In a break with tradition, I'll share my Christmas sermon from the past week. My sermon for the coming Sunday will work its way here sometime this week, but it'll come easier if I unburden myself of the first part of Christmas.
And of course--Merry Christmas to you all. I hope joy surprises you, or at least that peace finds you, during our festival of Light.
So: Christmas. "The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us."
Let's start by talking a bit about Buddhism. Buddhism has several major divides within it as well as numerous minor divisions. These divisions are both a little alike and totally unlike our Christian 'denominations', so the comparison to these is mostly mistaken. But I want I to talk for a moment about one of these major divisions. I won't wander into the finer points of it, or the history of it, and besides, I'm hardly a Buddhism scholar. Yet, spending a few moments on one of our neighbors may well help us see something about ourselves.
One of the primary divisions in Buddhism is between the Mahayana and the Theravada (I'll have you know that Google's spell check recognizes both of those terms--hooray for the modern age--although it still won't recognize 'lectionary,' an oversight I continue to find utterly bizarre). 'Mahayana' means something like "the greater vehicle," and 'Theravada' means something like "teachings of the elders." However, Mahayana has a pejorative term for the Theravada, which it will be helpful for a moment to learn. The Mahayana often call the Theravada approach the Hinayana, meaning "the lesser vehicle."
The difference is this: the older form of Buddhism, the Theravada, argues that following the Buddha means using his teachings as a kind of 'vehicle,' quite literally a boat to take us to another shore. Upon reaching it, we have obtained Enlightenment, a kind of existence beyond here. The teachings of Buddha are precisely for this--a kind of vehicle to be Enlightened, which means escaping the world of suffering and illusion. The Mahayana, however, see the Buddha's teaching as a kind of greater vehicle. It is not the case that the Buddha's teachings simply carry us to another shore, beyond this suffering world, and we leave the boat on the shore. Rather, say the Mahayana, the Buddha's teachings are a vehicle that we never abandon. They are a kind Great Vehicle, and they are both the vehicle for carrying across the river and the place to which we shall arrive. Where the Theravada talk about becoming Arhats, the fancy name for the Enlightened, the Mahayana say that we are beginning the trek to becoming Buddha's ourselves by joining the Great Vehicle.
So see the difference? The Theravada see the teachings of Buddha to be a temporary vehicle; the Mahayana see the teachings of the Buddha to be both vehicle and Enlightenment. Which Buddhist school is right? That debate belongs to someone within the tradition--but seeing this long-time debate in our neighbor can offer us something.
Now, let's talk about Christianity. We don't use those words, but perhaps we should use them to refer to ourselves. Parts of our Christian family have argued, both overtly and covertly, that this world is a cycle of suffering to be escaped. Christ's teachings form a vehicle for us to lead us neatly into another world. They are here to shelter us, protect us, make us grow up, and ultimately preserve our souls for the afterlife. Notice that, in this sense, there are Theravada Christians who are extremely Roman Catholic in an archetypal, Middle Ages kind of way, and others who are extremely Protestant in a new school evangelical type. Many people have criticized Christianity for this kind of worldview, and often rightly so.
Many today believe this to be the case--Christ is the boat to carry us safely into the afterworld. To be a good Christian is to have a perfect moral life, quite literally not to rock the boat. The world is a hostile place, a foreign land, and the ways of the world can stain us, ruin us, destroy us. No good comes from it. We are to cross the raging river of this reality with our heads down, because this reality is nothing but rapids and only Christ's steady hand at the tiller can guide us safely to heaven, a place without rapids, a place without danger.
However, as we celebrate Christmas, I cannot help but be mindful that this is not faith of the Incarnation. Christmas teaches us exactly the opposite lesson: namely, that we are to be Mahayana Christians, if the term makes sense.
You see, when God took the form of a human, of Christ, it changes everything, quite literally everything. If God and the world have met together in one person, the world--the whole universe--has been touched in an irrevocable way. If we needed only a lesser vehicle, a prophet would have done just as well, someone to teach us perfect tools for keeping out the world. If Christ came to save, to drag us up from death, it was not as a lesser vehicle, a thing that was only good to shelter us from the darkness and the water. Christ has come to sanctify the world, to heal a wound we can only vaguely understand. Christ has come to invite us up into the life of God, the self-sufficient life of the Trinity. Christ is a greater vehicle, both carrier and shore, beginning and end.
This means that we are not called to keep our heads down until we reach a perfect place with clouds. It means that heaven is not the other shore. Heaven has begun in its first fruit in us, the the community following Christ and inspired by the Spirit. It is not shown perfectly--5 minutes at coffee hour will reveal that. But day after day, surprising healing happens. Day after day, people become more like Christ, learning to see as he saw. . Christ is different from the world, but the world is not altogether different from Christ. Christ is different from us, but we are not altogether different from Christ. This world is passing away because it will be reborn in its perfection. We have died to ourselves because the Holy Spirit has begun her work in us and needed room to begin that resurrection.
So, what does this mean for us at Christmas-time, all this lengthy business about Mahayana Christians? It means many things, but for this season, I will say this. This Christmas, consider: no thing is wholly evil. Santa Claus is good--and I hope he visited everyone with things that inspired much thanksgiving. Christmas trees are good--foci of family life and light. Eggnog, the bourbon kind, is surely good, inspiring good cheer and happy palates. And maybe more importantly: we are never wholly evil. No thing we can do irreparably separates from God's love. This means, too, that no thing irreparably separates our neighbors from God's love, and we're called to mirror that love of neighbor.
And: if the world isn't wholly evil, perhaps for a little while, 12 days or so, we might remember that the light shone in the darkness, and darkness did not overcome it. Perhaps we might smile not despite the world, but in the world, with the world, at the love that is drawing it still. The Word dwelt among us, and it changed everything, began the long process of moving all created reality closer into the heart of God. We might remember that through the mess of our lives, despite that mess and in the midst of that mess and precisely because of that mess, God is drawing us on up into the divine life.
In other words, perhaps we might remember that our joy is not accidental. Joy is not a byproduct. Joy is not a thing only other people experience. Joy is not a thing reserved for later, on another shore. Joy is a thing that is for now, for the present divine life surrounding us. The divine reality pervades this reality.
Joy is now.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Inside/Outside
Advent 4 in the RCL: Luke 1:26-38
Let us begin with a short discussion that takes us a little afield. I often think of Zoo Story, the play by Edward Albee, which contains the line: "Sometimes, you have to go a long way out of your way, to come back a short distance the right way." This may be one of those occasions.
So: I don't feel like I belong in church.
I have had the unusual privilege of touring congregations lately, visiting and exploring and seeing what they are about. And again and again I'm discovering something: I don't feel like I belong in church.
Perhaps part of the reason is that, about half the time, I can slip into a new church and have no one speak to me. Don't misunderstand--I don't try to avoid people. I even stick out in a crowd, partly because I'm a little tall and I'm often the only person in the room in their 20s or 30s. I tend to sit toward the back because I'm usually late. I participate actively in the service--worship is fun, after all--and I don't usually bother to open the order of service because I know it. I sing confidently, if not always beautifully, and if the hymn has a good tenor line, I hunt and peck until I find it. But about half the time, no one speaks to me--perhaps at the peace, those nearby will shake my hand and mutter something or other. However, being ignored is, for me, the smaller problem.
The bigger problem is that I have so little to connect to in the worship services. Now, it's true, I love liturgy and singing and preaching. But, where I have been (here and all over the country) few people sing in the congregations, small or big, racially diverse and un-. At a guess, roughly 90% of the sermons I've heard were bad, sometimes because they lacked a central point, sometimes because they were irrelevant, and once because I saw someone snowball every bad sermon technique into 28 minutes of non-stop torture. Most congregations seem bored to be there--that's the feeling in the air, whether they feel that way in their selves or not (I hope they don't feel that way). As for me, I have a terrific thirst for meaning and gospel at this time. I want to know more about God, contemplate God in silence, speak with God about many things. But when I visit a church, I mostly feel the distinct sensation that I don't belong--I'm too young, too thoughtful, too much wanting to express my individual voice, too much wanting to hear others.
I've tried to think of an image of this experience. Here's one for you--I like it, so follow it through. It's like being 15 and entering a nursing home where you've come to visit your grandmother. It's not that there's anything wrong with nursing homes, at least in principle. Older folks need care at certain times in their lives, and sometimes families or the people themselves cannot care for them as they had hoped at other stages.
But as a 15 year old, even knowing those things, even having come to visit your grandmother whom you've loved your whole life, the nursing home is most emphatically a place where you do not belong. It smells funny. No one speaks your language. People often ignore you, or when they do speak to you, you can't tell if they're really talking to you or someone from their past they've projected on top of you (this happens to me in almost every church). If you spend much time there, the nursing home is incredibly boring. The actions of those working there seem perfunctory but organized, following a calendar you can see on the wall (filling socks for the homeless on Wed; Friday is bingo night!) but that has no relationship to your calendar. People shake your hand your hand when you enter and leave, and everyone comments on how sharp you look and wonders where you go to school, but no one really sees you. You'd go there to visit your grandmother--it's the best place to see her. But you wouldn't stay. You wouldn't want to go back. It would be something to be tolerated as part of 'grandmother-visiting.'
And by the image, I do not mean that churches are full only of the elderly. Often, the younger adults and middle aged are the strongest nursing-home participants. Worse, many of the churches that I have seen that claim to be welcoming, or relevant, or hip, or young, are worse than the others. They're like elitist nursing homes, where if you feel like you don't connect, it must be because the problem is you.
Now, while all of this does make me question my call to be in church, I do love church. I love the liturgy, the scripture, the sacraments, the Holy Spirit of the whole affair. I connect to those things even as I feel like I don't belong, so I manage. But I do manage even while I feel alienated. And sometimes, I wonder whether I could recommend church to anyone I know outside the church. I don't feel like I can, not in good conscience. If a friend visited and said: it was like being part of a bizarre and ancient social experiment in ostracizing foreigners, I couldn't help but agree. I long for community and church that is engaging, thoughtful, energetic, contemplative, heart-filled. I well know that this doesn't happen every Sunday in any community, but you think it'd have to happen sometimes. Or that that kind of community would at least be a goal. Mostly, folks seem content when I visit church.
So, why such a long reflection on this experience? Partly because I'm always curious if others feel this way, and I suspect that others have and maybe even for different reasons. Perhaps this will spur some reflection on our practices. But mostly because I want to share a bit how an insider, like me, can feel like an outsider. I want to show that someone who is quite privileged, who is in the inner circle, can also not belong, can want something that is entirely outside my power. I suspect many of you have had similar experiences--being both an insider, and outsider.
Because it is in that insider/outsider split that I relate best to Mary. It's the theme that dominates her life. In our lesson today, we hear that great emotional story, the call of Mary to be the mother of Christ. The story is so emotional that most hymns on it are operatic, Ave Maria, flying all over the scale in various harmonies as with these words whole worlds move and are changed. We hear Mary say: but how can this be, for I am a virgin? Now, when we hear this, we think mostly about sex. How can Mary conceive a son without sex?
