Saturday, March 30, 2013

Empty Tombs and Meeting Face to Face


There are two distinct parts, two distinct movements, two distinct encounters to this morning’s passage from John.  I think those two encounters also have a great deal to say to the church on Easter Sunday as well.

In the first movement of this passage Mary, Peter, and John have an encounter with an empty tomb.  

Mary goes to the tomb and discovers that there is no body.  She reports to Peter and the “Beloved Disciple” this fact: “The tomb is empty;” more specifically she says, “They have taken the body of Jesus.”

Insult has been added to injury: we can’t even give Jesus a proper burial.

Then John tells of a dramatic footrace to the tomb.  I see it in my mind as similar to the final moments of the 1999 Super Bowl between the Rams and the Titans, Peter’s hand is reaching out for the goal line of tomb, but the Beloved Disciple beats him to it, winning the foot race.  

At the tomb the beloved disciple looks in, sees the wrappings, but does not enter.  Peter arrives shortly after John, and enters the tomb.  He sees the wrappings used to cover the body of Jesus.  The beloved disciple then enters the tomb and together they see that the Body of Jesus is no where inside.  Then John says, “They saw and believed.”

Let’s stop for a moment and consider what did he/they see and believe?  There is no body: it has been taken/moved.  This is what they believe.  They believe that the tomb is empty.  John makes a point of saying, “for as yet they did not understand the scripture…”  They don’t yet believe, know, or understand that the empty tomb means Jesus is alive and that he has been raised.

For them, in this moment, Jesus is like Moses; his body is in a place that no one knows.  The tomb is empty. Happy Easter.  And they go home, perhaps making up their minds to go back to life as they had known it.

And maybe there are a few people like this in the Church, maybe some here this morning.  People who believe that there was an actual empty tomb on Easter morning, but they’ve walked away before meeting with the Risen One.  They’re going back to life as they have known it, they believe in the forgiveness of sins, but they haven’t met the Resurrected Jesus.  If it’s you, wait a while; Jesus is here.

In the second major part of this passage we have Mary waiting alone and weeping.  She’s been robbed of her chance at closure.  She cannot complete the rituals of lamentation.

And almost, like she can’t believe it, or maybe because she thinks that if she looks in the same place one more time he’ll be there.  (You know, like when you lose something and you look in the same place over and over and over again?)  That’s what Mary does. She looks into the tomb one more time.  Maybe as a way of saying good-bye.

And as she looks in she sees to angels.  Sitting there among the wrappings that held Jesus’ dead body are two messengers there to attend to her in her grief.

And their question seems so obvious, but it’s an important question: “Why are you weeping?”

We’re taught to pay attention to the body language of people.  To look for signs of distress, not so that we can refer them to professionals, but so that we can be present with them in whatever moment of pain they are experiencing.  Aloneness in grief, makes grief that much harder to bear.  We’re invited to become messengers of hope for others, just as these angels are for Mary.

“Why are you weeping?”  They give her a place to name her pain and she takes it.

“They’ve moved the body of Jesus and I don’t know where it is!”  And she turns as if to gesture to them the barrenness of the tomb, the emptiness of the garden, and there he is.  There is Jesus.  But to her he is just the gardener; she is blind with greif.

“Where have you taken him?”  she cries.  “If you show me where he is, I will take him and tend to his body!”  To Mary he is just a gardener, and she is so blinded by grief and pain she can’t see him…until he speaks her name:  “Mary!”

I imagine like a parent comforting a child saying their name, rocking them back and forth, trying to get them to calm down.  “Mary!”

And in hearing the Risen Christ speak her name, she knows him for who he is.  And she falls to her feet in front of him.  

This is why I said to wait a while.  Jesus is here and he speaks our names: Daniel, Kristen, Alex, Matteo, Grace, Abbey, Elliot, Hajnal, Troy, Jay, Matt, Steve, Chris… He speaks our names so that we will know him for who he is.

There are lots of studies about newborns recognizing the voices of mothers and fathers based on learning their voice patters in utero.  It may not necessarily create stronger bonds, but our children know who we are.

Mary knows Jesus because he speaks her name.  Jesus speaks her name because he knows she will recognize him and know that she belongs to him.  And he speaks our names this morning so that we will know to whom we belong and so that with our words, with our actions, with our lives we will testify to his risenness.

“I have seen the Lord,” Mary told the eleven.  “I have seen the Lord…and it is so much better than just seeing an empty tomb.” 

