"God Insists"

When I first heard

“God does not exist, God insists,”

I was troubled.

Why?

The idea does not question

The reality of God.
(It insists on it.)

Perhaps what I worship

Even more than God

Is existence.

Being.

Something sure, stable, secure.

"Hear in Heaven" (1 Kings 8:22-30, 41-43)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on August 26, 2018, Proper 16)

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Gaps in Our World 

Pause your life.  Freeze it.  Take your remote and stop everything for a minute.  Inside you is a world.  A world of plans.  After church, you will eat lunch.  You’ll catch up on errands you didn’t have time for in the week.  A world of expectations.  In fall, the leaves will change color and the temperatures will drop.  At the end of a pay period, you’ll get a paycheck.  A world of decisions to make.  Maybe in the future you’ll be buying a new car or a new home.  Do you buy this one or that one?  A world of possibility. Maybe you’ll change jobs.  Maybe you’ll make a new friend.

Inside you is a world.  What you think.  What you anticipate.  What decisions you’re ready for.

This world inside you is closed.  Finished.  Complete.  If you took the remote and resumed play and everything ran according to plan, then the future would really only be a foregone conclusion: a natural unfolding of the present, a foreseeable development, a potential eventually to be realized.  At the beginning of the 20^th century, as industrialization and advances in science promised a society of comfort and convenience, many people understood the world in just this way.  The future, they thought, was already written.  They boldly predicted and planned for a century of peace and pleasure.

After two world wars, multiple genocides, continued struggles with hunger, and an increasing gap between the rich and the poor, we’ve conceded that maybe there was more to the world than we could see or know.  As the world inside us began to play out, there were shocks and surprises.  Things we did not foresee.  Things we could not plan for.  Our world, it appeared, had gaps and cracks.

God on High

I must confess that I have a hard time with the traditional imagery of God on high, of heaven as God’s dwelling place.  Which is exactly what we find in our scripture today, where King Solomon dedicates his newly built temple to God.  Twice in our scripture, and twice more in the surrounding verses that are not included, Solomon prays to God: “Hear in heaven your dwelling place” (1 Kings 8:30, 39, 43, 49). 

The imagery doesn’t resonate with me because it sits at odds with my faith experience.  I have only ever encountered God on the ground level.  From the moment I was born, when as a helpless infant I was held close and loved in the flesh by the people around me.  As I grew up, when I was given more second chances by my parents and teachers and coaches and friends than I can count.  As I meet with you each Sunday, when we gather around this Table and share not only bread and cup but our trust in a life that is greater than death.  In all these things, I have encountered God on my level. 

Or as we’ll say around Christmas time, “Emmanuel”—God is with us.  Or as Christ said, “Where two or three gather in my name, I am there with them” (Matt 18:20) or, “Whatever you did to the least of these, you did to me” (Matt 25:40).  Or as Paul says, “You are the body of Christ” (1 Cor 12:27).

Heaven is God’s dwelling place?  My faith and my hope are that all the world is God’s dwelling place.  Emmanuel.  God is with us.

Heaven as the Gaps in Our World

But maybe I’m being unfair.  Maybe like “lamb of God” or “bread of life,” God “in heaven” is metaphor.  After all, what would it even mean that God dwells on high in the heavens?  Where exactly?  If everyone on earth pointed up, we’d all be pointing in different directions. 

I wonder if our own expressions about the heavens don’t point us in the right direction, toward what this metaphor really means.  Expressions like “Heaven knows,” which means I don’t.  Or “Heaven help me,” which means I can’t do it myself.  Or “It fell straight from heaven,” which means it came out of nowhere. 

All of these expressions suggest our inability and our ignorance.  Heaven is shorthand for I don’t know everything, I can’t do this on my own, I didn’t see that happening.  Heaven is the opposite of the world that is inside us, the world that we know and plan for and anticipate, the world that is closed and complete.  Heaven is the gaps and cracks in our world.

Which if we are honest, are our only real hope of salvation.  I think the reason that Solomon keeps praying to God in heaven—and the reason that Jesus keeps talking about the flesh needing something else, needing spirit—is that they know that the world inside us, the world that we know and prepare for and expect, is actually small and shortsighted.  Just ask the hopeful who predicted paradise at the start of the twentieth century.  What we know, what already exists, what we can see coming—these things won’t save us.  It’s what we don’t know, what doesn’t exist, what we can’t see coming—it’s God, in a word, or “heaven,” if you like, that will save us.

Death…and Resurrection

If you’ve ever held onto a grudge, or hidden a lie, or simply hogged what you could have been sharing, you know just how important “heaven”—the gaps and cracks in our world—is.  Because holding onto a grudge is holding onto the world that we know, the world where we’re right and the other person is wrong.  And hiding a lie is preserving the world that we want, the world where we are accomplished and admired and accepted.  And hogging what we could be sharing is protecting our world of plans and possibilities, the world where we’ve worked hard and earned it and deserve whatever we can afford.