But, if we were to read the text more closely, I think we would find that sex is not the important thing here. The problem is not a mechanical/biological one, the question of where sperm is going to come from in the operation. The real question Mary is asking is this: Gabriel lets her know that her son will be Son of the Most High. Mary's objection is not that she hasn't had sex. It's that she's just a human, a 15 year old who suddenly feels way out of her depth. What does she know about raising a child? What does she know about raising a child to become royalty? What does she know about raising a child who is God? Not much, probably, to all three questions.
But Gabriel promises that God will carry this through, overshadow her, and make the thing work out. And so, she agrees.
She begins the story as an insider and an outsider: she is a child of Israel, a chosen people. But she is also an outsider--she lives in a country under imperial rule, and so she has become a foreigner in her own land. She is from a chosen people, but she is also a woman, lacking in many of the things that being 'chosen' should bring because of her gender.
By the end of our story, Mary has become a peculiar kind of insider with God, party to all kinds of information most others do not know--she joins Elizabeth and Zechariah. But she has also become an outsider, an unwed pregnant teenager, a "condition" even less welcome in her society than ours. She sees the heart of things, but she is an outsider.
And the theme will continue throughout her life. When prophecies are spoken at her son's circumcision, she will hear both of the salvation coming to everyone and of the sword that will pierce her own soul She will be, in her own way, a follower of her son, and yet spurned as her son proclaims that real families are made by faith and not by blood. She will be at the crucifixion, watching from a distance. Insider, and outsider.
That is the message we hear today, the complex way Mary is both insider and outsider. In the world but not of it, her son will say. We hear the ways that we as Christians have become insiders to the salvation that is coming, to the forgiveness given, to the reconciliation and making new of all things, to the great acts of goodness and kindness perpetrated throughout our world. We are witnesses and participants in resurrection. But we are also witnesses of and participants in crucifixion, seers and perpetrators of the great evils of this world.
So today, we hear Mary's story and know that it is our story. Swords in souls and new life from the dead, crucifixion and a kingdom of peace without end, and not one without the other. No wonder that, after her son is born, Mary sees all the things around her and ponders them in heart.
Christmas will be here shortly, and there will be plenty of time and space for the good news of great joy that is coming. We can look forward very much to rejoicing in those days. But for a short while longer, it is still Advent, and we stand with Mary. We too are both insiders and outsiders. God is not offering to remove that tension for us--it is part of the experience of life offered to Mary and us. God very well may not make us feel like we belong in those places where we are outsiders. In fact, following the example of Mary, God is offering to prolong that tension, that out of that tension something fruitful might grow, a holiness. Today, we stand with Mary, both inside and outside, waiting to see what will grow in the empty space in ourselves.
Have a blessed rest of Advent.
Let us begin with a short discussion that takes us a little afield. I often think of Zoo Story, the play by Edward Albee, which contains the line: "Sometimes, you have to go a long way out of your way, to come back a short distance the right way." This may be one of those occasions.
So: I don't feel like I belong in church.
I have had the unusual privilege of touring congregations lately, visiting and exploring and seeing what they are about. And again and again I'm discovering something: I don't feel like I belong in church.
Perhaps part of the reason is that, about half the time, I can slip into a new church and have no one speak to me. Don't misunderstand--I don't try to avoid people. I even stick out in a crowd, partly because I'm a little tall and I'm often the only person in the room in their 20s or 30s. I tend to sit toward the back because I'm usually late. I participate actively in the service--worship is fun, after all--and I don't usually bother to open the order of service because I know it. I sing confidently, if not always beautifully, and if the hymn has a good tenor line, I hunt and peck until I find it. But about half the time, no one speaks to me--perhaps at the peace, those nearby will shake my hand and mutter something or other. However, being ignored is, for me, the smaller problem.
The bigger problem is that I have so little to connect to in the worship services. Now, it's true, I love liturgy and singing and preaching. But, where I have been (here and all over the country) few people sing in the congregations, small or big, racially diverse and un-. At a guess, roughly 90% of the sermons I've heard were bad, sometimes because they lacked a central point, sometimes because they were irrelevant, and once because I saw someone snowball every bad sermon technique into 28 minutes of non-stop torture. Most congregations seem bored to be there--that's the feeling in the air, whether they feel that way in their selves or not (I hope they don't feel that way). As for me, I have a terrific thirst for meaning and gospel at this time. I want to know more about God, contemplate God in silence, speak with God about many things. But when I visit a church, I mostly feel the distinct sensation that I don't belong--I'm too young, too thoughtful, too much wanting to express my individual voice, too much wanting to hear others.
I've tried to think of an image of this experience. Here's one for you--I like it, so follow it through. It's like being 15 and entering a nursing home where you've come to visit your grandmother. It's not that there's anything wrong with nursing homes, at least in principle. Older folks need care at certain times in their lives, and sometimes families or the people themselves cannot care for them as they had hoped at other stages.
But as a 15 year old, even knowing those things, even having come to visit your grandmother whom you've loved your whole life, the nursing home is most emphatically a place where you do not belong. It smells funny. No one speaks your language. People often ignore you, or when they do speak to you, you can't tell if they're really talking to you or someone from their past they've projected on top of you (this happens to me in almost every church). If you spend much time there, the nursing home is incredibly boring. The actions of those working there seem perfunctory but organized, following a calendar you can see on the wall (filling socks for the homeless on Wed; Friday is bingo night!) but that has no relationship to your calendar. People shake your hand your hand when you enter and leave, and everyone comments on how sharp you look and wonders where you go to school, but no one really sees you. You'd go there to visit your grandmother--it's the best place to see her. But you wouldn't stay. You wouldn't want to go back. It would be something to be tolerated as part of 'grandmother-visiting.'
And by the image, I do not mean that churches are full only of the elderly. Often, the younger adults and middle aged are the strongest nursing-home participants. Worse, many of the churches that I have seen that claim to be welcoming, or relevant, or hip, or young, are worse than the others. They're like elitist nursing homes, where if you feel like you don't connect, it must be because the problem is you.
Now, while all of this does make me question my call to be in church, I do love church. I love the liturgy, the scripture, the sacraments, the Holy Spirit of the whole affair. I connect to those things even as I feel like I don't belong, so I manage. But I do manage even while I feel alienated. And sometimes, I wonder whether I could recommend church to anyone I know outside the church. I don't feel like I can, not in good conscience. If a friend visited and said: it was like being part of a bizarre and ancient social experiment in ostracizing foreigners, I couldn't help but agree. I long for community and church that is engaging, thoughtful, energetic, contemplative, heart-filled. I well know that this doesn't happen every Sunday in any community, but you think it'd have to happen sometimes. Or that that kind of community would at least be a goal. Mostly, folks seem content when I visit church.
So, why such a long reflection on this experience? Partly because I'm always curious if others feel this way, and I suspect that others have and maybe even for different reasons. Perhaps this will spur some reflection on our practices. But mostly because I want to share a bit how an insider, like me, can feel like an outsider. I want to show that someone who is quite privileged, who is in the inner circle, can also not belong, can want something that is entirely outside my power. I suspect many of you have had similar experiences--being both an insider, and outsider.
Because it is in that insider/outsider split that I relate best to Mary. It's the theme that dominates her life. In our lesson today, we hear that great emotional story, the call of Mary to be the mother of Christ. The story is so emotional that most hymns on it are operatic, Ave Maria, flying all over the scale in various harmonies as with these words whole worlds move and are changed. We hear Mary say: but how can this be, for I am a virgin? Now, when we hear this, we think mostly about sex. How can Mary conceive a son without sex?
But, if we were to read the text more closely, I think we would find that sex is not the important thing here. The problem is not a mechanical/biological one, the question of where sperm is going to come from in the operation. The real question Mary is asking is this: Gabriel lets her know that her son will be Son of the Most High. Mary's objection is not that she hasn't had sex. It's that she's just a human, a 15 year old who suddenly feels way out of her depth. What does she know about raising a child? What does she know about raising a child to become royalty? What does she know about raising a child who is God? Not much, probably, to all three questions.
But Gabriel promises that God will carry this through, overshadow her, and make the thing work out. And so, she agrees.
She begins the story as an insider and an outsider: she is a child of Israel, a chosen people. But she is also an outsider--she lives in a country under imperial rule, and so she has become a foreigner in her own land. She is from a chosen people, but she is also a woman, lacking in many of the things that being 'chosen' should bring because of her gender.
By the end of our story, Mary has become a peculiar kind of insider with God, party to all kinds of information most others do not know--she joins Elizabeth and Zechariah. But she has also become an outsider, an unwed pregnant teenager, a "condition" even less welcome in her society than ours. She sees the heart of things, but she is an outsider.
And the theme will continue throughout her life. When prophecies are spoken at her son's circumcision, she will hear both of the salvation coming to everyone and of the sword that will pierce her own soul She will be, in her own way, a follower of her son, and yet spurned as her son proclaims that real families are made by faith and not by blood. She will be at the crucifixion, watching from a distance. Insider, and outsider.
That is the message we hear today, the complex way Mary is both insider and outsider. In the world but not of it, her son will say. We hear the ways that we as Christians have become insiders to the salvation that is coming, to the forgiveness given, to the reconciliation and making new of all things, to the great acts of goodness and kindness perpetrated throughout our world. We are witnesses and participants in resurrection. But we are also witnesses of and participants in crucifixion, seers and perpetrators of the great evils of this world.
So today, we hear Mary's story and know that it is our story. Swords in souls and new life from the dead, crucifixion and a kingdom of peace without end, and not one without the other. No wonder that, after her son is born, Mary sees all the things around her and ponders them in heart.
Christmas will be here shortly, and there will be plenty of time and space for the good news of great joy that is coming. We can look forward very much to rejoicing in those days. But for a short while longer, it is still Advent, and we stand with Mary. We too are both insiders and outsiders. God is not offering to remove that tension for us--it is part of the experience of life offered to Mary and us. God very well may not make us feel like we belong in those places where we are outsiders. In fact, following the example of Mary, God is offering to prolong that tension, that out of that tension something fruitful might grow, a holiness. Today, we stand with Mary, both inside and outside, waiting to see what will grow in the empty space in ourselves.
Have a blessed rest of Advent.
Advent 3--Everyone loves a pink candle
Sorry for the lack of sermon-post last week. I'm sure hearts ceased when the thing had not appeared by Saturday.
I was in the midst of a hardware switch and illness in the home. The new hardware seems to be sailing along at speed, and the illness has evaporated, so life seems to be returning to track.
My reflections on the upcoming Sunday will be posted e'er long. I hope it's a blessed Advent for you kind folks.
I was in the midst of a hardware switch and illness in the home. The new hardware seems to be sailing along at speed, and the illness has evaporated, so life seems to be returning to track.
My reflections on the upcoming Sunday will be posted e'er long. I hope it's a blessed Advent for you kind folks.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
On being grass
Advent 2 in the RCL, Isaiah 40:1-11
Nothing makes me hum and whistle like Christmas and Advent music. "Comfort, comfort ye my people" gets me all excited and singing. I can hear those words in Isaiah and instantly, I'm ready for Christmas. "Comfort those who sit in darkness mourning 'neath their sorrows' load." Rocking. My being so suggestive is more of a problem for me in July when I find myself suddenly ready for Advent with miles of green season to go. But I hear them this week and I'm ready. Bring on the Advent! Bring on the Christmas!