Thursday, March 28, 2013

2013 Maundy Thoughts


The more I think I understand this day, the more I realize I have so much to learn.  

One pastor says, “Jesus saves his best teaching, not for a sermon in the synagogue or inside the Temple at a high-ritual moment, but rather for an evening meal among friends.” (Another pastor pointed out that this teaching is only 32 words long and I couldn’t help thinking, “Don’t you wish that was true for all great teaching?”)

But I have to agree, this is most likely Jesus’ best teaching; Maundy Thursday and this passage from John 13 ranks among my favorites.  But…is the teaching the sign, or the grace that lies behind it?  Is the teaching the words, or the grace that lies behind them?

Jesus washes feet and says we should love as he has loved. And I frequently find myself wondering what exactly that means. 

But tonight I am thinking of humility.  To wash the feet of another is to embrace humility.  To love as Jesus has loved, is to embrace humility.  Forgiveness given to one who has done us harm, or to those who seek to do us harm, is to live in humility, to embrace humility, and to love as Jesus has loved us.

Jesus gives the Church a sign act in the Eucharistic meal of his body and his blood, broken and shed for the sake of forgiveness, and he tells us “when you do this, remember me.”

If we take what Jesus says with any amount of seriousness, then this meal cannot be just a memorial that invites us to remember his sacrifice on our behalf—then the meal becomes about us and not about him. 

If we want to be serious in our remembrance, we have to think of this passage from John’s gospel where Jesus tells his friends and followers to love as he has loved.  In this way the holy meal calls us to a living remembrance of his life in our lives, loving the ones who don’t love us back.

Look at the people at this meal:  Judas: the Betrayer.  Peter: the Denier.  And they are just the famous (or infamous) players in this drama.  All of them scattered and most of them hid for the sake of their own safety while Jesus was dragged away to be mocked and crucified.

And yet he loved them to the end.  I want to point that out.  Verse 1 of John 13: “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” And in verse 5: “Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash (their) feet.”

I recently had a conversation with someone regarding Jesus’ teaching to love our enemies.  We both agreed that it is much easier to intellectually assent to this teaching when our enemy is a distant, abstract someone we will never see face-to-face.  But when our enemy is someone at the table with us, breaking bread with us, when the enemy is known, that’s when it gets difficult.  Is it easier to forgive the one time great big “oops” of a betrayal, or to forgive the repeated tiny betrayals that erode our trust day after day after day?  Some days I’m not so sure. But in either case, the command is to love and forgive.

Having loved his own—the betrayer, the denier, the self-servers—he loved them to the end and says to them (us):

 “For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.” (John’s gospel) or “When you do this, remember me.” (the synoptic gospels)

So then, isn’t John 13 really about loving with reckless abandon? Isn’t that what grace really ends up being about? Grace and forgiveness, through the lens of this passage, becomes less about calling us to a life of pharisaical sin management and more of a call to love like Jesus, which is a life given to loving with reckless abandon.  Since we know that forgiveness is always ours, why not pursue God’s will, why not offer God’s grace and radical hospitality, with reckless abandon.

So maybe when Jesus says, “Do what I do. Love like I love. Follow my example.” It’s not so much about the actual washing of feet.  It’s about giving the grace behind it.  Jesus takes on the willingness to deal with our dirt so that we will follow his example and deal with the dirt of others.  He gives us grace, not for our sake, but so that we’ll give it to others.

The more I think I understand this day, the more I realize I have so much to learn.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

"He Looks So Normal"



A few weeks ago, I shared a link on my various social network sites to an article written by Russell Brand on the topic of addiction (if we aren’t connected on the ‘book, the ‘+, or the T’verse you can find the article here).  I shared the article because it struck a chord with me.

What struck me most about this article was the raw honesty that can only come from someone who has personally been in the throes of addiction.  If you have never suffered from addiction or seen someone you love suffer in their addiction consider yourself blessed, and also know that you can never “know” or “understand” how hard it is to break free from the substance of choice which has you ensnared.

I recently preached a sermon on the Parable of the Prodigal Son, a version of which is also part of this blog, (below, above, or somewhere else in the ‘verse) in which I said that I know all too well the guilt, shame, and embarrassment of being in the far country.  What I rarely talk about is the allure of the far country for those of us who have been addicted to any variety of substances.  It may seem strange (or, to use Brand’s term, “irrational”) to talk about allure, but the voice of some substances is incredibly sweet, even though you know that beneath that siren song is something that is inherently evil. And I don’t use that particular word lightly.

