Misunderstanding call

Second Sunday after Epiphany, Year B
Samuel 3:1-20


I grew up going to an Episcopal school, so I heard this story of Samuel often. I was a particularly imaginative child, vividly seeing and hearing things all the time, and whenever I thought I might have heard someone call my name, I used to mutter, "Here I am," under my breath. Just in case. You never know.

As I've gotten a little older, I've come to think about calling a little bit differently. Perhaps calling is not restricted to strange utterances while we're half asleep. Perhaps instead call is a lifetime response to something we hear from God. People often speak of 'callings' in the church, meaning usually something about ordained ministry. Many of us speaking of 'callings' generally. God calls us all to do things: be a parent, be a child, be a care-giver, be a care-receiver, be patient, love difficult people, not confuse being a doormat with any genuine care, be a carpenter, be an exterminator, fix refrigerators. All of this may be callings from us to God--certainly, God does not only call the yahoos who serve in religious communities.

The dark underbelly of believing in call, the thing most people don't talk about, is getting call wrong. Sometimes, we are able to speak of 'fleeing from call.' Jonah comes to mind with his rather hilarious rendition of the Odyssey, stood on its head. So, we do talk about missing God's call to us. Sometimes, we are able to speak of deferred call, holding off on something for a few years because of some other calling we have. So, I would even say that generally, we are comfortable that sometimes our callings come into conflict. Although perhaps even that might seem controversial to some folks.

But the true darkness of call is that, if we believe God calls to us, we must accept that we might hear it and get it wrong. I remember well a few folks in graduate school, or even as an undergraduate, who were clearly in the wrong calling. Or, at least, it was clear to everybody else--advisers, friends, colleagues, peers, professors, administrators. The bad fit was obvious, perhaps even in a few cases to the person who felt called. But most of the times I have seen this, when we all see someone who has stumbled into the wrong calling, we don't have the heart to tell them. At least to their faces. Behind their backs is another story entirely.

But why don't we tell them? Here's a specific story. I vaguely knew someone in seminary who everyone knew should not be there. This person had an illness that prevented her attending classes, a potential drug addiction that caused endless speculation, and she was lacking in any of the most minimal social graces, including things like personal hygiene. Not a likely call to ordained ministry. Yet, it took over a year for her tenure at the seminary to end, and it happened in a chicken-out way. Some fuss was made over a few missed credits, and she was quietly removed.

Now, why didn't anyone talk to her about this? I'll venture a hypothesis: it would mean that she had gotten God's call to her wrong.

We're hesitant to use that language for a few reasons. First, God calls all sorts of unlikely people--we all know this. From young Samuel to old Eli, from womanizer David to dumb, dumb Samson, from Peter the idiot to Nathanael the honest, from Paul the crazy zealot to John the schizophrenic: we all know God calls weirdos. So, in a good sense, I think we all want to cut God slack.

But second, once most people had worked through the first reason and discerned that she just might have gotten God's call wrong, I think no one said anything because to name that God's call was wrong for her would have forced us to acknowledge that we could have gotten God's call wrong in our own lives. And that's pretty frightening.

Consider: what if we have misunderstood God, and what God wants for us? It's a haunting thought. Even if God is not a horrible legalist who will punish us for misunderstanding rules, it's sad to think we would hear that relationship in a way that isn't true. It's sad to realize that we may not have heard God right, and we are doing things that God does not want for us, all because we have misunderstood.

But the story of Samuel this morning confronts, I think, our worst fears. God calls to Samuel 3 times, and Samuel gets it wrong. Eli, the one who is suppose to be wise, gets it wrong. Even when sleeping so close to God's footstool, so close to the divine presence, the two holy people can't figure out what God means.

(And of course, once they figure out what's going on, the message itself is an indictment of Eli for letting his parenting sympathies interfere with what he knew was best for the temple, what was supposed to show God on earth. Even the message itself is an acknowledgment that callings can conflict, as they did for Eli, and that Eli chose wrong.)

