.  All on my own, I’m good.  It’s everyone else that is the problem.  If it weren’t for them, all would be peachy.  

Which means that our philosophical aphorism ought to be “a journey of a thousand (or three hundred sixty thousand) miles begins with a single stumble.  We fall down a lot.  That’s kind of our story.  We start out that way.  I remember when the kids were learning to walk all those years ago.  Falling down seemed to be the way of it.  Hardly any attempt was made without crashing down on their thankfully well padded existential ground of being.  Sometimes there was tears.  Sometimes frustration. Sometimes the ground seemed a safer place and the attempt was put off until another day.  We fall down.  Any journey that gets us anywhere important is going to include a few stumbles.  A stubbed toe, a cracked shin, a bloody nose, a teary moment, an unplanned detour, a lack of resources, a mechanical failure, a ... well, point taken.  We fall down.

Which leads us to continually ask why bother?  If the journey is too great, why take it?  If I’m likely to fall down, why set out?  Especially to heading someplace that is “good for me”?  God save us from what is good for us.  That just seems to scream painful, exhausting, humiliating, and ultimately asking for me to change.  

Who does that?  Who seeks that strenuous, wrestling with self that leads to surrender and sacrifice and then transformation?  Who does that?

Matthew 4:1-11  Then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. 2 He fasted forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was famished. 3 The tempter came and said to him, "If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread." 4 But he answered, "It is written, 'One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.'" 5 Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, 6 saying to him, "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, 'He will command his angels concerning you,' and 'On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.'" 7 Jesus said to him, "Again it is written, 'Do not put the Lord your God to the test.'" 8 Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor; 9 and he said to him, "All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me." 10 Jesus said to him, "Away with you, Satan! for it is written, 'Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.'" 11 Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him.

Yeah, ok.  Him.  He would go for that.  But then He’s ... Him.  Well, take another look.  Matthew (and Luke) says that He was led up.  He didn’t go looking for it.  He didn’t run to meet it.  He shuffled forward in the line at Ash Wednesday with the same slumped shoulders as the rest of us.  Mark even goes further and says the Spirit drove Him into the wilderness.  Kicking and screaming perhaps.  I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna.  Or maybe not, maybe He knew that this journey was one worth taking.  Even though it ended at what seemed like a dead end.  Even though it ended with a painful betrayal and an agonizing night and lonely and broken surrender of life on a hill that looked like a skull, under a blazing sun that didn’t weep until it was too late for Him to feel it.

But that was His journey, not ours, surely.  We don’t spend forty hungry days in a desert hallucinating conversations around impossibilities and sleight of hand.  Do we?  No, of course not.  We can’t turn stones into bread, that wouldn’t enter our minds.  But we can turn every hunger into a physical one and satisfy spiritual needs by stuffing our faces or filling our closets.  We can’t leap from the pinnacle of the temple and be caught by angels.  But we can leap into self destructive habits that lead to death more often than not in the misguided belief that we are immortal as long as we don’t think about it. We aren’t shown the kingdoms of the world in their splendor and given the keys to these kingdoms if we just fall down again.  Yet we believe we deserve everything, anything our hearts desire, in an odd confusion about rights and freedoms.

We fall down.  Over and over.  The painful realization is that our journey is not just the forty days of Lent, but the whole of our lives.  Every day we are given opportunities to claim the gift of life that we’ve been given in Christ, and we fall down.  We surrender to our own temptations, to our own selfishness, me time.  Instead of surrendering to the cross.  Upon which we can nail all our falling down, all our brokenness.  Instead of journeying to the death of self and of sin.  We wrestle with the adversary inside of us, our own willfulness.  And we fall down.  

We seem to think Lent is about falling down.  About collapsing in tears and remorse and regret and this overwhelming sense of sinfulness.  That’s the only way to move forward, we seem to think.  But maybe, like the One we follow, our Lenten opportunity is to not fall down.  For once.  We stand in the arms of the One who stood for us.  We stand and we walk with Him all the way to the cross.  

So, old Lao Tzu was right.  It’s not about falling down, not about stumbling.  It’s about standing and stepping.  It’s about taking the first step.  Putting our hands in His hand and taking that first step on the road to the cross.  It’s a long painful journey, but one worth taking.  Walk with me.

