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

The Things Prepared

Just a quickie this week, I promise.  Mostly because I am still recovering from an upper respiratory thing (I love the precise medical definitions) that has knocked me for a loop this week.  Partly because Pastor Chris is preaching this week and he has put the work into this passage and I haven’t.  And a little bit because La Donna is at a UMW meeting since yesterday and I’m nominally in charge of a sick teenager, a dog with an eye infection, a cat with some sort of intestinal thing, and an on-going debate about whether there is enough snow to shovel or to just let it go in this cock-eyed, poor excuse of a winter, predicted to be upper 50's in a couple of days!

Such is life, eh?  You’ve got your list, I am sure.  What’s piling up on your desk, or your floor, or kitchen counter?  What’s screaming to be done, at the top of your to do list? Or at the top of your I wish I had time to do list?  Or maybe when we are snowed in and I’m forced to do list?  We are pulled in so many directions we hardly know which way is up any more. 

And we think the best we can hope for is to squeeze in one more thing, make a little more room, build bigger barns ... I mean calendars.  Or barns.  For more stuff.  Then ...  Leave it to Jesus to poke us in the eye with it.

Luke 12:15-21  And he said to them, "Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one's life does not consist in the abundance of possessions."  16 Then he told them a parable: "The land of a rich man produced abundantly.  17 And he thought to himself, 'What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?'  18 Then he said, 'I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods.  19 And I will say to my soul, 'Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.'  20 But God said to him, 'You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?'  21 So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God."

Not the same thing, you say?  He was talking about amassing stuff.  We were talking about being really busy.  Doing important ... stuff.  Is it really that different?  Drowning in stuff or in responsibilities, losing ourselves in the process?  Does Jesus just hate stuff, or does he dislike what it is doing to us?  We are defined by our stuff, or by our jobs.  We don’t gather in professional meetings and show off our latest acquisitions, but we trot out our calendars - electronic and otherwise - just to show how busy we are.  How important we are.  We can’t turn off our cell phones because we are so indispensable that the world would grind to a halt if we weren’t there to manage it.  Or maybe because we are afraid that it would become known just how unimportant we really are, so we keep trying to justify our worth by working ourselves to death.

When I think about it, whether we are talking about stuff or about activity, it seems to me that what Jesus is concerned about is our attempt to define ourselves.  He seems to believe that this is God’s job.  Our job is to live into that definition.  Our worth, our value is determined by God, and it is inestimable.  We diminish ourselves when we use any other scale. 

In the end, we might still be doing the same things, Jesus isn’t against responsibility, isn’t against activity.  He just wants us to keep perspective, to keep hold of our true selves as beloved children of God.  Asking “what is our life for,” or “whose life is it anyway” might be a way to keep us on track.  Maybe he is asking us to spend a little less time preparing our calendars or our inventories and a little more time preparing our hearts to live the life he has given us.  In Him was life.  But is it in us?

Shalom,
Derek

Life Saving Surgery

How long can you stare at a blank screen before you come up with something to write?  I think I’m going for the record today. ... The problem is it matters.  I know that sounds pathetic.  Either it always matters or there isn’t any point in doing it.  Or in the greater scheme of things some words on a page aren’t going to amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.  So why get all bothered by trying to find the right ones?

I don’t know, to be honest.  Except that these next three weeks are a hinge upon which the plans for the whole year swing.  If I don’t get this right, then the impact of our “Year of Taking Jesus Seriously, Take Two” will be diminished.  And I realize that I may be the only one who cares about that.  But I do care.  For some God knows why reason, I do care.

The title of the three week series leading us up to the beginning of Lent is “In Him was Life.”  It comes from the prologue to the Gospel of John.  And it is, I am beginning to believe, the core of Jesus message to the church.  If we could come to grips with this message, the message of life, as Jesus presents it, we would be well on the way to being the church, being the body that he calls us to be.  It is because we have missed this, or obscured it, or moved it from its place of prime importance, that we are foundering on the rocks of doubt and despair.  It is because we have lost our grip on this essential truth that we are a shadow of ourselves at work in the world today, diminished influence, shrinking numbers, hesitant voices, empty shells.

Whoa, dude, chill out.  I know, it sounds ... well ... like I should take a pill and lie down for a while.  Don’t think I haven’t tried that.  And to make matters worse, I chose to open with a passage that doesn’t really explain it.  This life thing.  This gift that Jesus came to give, this thing that would make us never hungry and never thirsty.  This life that would so fill us that questions would recede into the background and doubts would be squeezed out. 

Instead I chose a passage that tells us just how important it is.  This one, remember?