"Comfort" is such a striking word for beginning a lesson, too. It's a definite 'speech-act.' Hearing "comfort O comfort my people" not only tells me that I should be comforted but also in fact comforts me. The very saying of it in Scripture is itself comforting. If only the rest of the passage kept on that same emotional note.
How interesting that 'being grass' is supposed to be comforting. Comfort, says the prophet, and then in the reading then the prophet turns back to God and asks: what's my line again? What am I supposed to say? It's like watching the local Christmas pageant, with Mary turning to Gabriel and saying: what's my line again? Oh right.
God replies: go with the grass bit. "Oh right," says the prophet. "Ahem. All people are grass . . .."
We'd almost expect the prophet to say: um, are you sure you want to go with that grass bit? It might not be that comforting for them to remember that they're grass, that their lives are short, that their lives are not really in their control, that they have less weight than the leaves on the trees or the dead leaves on the ground. Maybe, God, you should build on the whole 'comfort' theme before jumping to grass. I'm just suggesting.
But no, God apparently goes with the grass thing in our text. You people are grass, says God. I am not. I endure forever. These very things I say, my words, even they endure forever, which would be infinitely longer than you grassy people. And so let's celebrate! I'm like a shepherd, says God, I am strong to defend and quick to save.
So here is the emotional arc of the text, more or less:
1. Comfort, my people--all your badness is forgiven, you've served your sentence, your healing time is here.
2. Here comes the Lord! The Lord will see you now!
3. Um, so what should I say?
4. You are all grass! You're going to die!
5. God endures forever!
6. God takes care of God's people!
It's a pretty strange emotional arc. If we were all feeling like text-critical biblical scholars, I think we might be inclined to say that the redactor (editor) here must have shoved two different texts together. After all, this part of the chapter would stand just fine as two totally separate prophecies. The "Comfort" prophecy, and then to be read on another occasion, the "Grass vs. God" prophecy that begins when the prophet asks for a new word from God--thinking here of the better meaning of the word 'prophecy' with its social/critical connotations, not Nostradamus and crystal balls and predicting the lottery.
In fact, that's one way to deal with this passage. It's actually how the hymn "Comfort, comfort ye my people" deals with it--its theology is based only the 'Comfort' part of this passage. It combines a little of the language of the second part, the Grass vs. God part, with the first part, but skips over all the awkward Grass part of it and sticks with the 'comfort' theology only.
So we could walk away from this passage. We could easily say: great, I feel comforted! Back to shopping! Or not, as the case may be for many of us this year. Window shopping, perhaps. We could walk away and say: eh, redactor, do a better editing job next time! We could hear only what we want to hear through those great sieves on our ears. Selective hearing is a characteristic not only of children, spouses, and parents, but of everyone who has ever attended church.
Or: can we hear that we are grass? Can we bear that truth?
Isaiah seems to think so. Isaiah seems to think that the good news is that our comfort does not depend on us, we grassy people. Our being comforted comes from God, who is not grass. The way these two passages stack in our lesson today from Isaiah, the suggestion seems to be that our comfort does not come from us. Comfort comes from outside us. We gather to sing joyfully not because of we ourselves, but because God has remembered us.
That's the two-pronged message in Isaiah. In order to feel comforted, we'd have to recognize that we are finite, limited, weightless. If we recognize that we are grass, we can find our comfort outside ourselves--otherwise, we're always looking for comfort where comfort isn't.
Two pronged messages are so tricky. It's so much easier to be content with being comforted, or to relish the self-punishment of finitude. It's much more challenging to live into the whole passage--limited yet saved, worth little yet cared for much.
As we prepare for Christmas, we could state this two-pronged message another way. In order to hear God, I must not be God. It's just so easy to pretend that we are God and not humans. Aelred of Rievaulx, a perfectly delightful writer from the Middle Ages, very nicely says that our problem is that we are made in the likeness of God, but we try to be like God.
So as we prepare for Christmas, perhaps we should stop trying to be like God--all-powerful, all-knowing, omnipresent. That would mean we would have to stop running other people's lives, stop trying to pretend we understand why we are the way we are, and stop trying to live without sleep, private time, and quiet. That would mean we would have to own up to being grass--and not only own up to it, but embrace it.
Because once we embrace it, we can finally see from where our salvation is coming.
Nothing makes me hum and whistle like Christmas and Advent music. "Comfort, comfort ye my people" gets me all excited and singing. I can hear those words in Isaiah and instantly, I'm ready for Christmas. "Comfort those who sit in darkness mourning 'neath their sorrows' load." Rocking. My being so suggestive is more of a problem for me in July when I find myself suddenly ready for Advent with miles of green season to go. But I hear them this week and I'm ready. Bring on the Advent! Bring on the Christmas!
"Comfort" is such a striking word for beginning a lesson, too. It's a definite 'speech-act.' Hearing "comfort O comfort my people" not only tells me that I should be comforted but also in fact comforts me. The very saying of it in Scripture is itself comforting. If only the rest of the passage kept on that same emotional note.
How interesting that 'being grass' is supposed to be comforting. Comfort, says the prophet, and then in the reading then the prophet turns back to God and asks: what's my line again? What am I supposed to say? It's like watching the local Christmas pageant, with Mary turning to Gabriel and saying: what's my line again? Oh right.
God replies: go with the grass bit. "Oh right," says the prophet. "Ahem. All people are grass . . .."
We'd almost expect the prophet to say: um, are you sure you want to go with that grass bit? It might not be that comforting for them to remember that they're grass, that their lives are short, that their lives are not really in their control, that they have less weight than the leaves on the trees or the dead leaves on the ground. Maybe, God, you should build on the whole 'comfort' theme before jumping to grass. I'm just suggesting.
But no, God apparently goes with the grass thing in our text. You people are grass, says God. I am not. I endure forever. These very things I say, my words, even they endure forever, which would be infinitely longer than you grassy people. And so let's celebrate! I'm like a shepherd, says God, I am strong to defend and quick to save.
So here is the emotional arc of the text, more or less:
1. Comfort, my people--all your badness is forgiven, you've served your sentence, your healing time is here.
2. Here comes the Lord! The Lord will see you now!
3. Um, so what should I say?
4. You are all grass! You're going to die!
5. God endures forever!
6. God takes care of God's people!
It's a pretty strange emotional arc. If we were all feeling like text-critical biblical scholars, I think we might be inclined to say that the redactor (editor) here must have shoved two different texts together. After all, this part of the chapter would stand just fine as two totally separate prophecies. The "Comfort" prophecy, and then to be read on another occasion, the "Grass vs. God" prophecy that begins when the prophet asks for a new word from God--thinking here of the better meaning of the word 'prophecy' with its social/critical connotations, not Nostradamus and crystal balls and predicting the lottery.
In fact, that's one way to deal with this passage. It's actually how the hymn "Comfort, comfort ye my people" deals with it--its theology is based only the 'Comfort' part of this passage. It combines a little of the language of the second part, the Grass vs. God part, with the first part, but skips over all the awkward Grass part of it and sticks with the 'comfort' theology only.
So we could walk away from this passage. We could easily say: great, I feel comforted! Back to shopping! Or not, as the case may be for many of us this year. Window shopping, perhaps. We could walk away and say: eh, redactor, do a better editing job next time! We could hear only what we want to hear through those great sieves on our ears. Selective hearing is a characteristic not only of children, spouses, and parents, but of everyone who has ever attended church.
Or: can we hear that we are grass? Can we bear that truth?
Isaiah seems to think so. Isaiah seems to think that the good news is that our comfort does not depend on us, we grassy people. Our being comforted comes from God, who is not grass. The way these two passages stack in our lesson today from Isaiah, the suggestion seems to be that our comfort does not come from us. Comfort comes from outside us. We gather to sing joyfully not because of we ourselves, but because God has remembered us.
That's the two-pronged message in Isaiah. In order to feel comforted, we'd have to recognize that we are finite, limited, weightless. If we recognize that we are grass, we can find our comfort outside ourselves--otherwise, we're always looking for comfort where comfort isn't.
Two pronged messages are so tricky. It's so much easier to be content with being comforted, or to relish the self-punishment of finitude. It's much more challenging to live into the whole passage--limited yet saved, worth little yet cared for much.
As we prepare for Christmas, we could state this two-pronged message another way. In order to hear God, I must not be God. It's just so easy to pretend that we are God and not humans. Aelred of Rievaulx, a perfectly delightful writer from the Middle Ages, very nicely says that our problem is that we are made in the likeness of God, but we try to be like God.
So as we prepare for Christmas, perhaps we should stop trying to be like God--all-powerful, all-knowing, omnipresent. That would mean we would have to stop running other people's lives, stop trying to pretend we understand why we are the way we are, and stop trying to live without sleep, private time, and quiet. That would mean we would have to own up to being grass--and not only own up to it, but embrace it.
Because once we embrace it, we can finally see from where our salvation is coming.
Advent means we prepare for Christmas . . .
And because we're preparing for Christmas, it is time to keep the old traditions. Maybe you've heard it, maybe not, but I like it far better as a tradition than, say, "Jesse trees."
I'm glad to say that this one once again put me immediately in the spirit of the season. Just push the little play button on the page.
O Holy Night
I'm glad to say that this one once again put me immediately in the spirit of the season. Just push the little play button on the page.
O Holy Night
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Isaiah: Our Likeness, Our Friend
Advent 1 in the RCL, Isaiah 64:1-9
Whew. Mark is like a breath of fresh air after a year of Matthew. Like an arrow that sinks far into its target, where before we had only a baseball bat, Mark aims and strikes more cleanly than Matthew. "What I say to you, I say to all: Keep awake." So clear, so crisp. "Keep awake."
And with those words, Advent begins. It's the start of new year--in fact, happy New Years to you all. The old green season wound its way down, growing older and colder. I often think years are like stars--stars like we learned about them in science class in junior high. The year/star begins in dissipation, elements circling. After the ignition, the star lives a long life, having some moments of excitement or danger but mostly shining bright. Eventually, the year/star fades, growing cooler. Most times, the star/year quietly collapses and dies, becoming a white dwarf--around forever, illuminating its future neighbors forever, but only as a memory. Occasionally, stars and years explode, wreaking havoc on everything and everyone. Either way, stars and years come to an end.
Here we are at the beginning. The concerns of a year ago have changed--new politics, new economic turmoil, less money. These little strings of matter, together with our stories, will combine together in a new star, a new year, a new story. Today truly is the first day of a new world.
Our text in Isaiah seems to be a in a similar place to us on this day. Standing at the edge of something gone, something dying, the writer reflects on the cycle of the years, the births and deaths of ages. The writer is thinking and writing about the ages past, comparing them to the 'now,' and turning to God to ask about the future. What exactly is the writer asking for? Let's go there in one moment.