Shalom, 

Derek 

No One Except Jesus

A threshold day.  Or weekend.  A chance to mark a step from one reality into another.  When change happens we often miss it.  All of a sudden we look around and think to ourselves “Toto, I’ve a feeling we aren’t in Kansas anymore!”  And we aren’t.  The colors are different, the sounds are different, the feel is different.  How did we get here?  Who knows?  But we’re here, in this not-Kansas place and time.  And somehow we missed the doorway from that to this, the threshold from one life to another.  It is the way of things, it seems.

The shapers of the Christian calendar, however, seemed to think threshold experiences are important, for some reason.  We can’t go long throughout the Christian year without stumbling through a doorway, from one mode to another.  Tripping over a threshold from what was into what was or even what will be.  There is something about the faith that demands we pay attention.  We are asked to choose with eyes wide open.  And then to walk aware every step along the way.  Be alive to each moment, be present in each encounter.  

So, this weekend we step from Epiphany into Lent.  From an adoration of the light into an encounter with our own personal darkness.  And if we pay attention we will discover we are not as alone as we sometimes feel when we examine our darkness.  That the light that sustained us before, now lives in us, is not quite obscured by our own failings.  And that if we stay alert, we can navigate even the broken pavement of our own sinfulness.  Because we walk in the path of the one who goes before, carrying our cross.  At it’s best, most significant and most helpful, Lent is a difficult journey.  It involves a willingness to be honest, which a difficult task at the best of times.  But this honesty is self-directed.  We have to be honest with ourselves.  Honest in our assessment, honest in our helplessness, honest in our commitment to the path that rises out before us and our utter inability to walk that path on our own.  That kind of honesty is rare, to say the least.  So what did the framers of the Christian liturgical year tell us we needed for this?  Transfiguration.

Matthew 17:1-9 Six days later, Jesus took with him Peter and James and his brother John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves. 2 And he was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white. 3 Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with him. 4 Then Peter said to Jesus, "Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah." 5 While he was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, "This is my Son, the Beloved; with him I am well pleased; listen to him!" 6 When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. 7 But Jesus came and touched them, saying, "Get up and do not be afraid." 8 And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone. 9 As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, "Tell no one about the vision until after the Son of Man has been raised from the dead."

Transfiguration.  An odd little mystical moment on the top of a mountain witnessed by only a few. And those few were so bewildered by the event it was a kindness when they were told not to talk about it as they walked down the mountain.  But if they were troubled by the vision in an era when those things might not have been common, but certainly a part of the culture, we on the other hand would be questioning our sanity and looking for therapies or medications to remove the moment from our minds.  Such things don’t happen, we believe.  Lights and clouds and voices are signs of some instability, we are convinced.  Maybe it would help those simpletons in a more innocent age.  But we know better.  We know such a sight is a trick of the light, or a product of stress, or a reaction to medication, something we ate.  If we did see something like this we would close our eyes, rub them real hard and then count, maybe even turn away before opening them again.  Wouldn’t we?  

Of course we would.  No one sees visions these days.  No one experiences the light.  No one sees Jesus, glowing or not, with their eyes anyway.  Now Jesus is an idea to consider.  A concept to grasp. Or at best a history to learn.  So, lets look at the history Matthew records.

Six days later.  Later than what.  Later, after Peter’s confession.  Who do you say that I am? Jesus asked his disciples.  Peter jumps in with “You’re the Messiah, the Christ, the Anointed One!”  OK, he didn’t say three different things, but we hear three things, or more, from that one thing.  Christos.  He sounded so certain.  So confident.  Jesus pats him on the back, gives him a gold star and Peter beams ... metaphorically.  Orthodontic-ally.  Had the event ended there, it would been a highlight in Peter’s lifetime movie reel.  But Jesus goes on and says it’s going to get bad, going to get dark.  He decides to be open to them about the truth of his journey and the suffering to come.  He doesn’t hold back, doesn’t pull punches, and Peter can only take so much.  Peter says, “No way!  It isn’t going to happen.  You’ve got it wrong!!   This isn’t how it goes. Just stop, Jesus, just stop.”