I have much to say about misunderstanding--I think that, as a theme, it's a central one in Scripture, but one that almost no one talks about in a thorough way. Especially misunderstanding God. Even the Samuel story, in both of its books, is a story riddled with misunderstanding. The people of Israel misunderstand what it means to have a king. Saul misunderstands Samuel and God. Michal misunderstands David's dancing, or David misunderstands the occasion--hard to say . David certainly misunderstands how he may treat a foreigner, Uriah, and his wife Bathsheba. One bad understanding after another.

Could it be that we have heard God wrong? Could it be that God wants us not to run to Eli, but to hear a message? Could it be that we thought God was speaking, and it was only the television? Could it be that we thought the movie was speaking, and it was really God? That 'possibility of being wrong' is, I believe, is one of the most fundamental human moments.

In other words, we may indeed have heard God wrong. Scripture is full of that possibility, and our own experience confirms it. Even if understanding God perfectly is definitely not the precondition for having a relationship with God, too often we fear it.

But today, we have a the heartening tale of Samuel. When we fear to have heard God wrong, we fear all kinds of things, whether they are right or wrong--eternal damnation, years of embarrassment, bodily harm, an unfulfilling life, a broken heart. Some of those fears come to pass. But in the story today, God does a strange thing: God repeats God-self.

Now, one of the psalms marvels that God can speak once and we can hear that same thing speak to us on more than one occasion, but here, that's not what happens. Practical old God simply tries again: "Samuel!" You have to wonder if God sighs between attempts.

But this is not small thing, that God repeats God-self. God doesn't have to say "Light" twice for there to be light--that sort of thing just moves right along. But for Samuel, for a human, God will repeat it until Samuel understands. God doesn't seem to nag in the story--God doesn't seem to sigh, in fact. God doesn't seem put out at all. If anything, God seems patient, willing to say once more in clear syllables: Sa-mu-el.

God is this way, too, with us. We may misunderstand God, but this does not seem terribly troubling to God, even if that misunderstanding causes consequences for us. God simply says it once again. Samuel.

We are not expected to hear God once and then move forward in perfect clarity. Like Samuel, we turn to out teachers and say: what was that all about it? And our teachers get it perfectly wrong. Again. And again. And sooner or later, we get it right, or at least closer to right--God does not seem to be in a hurry. If God has appeared to us in an Epiphany, a vision of that highest light, it's okay if we don't get it the first time. It'll be around again.

This story means all kinds of practical things for us, but I'll close with only this one. Perhaps it is not such a bad thing that we ask God for the same thing over and over again, whether that be that our cancer be healed or that dog find its way home. God probably replies to us on every one of those occasions exactly what needs to happen, exactly what will happen. We simply misunderstand the reply. It's okay--we can ask again. God seems perfectly happy to repeat things--perhaps one day, we can hear that answer.

Finding the climax

First Sunday after the Epiphany, Year B in the RCL

Psalm 29
Mark 1:4-11

Storytelling.

Modern intellectuals obsess over stories. Someone very famous, whose name escapes me entirely, claims that we are human because we tell stories. That is what makes us human--we are at all because we arrange things in stories, with characters minor and major, climaxes, catastrophes. We tell comedies and tragedies. What makes us human is the ability to tell stories, to tell our individual stories, to relate these stories to a wider story. I think this position has gained such ground that it has a kind of intuitive awareness among everyone, intellectual or not--and of course, storytelling has always been a tradition of everybody, intellectual or not. StoryCorps, which produces some lovely things indeed, is just one example of this trend. We all seem to sense that everyone has a story to tell, and that everyone's story is what matters most.

We can see the influence of this idea all over. Much of the best theology of the last century is concerned with positioning us within "salvation history," a code for the story that is happening between God and created reality. Some intellectuals fret over 'meta-narratives,' the kind of stories that claim all stories ultimately belong to one large story. When Christians get together, we 'tell each other our story,' and we use that term to mean something like 'we reveal our hearts perfectly to one another; our identities are shared with one another.' Amazon and Barnes and Nobles do nothing but sell stories to us. Hollywood tells the same stories over and over again. The rise in popular documentaries is, really, the positioning of data into a storyline that we can follow. Even in the world of science, stories are of growing importance, not simply because scientists try to defend the Big Bang story in the face of Creationism (a rather bogus dichotomy, if you ask most of us), but because science is useful only when it belongs as part of our story. Robert Krulwich very nicely makes this argument in his graduation speech to Cal Tech.