But first let's notice the outstandingly beautiful language of this passage. It's full of extended metaphors, powerful images, and intriguing analogies. It's truly quite lovely, and it looks like poetry because it is. Poetry rewards close examination, so let's us see what our Scripture is calling to us today.
Our passage begins with exclamation: O! Come down! The call is passionate--get down here, God! The imagery that follows describes the years long past--back in the good ol' days, says Isaiah (or the writer we accept as Isaiah for literary conventions--not much difference, really), back in the good ol' days, God, you would come down and mountains would melt, the heavens would be torn. This is dramatic imagery for someone who never saw a movie with modern special effects--we're used to the idea that we can see on screen a mountain melt, or heavens torn, or nearly anything at all. But for this writer, these images are meant to stand out, to call attention, to shock.
The writer continues, talking about how in those old days, ('olam in the Hebrew--the age long past, or eternity--it's got those kind of connotations), God would come down, and you'd know it not only by the incredible geographic phenomena but also by the fact that God's enemies would be smashed. To be historical a moment, perhaps the writer here in the third part of Isaiah is thinking of the stories of Exodus and Deuteronomy--those stories of God's dramatic personal action in the world. The passage has a certain resonance with that kind of deuteronomic theology--God protects those following God's way, but smites those not following that way. In an interesting change from Deuteronomy, Isaiah here seems to think this blessing/curse extends not only to Israel but instead to everybody, building on Deuteronomy a bit.
Isaiah is longing for those old days when God was obviously taking care of things. Because in the 'now' for Isaiah, God isn't very evident, or evident at all. And without that blessing promised in those early stories of Exodus and Deuteronomy, everything has become worthless. The writer's image of a cloth is particularly striking--everything has become so that it has no more worth a dirty dash rag. Without God's light, the 'now' of Isaiah has become a place of 'iniquity,' of badness, and that badness is now reaping its natural reward: more badness.
And so Isaiah calls out at the end of our passage: you are still the potter, the one in control, the shaper, the artist, the visionary. We are still matter, mud, dirt. Don't always be absent--come back. Come back for everybody.
If this all seems very far away and esoteric, it doesn't need to. Isaiah's 'now' seems a good bit like our 'now.' We too remember when God was active in the past. We, too, smile when we remember meeting God at church, outdoors, at summer camp, in the mall, driving down the road, giving our time at a nursing home, singing Christmas carols, spending time with our families. We remember those times with hope, when God's purpose seemed obvious. Or we can even think further back. We hear stories every Sunday and during the week of God's miraculous actions--arks and floods, touching and healing, cancer and remission, people and reconciliation.
And we, like Isaiah, see the lost-ness of us all. Seeking entertainment above meaning, pleasure above friendship, my interest at the cost of all others, we try to be good and do not succeed. Not because we don't try. And we say to ourselves: you know, I wish it were the good old days, when good was obvious, when God was here! When mountains melted, you could tell what was what--but these days, who knows? Is it better to buy a hybrid car for fuel efficiency, or bad because of components in the battery? Is it better to give my money to refugees in my neighborhood, or to refugees in Sudan?
And so, we enter the place of Advent once more, the place of beginnings, the place of darkness, the place of longing. That's the problem, I think, with having the new year begin in our culture with a giant electronic ball on top of a building in New York. Beginnings aren't like that. Beginnings are dark, confusing, longing-filled places. They can be a great deal of fun, and they have a great deal of hope, or they can be quite scary. In any way, beginnings don't really feel like light falling to earth, the image on January 1st in New York. They feel more like pregnancy--not even sure something is going at the start, followed by sickness, inconvenience, discomfort, and the possibility of incredible joy.
As we hear these words from Isaiah this week, or on Sunday, they call us back to be mindful of the beginning of things. It's time to start afresh, anew, again, and any other a---- word you can think. Isaiah reminds us that we don't begin something new out of whole cloth--we build from what's around us, the past we have, the stories we know. Isaiah reminds us that even if 'now' feels pretty ho-hum and distant, this does not mean God has abandoned us forever. Even now, God has a plot and a plan and some thoughts about us, but God's new beginnings with us don't fall like a ball out of the sky. They begin slowly, with hints and nudges and a great deal of sitting. What is God beginning in your life? Where has God seemed absent? What good old days do you wish were back in your heart?
Mindfulness of our beginnings is central connecting theme between us and Isaiah this week.
But I would add one other. As Christians, we believe that God heard Isaiah's prayer--took it quite seriously, in fact, and became as obvious as God could be in becoming human, in becoming Christ. Now, Isaiah would never have imagined that this would fulfill the prayer he offered--Isaiah is clearly imagining the ground swallowing people up, great pestilence, pillars of fire by night, and so on to lead everyone to a better way of life. Yet, as Christians, we see Jesus as the very surprising answer to this plea.
What we might should notice is how surprising Jesus is as an answer to this plea. Isaiah wanted God's presence, but he never imagined God would do that. It wasn't on the radar or the calendar. And yet, I'd have to say, it fit the bill pretty well.
So, this Advent, as we think about what we wish God were doing; as we think about what our Christmas MUST be or it won't be any good; as we think we know exactly what God is doing in our world; perhaps we should recognize our deep kinship with Isaiah. We, too, are destined to be surprised. Where is God beginning something new in your that is totally, utterly surprising, and not at all what you thought you wanted?
So, as we mind our begins and consider surprise, let me say: have a blessed Advent.
Whew. Mark is like a breath of fresh air after a year of Matthew. Like an arrow that sinks far into its target, where before we had only a baseball bat, Mark aims and strikes more cleanly than Matthew. "What I say to you, I say to all: Keep awake." So clear, so crisp. "Keep awake."
And with those words, Advent begins. It's the start of new year--in fact, happy New Years to you all. The old green season wound its way down, growing older and colder. I often think years are like stars--stars like we learned about them in science class in junior high. The year/star begins in dissipation, elements circling. After the ignition, the star lives a long life, having some moments of excitement or danger but mostly shining bright. Eventually, the year/star fades, growing cooler. Most times, the star/year quietly collapses and dies, becoming a white dwarf--around forever, illuminating its future neighbors forever, but only as a memory. Occasionally, stars and years explode, wreaking havoc on everything and everyone. Either way, stars and years come to an end.
Here we are at the beginning. The concerns of a year ago have changed--new politics, new economic turmoil, less money. These little strings of matter, together with our stories, will combine together in a new star, a new year, a new story. Today truly is the first day of a new world.
Our text in Isaiah seems to be a in a similar place to us on this day. Standing at the edge of something gone, something dying, the writer reflects on the cycle of the years, the births and deaths of ages. The writer is thinking and writing about the ages past, comparing them to the 'now,' and turning to God to ask about the future. What exactly is the writer asking for? Let's go there in one moment.
But first let's notice the outstandingly beautiful language of this passage. It's full of extended metaphors, powerful images, and intriguing analogies. It's truly quite lovely, and it looks like poetry because it is. Poetry rewards close examination, so let's us see what our Scripture is calling to us today.
Our passage begins with exclamation: O! Come down! The call is passionate--get down here, God! The imagery that follows describes the years long past--back in the good ol' days, says Isaiah (or the writer we accept as Isaiah for literary conventions--not much difference, really), back in the good ol' days, God, you would come down and mountains would melt, the heavens would be torn. This is dramatic imagery for someone who never saw a movie with modern special effects--we're used to the idea that we can see on screen a mountain melt, or heavens torn, or nearly anything at all. But for this writer, these images are meant to stand out, to call attention, to shock.
The writer continues, talking about how in those old days, ('olam in the Hebrew--the age long past, or eternity--it's got those kind of connotations), God would come down, and you'd know it not only by the incredible geographic phenomena but also by the fact that God's enemies would be smashed. To be historical a moment, perhaps the writer here in the third part of Isaiah is thinking of the stories of Exodus and Deuteronomy--those stories of God's dramatic personal action in the world. The passage has a certain resonance with that kind of deuteronomic theology--God protects those following God's way, but smites those not following that way. In an interesting change from Deuteronomy, Isaiah here seems to think this blessing/curse extends not only to Israel but instead to everybody, building on Deuteronomy a bit.
Isaiah is longing for those old days when God was obviously taking care of things. Because in the 'now' for Isaiah, God isn't very evident, or evident at all. And without that blessing promised in those early stories of Exodus and Deuteronomy, everything has become worthless. The writer's image of a cloth is particularly striking--everything has become so that it has no more worth a dirty dash rag. Without God's light, the 'now' of Isaiah has become a place of 'iniquity,' of badness, and that badness is now reaping its natural reward: more badness.
And so Isaiah calls out at the end of our passage: you are still the potter, the one in control, the shaper, the artist, the visionary. We are still matter, mud, dirt. Don't always be absent--come back. Come back for everybody.
If this all seems very far away and esoteric, it doesn't need to. Isaiah's 'now' seems a good bit like our 'now.' We too remember when God was active in the past. We, too, smile when we remember meeting God at church, outdoors, at summer camp, in the mall, driving down the road, giving our time at a nursing home, singing Christmas carols, spending time with our families. We remember those times with hope, when God's purpose seemed obvious. Or we can even think further back. We hear stories every Sunday and during the week of God's miraculous actions--arks and floods, touching and healing, cancer and remission, people and reconciliation.
And we, like Isaiah, see the lost-ness of us all. Seeking entertainment above meaning, pleasure above friendship, my interest at the cost of all others, we try to be good and do not succeed. Not because we don't try. And we say to ourselves: you know, I wish it were the good old days, when good was obvious, when God was here! When mountains melted, you could tell what was what--but these days, who knows? Is it better to buy a hybrid car for fuel efficiency, or bad because of components in the battery? Is it better to give my money to refugees in my neighborhood, or to refugees in Sudan?
And so, we enter the place of Advent once more, the place of beginnings, the place of darkness, the place of longing. That's the problem, I think, with having the new year begin in our culture with a giant electronic ball on top of a building in New York. Beginnings aren't like that. Beginnings are dark, confusing, longing-filled places. They can be a great deal of fun, and they have a great deal of hope, or they can be quite scary. In any way, beginnings don't really feel like light falling to earth, the image on January 1st in New York. They feel more like pregnancy--not even sure something is going at the start, followed by sickness, inconvenience, discomfort, and the possibility of incredible joy.
As we hear these words from Isaiah this week, or on Sunday, they call us back to be mindful of the beginning of things. It's time to start afresh, anew, again, and any other a---- word you can think. Isaiah reminds us that we don't begin something new out of whole cloth--we build from what's around us, the past we have, the stories we know. Isaiah reminds us that even if 'now' feels pretty ho-hum and distant, this does not mean God has abandoned us forever. Even now, God has a plot and a plan and some thoughts about us, but God's new beginnings with us don't fall like a ball out of the sky. They begin slowly, with hints and nudges and a great deal of sitting. What is God beginning in your life? Where has God seemed absent? What good old days do you wish were back in your heart?
Mindfulness of our beginnings is central connecting theme between us and Isaiah this week.