Actually he doesn’t say all that.  Matthew says that Peter’s words were “God forbid it, Lord!  It won’t happen.”  But I think it was the same thing that he said before that got him the gold star.  “Christos!” This can’t be how the story goes, he thinks.  The anointed one doesn’t get His oil drenched head taken from him!  The Messiah isn’t squashed!  The Christ doesn’t descend into death.  That isn’t the narrative, that isn’t the script.  He doesn’t know what He’s talking about, thinks Peter.  Even when he gets rebuked.  Even when the Christos calls him Satan, the adversary.  He still mutters to himself, no freaking way.  He’s just confused, just fooling with us, just ... wrong.

Six days later they climb a mountain.  Did they draw straws to decide who got to go along on this field trip?  If they did, I’m pretty Jesus did some slight of hand to make sure Peter drew the right straw.  Maybe Peter was the whole reason it was planned.  Peter and the Zebedee boys who nodded along to everything Peter said.  Maybe it wasn’t a reward trip, but a remedial one.  The world’s highest woodshed.  Time out mountain.  

Once they arrived at the peak, there wasn’t any small talk.  It just happened.  IT happened.  The light-show.  The vision.  The ... whatever it was.  Matthew says “He was transfigured before them.” Just like that.  Like it happened every day or something.  Like He stood there and slipped off the human skin and let the God bones show through.  Easy as that.  Except He didn’t do it.  He was transfigured.  Angels maybe, like backstage dressers, reached up and pulled the dull and dirty human robe He wore and slipped His divine vestments back on.  I wonder if it felt comfortable to Him at that point, or whether He was more used to the everyday work clothes He’d been wearing for the past thirty plus years.  

This event, however, was not really for Him.  He wore the glory as comfortably as He wore the shame of humanity, and managed to glorify even that.  He was, that’s all we need to say, He was.  He was who He was.  No, the transfiguration was for them and not Him.  For them to see Him.  For them to know Him as much as their human brains would allow them to know Him.  They stumbled a little, trembled in their mountain climbing boots.  Peter cleared his throat and put his foot in his mouth. Again.  Let’s camp out, he says.  Let’s hang.  Here.  In the light and the cloud.  Settle in.  Bask in glory and wonder.  Uh, no.  Peter, this moment is the starting pistol, the train whistle as it pulls out of the station.  This is change for moving, not for staying the same, not for settling in but for moving on.  And it’s certainly not for going back to the good old days.  Nothing remains the same after the mount of transfiguration.  

And then, so they didn’t miss it, the Voice comes.  Telling them to pay attention.  Telling them to get moving.  Telling them to trust.  And that nearly killed them.  Flat out on the ground, a heart attack in the making.  Until they felt a gentle hand.  And they looked up and saw only Jesus.  I love that phrase from Matthew.  They saw no one except  Jesus.  What else could you possibly need?  How could you be better equipped, more prepared with anything else?  They saw no one except Jesus.

Open your eyes.  There is glory all around us, light and color and wonder and beauty.  But we have to want to see.  We have to set aside the skepticism that says there are no mysteries anymore, and lean into the real behind the reality we think we know.  The message of the Transfiguration is simple.  And that is: Jesus is trustworthy.  You can lean on Him.  You can trust in Him.  You can put your life in His hands.  Now, get up and don’t be afraid.  And everywhere you look, even in a messy world, when you seek a leader to follow, you will see no one except Jesus.

Shalom, 

Derek

Rain on the Righteous

59̊ at 1pm in the afternoon.  In the middle of February.  In Indiana.  And a forecast for mid sixties for the coming week.  Something seems ... wrong here.  Nice, a beautiful day to be sure, a blessing of spring in the heart of what is usually winter.  But I can’t but help and be uneasy.  You know how we are, expect the worst.  We’ll pay for this.  It can’t be this easy, this good, this blessed.  

We aren’t made for grace, it seems.  Or, maybe, to grab hold of an often misunderstand and neglected doctrine of the faith, maybe this is what sin has done to us.  Made us suspicious.  Made us live our lives waiting for the other shoe to drop.  We were created for grace, for blessing and wholeness and joy unbounded.  But something happened.  A fruit was eaten, a choice was made, or a history was lived that made us suspicious, made us enemies of those who were designed to be us, to be family, brothers and sisters.  They were designed to be a part of the rich tapestry of creation, in language and culture and color and shape and sound.  But now, they are enemies.  The other.  The ones we protect ourselves from.  The ones we build walls against.  The ones who hate us as much as we hate them. Maybe more, at least that is what we assume.