In each case, we are clinging to the world that we know.  But then there are cracks and gaps, thank God.  Have you ever held onto a grudge only to have your opponent give you the nicest compliment?  And it destroys your world…before opening up a new one where you have one more friend than before.  Or have you ever hidden a lie only to have it exposed?  And for that split second it feels unbearable…but then all of the sudden you can breathe and the weight of the lie is lifted and then in this truth it feels like you’ve been set free.  Or have you ever hogged something only then to share a little bit begrudgingly?  And at first maybe it feels like your world is lost…but then you enter into a new world richer and fuller and friendlier than before.

When heaven breaks through the gaps and cracks in our world, it often feels like this, doesn’t it?  A little bit like death…and then resurrection.

Salvation from Outside

Emmanuel.  God is with us.  But we can ignore God just as easily as we can ignore our neighbor. 

For this reason, I think, King Solomon prayed, “Hear us in heaven!”  For this reason, we say, “Heaven knows!”, “Heaven help me!”  Heaven is our way of confessing I don’t know everything, I can’t do this on my own, I didn’t see that happening.  Heaven is our way of inviting what we can’t see coming, of celebrating the gaps and cracks in our world.  Heaven is our way of praying for a world bigger than our grudges, freer than our fictions, rich beyond riches.  Heaven is our highest prayer—not as an escape from earth, but as redemption for earth: “On earth as it is in heaven.”  It is this salvation from outside, Jesus says, that actually gives us life.  “The flesh is useless”—“it is the spirit that gives life” (John 6:63).  Patience, gentleness, forgiveness—these fruits of the spirit come not through our willpower and determination, but from our surrender to something beyond us.  God, in a word—or “heaven,” if you’d like.   

Prayer

God of the gaps,

Who breaks into our world

In the openings

Of nonexistence,

In what we cannot see coming,

In what we do not know—

Hear us in heaven

And save us.

Lead us beyond

The world we cling to.

Lead us in the way

Of death and resurrection.

In the name of him whose spirit gives life, Jesus Christ.  Amen.

When the Sun Goes Down on Anger (2 Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on August 12, 2018, Proper 14)

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A Smoldering Look

It was the first day of second grade.  Keith found the desk with his nametag and sat down.  Immediately he knew something was not right.  As the boy next to him began to snigger and several heads in front of him turned around and stared, he could feel that his seat was wet.  Terrified, he stood up and saw a puddle.  The boy sitting next to him, whose name was Jeff, must have put water on his seat before he arrived.  He hadn’t seen it when he sat down.

His face red with embarrassment, Keith dried his seat and sat down again.  But that was not the end.  Jeff was speaking to the teacher now, “I think the boy next to me had an accident.”  All the class looked at Keith.  The teacher came over and discreetly asked if he needed a change of clothes.  No, he shook his head, the seat just had some water in it.  He gave Jeff a smoldering look.

Keith never forgot that first day.  In time, he would make Jeff pay.  One day Jeff got to lunch and discovered that everything in his lunchbox was soaked.   There was a hole in his juice pouch.  Another day, Jeff opened his pencil box and found all his pens and pencils and crayons stuck together, caked in glue.  Before long, these petty pranks had escalated into an outright battle.  Every offense was remembered.  None was left unaccounted.  Whenever one struck, the other struck back.

Keeping Anger in Circulation

Anger has a way of keeping itself in circulation.

This is no less true in our homes and in our workplaces than in the world of second grade.  We see it everywhere.  One person gets angry—and then gets even.  But rather than stopping the anger, this only spreads it.  The other person gets angry and retaliates.  Once the cycle starts, it is hard to stop.  Anger has a way of keeping itself in circulation.

It was not an accident that King David looked out across the field one day and prepared to go to war with his own son, Absalom.  That day was a little over a decade in the making.  It had all begun eleven years ago when Amnon, one of David’s other sons, raped Absalom’s sister Tamar.  Absalom channeled his anger into cold revenge.  Saying nothing, he waited for two years.  Then he threw a feast and invited his family, including his half-brother Amnon.  The Bible says that when the heart of Amnon was merry with wine, Absalom gave the signal and his servants killed him.  The news deeply distresses his father David, filling him with a bitter mix grief and anger.  For five years, Absalom is not welcome in his father’s home.  Finally David receives him, and the two reconcile.  Or at least they appear to.  But anger has a way of keeping itself in circulation.  Absalom never forgets how long it took his father to welcome him back home.  In his smoldering resentment, Absalom conspires for the next four years to usurp his own father’s throne.  Finally his plan comes to fruition.  He takes his father’s throne, and David flees the city with the warriors that remain faithful to him.

Which brings us back to David looking out across the field and preparing to go to war with his own son.  Twelve years before, the scene would have been unimaginable.  But that was before anger began its vicious cycle.

Even so, David keeps perspective.  Before the battle begins, he gives careful instruction to his army not to kill his son Absalom.  David wants out of the cycle.  He keeps alive the hope of one day reconciling with his son.