I don’t even know how to adequately put words to the visceral response I had to this particular article, because I have been there.  And I think I feel a need to say something after all these years because there is still a stigma: socially we continue to have no problems calling addiction a choice instead of a disease, and as a result people (our friends and our family) are not reaching out because they are afraid of the shame that comes with admitting they need help.

You may not like Russell Brand at all or you may never have heard of him before reading this, but he says a few things that anyone who is addicted needs to hear. And more than just speaking to addicts, he speaks to those who are not, but may know those who are.

  1. Brand says: Don't pick up a drink or drug, one day at a time. It sounds so simple. It actually is simple but it isn't easy: it requires incredible support and fastidious structuring.” 

One day at a time.  One dose, one drink, one fix at a time.  The concept is simple but it isn’t easy, and if you haven’t been there, please--please--don’t judge those who stumble.  You have no idea how hard it is to get from day one to day two; or from skipping the first drink, dose, or fix to skipping the second and the third.  Give them grace. And just to clarify, grace is not enabling; grace only helps them know they are worth giving it one more chance.  If you know someone who is struggling, remind them that they are worth giving it one more chance.  Offer encouragement and support because they will need it.
   2. Brand says: “Even as I spin this beautifully dreaded web, I am reaching for my phone. I call someone: not a doctor or a sage, not a mystic or a physician, just a bloke like me, another alcoholic, who I know knows how I feel. The phone rings and I half hope he'll just let it ring out. It's 4am in London.”  

As I read this part of his article, I remembered my own confessional phone call, ironically, it was also to London.  It wasn’t another bloke like me, but it was to someone who was my lifeline to reality.  My best friend.  And this friend loved me in all of my messiness and asked me about my plan to get clean.  

That was perhaps the most important phone call anyone could have answered.  My friend was the “Father” on the road meeting the prodigal with a robe, sandals, and an embrace.  My friend is the one who made me realize that I was worth so much more than the whispering evil substance in my head would have be believe. 

This is one of the reasons I will always err on the side of grace over judgement.  I have been in the varied places of brokenness and what brought me to sanity was not judgement, it was unconditional love.

It’s been a long time since I danced to the sirens’ song; but from time to time I still hear them singing because we’re all just in various stages of recovery.  

These are the things you may not know about people you work with, people you pass on the street, people you share your life with.  Some days are easy; others not so much.

There’s a praise song I have been known to sing and play from time to time in worship; it says, “Everyone needs compassion, a love that’s never failing, let mercy fall on me.”  I have learned that Truth from experience, and I have that reality enforced every day that I hear the real struggles of men and women, wives and husbands, daughters and sons.  I see them in the stores on base, in the coffee shop out in town.  I see them where they work and we sweat together at morning PT.  We’re all broken in one form or another, and rather than look at them, or treat them in ways that reinforce guilt and shame, I smile, I wave, I offer them love.  In part because I know how much it sucks to be in the far country; in part because I know that I need the return smile as much as they need mine.









Comfortable in Alone-ness

Many many moons ago, my wife made me read a Shel Silverstein book called The Missing Piece Meets the Big O.  It's a book about the importance of recognizing your own wholeness when it comes to being in relationships with other people; a very deep topic for the guy responsible for Where the Sidewalk Ends and Light in the Attic.  

I am thinking about making this book required reading for anyone who wants pre-marital counseling, or even marriage counseling. (Heck, I think it should be read by anyone who needs counseling, period!) 

It's amazing how our language around being "in love" points out how much individual wholeness we lack as people.  "I feel complete," we say.  "You make me whole," we say. "I hate being alone," we say. (On that last one I often want to ask, "Then why would anyone else want to be around you?")

The best relationships we can ever have will stem from being around people we want to be with because of who they are, not because of what they do for us.  And this is especially true in terms of wholeness.  Because I am comfortable with who I am, because I don't need anyone to complete me, I can enjoy people for who they are.

I love spending days with my soul mate and life partner, and my heart hurts when we are forced to be away from each other; I cannot imagine life without her by my side.  But she is a complete person, and so am I.   We have both endured more than our fair share of life's hard knocks, but we are still whole people.  Our need for each other is rooted in our want for each other, not the other way around. (And, by the way, the difference between the two is profound.)