Matthew 18:1-10  At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, "Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?"  2 He called a child, whom he put among them,  3 and said, "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.  4 Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.  5 Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.  6 "If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were fastened around your neck and you were drowned in the depth of the sea.  7 Woe to the world because of stumbling blocks! Occasions for stumbling are bound to come, but woe to the one by whom the stumbling block comes!  8 "If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away; it is better for you to enter life maimed or lame than to have two hands or two feet and to be thrown into the eternal fire.  9 And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and to be thrown into the hell of fire.  10 "Take care that you do not despise one of these little ones; for, I tell you, in heaven their angels continually see the face of my Father in heaven.

Being greatest?  Is that what this is all about?  Is that the hinge, the key, the big deal that is causing all this angst today?  That’s what draws our attention, I’ll give you that.  That is the question that disciples asked one day after a hard day of not getting what he was talking about.  Befuddlement is hard work, let me tell you.  This isn’t something that Jesus comes up with.  It isn’t a teaching point he planned on.  It came because of the question.  Who is the greatest?, they asked him, hoping the answer was going to be “you guys!”  They had their “we’re number one” foam fingers hidden behind their backs ready for the celebration.  Which became pointing fingers when they got the answer.  It always trips us up, that question.  We want to be special, we want to be first in line, we want it to be all about us.  But it isn’t.  Which is what makes this faith thing such a hard sell these days.  When hair color commercials tell you that you are worth it, prayers of confession, of unworthiness don’t go down so well.

But no, that isn’t what this is all about, this time.  Maybe it is the children, then.  We like children, we like talking about them, about sentimentalizing them, about thinking about Jesus holding them, blessing them.  We like that.  Cute, we think.  Better than cute, it is sweet.  And filed with all the other sweet things that we look at from time to time when we need a sweet fix, like baby bunnies and newborn horses trying to stand on their skinny legs, rainbows and precious moments figurines.  Ignoring completely that Jesus didn’t bring a child into the circle to be sweet, but to turn their worldview upside-down. 

But no, that’s not it either.  Look closer.  Originally, I only picked two verses for this week.  Verses 8 & 9.  "If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away; it is better for you to enter life maimed or lame than to have two hands or two feet and to be thrown into the eternal fire. And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out and throw it away; it is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and to be thrown into the hell of fire.”

Oh, you are saying, that’s what this about.  Hell.  Or avoiding hell.  Fire insurance.  We’re about fire insurance.  Yeah, that’ll bring them back to the pews.  Right.

Wrong.  Look again.  This is about life.  About living, not about dying, or final destinations.  This about passion, about wanting what Christ has to offer so much that you would do anything to have it.  It is better to enter life, says Jesus, enter life.  Don’t let anything, he argues, get in the way, drag you down, distract you, from the fulness that he has to offer. 

Jesus sits with the woman at the well and says “if you drink from the water I give you, you will never be thirsty again.”  Never!  Never?  Why are we still thirsty?  Why does it still feel like there is something missing from our lives?  Why does this abundance thing, this joy pressed down and spilling over, this water gushing up to eternity, seems to be ... lacking?  Less than advertized.

Oh, we’re used to that, I guess.  Used to things not living up to the press.  Things disappointing us.  It looked so good in the commercial.  It read so well in the advertizement.  But it never – whatever it might be in the moment - it never lives up to the sell.  So, we’ve lowered our expectations.  We’ve decided to not want so much.  Not pay so much.  Not sacrifice so much.  Learn to be satisfied with less. 

Which is great when it comes to the stuff all around us.  That stuff will never fill the longing in your soul.  Will never bring contentment to your heart.  Will never challenge your mind.  Will never build up your real strength.  But when it comes to life, the life on offer from Christ, the life that is eternal, the life that is abundant, then never settle for less.  Because less is fit for the fire.

The fire, not hell so much, as the garbage heap.  Not a place of torment as much as a place of emptiness, of uselessness.  “Throw it away” describes so much of our culture.  But please, Jesus implores us, let it not describe you.  Or us.  The church, the body of Christ.  The beloved of God.  What are you willing to surrender, to cut off, in order to know this life?  An arm or a leg?  Or what?  What is in your way?  What have you put in God’s way that prevents the outpouring of a life of meaning and joy and purpose?  What needs to be cut off? 

Shalom,
Derek

Heart Questions

Sixty?  In January?  Sixty degrees?  And then twenties next week?  I’m lost. Kinda makes you fall back on that classic question: Who’s in charge here?  A default query when things are falling apart.  When nothing makes sense, you are inclined to ask who got us here, teetering on this brink, up this creek, wandering in this wilderness?  Who’s in charge here?

That’s not just a random question.  It is what provides the backdrop to our text for this week.  It isn’t the main point, I don’t think anyway, but it is the undercurrent, the sub-text to this story.  It is the background noise that sometimes makes it hard to hear the symphony of grace and of love that issues forth from this watery yet fiery moment down by the riverside.