But I would add one other. As Christians, we believe that God heard Isaiah's prayer--took it quite seriously, in fact, and became as obvious as God could be in becoming human, in becoming Christ. Now, Isaiah would never have imagined that this would fulfill the prayer he offered--Isaiah is clearly imagining the ground swallowing people up, great pestilence, pillars of fire by night, and so on to lead everyone to a better way of life. Yet, as Christians, we see Jesus as the very surprising answer to this plea.
What we might should notice is how surprising Jesus is as an answer to this plea. Isaiah wanted God's presence, but he never imagined God would do that. It wasn't on the radar or the calendar. And yet, I'd have to say, it fit the bill pretty well.
So, this Advent, as we think about what we wish God were doing; as we think about what our Christmas MUST be or it won't be any good; as we think we know exactly what God is doing in our world; perhaps we should recognize our deep kinship with Isaiah. We, too, are destined to be surprised. Where is God beginning something new in your that is totally, utterly surprising, and not at all what you thought you wanted?
So, as we mind our begins and consider surprise, let me say: have a blessed Advent.
Monday, November 17, 2008
The Taste of Justice
Proper 29, aka Christ the King. Year A, Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24
Alright: so I'm tired of the sheep and the goats in Matthew. Why, you ask? Because that reading is a true two-edged sword. On the one side, the blade cuts cleanly. Its challenge to take seriously the needs of the needy is poignant, and few passages of Scripture state the challenge so plainly. But on the other side, the sword is jagged. Too many people hear this Matthew passage and are quite sure that they know who the sheep are (us), and who the goats are (them). What's more, I would rank this passage among one of the most guilt-inducing in all of Scripture. Doubtless, some of this guilt is needed--how seriously are we taking the needs of prisoners? Not very, in this country. But I've also seen this passage eat the life from people, sucking joy away and leaving in its place a permanent dis-ease about what side of the sheep/goat line they 're standing on. Read out of context, the passage encourages people destroy their gifts in attempting to insure that they are certain to be on the non-goat side.
So, let's take a spin on the wild side. Let's talk about the end of all things through Ezekiel's eyes. Oddly, he too is fixated on the woolly side of life.
Honestly, what is it with Scripture and sheep? Roast them whole and eat them whole with loins girded; make Jesus our sacrificial lamb and priest; David only understands why having a man killed for his sex-life is bad when he's compared to a sheep-stealer; Abel keeps sheep, and God likes that better (gets him killed by his brother, though); shepherds, presumably sheep at hand, are among the first to hear of Christ's coming. At least Paul makes tents rather than tends sheep. Someone's gotta branch out.
At any rate: Ezekiel leads us on a different kind of sheep-chase from Matthew, and perhaps one that might change how we hear words about God's coming judgment. Ezekiel doesn't seem to refer too overtly to the end of all created reality. This business about a return after a day of clouds and thick darkness sounds a bit like "The Day of the Lord," the day when the Lord comes to settle accounts and un/re-make the world--like in Joel. But it's not entirely obvious--instead, Ezekiel seems to be thinking of a Great Return after a Great Scattering, and it's almost like he intends to leave it in those archetypal terms.
Of course, he also has something far more specific in mind--namely, the Exile, and then the Return. Israel was carried off to a foreign land, the nation ended and worship was ruined. Thick darkness indeed. But, says Ezekiel, this will not be a permanent state of things. God will come pull them back together. Indeed, it sounds like God is taking a personal interest in it. The verses prior to this passage talk about how the supposed shepherds of Israel have blown it, and blown it big time. It's not that they made small foul-ups--they've totally neglected the sheep. So, God has decided to become involved personally, and now God is going to gather up the sheep. In fact, a verse or two later, God says: I myself will be the shepherd.
These are hopeful words to a hurting people. The pastoral images are all ones of fullness--taking a break in meadows, having enough to eat and drink, no longer hunted by predators. This is what those earlier shepherds should've been doing, but now God is going to make sure this is accomplished. These are hopeful words for those punched aside. Ezekiel proceeds to describe the total-failure shepherds as fat sheep.
And Ezekiel makes a strange statement: that God will feed them justice. The 'them,' strangely, seems to be both the fat and lean, the bad shepherds and abused people. Justice will be given to them all equally--some it will destroy, others it will lift up. It's a fascinating image, that in the end, we all share one diet with many effects: justice.
That's an image we've lost sight of: that we'll all receive the same thing from God. That from God, we all will eat one thing together, and that thing will be justice. Sweet to some, not so to others.
Part of this is that we no longer believe in justice. I increasingly find this to be true. I think we as Americans have relegated justice to the recycling bin of idealism. We believe not that the Supreme Court deals in justice, but that by stacking certain appointees, we can have certain outcomes. We all believe that the more money a defendent has, the more likely they are to get off. We have all watched Gitmo now for a years, a land that we are told it quite literally outside the bounds of justice, where no one can know the reasons for being there, not even at trial, and no one can leave. The very fact that we have slang for it that appears in pop songs--"Gitmo" and not Guatanamo Bay--suggests how used to the idea we are, whether we think it acceptable or not. We've all seen police beat protesters, rioters beat police. We don't believe in justice anymore--as a people, we seem more inclined to believe that 'justice', meaning a victory, goes to the one with more money or a bigger.
We don't talk about justice much anymore because we think justice is a matter of opinion, a codeword for covering up the rule of the strong. And because we all accept this, rather than try understand our different understandings of God's justice, we try to 'win' through changing the justices, stacking the court, altering the jury, and we yell at each other in harsh rhetoric because, of course, only the heaviest hammer could damage our opponent.
But not so for Ezekiel. Ezekiel promises that in the end, we do all share one thing in common: God's justice. God is not affected by race or bribes, and he will come personally and make sure that we receive our justice.
So, is that good news or bad? It's tough to say, and that is the mystery of speaking about the end of the world. That's what gets old about that passage we hear today in Matthew--too many of us act as though it strips all mystery away, even though if we'd read the passage carefully we'd notice that everyone is surprised to discover what side of the sheep/goat dichotomy they end up on. But the end of the world is both good and bad news: it's justice for all, and that's bound to be good for some, and bad for others. Ezekiel does not believe that the world will go on forever. Someday, God will gather us back together, and God will see to doing what we have been so bad at doing ourselves--sharing our resources, offering justice to all regardless of class, race, and gender.
So let's say it: there's bad news about the end of the world. It's hard for us as Americans not to notice that it's the fat sheep that are in trouble, that it's the bad shepherds who have let everyone down. That feels too much like us. And justice might not feel very fair to someone who has hidden his head in the ground, never noticing those nearby.
But let's also say it: the good news from Ezekiel sounds really good. If we have learned to love God's justice, it probably won't taste so bad. And at the end of things, it won't be some bribed corporate jerk who comes to give us a pink slip. It'll be God, personally looking into our case. And this is the same God who shows a depth of love that is amazing. This is a God who will personally see that the predators are one day gone and arrange it so that we can finally drink some fresh water.
So, if we have a call from this lesson, it's the call to get to know God's justice, learn to love it, start practicing it now. If we're not sure what God's justice looks like, well, it's about to be a whole new liturgical year. That would be an interesting New Years resolution: this year, I'm going to learn some things about God's justice. We are called to learn something about care for our neighbors, and start doing something for those least among us. We are called to learn to love others as much as ourselves. We are called to work at loving God with whatever we've got, because whatever we've got will serve perfectly well.
Because in the end--and things will end one way or another--there will be only one thing to eat. What will it taste like? Will it taste like lamb? That would be both ironic and weirdly appropriate.
But, for us, the call of the Christian life is to learn to love the taste of God's justice, to create schools that teach how to love the taste of God's justice, to participate in communities that revel in the taste of God's justice. And as the mystics and deeply spiritual among us have reported for thousands of years, the more we follow the course of God's justice, the more it tastes like love. Who knew? The end of the world tastes like justice, and that justice tastes like love. Perhaps there is good news here after all.
Here's to the end of a liturgical year--may we all enjoy the taste of God's justice and love in this world and the next.
Alright: so I'm tired of the sheep and the goats in Matthew. Why, you ask? Because that reading is a true two-edged sword. On the one side, the blade cuts cleanly. Its challenge to take seriously the needs of the needy is poignant, and few passages of Scripture state the challenge so plainly. But on the other side, the sword is jagged. Too many people hear this Matthew passage and are quite sure that they know who the sheep are (us), and who the goats are (them). What's more, I would rank this passage among one of the most guilt-inducing in all of Scripture. Doubtless, some of this guilt is needed--how seriously are we taking the needs of prisoners? Not very, in this country. But I've also seen this passage eat the life from people, sucking joy away and leaving in its place a permanent dis-ease about what side of the sheep/goat line they 're standing on. Read out of context, the passage encourages people destroy their gifts in attempting to insure that they are certain to be on the non-goat side.
So, let's take a spin on the wild side. Let's talk about the end of all things through Ezekiel's eyes. Oddly, he too is fixated on the woolly side of life.
Honestly, what is it with Scripture and sheep? Roast them whole and eat them whole with loins girded; make Jesus our sacrificial lamb and priest; David only understands why having a man killed for his sex-life is bad when he's compared to a sheep-stealer; Abel keeps sheep, and God likes that better (gets him killed by his brother, though); shepherds, presumably sheep at hand, are among the first to hear of Christ's coming. At least Paul makes tents rather than tends sheep. Someone's gotta branch out.
At any rate: Ezekiel leads us on a different kind of sheep-chase from Matthew, and perhaps one that might change how we hear words about God's coming judgment. Ezekiel doesn't seem to refer too overtly to the end of all created reality. This business about a return after a day of clouds and thick darkness sounds a bit like "The Day of the Lord," the day when the Lord comes to settle accounts and un/re-make the world--like in Joel. But it's not entirely obvious--instead, Ezekiel seems to be thinking of a Great Return after a Great Scattering, and it's almost like he intends to leave it in those archetypal terms.
Of course, he also has something far more specific in mind--namely, the Exile, and then the Return. Israel was carried off to a foreign land, the nation ended and worship was ruined. Thick darkness indeed. But, says Ezekiel, this will not be a permanent state of things. God will come pull them back together. Indeed, it sounds like God is taking a personal interest in it. The verses prior to this passage talk about how the supposed shepherds of Israel have blown it, and blown it big time. It's not that they made small foul-ups--they've totally neglected the sheep. So, God has decided to become involved personally, and now God is going to gather up the sheep. In fact, a verse or two later, God says: I myself will be the shepherd.
These are hopeful words to a hurting people. The pastoral images are all ones of fullness--taking a break in meadows, having enough to eat and drink, no longer hunted by predators. This is what those earlier shepherds should've been doing, but now God is going to make sure this is accomplished. These are hopeful words for those punched aside. Ezekiel proceeds to describe the total-failure shepherds as fat sheep.
And Ezekiel makes a strange statement: that God will feed them justice. The 'them,' strangely, seems to be both the fat and lean, the bad shepherds and abused people. Justice will be given to them all equally--some it will destroy, others it will lift up. It's a fascinating image, that in the end, we all share one diet with many effects: justice.
That's an image we've lost sight of: that we'll all receive the same thing from God. That from God, we all will eat one thing together, and that thing will be justice. Sweet to some, not so to others.