I could go on. Now, first, we should of course ask ourselves: is all this actually true? Is everything a story? I don't really know, and my doubts about it would take us even farther afield here. But I should say: regardless of whether it is true, it is most certainly a helpful way to look at the world. And it is a most helpful way to look at our lessons today.

Particularly, if you'll hang in for a sec, if we think about diagramming stories. You remember: drawing a little rising line to indicate rising action, showing a peak for a climax, showing falling action at various points.

Take the psalm. It's a great one--it has huge, mounting action and exciting imagery. Hebrew poetry often works by saying: A, and what's more, B! all in one line. But this whole psalm functions like that. A, and what's more B, and not only that, but C, and forget C, how about D, and not only D, have you taken a look at E!!!!!! And so on. It begins, "Ascribe to the LORD, you gods," which seems to imply that they are rather mediocre gods. Because not only that, they might as well ascribe to the LORD their glory and strength, because that's where it's coming from.

And not only that: his Name is due even more glory--and not only that, his name is that much more beautiful.

And then the psalm does the same thing with creation imagery--voices over waters, swelling through images of mountains tap-dancing, and then through fire falling from the sky, and then through temple worship, and then through ascribing about thrones, and strength, and peace. It's a pretty dramatic thing altogether.

But take a look at it a moment, and let me ask you this: where is its climax? Where is the psalm building to.

Consider: the climax could be in the second verse. Unusual, maybe, but we could easily read it that way. The beauty of holiness is a thick phrase--the aesthetic attractiveness of God's uniquely divine character might be one way to deal with it. And take that as the punch, the climax, for the moment. The rest is simply falling action, describing how God is both beautiful and holy.

Or: we could take the water imagery as the climax. After all, that is the image of order over chaos in the Old Testament. Or, we could take the mountains as the climax, with the fire falling afterward as a kind of epilogue. Or, we could take the fire and wilderness imagery as the climax, as the most dramatic physical manifestation, and priests hang around crying 'glory' in a hushed tone, amazed at these sights.

Or: we could take the priests in worship as the climax. As amazing as the creation imagery is, the priests chanting their 'glory' over and over is the highest climax of all of these images.

Or: we could take the 'peace' at the end as a climax. This would mean that of all God's work, peace is the most glorious, the most fulfilling.

So, which is it? What's the climax of the psalm? On the one hand, the psalm resists an easy answer here; but on the other, it demands that we find a climax, a center for viewing the rest of the land, something that orders the poem so that it makes sense to us, like a story. But as we can see, the climax that we choose to pick totally changes the theology of the psalm. Is the psalm primarily about God's beautiful holiness, or about the superiority of priests over acts of nature? Is it about the superiority of those actions of nature (to which the priests' cry sounds like a whimper), or is it about the climax unique to God that is a true peace?

It's tricky--that's part of what makes it such a nice psalm.

So as we this week celebrate Epiphany, we have to ask: where are we in Jesus' story? And more importantly, where are we in relation to the climax of Jesus' life?

Is the birth the climax? If that's the case, then the most important thing Christ does is show up--the divine's presence among us is enough to begin to change all created reality. Plenty of theologians argue this these days, actually. This would mean that we are strongly called to do God's work in the world because in Christ's Incarnation, we see healing.

Or, is Christ's climax the crucifixion, where the love of God is seen most clearly written in suffering? If this is the climax, it means that we have been saved by a God whose love knows literally no bounds, and it inspires us to live the same way. This would mean that the birth is not very important--it taught us not nearly enough about love.

Or, is Christ's climax in the resurrection? This would mean that all things were working toward the healing of death. If this is the climax, it would mean that crucifixion and suffering aren't nearly as important--what is important is the new life we find in Christ.

Or, is Christ's climax at the Ascension? There, Christ completes his work and returns in love to his home. If this is the climax, Christ is the center of the story, not us.

Or, is it the second coming, the end of all created reality? If this is the climax . . . you see the point.

You see, because we are such creatures of story, it really matters where we think Christ's climax is, what we emphasize as most important. And Christ's story, like the psalm, invites us to consider multiple places for that emphasis, for that climax.