The baptism of Jesus is the second of three moments of epiphany that we celebrate in season.  The season of Epiphany begins with a dubious pack of foreigners struck by a star and ends with a collection of Jesus’ “best and the brightest” stunned by a transfiguration and a voice in a cloud.  In all three there is this sense that we are merely spectators, watching something just beyond our understanding.  Feeling our hearts pound with hope and with joy though if asked we can’t really put on finger on what it was that struck us so.  But just watching from a distance fills an emptiness we didn’t even know was there.  Answers a question we didn’t know we were asking.

Watch again as he comes down to the water.

Luke 3:15-17, 21-22  As the people were filled with expectation, and all were questioning in their hearts concerning John, whether he might be the Messiah,  16 John answered all of them by saying, "I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.  17 His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire." ...  Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened,  22 and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."

What is interesting about Luke’s depiction of the event is that the baptism hardly figures in at all.  The verses we skip serve to usher John the Baptist off the stage in favor of Jesus who now begins his ministry.  But after John’s bluster, the next thing we know is that the baptism had already taken place.  We missed it.  Ain’t that always the way?  We come for the show and by the time we got our seats, it had already happened.  “Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus had also been baptized...”  Darn it! 

You’d think that if Luke had a clue about the centuries of struggle the church has had about the detail of baptism, he might have spent a little more time with it.  We don’t know if Jesus was immersed or sprinkled.  We don’t know which liturgy John prefers, or if the vows that Jesus made were the same as the ones we make or not.  We don’t know if John was properly credentialed or if Jesus followed the rules.  We don’t know who signed the certificate.  We need to know these things, don’t we? 

Luke doesn’t seem to think so.  “Jesus had also been baptized...”  That’s the sum total of the description here.  If Luke is saying that the methodology isn’t what is important, then what is?  If the methodology of baptism isn’t what we are supposed to be asking about here, then what is the question?  The fact that all four gospels spend some time wrestling with the relative position of Jesus vs John is a hint that at least one important question is “who’s in charge here?”

The people gathered on the riverbank and wondered.  They hoped, they leaned into the moment, into the phenomenon that was John the B.  They watched him wade in the shallow waters and call for a change, for real change.  Quit playing games, he said, quit fooling yourself.  Get down to the hard work of living right.  There is more to this life than status and power and riches.  Get right, or get left out!

Maybe it was his confidence as much as his content, but they began to wonder.  Maybe he is the one.  Luke says that in their hearts they were questioning.  Not their heads.  This wasn’t an intellectual pondering of possibilities.  No, this was a heart thing.  They were leaning in, they were wondering, they were hoping.  They had begun to recognize that they were indeed sheep without a shepherd and they were seeing some possibilities in the one who churned up the waters of the Jordan River.  Is the one?  The one we’ve been waiting for, the one we’ve been praying for? 

Maybe they began to murmur to one another, maybe someone shouted it out loud, or maybe he just saw the hunger in their eyes, but somehow John heard the question and jumped in to answer.  Not me, he declared, as forcefully as he had called for repentance.  No, someone bigger, someone stronger, someone with a shovel who will toss you up into the wind to rip away the empty husks of your sinfulness, someone who will see down into the depths of your soul.  No, it’s not me, said John.  But watch out, the one is on his way.

Or already in line.  That’s Luke’s subtle point.  No grand entrance.  No miraculous appearance.  No, not him, not Jesus.  When the people have been baptized, and when Jesus had been baptized too.  Too?  Jesus shouldn’t be a “too.”  An also-ran.  A member of the crowd.  It is Jesus, for heaven’s sake!    Why is Jesus even there in the first place?  That’s the question that has puzzled biblical scholars since the beginnings of the church.  John was preaching a baptism of repentance.  But we know that Jesus was without sin.  So, why would he need to be there?  What’s going on here?

Are you the one?  Yes, but not the one you want.  Instead he decides to be the one you need.  The one who stands in line with all the other broken ones.  The one who takes his place among the bruised and the hurting.  The one who wades into the mess of the world and buries himself in it.  The one who climbs up out of the anxiety of living in this world and falls to his knees.  That’s the one John was ranting and raving about.  It isn’t a shovel he carries, it is a cross, and by that implement we are all cast into the winds of the Spirit to be transformed.  But instead of condemnation we hear those words that he heard, “You are my Beloved.  With you I am well-pleased.”

Who’s in charge here?  We live our lives asking that question.  Most of the time we think it is us.  We are in charge.  In charge of our own lives, our own wills.  Yet, in our saner moments we know we need help.  We know we need someone to follow.  We need an example, a guide, a hope.  We need a savior.

Who’s in charge here?  An epiphany question.  A baptism question.  Your question.  And mine.

Who’s in charge here?  Hear O Israel, the Lord your God, the Lord is one.  You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.  And the second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.

Who’s in charge here?

Shalom,
Derek