Part of this is that we no longer believe in justice. I increasingly find this to be true. I think we as Americans have relegated justice to the recycling bin of idealism. We believe not that the Supreme Court deals in justice, but that by stacking certain appointees, we can have certain outcomes. We all believe that the more money a defendent has, the more likely they are to get off. We have all watched Gitmo now for a years, a land that we are told it quite literally outside the bounds of justice, where no one can know the reasons for being there, not even at trial, and no one can leave. The very fact that we have slang for it that appears in pop songs--"Gitmo" and not Guatanamo Bay--suggests how used to the idea we are, whether we think it acceptable or not. We've all seen police beat protesters, rioters beat police. We don't believe in justice anymore--as a people, we seem more inclined to believe that 'justice', meaning a victory, goes to the one with more money or a bigger.
We don't talk about justice much anymore because we think justice is a matter of opinion, a codeword for covering up the rule of the strong. And because we all accept this, rather than try understand our different understandings of God's justice, we try to 'win' through changing the justices, stacking the court, altering the jury, and we yell at each other in harsh rhetoric because, of course, only the heaviest hammer could damage our opponent.
But not so for Ezekiel. Ezekiel promises that in the end, we do all share one thing in common: God's justice. God is not affected by race or bribes, and he will come personally and make sure that we receive our justice.
So, is that good news or bad? It's tough to say, and that is the mystery of speaking about the end of the world. That's what gets old about that passage we hear today in Matthew--too many of us act as though it strips all mystery away, even though if we'd read the passage carefully we'd notice that everyone is surprised to discover what side of the sheep/goat dichotomy they end up on. But the end of the world is both good and bad news: it's justice for all, and that's bound to be good for some, and bad for others. Ezekiel does not believe that the world will go on forever. Someday, God will gather us back together, and God will see to doing what we have been so bad at doing ourselves--sharing our resources, offering justice to all regardless of class, race, and gender.
So let's say it: there's bad news about the end of the world. It's hard for us as Americans not to notice that it's the fat sheep that are in trouble, that it's the bad shepherds who have let everyone down. That feels too much like us. And justice might not feel very fair to someone who has hidden his head in the ground, never noticing those nearby.
But let's also say it: the good news from Ezekiel sounds really good. If we have learned to love God's justice, it probably won't taste so bad. And at the end of things, it won't be some bribed corporate jerk who comes to give us a pink slip. It'll be God, personally looking into our case. And this is the same God who shows a depth of love that is amazing. This is a God who will personally see that the predators are one day gone and arrange it so that we can finally drink some fresh water.
So, if we have a call from this lesson, it's the call to get to know God's justice, learn to love it, start practicing it now. If we're not sure what God's justice looks like, well, it's about to be a whole new liturgical year. That would be an interesting New Years resolution: this year, I'm going to learn some things about God's justice. We are called to learn something about care for our neighbors, and start doing something for those least among us. We are called to learn to love others as much as ourselves. We are called to work at loving God with whatever we've got, because whatever we've got will serve perfectly well.
Because in the end--and things will end one way or another--there will be only one thing to eat. What will it taste like? Will it taste like lamb? That would be both ironic and weirdly appropriate.
But, for us, the call of the Christian life is to learn to love the taste of God's justice, to create schools that teach how to love the taste of God's justice, to participate in communities that revel in the taste of God's justice. And as the mystics and deeply spiritual among us have reported for thousands of years, the more we follow the course of God's justice, the more it tastes like love. Who knew? The end of the world tastes like justice, and that justice tastes like love. Perhaps there is good news here after all.
Here's to the end of a liturgical year--may we all enjoy the taste of God's justice and love in this world and the next.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
More than one post a week?!?!? Scandalous!
But nonetheless, if you haven't seen this yet, now is your time. It's worth your 5 minutes--share it with every parishioner you know.
What if Starbucks were marketed like church?
What if Starbucks were marketed like church?
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Joyful Giving, or the Lack of a Broker's Fee
Proper 28, Year A: Matthew 25:14-30 (in the RCL)
Perhaps you, like me, have heard this 'parable of talents' more than a thousand times. The fact that 'talent' means an amount of money (apparently an ungodly amount of money) is usually lost on the sermon-giver, and they make the nice slide in English into making them 'talents' of a different kind, like the ability to do ballet, ride a unicycle, or burp the alphabet. I'm quite sure that I've done this in the past, so I include myself among those questionable preachers who quickly read this passage, pretend it's not about money, and jump immediately to telling people that we all ought to be using our 'talents' for the good of the church. Namely, teaching Sunday school, because there are never enough volunteers for that time-consuming and thankless job.
But in our world today, this is downright surprising lesson. "The Lord spoke once; twice have I heard it" indeed.
It's a whole story about how, when given a bunch of money, some folks go about and shrewdly invest it. When they double their money--that would be a 100% profit--they are congratulated. When the one guy who keeps his money under his mattress comes forward, he says he did it because the marketplace was scary, and he didn't want to make his even scarier master angry. The master proves that he is, therefore, the scarier of the two, and berates the the guy for not at least having kept his money in an interest-bearing account. Then, the master takes all the money from the poor guy, gives it to the rich guy, and promises the poor guy unending torture in a place outside the realms of American law and the Geneva conventions.
This story just sounds so damn poignant at the moment. Who are we talking about these days but investors trying to make money? What are we talking about but lending, interest, and savings? I mean, consider: the investors in the story are even making money on borrowed money. It's eerie.
But if this parable seems to have strange resonances with our own time, the resonances bring forward how weird this parable is. First off, it seems downright unfair to be mean to the fearful investor. After all, he had the least 'ability' of the three according to the story, so we already know he was pretty dumb. This seems to contrast with the image we usually have of Jesus defending 'the least.' Second, it's strange to see something that looks so pro-capitalism here in the gospels. After all, in traditional Jewish teachings, charging one another interest (meaning other Israelites) was forbidden, so investing would be tough, particularly as Jesus is in the midst of expanding who exactly is covered under the umbrella of 'chosen.' What a strange story.
So, let's back it up. Let's drop our preconceptions about capitalism, stock market economics, and credit default swaps. Let's try the story again. It's a story that, I think, rewards careful attention to detail.
First of all, the investors of the story are slaves--that alone runs strongly against the kind of prophet-status that investors hold in our culture. Second, they are investing someone else's money, but it's their master's, not a client's. Because of this, notice something that seems very strange from our perspective: they don't charge a broker's fee. Surely, if they master wanted them to make money, they should be granted a certain percentage of the gains, a 'broker's fee.' But they don't, mostly because that's not the kind of relationship they seem to have with their master. I'll come back to that in a moment.
And the third guy, the poor guy, the dumb guy--he's terrified. He does, after all, have a master who shows up all over the place expecting money from land he didn't even plant and hasn't cared for himself. So the third guy chickens out, hides his money in a hole, and timidly returns it.
So first of all, the story is definitely about money. On a secondary level, sure, it's about the gifts that everyone receives, but it's also about money--who has got it, what they do with it. And in the story, it's made abundantly clear that the money belongs to none of the slaves. If we are to see ourselves as the slaves in this story, we have a painful lesson to learn: our money isn't ours.
And this, of course, is why there is no broker's fee. God owes us no money for the services we render because all of our money is already God's. We can spend it however we like, horde it however much we wish, lend as we choose, but it does not make us live forever, and so it is never truly belongs to us. We have no final say in its use because our money will outlive us.
But without a broker's fee, why should the investors try to make money with what they're given? And if we are those slaves, that question belongs to us: why should we use our money for the good of others, for the good of God? After all, the money belongs to God--I won't see any profit from it.
And here is the central challenge of this parable: why exactly do those two investors choose to double their money? The story doesn't tell us, perhaps intentionally so. Why do they choose to go ahead and invest anyway, rather than sit back in fear as the third slave does? It appears that in trying to give their master back the money, they receive even more--there's that line about 'you've been faithful in a little, so now I give you much'. But this seems to be a surprise--neither seem to have worked so diligently with the money because they thought they were going to receive anything.
Perhaps because self-interested economic reasoning is not the kind that belongs to the Kingdom of God. Perhaps the two who chose to invest did so not because they would make money. Perhaps they did it because they thought it was fun.
Fun is an unusual word in talking about God, and that seems unfortunate. But for "fun" here, we could substitute fancier things like: they were thankful to receive that money, or they were participating in a gift-economy that inspires sharing. But let's drop the fancy-talk for a minute--they wanted to have more fun.
They decided not to be scared of their overbearing master--they decided instead: ah hell, I've got 5 talents. Let's see what I can do with it! Did they invest it in wind-power? Clean water wells in Africa? Their neighborhood soup kitchen? Who knows--but they must have done it with both a kind of wisdom and a kind of joy. They loved their borrowed talents so much that they jumped courageously into the world, not because the master ordered them to but because they were so excited they couldn't contain themselves. They were adventurous, courage, and fun.
Why does the third guy get in trouble? Not because he's dumb, and not because he has less money. But because of his fear, he's not willing to have fun, because having fun is always a risk, a chance to have a heart broken, a toy smashed, a leg in a cast, or to be forced into spending some time in the principal's office. Fear cripples him, and he can only whine when he hands back his cash. But the master, it turns out, is a great lover of fun, and he does not care for this fearful approach.
So, we should be honest: why should we give money to the church? To Episcopal Relief and Development? To Doctors without Borders? Because it's fun. Because giving money is exciting. I think most stewardship campaigns go sideways right at this point--the reason we give money is not for programs, or buildings, or spiritual care. We are called to invest and share our talents shrewdly and joyfully, and we spend too much time in the 'shrewd' part. Christian giving does not begin as though we were all landlords, trying to put together a social organization or a countryclub for our ongoing spiritual care. Christian giving begins in realizing that we are all slaves, that we've been given more than we can possibly know what to do with, and we've been charged to go make something. Christiangiving begins by saying: awesome, let's do something!
I firmly believe that among the two or three things that are actually damaging to the church in our time, the most subtle of these diseases is that we are afraid to be exciting. We want to bury ourselves in mattresses, or in the ground, where economies don't crash, where jobs aren't lost. We want to bury ourselves in the same hymns of our childhood, whether they were from 1940 or the happy-clappy tunes of camp, and pretend that we don't need to grow. We want to hide in the ground, the same pew of the same building, because maybe then we can appease that awful and scary God who demands so much. How much easier to hide our talents in the same Christmas service we've done every year for the last 50 than to ask myself, sitting around the vestry table: am I actually excited about what we're talking about? How much easier to join the football-crowd mentality of a fundamentalist congregation than to ask myself: do I actually like this?
But God calls us to a different kind of life. We are called to be joyful, to be actually excited about sharing the wealth that is not ours. It may sound strange, but I remain convinced that the one of the greatest challenges of our age is to re-discover the joy of giving, the joy of relationship with God. We are called not to a life in the ground, but instead to a life in the marketplace--bargaining, laughing, investing, using what we got for something far bigger than any of us.