Of course deep and abiding love is what makes all of this stick to the bones.  We have to learn to love even when the infatuation goes away, but that's a topic for a different time.  






Saturday, March 16, 2013

Intimate Extravagance


The Text was John 12:1-8 -- 

I’m never really sure how to picture the setting of this passage.  Jesus is with his nearest and dearest friends at dinner being served for him.  The family of Lazarus and the friends of Jesus are preparing to celebrate the Passover in just a few days; Lazarus is sitting with his family once again after recently being called out of the tomb by Jesus.  Martha is cooking the meal.  I’m not sure whether it is a moment of jubilation—a ‘my dear friend was dead but now he is alive’ party—or if a quiet moment of calm has been carved out in a hectic time and everyone involved is enjoying the peace that is permeating the moment.

I lean towards the latter image, but maybe that’s because I am an introvert and I can imagine how pleasant a quiet respite with my closest friends would feel in the midst of such a busy time.  It would be a jubilant moment, but not a raucous celebration.  Maybe think of it as a dinner party with at most six of your closest friends compared to a command party with one hundred fifty acquaintances.  

I think the house in Bethany is the small dinner with dear friends, that it is a quiet moment of calm carved out from a hectic schedule, because it’s only in a setting that comfortable and intimate that the sister of Lazarus would give such an extravagant gift.  

Mary probably came through under everyone’s radar.  She probably walked into the room and came near the table, and no one paid her much attention, assuming she was just helping with the table service.  I don’t think anyone noticed something out of the ordinary was happening until the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.  That’s when people stop and take notice; the house is full of the smell of extravagance, Mary’s hair is down; the neck of the bottle is broken and the oil cannot be put back or saved for any other purpose, and she anoints the feet of the One who raised her brother from death, and—knowing it or not—she anoints the feet of the One who would enter into death and destroy its power forever.  

Everybody likes a good homecoming.  When loved ones come off the brow and the first kiss happens after a deployment, that’s something we see and it makes us gush, “Awww!”  But there are other moments, when loved ones are reunited after a tragedy perhaps, that we find ourselves witness to something a little more intimate, a little more meaningful than the “first kiss” and we look away, not in shame, but to not intrude upon a moment that is for two specific people.

Mary’s anointing of Jesus is one of those moments, but no one knows how to look away.  All they can do is meet one another’s eyes in an uncomfortable way because a woman would never let her hair down in public, she would never approach a man’s feet; on top of the discomfort caused by such extravagance, the group is seeing social norms violated too.  The whole moment is beautiful and uncomfortable; it is so very right and so very wrong all at the same time.  Wrong if only because no one knows how to deal with such raw intimacy and worship (and I have been in congregations where this is certainly the case…), wrong if only because the onlookers are thinking that they would never show that kind of affection for their rabbi in public, and they’re just a little bit jealous.  It is a beautiful, intimate moment that no one knows how to handle, but one that they don’t want to disrupt either.

And then Judas speaks up.  And just like the screech of cats fighting in the middle of the night destroys a peaceful slumber, Judas Iscariot opens his mouth to shatter the spell of the nard: “Why wasn’t this sold for three hundred denarii and money given to the poor?”

Suddenly everyone is jolted back to reality.  Jesus loves the poor, and Rome’s taxes are only creating more poor people.  Is it possible that Judas is making sense?  Will Jesus rebuke her now for wasting resources that could have been used to rescue Israel from the tight fisted grip of the Roman Empire?  Will Jesus see that it’s unjust, maybe a bit hypocritical to receive such an extravagant gift when there are thousands who hunger?

I get this question, really I do.  When one congregation I served was looking at a multi-million dollar expansion of our building, I wrestled with adding space that needed to be heated and cooled and maintained, and debt that would need to be repaid, and all the money that would go into having a larger footprint on our land in our community.  When I served as a caretaker for church in the downtown area of a city in northern California and they spent a couple of tens of thousands of dollars on redwood folding doors to divide their renovated fellowship hall from their renovated church parlor, while sending the hungry and naked to local community services, I got kind of hacked off.

I get the question.  I get the point that is being raised.  But it’s not the question that’s bad it’s the motivation behind it.  The question is self serving.  It’s an attempt to cover hardness of heart with external holiness. The love and access that Mary has, is just as available to Judas, but he can’t see it because Jesus doesn’t fit his expectations of Messiah and Savior.  Grace is a stumbling block for Judas. And if Judas would just let himself be loved by the incarnate God who sits in his midst, he might just pour out his most extravagant gift too.