This is the world we have fallen into.  No sense romanticizing about it.  No sense burying our heads in the sand about it.  They are out to get us.  Aren’t they?  Of course they are.  They hate our way of life.  And we hate theirs in return.  Don’t we?  Of course we do.  For protection, if nothing else.  It only makes sense, we’ve got to keep what’s ours.  We’ve got to stay safe.  It is just the way it is. Let’s be real about it, can we?

Except then Jesus comes along and wants to change everything.  We’ve got this figured out, Jesus, don’t be messing with us.  Don’t be asking for something we can’t ... won’t do.  We understand you have to push, you have to challenge us.  That’s OK.  To a point.  But don’t go overboard.  OK? Whatdaya say?  Jesus?

Matthew 5:38-48 38 "You have heard that it was said, 'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.' 39 But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also; 40 and if anyone wants to sue you and take your coat, give your cloak as well; 41 and if anyone forces you to go one mile, go also the second mile. 42 Give to everyone who begs from you, and do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you. 43 "You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' 44 But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, 45 so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. 46 For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? 47 And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the Gentiles do the same? 48 Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect.

(Crickets chirping)

Very funny Jesus.  If anyone knows that we can’t be perfect, it would be you.  Right?  Are you trying to make fun of us?  Are you trying to make us feel inadequate?  Are you making some larger point here that we’re missing?  Because we got nothing.  Just years of struggle, pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps, doing our best, soldiering on, putting on our big girl panties, our big boy boots and all that stuff that we say that supposedly motivates us to try again.  To take that hill.  To climb every mountain.  And you know what?  It works.  To a degree.  We can be better, we can be more, when we expend a little effort.  We can be stronger, and more loving.  We can be smarter and kinder.  We can do that Jesus.  We have done that.  Regularly.  But we lose our grip on it so regularly.  It seems you’re never satisfied with small steps.  Never content with feeble efforts.  You seem to be calling us to an all or nothing approach.  Can’t you give us credit for the attempt and overlook the detail, overlook the shortcomings?  

And of course we know He does.  He doesn’t love us because of what we do or don’t do.  We know that.  He loves us for who we are.  Whether we’ve climbed the hill or not.  Whether we’ve loved our neighbor, let alone our enemy.  We are loved.  We don’t need to do anything to get it, we can’t earn it, or be worthy of it.  Except that we are made worthy by His love, by His choosing of us.  Even soaking wet.

No rain in the forecast today, but you can bet it’s not far off.  The rain falls.  When we’ve chosen to embrace the sunshine, to live in the light, the rain returns.  Regularly.  Our fears return, our suspicious nature takes hold of us, the desire to protect our own lives grab hold of us and we forget to live in Him, the One who promises to love us, to hold us.  We act as though we are on our own, our fate is in our own hands rather than in His.  We live as though the boundaries that we have drawn, the company we choose to keep, the colors we prefer is what defines us, rather than truth that our identity is in Christ.  

The Sermon on the Mount isn’t really an “ought” kind of sermon.  We ought to do this, we ought to think that.  No, it’s an is sermon.  This is what we are.  What we already are.  We are perfect in His love.  Perfect.  His love has been poured into us.  His vision has transformed our seeing.  His will has shaped our longing.  When we claimed Christ, that happened.  Be perfect, be the perfect instrument of God’s grace and love that you are.  That you are.

The problem is we don’t believe it.  We listen to too many voices.  We lean in too many directions. We succumb to too many fears.  We surrender the perfection we’ve been given to live in the brokenness we prefer.  It seems safer.  And it is.  In the terms we’ve defined for ourselves, in the short term, this world kind of safety, being wary of the stranger is a safer way to live.  But not a richer, not a deeper or more abundant way to live.  And that’s the invitation that Jesus is giving us in the Sermon on the Mount.

It’s not really a challenge to try harder, to be better bit by bit.  It is instead a call to accept grace, to get wet.  It’s going to rain, that’s the promise in these verses.  It’s going to rain, and we are going to get wet.  And we may think we don’t deserve it.  That we should always live in the sunshine and the warmth.  But it’s going to rain.  We’re going to get hurt.  We’re going to carry a wound.  Be disappointed.  Knocked down.  It’s going to rain.  So, the choice is not really how to keep ourselves safe.  The choice is really how will we live, rain or shine?  