Perhaps you, like me, have heard this 'parable of talents' more than a thousand times. The fact that 'talent' means an amount of money (apparently an ungodly amount of money) is usually lost on the sermon-giver, and they make the nice slide in English into making them 'talents' of a different kind, like the ability to do ballet, ride a unicycle, or burp the alphabet. I'm quite sure that I've done this in the past, so I include myself among those questionable preachers who quickly read this passage, pretend it's not about money, and jump immediately to telling people that we all ought to be using our 'talents' for the good of the church. Namely, teaching Sunday school, because there are never enough volunteers for that time-consuming and thankless job.
But in our world today, this is downright surprising lesson. "The Lord spoke once; twice have I heard it" indeed.
It's a whole story about how, when given a bunch of money, some folks go about and shrewdly invest it. When they double their money--that would be a 100% profit--they are congratulated. When the one guy who keeps his money under his mattress comes forward, he says he did it because the marketplace was scary, and he didn't want to make his even scarier master angry. The master proves that he is, therefore, the scarier of the two, and berates the the guy for not at least having kept his money in an interest-bearing account. Then, the master takes all the money from the poor guy, gives it to the rich guy, and promises the poor guy unending torture in a place outside the realms of American law and the Geneva conventions.
This story just sounds so damn poignant at the moment. Who are we talking about these days but investors trying to make money? What are we talking about but lending, interest, and savings? I mean, consider: the investors in the story are even making money on borrowed money. It's eerie.
But if this parable seems to have strange resonances with our own time, the resonances bring forward how weird this parable is. First off, it seems downright unfair to be mean to the fearful investor. After all, he had the least 'ability' of the three according to the story, so we already know he was pretty dumb. This seems to contrast with the image we usually have of Jesus defending 'the least.' Second, it's strange to see something that looks so pro-capitalism here in the gospels. After all, in traditional Jewish teachings, charging one another interest (meaning other Israelites) was forbidden, so investing would be tough, particularly as Jesus is in the midst of expanding who exactly is covered under the umbrella of 'chosen.' What a strange story.
So, let's back it up. Let's drop our preconceptions about capitalism, stock market economics, and credit default swaps. Let's try the story again. It's a story that, I think, rewards careful attention to detail.
First of all, the investors of the story are slaves--that alone runs strongly against the kind of prophet-status that investors hold in our culture. Second, they are investing someone else's money, but it's their master's, not a client's. Because of this, notice something that seems very strange from our perspective: they don't charge a broker's fee. Surely, if they master wanted them to make money, they should be granted a certain percentage of the gains, a 'broker's fee.' But they don't, mostly because that's not the kind of relationship they seem to have with their master. I'll come back to that in a moment.
And the third guy, the poor guy, the dumb guy--he's terrified. He does, after all, have a master who shows up all over the place expecting money from land he didn't even plant and hasn't cared for himself. So the third guy chickens out, hides his money in a hole, and timidly returns it.
So first of all, the story is definitely about money. On a secondary level, sure, it's about the gifts that everyone receives, but it's also about money--who has got it, what they do with it. And in the story, it's made abundantly clear that the money belongs to none of the slaves. If we are to see ourselves as the slaves in this story, we have a painful lesson to learn: our money isn't ours.
And this, of course, is why there is no broker's fee. God owes us no money for the services we render because all of our money is already God's. We can spend it however we like, horde it however much we wish, lend as we choose, but it does not make us live forever, and so it is never truly belongs to us. We have no final say in its use because our money will outlive us.
But without a broker's fee, why should the investors try to make money with what they're given? And if we are those slaves, that question belongs to us: why should we use our money for the good of others, for the good of God? After all, the money belongs to God--I won't see any profit from it.
And here is the central challenge of this parable: why exactly do those two investors choose to double their money? The story doesn't tell us, perhaps intentionally so. Why do they choose to go ahead and invest anyway, rather than sit back in fear as the third slave does? It appears that in trying to give their master back the money, they receive even more--there's that line about 'you've been faithful in a little, so now I give you much'. But this seems to be a surprise--neither seem to have worked so diligently with the money because they thought they were going to receive anything.
Perhaps because self-interested economic reasoning is not the kind that belongs to the Kingdom of God. Perhaps the two who chose to invest did so not because they would make money. Perhaps they did it because they thought it was fun.
Fun is an unusual word in talking about God, and that seems unfortunate. But for "fun" here, we could substitute fancier things like: they were thankful to receive that money, or they were participating in a gift-economy that inspires sharing. But let's drop the fancy-talk for a minute--they wanted to have more fun.
They decided not to be scared of their overbearing master--they decided instead: ah hell, I've got 5 talents. Let's see what I can do with it! Did they invest it in wind-power? Clean water wells in Africa? Their neighborhood soup kitchen? Who knows--but they must have done it with both a kind of wisdom and a kind of joy. They loved their borrowed talents so much that they jumped courageously into the world, not because the master ordered them to but because they were so excited they couldn't contain themselves. They were adventurous, courage, and fun.
Why does the third guy get in trouble? Not because he's dumb, and not because he has less money. But because of his fear, he's not willing to have fun, because having fun is always a risk, a chance to have a heart broken, a toy smashed, a leg in a cast, or to be forced into spending some time in the principal's office. Fear cripples him, and he can only whine when he hands back his cash. But the master, it turns out, is a great lover of fun, and he does not care for this fearful approach.
So, we should be honest: why should we give money to the church? To Episcopal Relief and Development? To Doctors without Borders? Because it's fun. Because giving money is exciting. I think most stewardship campaigns go sideways right at this point--the reason we give money is not for programs, or buildings, or spiritual care. We are called to invest and share our talents shrewdly and joyfully, and we spend too much time in the 'shrewd' part. Christian giving does not begin as though we were all landlords, trying to put together a social organization or a countryclub for our ongoing spiritual care. Christian giving begins in realizing that we are all slaves, that we've been given more than we can possibly know what to do with, and we've been charged to go make something. Christiangiving begins by saying: awesome, let's do something!
I firmly believe that among the two or three things that are actually damaging to the church in our time, the most subtle of these diseases is that we are afraid to be exciting. We want to bury ourselves in mattresses, or in the ground, where economies don't crash, where jobs aren't lost. We want to bury ourselves in the same hymns of our childhood, whether they were from 1940 or the happy-clappy tunes of camp, and pretend that we don't need to grow. We want to hide in the ground, the same pew of the same building, because maybe then we can appease that awful and scary God who demands so much. How much easier to hide our talents in the same Christmas service we've done every year for the last 50 than to ask myself, sitting around the vestry table: am I actually excited about what we're talking about? How much easier to join the football-crowd mentality of a fundamentalist congregation than to ask myself: do I actually like this?
But God calls us to a different kind of life. We are called to be joyful, to be actually excited about sharing the wealth that is not ours. It may sound strange, but I remain convinced that the one of the greatest challenges of our age is to re-discover the joy of giving, the joy of relationship with God. We are called not to a life in the ground, but instead to a life in the marketplace--bargaining, laughing, investing, using what we got for something far bigger than any of us.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Proper 27, Year A: Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25
Following track 1 in the RCL:
I think any sermon this week probably needed to wait for its writing until after Tuesday. It was bound to be a tumultuous week no matter what side of the political barbwire we happen to be standing on.
So I would like you, for a moment, to take a deep breath. Whether you're ecstatic that Barak Obama won, or unhappy, lay that down. Set aside these many years(!) of campaigning, and feel your shoulders relax, although I think we all know that it might take months for us to let all this go. Let's talk for a minute about where we are.
Here, we've elected a president whose rhetoric has always hovered around the word 'hope.' Always, his conversation has turned on a hope for a future from a difficult present, and he has held up his own biography as an example of how what is broken can be healed, and what was disadvantaged can grow to wisdom and thoughtfulness. It feels like a step into the future, a change of the guard. It looks and feels like a new generation taking power. Young children will be playing in the White House. An African-American family will be living in that White House (the irony is lost on no one). It feels like the brink of a new era. Again, set aside whether you think this is a good or bad decision, a good or a bad era on whose cusp we are standing, and let's recognize something: something new is being done.
Will this new era work out for good? Now that's a interesting question.
Will the economic crisis find healing, and what would 'healing' our economy mean anyway? Was it healthy to begin with? Will our hopes for some kind of fairer and affordable health care happen? What does a just system of taxation look like? Governments always struggle with these questions of justice, money, and war, and we have all been told to hope for this new future, which began sometime this week.
Now, I want us to set aside our ecstasy and sadness for a moment because this picture parallels surprisingly well with the story we hear today in Joshua. The story we hear today is the story of a people entering a new era. The old wilderness days are done, flat out done. They had their cost on the community--a whole generation died. The community, this people of Israel, have no money and no land. Their neighbors have grown scared of them, and that fear is for good reason--there are so many of them, and they have already begun to invade nearby countries to gain wealth and standing. But a new generation has arrived--Moses is gone, Joshua is here, and it's a new era.
It's as if they arrive at the edge of the Promise Land, and they see it. But suddenly, the realize: all of their mental energy had been directed toward arriving here. Arriving, however, is not everything. Now they have to live there. What will they do?
Will this new generation act in justice? Will they solve Israel's political and economic problems? Will they hold to their founding principles? And of course, what's most important in this story: will Israel be faithful to the God who called them out of Egypt, who spoke to their ancestor Abraham?
That's the setup for this story in Joshua, a story that sounds to my ears a great deal like our story.
So Joshua steps to the fore--he sees what others do not. And by the way, we have no reason to believe that all of Israel supported Joshua. Moses was fortunate enough to have the ground swallow anyone who rebelled against him, but the days of Moses are gone. Perhaps we should remember that not everyone liked Joshua, not everyone agreed with him. But leader he was, and he saw the confusion in their faces--how are they going to live in this new land?
He rehearses the history with them, and he demands: will they follow God? Will they be faithful? They all say: "Yeah! God did do all that, we'll follow!" Joshua, who is quickly becoming as hard a leader as Moses, replies: "You're not good enough. You can't do it. It will be very hard--a time of sacrifice (giving up the old gods), and a time of not knowing exactly what's going to happen to you (faith)." The people stand up straighter, brush the dust off their shirts, and reply: "Yes we can!" Joshua replies: then you are witnesses of your own oath. Today begins a new day, a new covenant for a new generation.
This story, a delightful one even in normal times, has much to offer us this week. In particular, the very premise of the story suggests something that we're missing in our national scene: a new era means a new covenant, a promise from all of us about a new way to live. Every generation must makes its covenant, and particularly for us, we know that every generation must make anew the covenant with God. The actions of the past position the faith of the present--they don't determine the faith of the present. In a new time, Joshua calls Israel to new promise and to renew the promise of faithfulness and sacrifice to God.
So as we enter our new time, whether we act with gladly anticipation or fearful resignation, it is time for a new generation to make a new covenant. And my own concern here is for our covenant with God, not with the government. It's time we take advantage of what our nation is presenting us recognize where we are: somewhere new.