Whatever our own excuses are for not entering into the intimate moments of worship, whatever reasons we have for keeping God and the gifts of God at arms distance, Jesus looks at us and says, “You’ll always have an excuse…but here I am anyway. Pour out your time at my feet and see how I use it.  Pour out your treasure at my feet and see who I feed with it.  Pour out your life, and watch me raise it up into something you can’t even begin to imagine!  Just trust me.”

There is a little sign that hangs by my desk.  It says, “Whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.” If you serve the poor, do it for the glory of God.  If you sing, sing for the glory of God.  If you give expensive gifts for the church to use, do it for the glory of God.  Mary wasn’t drawing attention to herself—she was pointing to Jesus.  The smell of her offering would follow Jesus from Bethany to Jerusalem, and from Jerusalem to Golgotha, and from Golgotha to the tomb and from the tomb to the garden.  Her offering wasn’t about her, it was about Jesus.  May the same be said for us, in whatever we pour out at the feet of Christ this day.  Amen.

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Prodigals Are We All


The text this week was Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

Musical mash-ups.  Some of them work, some of them do not work.  But in most cases, you may find yourself saying something like, “Wow, never ever thought of putting those songs together” or “You got your chocolate in my peanut butter!” (before you discover what a great combination THAT is…)  But, depending on the skill of the DJ or the mash-upper, you may expect to always hear those songs blended together happily ever after.  One mash-up is called “Boulevard of Broken Songs” by a DJ called Party Ben.  The song has elements of Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day, Wonderwall by Oasis, and songs by an artist called Travis and a song by Eminem which samples “Dream On” by Aerosmith.  There’s another one called “Somebody Rock Me” which combines “Somebody Told Me” and “Rock the Casbah” by the Killers and the Clash.  If you think these might be a train wrecks of a song, or something like I mentioned before, you’d be surprised at how good it actually sounds.  Kind of like the invention of the peanut butter cup.  

It strikes me that the religious folks are bothered about Jesus hanging out with sinners. “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”  It’s like they can’t imagine the idea of a holy man, a man of God like Jesus--and others--claim that he is, hanging out with “those kind of people.”

There’s a running joke in our house about a missing ingredient.  Whenever the question, “How’s it taste” gets asked, the reply is “Great.  But…you know what it needs? Habanero salsa!”  It doesn’t matter what the meal is, the needed extra ingredient is Habanero Salsa.  Now just imagine all the horrible possibilities that could create, and you have an idea of how the religious folks were feeling about seeing Jesus hanging out while people who were anything but holy, anything but religious, anything but worthy of his time and God’s presence.

I’m not sure that we’re all that different.  If you saw your local pastor hanging out in Sake Town, or a red light area, spending time with unsavory people at bars, your first instinct may not be positive.  If so, good on you, but for the vast majority of people, they’d be questioning their pastor’s integrity, getting the pastor-parish relations team together, or the vestry or the board of elders on the case, to get to the bottom of why pastor has been seen going in and out of the tattoo parlor and the “gentlemen’s club”.  Because religious folks and those locations, and the people that frequent those locations, are like habanero salsa and sweet potato pie…just a bad idea.

So to help religious folks like us understand what God is doing Jesus tells three parables, the most poignant of which is the story about the two brothers.

I’ve shared previously that this is one of parables that Jesus tells which is most personal to me.  In so many ways I identify with the son who squanders his inheritance in the far country.  I identify with his shame and his embarrassment as he sits in the filth of the pig sty.  And I think it is easy for us to boil this parable down to the “sinner who needs to come home” and leave it at that.  But there is so much more.

There is the father who waits and looks for the son’s return.  The father who does not condemn the son for squandering but welcomes and embraces and celebrates the son who has returned.  This is someone from the parable who should give us pause as we think of the character of God.  Do you accept that God accepts our repentance and our returns, no questions asked?  His only concern is making his son legitimate again.  Wrapping the cloak of protection and son-ship around him; placing the ring of identification on his finger; and throwing a feast so that everyone can celebrate his child having come home. 

The father stands in stark contrast with the brother of the prodigal.  The brother is ever faithful, never really straying far from home, but also never really enjoying or trusting the depth of love that the father has for his children.  He has toed the line and he has worked hard in the hopes of earning his father’s favor and, with favor, love.  And yet in his work and efforts he has missed the joy of being loved.