So for today, let us consider that Epiphany moment, the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan. Epiphany usually comes and goes, and we barely notice. We have all those other events of Jesus' life as potential climaxes, and they are all so compelling, so drawing. And yet, perhaps we are selling Epiphany short. How might we live if this were Jesus' climax?

Well, for starters, we'd have to notice that Jesus was shockingly like us, so much so that he was baptized. For all that John isn't unworthy to untie his sandals, he pours water on his head anyway. Perhaps we are like John--maybe we really are unworthy to have the gifts we do. But we have them anyway. Can we, like John, get over ourselves enough to do what Jesus asks?

Second, if the baptism in the Jordan is the climax of Jesus' life, then the highest point of the story is when the whole community of the Trinity is present together. Jesus is not a lone-ranger in the story--he is called Beloved, and the Spirit hangs around as the third person to that relationship. How often do we think being a Christian means being a lone ranger, all evidence to the contrary?

And third: if the highest moment of Jesus' life is the revealing of his divinity, his God-ness, then perhaps the center of our faith might rest not in resurrection, not in fidelity in suffering, not in waiting for the second coming, but in simply staring at the revealing of God. Perhaps faith is not a thing done--perhaps faith is not a verb. Perhaps instead it is a way to see, a way to be, a witnessing to something incredible and incredibly beautiful.

If the Epiphany is the climax of Christ's life, then the highest calling is to see God in the beauty of holiness. All the rest is falling action.

Back to Egypt

Christmas 2, Year B

A little slow this week, but I've been chewing on this one.

We are coming to the end of 'tradition time.' I would figure that, in the American psyche, from about Thanksgiving through early January, we are in the throes of tradition. Or traditions, plural, really. We are taught in this culture to do those things we have been handed on to us. Maybe that involves spending time with family, or giving of our time to the local Food Bank, or singing and listening to certain types of music. It definitely involves eating certain kinds of foods--we have certain things that simply must be eaten at Thanksgiving, and then certain things again at Christmas, and of course certain things on New Years Eve and New Years Day. So rooted are these traditions in our lives that others can move in and take advantage of the idea. In what should be an entirely unsurprising consumerist move, our businesses have made this whole traditional time a "traditional shopping season," with all of the appropriate 'traditional' names to go with it: Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Last Day for Free Shipping, the day/week after Christmas.

But somewhere, in all that bustle, I hope that between things, in the empty space that is the true reality, God jumped out and spoke. Perhaps a late night worship service, or perhaps driving in the car and singing, or perhaps walking the dog, or perhaps in the still quiet of the morning--I hope that the radical joy of the season jumped right out and bit you. That's what good tradition is good for, you know. It gives us something to do, body, mind, and soul, so that rather than trying to do something, we can just be.

But we're coming out of that now, out of that traditional time, and back into a more normal time. Trees will be gone, New Years resolutions will appear as the last of all traditions, and before you know it, we'll be back in a high gear, racing who knows where.

This week, we hear the very elusive readings of the second Sunday in Christmas, readings that we have some years and not others. We hear Jeremiah in a rare good mood, the author of Ephesians tell us the good news of our adoption by God, and of the holy family running away to Egypt--although we leave out the rather nasty verses about the killing of babies--would that be too much for a Sunday morning? It seems to me we often try and avoid passages that are unpleasant on Sunday mornings. Not the spiritually difficult ones, which we have relatively often, but the actual blood and guts ones. No daggers disappearing into fat people, tent pegs through heads, heads on platters, wishing for the death of the enemy's children. It's almost like the lectionary is a little Victorian, accepting the bloody, sexy reality of Scripture under the table but denying that we ever have to talk about it publicly.

But even without all the blood, we have Jesus, Mary, and Joseph fleeing into Egypt to save Jesus' life from the bizarrely barbaric Herod. The symmetry, at least narrative-wise, is a pretty one. Jesus' coming interrupts the normal order of things. All of a sudden, the heavens break open and angels sing. Shepherds dazedly ignore their duties and wander to see what all the commotion is. Strange wise foreigners show up with exotic conversation about a new king. And of course, there's the whole virgin birth business. Jesus' whole being stops the usually violent, dangerous word in its tracks. For a few days around a manger, the world's usual business is interrupted by peace.