Jesus says He came to bring us life, abundant, rich, satisfying life.  A perfect life.  When Wesley wrestled with this perfect idea, he decided it didn’t mean error free.  That won’t happen, he says. There’s too much we don’t know.  Too much that can get in our way.  Too much that trips us up in a messy world, a fallen world.  But in this fallen world there is the grace of God.  There is the light of Christ.  Perfection, Wesley argued, is not about doing everything right, but about wanting to.  About desiring the good for all.  About wanting to act in love - even when we don’t know what that is.  It’s about willing God’s will in every situation.  

The word we translate as perfect can also be translated as whole.  Be whole, as you Father is whole. Be complete, be mature (maybe Jesus is saying “grow up!”), be finished.  Be single-minded, focused on the goal of loving into wholeness.  Teleos.  That’s the word.  Let’s love like God.  Let’s choose, right now, in this moment in the history of the world, of our nation, let’s choose to love like God.  To see like God.  To risk like God.  

It is asking too much, I know that.  So did He.  But He asked anyway.  No, He didn’t ask.  He told, He invited, He revealed the secret to living the life we were created to live.  On this unseasonably warm and sunny day, He invited us to let it rain.  

Shalom, 

Derek

Let Your Word Be Yes

A busy day.  At Aldersgate, we hosted the district in an event titled “Back to Basics.”  Around 200 folks were expected to come and learn and grow together around the idea of becoming the church we were called to be, the church that is within us to be.  Built around the basics of being church, the participants were invited to consider just how we go about “Making Disciples of Jesus Christ for the Transformation of the World!”  That’s the mission statement of the United Methodist Church, but we don’t often stop and think about how we go about doing that exactly.  Fundamental, yet perhaps forgotten.  I’m sure it was a good event.

I say I’m sure because I wasn’t there.  Not because I didn’t think it was worth attending.  I attended the West District’s Back to Basics event last Saturday, in Terre Haute.  I even presented a workshop on taking a look at our Membership Vows to see what they say, to see what we promised to do, about making disciples and about being the church.  It was a fun exercise and I was on the schedule to do it again here.  Then I noticed that this is the same Saturday that I was supposed to be teaching in Indianapolis.  For many years now I’ve teaching in the Course of Study, which is the educational program for Local Pastors as they serve our churches.  A Local Pastor is a bridge position between laity and clergy.  They aren’t ordained they are commissioned for service.  They don’t always have a seminary degree.  But they attend the course of study which covers many of the same subject.  For at least 10 years I’ve been teaching the preaching course for the Course of Study.  And this was the first weekend of the new term.

So, I spent the day talking about preaching, instead of working on a sermon.  Ironic, I know.  Plus, I was hours away from my church talking about the basics of being the church in regard to the pastor’s role, while my church was hosting a conversation about the basics of being the church from the laity point of view.  Interesting symmetry.  All of this instead of concentrating on a passage about the basics of being a follower of Jesus before the church even came to be.

Matt. 5:21-37 21 "You have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, 'You shall not murder'; and 'whoever murders shall be liable to judgment.' 22 But I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment; and if you insult a brother or sister, you will be liable to the council; and if you say, 'You fool,' you will be liable to the hell of fire. 23 So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, 24 leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother or sister, and then come and offer your gift. 25 Come to terms quickly with your accuser while you are on the way to court with him, or your accuser may hand you over to the judge, and the judge to the guard, and you will be thrown into prison. 26 Truly I tell you, you will never get out until you have paid the last penny. 

27 "You have heard that it was said, 'You shall not commit adultery.' 28 But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart. 29 If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. 30 And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away; it is better for you to lose one of your members than for your whole body to go into hell. 

31 "It was also said, 'Whoever divorces his wife, let him give her a certificate of divorce.' 32 But I say to you that anyone who divorces his wife, except on the ground of unchastity, causes her to commit adultery; and whoever marries a divorced woman commits adultery. 

33 "Again, you have heard that it was said to those of ancient times, 'You shall not swear falsely, but carry out the vows you have made to the Lord.' 34 But I say to you, Do not swear at all, either by heaven, for it is the throne of God, 35 or by the earth, for it is his footstool, or by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the great King. 36 And do not swear by your head, for you cannot make one hair white or black. 37 Let your word be 'Yes, Yes' or 'No, No'; anything more than this comes from the evil one.