The other brother would expect a welcome home feast if his wayward brother had been a war hero—homecoming shows are a big hit, because we recognize the sacrifices of those who choose to leave home and family for honorable reasons.  Heroes deserve ticker tape parades and best robes, father’s rings, and fatted calf feasts.  But the Father in this story doesn’t throw a feast for a hero, he throws it for a zero.  The deserter should not come home to a party…

At least that’s what the religious think as they stand outside of the feasts where Jesus welcomes sinners and eats with them.

I, for one, am happy that Jesus does welcome sinners, that he breaks bread with us to this very day, and in so doing, invites us to join in the celebration for those who have finally come home.  Even those of us who may not have ever wandered, from time to time miss the joy of continually being in our Father’s presence, and that is a far country in it’s own respect.

We are prodigals, all of us.  Whether we know it or not, the feast being thrown is for all of us.  We may not like the idea of mingling with the not-so-holy folks, or mingling with the holier-than-thou’s depending on who we relate to the most, but we all need grace.  We all need to celebrate in the presence of the One who came to set us free.


Monday, March 4, 2013

Calamity and Gardeners (Sermon Thoughts from Lent 3C)


Text -- Luke 13:1-9

Calamity happens.  I heard it said once that when you take the forces of nature and add to it the human disposition to misuse free will, no one should be surprised that bad things, calamities, happen. 

A group of people come to Jesus looking for meaning in the aftermath of calamity, maybe even looking to prove that bad things only happen to bad people.  They’re looking for a good, hopefully concise, theological answer to why something like this would happen.  It’s also possible they were looking to make Jesus so angry, so incensed, that he would order a revolt against Rome.  

History has shown, beyond the New Testament, that Pontius Pilate was capable of doing gross acts.  What this crowd is talking about is an occasion where pilgrims to Jerusalem were slaughtered by Pilate’s soldiers in the temple courtyard, a terrible crime against humanity (to use today’s terms) and something that defiled the sanctity of the Temple.

Why?  Why would something so terrible happen?  Surely they must be guilty of something to cause such a thing?  Certainly they were more than just pilgrims and they were secretly zealots planning and plotting against Pilate and Rome and that’s why it happened.  

And certainly the scapegoat phenomenon continues to occur today.  More than a few pastors and theologians have offered scapegoat commentary on calamities like Hurricane Katrina, Hurricane Sandy, even 9/11.  It’s easy to look for others to scapegoat when bad things happen, appealing even, because to do so means we aren’t required to look at our own short comings.  

Jesus points out that if we don’t take some time to look at our own shortcomings, we’ll have our own calamities to worry about.  He redirects the conversation from the question of theodicy (a topic that attempts to reconcile evil and suffering with an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-loving God.)  Jesus redirects us from naval gazing to soul gazing.  One commentary says he asks us to focus on a doctrine that Paul develops in Romans: “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”  

It’s true.  We can see the warning signs in the lives of other people very easily, but for whatever reason, we can’t see the signs telling us to turn back from our own destructive habits. We’ve become accustomed to believing that we can live however we want and that there are no consequences for our actions.  But the sad truth is that if we drink to excess all the time we run the risk of becoming dependant upon alcohol, if not addicted.  If we view pornography, we get unhealthy expectations of sexuality.  If we eat nothing but unhealthy food, we’ll have unhealthy bodies.  If we don’t spend quality time with our families when we have the chance, and we ignore our children, we won’t have good and healthy relationships with them later.  

When we think about repenting and changing our lives, it’s more than just the obvious sins that make “great” reality television.  We need to repent from the things we might not see, but that others close to us would.  If you want to know if you spend good quality time with your children, don’t ask yourself that question, ask them that question (and not after you’ve just done something really cool for them…). And I only say that because I have two teenagers, one of whom will be moving out on his own someday, and I know that the “captive audience” clock is winding down. I ask that question because I know that I can spend better time with my own children…

Jesus tells us to repent or perish, because the consequences of not changing our lives IS costly.  Just ask children of alcoholics, or children of drug addicts, or children of over-working parents.  The cost is high.  And maybe on the sliding scale of comparative morality, we aren’t as bad as others, but—in one manner or other—we’re all falling short of the glory of God.


And what a terrible ending to a sermon **that** would be.  Luckily, Jesus doesn’t leave the crowd—or us—in a pit of despair.  He tells a story, a story about a fig tree, a land owner, and a gardener.