Countless contradictory books litter the shelves about the changing faiths of America: evangelical, emerging church, virtual, Southern hemisphere-centric, gay. It's time to begin to articulate our covenant, or perhaps covenants--we seem increasingly doubtful about the monolithic nature of things. Joshua's story reminds us that as we enter a new time, it's time to renew our religious commitment, our relationship to God. A new era doesn't mean free and easy sailing; it doesn't mean the end of the past. But it is time to notice that something has changed--we're standing somewhere different. It does mean that it's time to stand at the edge of the Promised Land and say: what, you mean we're here? What do we do now? It's time to look into our individual faith communities and ask ourselves: who are we now? What does our covenant with God look like?
I also think Joshua's story has some strong criteria to offer us as we consider what that relationship to God will look like. He asks Israel to consider sacrifice and faithfulness to be foundations of that covenant--sacrifice of the old idols, and faithful love of God.
What idols need to die? What has been our idol in the stock market? How attached are we to being the superpower of Christianity? Is every single medical treatment worth it if its cost denies healthcare to others? And even more: what idols have we held as Christians, and for me, as an Episcopalian?
And will we be faithful? Does faithfulness look like social justice? Does it look like daily prayer? Will faithfulness happen online, and does that even matter? How will our communities escape the slow death of becoming social organizations and return to faithfulness?
Today, we begin to enter a new era. Today, we stand at the edge of the Promised Land. And as we do, we are being called to ask: how are we going to live here?
I think any sermon this week probably needed to wait for its writing until after Tuesday. It was bound to be a tumultuous week no matter what side of the political barbwire we happen to be standing on.
So I would like you, for a moment, to take a deep breath. Whether you're ecstatic that Barak Obama won, or unhappy, lay that down. Set aside these many years(!) of campaigning, and feel your shoulders relax, although I think we all know that it might take months for us to let all this go. Let's talk for a minute about where we are.
Here, we've elected a president whose rhetoric has always hovered around the word 'hope.' Always, his conversation has turned on a hope for a future from a difficult present, and he has held up his own biography as an example of how what is broken can be healed, and what was disadvantaged can grow to wisdom and thoughtfulness. It feels like a step into the future, a change of the guard. It looks and feels like a new generation taking power. Young children will be playing in the White House. An African-American family will be living in that White House (the irony is lost on no one). It feels like the brink of a new era. Again, set aside whether you think this is a good or bad decision, a good or a bad era on whose cusp we are standing, and let's recognize something: something new is being done.
Will this new era work out for good? Now that's a interesting question.
Will the economic crisis find healing, and what would 'healing' our economy mean anyway? Was it healthy to begin with? Will our hopes for some kind of fairer and affordable health care happen? What does a just system of taxation look like? Governments always struggle with these questions of justice, money, and war, and we have all been told to hope for this new future, which began sometime this week.
Now, I want us to set aside our ecstasy and sadness for a moment because this picture parallels surprisingly well with the story we hear today in Joshua. The story we hear today is the story of a people entering a new era. The old wilderness days are done, flat out done. They had their cost on the community--a whole generation died. The community, this people of Israel, have no money and no land. Their neighbors have grown scared of them, and that fear is for good reason--there are so many of them, and they have already begun to invade nearby countries to gain wealth and standing. But a new generation has arrived--Moses is gone, Joshua is here, and it's a new era.
It's as if they arrive at the edge of the Promise Land, and they see it. But suddenly, the realize: all of their mental energy had been directed toward arriving here. Arriving, however, is not everything. Now they have to live there. What will they do?
Will this new generation act in justice? Will they solve Israel's political and economic problems? Will they hold to their founding principles? And of course, what's most important in this story: will Israel be faithful to the God who called them out of Egypt, who spoke to their ancestor Abraham?
That's the setup for this story in Joshua, a story that sounds to my ears a great deal like our story.
So Joshua steps to the fore--he sees what others do not. And by the way, we have no reason to believe that all of Israel supported Joshua. Moses was fortunate enough to have the ground swallow anyone who rebelled against him, but the days of Moses are gone. Perhaps we should remember that not everyone liked Joshua, not everyone agreed with him. But leader he was, and he saw the confusion in their faces--how are they going to live in this new land?
He rehearses the history with them, and he demands: will they follow God? Will they be faithful? They all say: "Yeah! God did do all that, we'll follow!" Joshua, who is quickly becoming as hard a leader as Moses, replies: "You're not good enough. You can't do it. It will be very hard--a time of sacrifice (giving up the old gods), and a time of not knowing exactly what's going to happen to you (faith)." The people stand up straighter, brush the dust off their shirts, and reply: "Yes we can!" Joshua replies: then you are witnesses of your own oath. Today begins a new day, a new covenant for a new generation.
This story, a delightful one even in normal times, has much to offer us this week. In particular, the very premise of the story suggests something that we're missing in our national scene: a new era means a new covenant, a promise from all of us about a new way to live. Every generation must makes its covenant, and particularly for us, we know that every generation must make anew the covenant with God. The actions of the past position the faith of the present--they don't determine the faith of the present. In a new time, Joshua calls Israel to new promise and to renew the promise of faithfulness and sacrifice to God.
So as we enter our new time, whether we act with gladly anticipation or fearful resignation, it is time for a new generation to make a new covenant. And my own concern here is for our covenant with God, not with the government. It's time we take advantage of what our nation is presenting us recognize where we are: somewhere new.
Countless contradictory books litter the shelves about the changing faiths of America: evangelical, emerging church, virtual, Southern hemisphere-centric, gay. It's time to begin to articulate our covenant, or perhaps covenants--we seem increasingly doubtful about the monolithic nature of things. Joshua's story reminds us that as we enter a new time, it's time to renew our religious commitment, our relationship to God. A new era doesn't mean free and easy sailing; it doesn't mean the end of the past. But it is time to notice that something has changed--we're standing somewhere different. It does mean that it's time to stand at the edge of the Promised Land and say: what, you mean we're here? What do we do now? It's time to look into our individual faith communities and ask ourselves: who are we now? What does our covenant with God look like?
I also think Joshua's story has some strong criteria to offer us as we consider what that relationship to God will look like. He asks Israel to consider sacrifice and faithfulness to be foundations of that covenant--sacrifice of the old idols, and faithful love of God.
What idols need to die? What has been our idol in the stock market? How attached are we to being the superpower of Christianity? Is every single medical treatment worth it if its cost denies healthcare to others? And even more: what idols have we held as Christians, and for me, as an Episcopalian?
And will we be faithful? Does faithfulness look like social justice? Does it look like daily prayer? Will faithfulness happen online, and does that even matter? How will our communities escape the slow death of becoming social organizations and return to faithfulness?
Today, we begin to enter a new era. Today, we stand at the edge of the Promised Land. And as we do, we are being called to ask: how are we going to live here?
Learns to blog!
I continue to work on somethings--I think you can post "comments" as these crazy kids are calling them now as long as you have a gmail account, which is likely to include almost all civilized beings. Also, I have to 'proof' the comment, so it may not appear instantly, but it'll be around.
And finally: at some point, should be interested in knowing when I post these things (which I assure you is likely to be weekly, ergo not cluttering your inbox), I think you click one of those buttons at the right to 'follow' it, or 'join' it, or some such.
And finally: at some point, should be interested in knowing when I post these things (which I assure you is likely to be weekly, ergo not cluttering your inbox), I think you click one of those buttons at the right to 'follow' it, or 'join' it, or some such.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
All Saints in the RCL 2008
Matthew 5:1-12
So, I'm pretty tired of the Beatitudes. Blessed are the blah blah blah, or, that's what they sound like to me. I feel like I've heard thousands of sermons on these things, and I've given a few a myself. They don't feel impenetrable--they feel old hat.I suppose I could take the angle that this is my fault, or society's fault, or sin's fault. Somehow, the exciting nature of gospel-life has been sucked away by these things. The Beatitudes seem boring because I haven't done enough work, or haven't let enough grace into my heart, or some such. And maybe that's true.
But maybe what's more true is that the vision these things offer is a long way off. One of my all time favorite lines from a movie is from Monty Python's Life of Brian. When the people hear Jesus say 'Blessed are the meek, they will inherit the earth,' one character says: oh isn't that nice, the meek finally get something. The point of the joke is that being meek will get us exactly nowhere in this world. In fact, being meek is not at all the example Jesus gives us. Jesus is more lion than sheep, more firebrand than guru.
Maybe that's why other gospel stories ring truer. When Jesus talks about having come to bring a sword to divide us, that just feels more true to our experience--not this silly blessed are the peacemaker stuff, something Jesus didn't seem to follow himself. The painful story of Lazarus' death, and Jesus' subsequent weeping, just seems more relevant than this broad and blase comment about blessed are those who mourn. Jesus' parable about the Samaritan seems far more poignant than some empty statement about 'blessed are the merciful.' And exactly how merciful is Jesus to that fig tree he blights?
I think these things are what make the Beatitudes so boring: other parts of the Bible just seem so much more relevant, so cutting edge. The Beatitudes read like bad Cliff's Notes, getting some details wrong in making a broad generalization that we can memorize quickly. Even Luke's version of the Beatitudes seems more cutting edge: forget the poor in spirit, blessed are the poor! Now that's something more of us can relate to in a world of economic disaster.
So, I'm tired of the Beatitudes. I'd love them not to show up on a Sunday again for a long, long time.
And yet, I sure do hope they're true. Really, really true. I sure do hope the workers for righteousness are blessed, although it damn sure doesn't seem that way. I really hope the meek get something--not the seemingly meek, the pretend humble, but the actual poor bastards who always put their foot in their mouth, who can't catch a break, and whom no one invites over for dinner. I hope that peacemakers are not frustrated forever. I really hope that mourners will be comforted, and that pain isn't forever. I hope for all these and more--they just seem so far from the world we live in.
So perhaps that is the Beatitudes at their best--irrelevant, placid, dull, and hopefully true. Hopefully, they're true in deeper ways than any of us can see.
I'm also mindful that as I'm writing this, election day will pop up again before the next Sunday. If the Beatitudes are to be our guide in the election, I would have to say that they should call us to a politics of hope. I know that has a certain resonance with a certain candidate, and that doesn't hurt my feelings. But setting the slogan aside, no matter who we vote for, the Beatitudes are calling us to vote for a vision of hope, regardless of what political party most holds that hope for us. We are called to vote for hope, and not for fear. If we fear our candidates, if we fear what they bring, we vote in fear, and nowhere in the Beatitudes does it promise that things will turn out well if we act in fear.
But those boring old Beatitudes do suggest that hope will not ultimately be frustrated. Boring, regular old hope will be triumphant, says Jesus in the Beatitudes. Seemingly impossible, dumb old hope will win. Let's hope so--wherever the economy goes, whoever wins the election, no matter the wars we're fighting, let's hope to God for hope.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Loomings
So, I'm unemployed.
With less to do on a Sunday, I thought I'd practice writing--share some sermon ideas, maybe. And you can share yours, if you've got 'em. It'll be like, well, a pulpit exchange.
So, let's give it a whirl.
With less to do on a Sunday, I thought I'd practice writing--share some sermon ideas, maybe. And you can share yours, if you've got 'em. It'll be like, well, a pulpit exchange.
So, let's give it a whirl.
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