But Jesus' interruption is itself interrupted by this flight into Egypt. The violent world suddenly reasserts itself. Power games again take to the fore, and the peaceful family becomes a refugee family. Joseph takes Jesus back to the scene of the crime, the place of the enslaving of the Jewish people. He returns to the place no one else wants to go, which is the safest place for him now. Danger and suffering have again become very real.

It's strange way to end Christmas time, with this flight into Egypt. How depressing--for Jesus' peaceful and dramatic birth, a vision of the unity of the heavens the earth, an actualization of the saving of all created reality, to end with a refugee story.

So what happens to these shepherds, these wise men? Matthew doesn't tell us, but we could guess. This vision of Christ was too beautiful, too peaceful, too hopeful. It's hard to live in the day to day reality of shepherding, or the endless commuting of the wise men following various celestial phenomena, while remembering the joy of that vision. So the easiest thing to do is, of course, to forget about it. To forget about Christmas, and as quickly as possible.

Every year, one of my favorite traditions is to read W. H. Auden's A Christmas Oratorio: For the Time Being somewhere during the Advent/Christmas plunge. Other than being one of the great poets of the last century, he was one of the most insightful religious poets--a true prophet, I think, more like the esoteric and aesthetic ramblings of Ezekiel than the straightforward criticism of injustice in Micah or Amos. Every year, I read For the Time Being, and every year, it speaks anew.

Auden chooses to end his poem with the end of the Christmas season in a section he entitles his last section 'The Flight into Egypt.' Auden talks about it in this way:

Well, so that is that.  Now we must dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes --
Some have got broken -- and carrying them up to the attic.
The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school.  There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week --
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted -- quite unsuccessfully --
To love all of our relatives, and in general
Grossly overestimated our powers.  Once again
As in previous years we have seen the actual Vision and failed
To do more than entertain it as an agreeable
Possibility, once again we have sent Him away,
Begging though to remain His disobedient servant,
The promising child who cannot keep His word for long.

Auden is probably right--we, too, have seen the light, and will be ever tempted to try and forget the joy, forget the wonder. We will try to deny the light--not because we are mean spirited, or jerks, but because keeping that vision of light and life is so hard in the daily grind. Auden continues:

The streets
Are much narrower than we remembered; we had forgotten
The office was as depressing as this.  To those who have seen
The Child, however dimly, however incredulously,
The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all.
For the innocent children who whispered so excitedly
Outside the locked door where they knew the presents to be
Grew up when it opened.  Now, recollecting that moment
We can repress the joy, but the guilt remains conscious;
Remembering the stable where for once in our lives
Everything became a You and nothing was an It.

The daily struggle, the suffering, and especially that feeling that nothing is special is so much easier, so much more believable to us. With the flight into Egypt, Jesus' story returns to the regular world. No more musical numbers, with Mary singing a solo ("My soul proclaims the greatness of the LORD") and angels following up with a big chorus dance number. Instead, back to life as usual--paying the bills, watching the failing economy, interminable and ambiguous wars, rising unemployment in our families and among our friends, and the interstate is the truest existence, and I know, because I drive on that thing.

Such is our temptation, to give into the story of the flight into Egypt. If Christ's birth story ends this way, we can relate. The joys of life, and especially the joyful vision at Christmas, seem to much to bear the rest of the year. The trial, as Auden says it, is that "the Soul endure/ A silence that is neither for nor against her faith."

But Christ's truth is, as always, the broader truth. We have seen the Christ child. We have seen visions of healed world. We have felt God's love for us. We have known that joy. And tempted as we are to forget all of that, we can hold on to the vision that we have seen.

So, I hope very much that in this Christmas season, God jumped out and poked you. I hope that you saw the beautiful vision, the delight of hope and promise of peace. But as we are all carried back into the Egypt of daily existence, it is our call not to surrender that vision. It is our call to carry it with us, to see it enacted, to work for that vision, for that peace. As we all find ourselves plunged back into Egypt, may we hold fast to that scene around the manger.