The fig tree is being bad.  It’s being bad because it isn’t productive.  No this isn’t a parable about a work ethic…and maybe it seems weird to say that a tree is being “bad” because it’s not being productive; but truthfully, who wants a fruit tree that doesn’t bear fruit, or a garden that won’t grow vegetables, or a rose bush that only produces leaves and thorns?  The landowner wants a fig tree not for leaves and shade, but for figs.  It’s been in the ground for enough seasons to make figs, so since it’s a bad tree, get rid of it; cut it down!

Maybe the gardener is a hopeless optimist like I am.  Maybe the gardener always sees the best in situations because he says to the land owner, give the tree one more chance, one more year.  I’ll work with it.  I’ll nurture the soil.  Give it, give me, one more chance and if that doesn’t work, then you can cut it down.

Do you remember the profession of the man Mary confused the risen Christ for on Easter morning?  A gardener.  
Maybe we aren’t bearing fruit like we’re meant to; maybe…certainly…we’ve all fallen short of the glory of God.  But there is one who has given himself to us, for us, on behalf of us, to give us that chance to become fruit bearing.  He promises in this parable to be with us in the repentance and in the life change that comes from that turning.  He promises to work the soil of our soul, to give us the nutrients that we need, and maybe that is one great way of thinking of the table we turn to as a community: the bread of heaven, the wine of new life, it is nutrition for our soul’s soil.  The life of Christ mingled with our life, to make us into who God calls us to be. 




Saturday, March 2, 2013

Becoming

For many years I have started off the Children’s Time of worship with this statement:

This is my Bible
I believe I can be
Everything it says I can be
I’ll never be the same
No, I’ll never be the same
In Jesus’ name.
Amen.

I will own the fact that I have stolen it in part from a happy go lucky, feel good mega church pastor; I own that.  I heard it used and it clicked as something I wanted children to understand.  

We say it together every Sunday, repeating it line by line.

Every now and again, I’ll take a time out and remind them of what it means, which is something good to do when you do liturgy.  Don’t say things because you’ve always said them and expect that people will join in just because everyone else is doing it (saying it)--stop and teach why you say what you say (or why you do what you do); teach the things that you believe.

On that note...

At some point last week, when I was running to stand still on a treadmill, I was debating on whether or not to do away with this saying that I’ve used in worship for 10 or more years.  But then I realized that this is an important statement of faith, and that while it may have started as a “Be the Best Me I Can Be” happy go lucky-ism, I have made it my own thanks to teachers like Henri Nouwen and Brennan Manning.

The Bible tells us that we are the Beloved.  Over and over and over again throughout the Scriptures, God is doing things for humankind precisely because we are Beloved.

It began with the Patriarchs and Matriarchs that preceded the children of Israel, was exemplified in God’s relationship with Israel (the people, not the modern Nation), and was perfected in the person and ministry of Jesus.

We are the Beloved.  Study and reflection of Scripture can show nothing but we are Beloved.  And once we let that “important piece of information” sink into our hearts and minds, we can never be the same.

I was asked fairly recently what my definition of grace is.

I tried to keep the answer short, really, I did.

I started by saying “Grace is the fact that God loves us, and has acted on our behalf, called us Beloved, not because we have earned it but because God can only love us.”

“So grace is love?”

“Not really,” I said back. “Grace is the action of God choosing to love us when we are, many times, not lovable.”

We kept talking for a long time after that, even though I think the asker of the question was done well before I was.

Grace calls me to be a better human being in the next moment than I was in the previous.  Not because I have earned love, or will earn love by being “better,” but because I desire to live as one who is Beloved. Grace gives me the strength to get back up again when I’ve screwed up yet again and hurt those who love me; it helps me remember that I have a reason to get back up again, otherwise I’d like lie there in the dust of my failure to be good enough with no reason to go on.

I believe I can be what grace says I can be--which is Beloved--and from that I will never be the same.

And it is precisely because of Jesus that I believe it.  The gospels are rife with scandalous grace.  Parables and records of loving actions that should make us angry, since the people who receive those loving actions are, for the most part, people of ill repute: prodigals who squander their inheritance on booze and prostitutes, tax collectors (a concept that is so hard for modern folks to connect with), adulterous men and women, the uneducated, the unwashed.  The list is longer than my memory will allow for.

I hope you can find yourself unable to be the same; I hope you can find yourself believing you can be a child of Grace--the Beloved, because that is exactly who you are.