Whoa, slow down there Jesus.  I mean rules are one thing, but this, well, this goes way deeper.  This is moving from preaching into meddling.  Don’t you think?  I mean it is not just what we do that matters, but what we think, how we feel that seems to matter to Jesus.  That’s a bit much.  A bit intrusive, really.  I mean who can really control thoughts?  Things just pop into our heads.  We’re conditioned to think certain ways.  Right?  It’s not really our fault.  Our brother does something that he knows we don’t like, and he does it intentionally, most likely, trying to get a reaction from us, trying to see if we will stand up for ourselves.  And so we do, we have to, right?  We have to stand up for ourselves and get back at the little twerp for making us mad.  So we do.  But, I mean, we don’t, but we do, sort of.  Nothing bad, I mean, really bad.  We don’t kill him, or even permanently damage him.  But he’s got to know the boundaries, right?

And then that second one.  Hey, God, you made us this way.  Attracted to the one we think is beautiful.  We can’t help it really.  We’re drawn.  We’re helpless.  It just happens.  Surely you can’t be blamed for a stray thought, right?  A really nice, but random, out of nowhere thought.  A what if?  Or how about?  Or suppose it was a deserted island, or if you were the last person on earth, that kind of thing.  You know ...

And there’s the problem Jesus would say as he looked you right in the eye and raised an eyebrow. Truly random thoughts are dismissed as quickly as they arise.  Truly emotional responses fade away without a rational thought.  But that’s not how we deal with “random” thoughts or physical reactions. We tend to dwell on them, to nurture them.  To play them over and over in our minds until they become second nature to us, until the object - and the person we are angry at or lustful toward stops being a subject and become an object - until the object can’t be thought of in any other way.  We’ve killed our brother in our hearts, because he is no longer our brother but the object of anger and scorn and name-calling.  Read the passage as a progression.  It gets worse and worse.  So why not put it back together while it can be put back together?  Why not get over it?  Just let it pass through unremarked, unadorned, un-contemplated as though it wasn’t real, it wasn’t there.  

Notice that the first two come from the ten commandments and the third “you heard...but I say” comes from the statutes.  And it is the most confusing.  And I don’t propose in the space allowed here to explain it.  Since I don’t have an easy interpretation.  Except to say, that when human relationships are involved our actions, our decisions, our choices have implications and those implications can cause hurt even if unintended.  Especially when subjects become objects.  So pay attention.

Which is where we end up.  Paying attention.  To our words in particular.  These are the basics, says Jesus.  Let our words come from our heart, come from our soul.  Let our words honor the other.  Let our words reflect the source of our hope.  Let our word be yes.  Yes to faith and integrity, yes to hospitality and inclusion, yes to community and service.  Let our words go back to the basics.  Let our yes be yes, our no be no.  Can’t get any more basic than that.

Shalom, 

Derek

Hiding the Light

February 5th is my mom’s birthday.  Was I should say.  It was her birthday.  Do you still have birthdays in eternity?  The counting would get impossible, I would think.  And every day is like a birthday when you’re in the presence of the Light that loves.  So, probably not.  But we remember.  Here in this life, the life we shared with her for most of our lives, we remember that this day is special.  It is her day, the day of her.  As if every day wasn’t of her.  As if somehow her birthday is a different grief, a different experience of the loss of her.  I was asked recently if I wouldn’t rather be somewhere else than where I currently serve.  If perhaps the grief I carry would be less in a new place, the memories of what I’ve gone through here could be set aside in the transition.  Which frankly, seemed like a terribly naive understanding of grief and struggle and loss.  Like you could run away from it.  Like, yes I was in this place when this hurt happened so going to a new place would remove the hurt.  

We carry with us, wherever we go, the accumulated hurts and joys that make up our lives.  We carry with us the conflicts engaged and the love shared no matter where we are.  I remember conversations I had as a child, as a youth, throughout my life, they remain with me, these encounters, for good or for ill.  I am who I am because of the light that has shown on my life.  I am flavored by the salt that has been sprinkled on me and over me, sometimes by surprising people in breathtaking moments.  Or as Elphaba sang to Glenda, I am who I am because of the handprints on my heart from those who flowed into and sometimes out of my life. My mom is but one, brightest perhaps, but only one of those lights that shown.

Matthew 5:13-20 13 "You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot. 14 "You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. 15 No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. 16 In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven. 17 "Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. 18 For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. 19 Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven. 20 For I tell you, unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. 

Jesus turns, in the sermon on the mount, from blessing to instruction.  From beautitude, with a surprising hope and a sharp warning, to a call to live into the life we’ve received.  That’s what the rest of the sermon is about.  Claiming a legacy, living out the gift that has been given.  And it isn’t presented as a possibility, but rather as a reality.  You are the salt of the earth.  You are the light of the world.  Not you could be if you do it right, or you might be if you choose to do so.  But, you are.  You are.  Already are.  You are shining, you are seasoning.  So why not be aware of it?  Why not choose your flavor?  Why not select your lumens?

Certainly there is a choice to be made here, I don’t mean to imply that it’s all done and nothing needs to be done on our part.  He wouldn’t be telling us this if it were automatic.  If it were built in and we don’t need to engage anything to make it happen.  No, something is built in, the mechanism is at work.  But we get to decide something.  We get to choose what kind of light we want to shine on others.  We get to choose what flavor we give to God’s world.

Which is another point to note.  God’s world.  Thankfully, we’re in Matthew’s Gospel and not in John, or in the letters of Paul.  In those latter works the world comes across as the antithesis of the kingdom.  And that our main responsibility is to stay clean from the dirty world that surrounds us, to stay aloof and unattached.  But in Matthew, the world is God’s, it is the arena within which   we are called to live and work.  It is where we encounter God at work and then roll up our sleeves and choose to work alongside, helping the kingdom be experienced in the reality of this life.  So, you are the light of the world, not some heavenly other-worldly place, not some reality that we conjure up in our minds and souls longing to be taken out of here so at last we let the light shine without fear, because all there will be is light.  No, we are light here where there are shadows, where there is darkness, that is where the light is needed.  And where light is possible.  We’ve seen it.  We’ve been led by it, redeemed by it, loved by that light. And that happened here in this world.

So, get out of your bushel!  Get out of your bucket.  Let your light shine.  Get connected with those who don’t know what you know, who slink around in the shadows because the light seems to painful, too unwelcoming, too demanding.  And get invested in their lives, help them find their way into the glorious relationship with Christ that you experience every day.  Let your light shine!

Yet, we hesitate, we wonder.  What gives us the right to help shape someone else’s life?  What do we know about that life so that we can share it, we can shine it in another’s life?  Wouldn’t it be better to just make sure we’ve got it right?  Isn’t my real responsibility to myself, my faith, my walk with Christ?  After all “work out your own salvation with fear and trembling” Paul wrote.  Thanks Paul (Philippians 2:12).  And if there is fear and trembling in working out my own, there must be stark raving terror in working out someone else’s.  Right?  

Except that’s how this thing works.  No one works out their own salvation, we are in this together.  We are influenced and we influence.  That’s how it is supposed to be.  That verse from Paul was never meant to be a call for spiritual isolationism.   It is more a recognition that there is a process here.  That we are patterning our life after the One we follow.  And He tells us that the pattern is to be found in the law.  Don’t give up on the law, that’s why he shifts into that here.  We’re not done with the law, it’s there as a pattern, as a model.  It’s role too is to help us know when we’re off track, not to drop a hammer, not to point a finger or cast into outer darkness.  Because none of us are good enough by that measure.  We can’t earn our salvation by the law.  But law draws a picture of what life ought to be like in God’s kingdom. It casts a vision of what the community could look like if we are all letting our light shine, if we are all guided by the Spirit.

So take the law seriously, says Jesus, let it help you figure out what it means to be the light of the world, to be the salt of the earth.  Pay attention to how the law tells us to live in community, caring for others, welcoming the stranger, sheltering the refugee, building up the body, comforting the grieving, binding up the broken.  The law draws a picture of what living in the light looks like.  But it’s better if we don’t just read the law, but see it at work.  We’ve all had the light shined on us by those who have gone before.  And we are better because of it.

So, Happy Birthday mom, you were the light that shined the brightest in my life.  The one who showed me how to live, the one who showed me how to love.  And though I miss you terribly, that light is not gone.  Because I have it now.  And I pray every day that I am letting it shine, just like you did.  Just like He did.

Shalom,

Derek