But by this point in time, the anger has grown beyond his control.  David’s wishes are too feeble in the face of its outsized demand.  When Absalom finds himself stuck in the trees, hanging helplessly above the ground, anger licks its chops.  This is too good to be true.  David’s commander, who heard very well David’s instruction, thrusts three spears into Absalom.  Why?  He is the surrogate of anger, possessed by its demand, driven by the betrayal his king has suffered and the need for vengeance.[1]

The Satisfaction of Anger:

Who Is Satisfied?

I’m fascinated by the way we talk about anger.  We commonly refer to nurturing anger and satisfying our anger.  I wonder if there’s more truth in these words than we realize.  Our expressions suggest that anger is a reality and a power distinct from us.  When we nurture anger, we are not nurtured.  Anger is.  When we satisfy anger, we are not satisfied.  Anger is.  In my mind, this paints the picture of anger as a parasite.  It feeds off us.  We might think that payback will make us feel good, but really it will make the parasite feel good even as it drains us of life.

That’s what happened rather literally in the story of King David.  At each turn in the road, someone kept the anger alive.  Seeking to get even, to settle the score, someone kept the anger in circulation.  And each time the anger was satisfied, it left someone dissatisfied.  It deprived its hosts of life.  The anger grew and grew until one day it literally took life.  Not only Absalom’s, but also a part of David’s.   Who can hear his anguished cry and not hear the death of part of his soul?

The Most Powerless Thing To Do?

The trouble with anger is what to do with it.  If it’s hard enough to stop the cycle in second grade, what do we do when it comes to the tragic realities of our own world?  Because what we see in Absalom’s story we see also in our own world.  Sexual abuse.  Rape.  Murder.  War.

In response to evils like these, it is tempting to jump ahead and look for an answer, a solution, a fix.  But if we are not careful, the answer or solution will become a vehicle for anger, keeping it in circulation and draining us of life at the same time.  In today’s epistle reading, Paul paraphrases Christ on the importance of simply starting where we are and acknowledging the anger: “Be angry,” Paul says, “but do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger” (Eph 4:26; cf. Matt 5:21-26). 

Words like these cannot even begin to address the horrors of something like rape or murder.  They are not meant to.  They are meant to address another horror, one that promises satisfaction but only deprives us further of life.  Words like these would not have restored the honor of Absalom’s sister Tamar.  They wouldn’t have brought David’s son Amnon back to life.  Words like these cannot change the past.  But they can change what happens next.  They can stop the cycle.

“Do not let the sun go down on your anger” promises neither a restoration of what was lost, nor the offender’s repentance, nor a future reconciliation.  The only thing it promises is a stop to the cycle.

Its power is not in what it accomplishes but in what it makes possible.  Like much of God’s power, it is a possibilizing power.  It is the same power of the cross.  Proclaiming forgiveness instead of vengeance, returning after his shameful death with a word of peace instead of retribution, Christ makes possible an entirely different way of life, one where violence is not kept in circulation, where life is no longer lost in the quest to get even, where anger is just a feeling and not a power that holds us in its crippling grip.

To let go of anger is perhaps the most powerless thing to do in the world.  It accomplishes very little in itself.  And yet—the life that it makes possible!  That, according to Jesus, is worth dying for.

Prayer

Tenderhearted Christ,

Instead of nurturing grudges,

You nurtured us—

Liberate us

From the ruinous grasp of anger;

Teach us your way

Of feeling anger

And letting it go;

Train us in that powerless power

That makes possible

The world of which you dream,

The kingdom of God.  Amen.

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[1] David’s commander Joab also has his own anger to satisfy.  See 2 Sam 14:28-33.

A Hunger Deeper than We Know (2 Samuel 11:26-12:13a)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on August 5, 2018, Proper 13)

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Tacos and Guacamole

It was late in the week when Dave asked Kate about her weekend.  Neither had plans, so they decided they would make dinner at Kate’s home.  The word spread to the others: Kate’s apartment on Friday.  Bring a dish.

It came together wonderfully.  One friend made tacos.  Another friend made bean dip.  Someone brought chips.  And someone else whipped up guacamole at the last minute.  And Sean, the fifth friend, didn’t bring anything but himself.

Sean was deep in the ruts of depression.  It was all he could do to get himself off his couch, into the car, and over to Kate’s.  But he did.  And slowly over dinner he came to life.  The call and response of bad jokes and groans brought the flicker of a smile to his face. 

The others reflected his glow.  Dave, who had been fighting cancer now for three months, relaxed as he dipped his chips into the common bowl of guacamole.  Kate, who was still recovering from a bitter divorce, loosened up as she joined in the others’ commiserations over a difficult workweek.  Even Jason and Sarah, the couple who had it all together, seemed more at ease than usual.  The truth is, behind their success lay unseen scars and struggle—both had had unfulfilled family upbringings and were now engaged in a never-ending struggle to prove their worth through work and achievement.  But on this evening, in this gathering, they had nothing to prove, nothing to achieve.

The five friends feasted that night over their simple Southwest fare.  Each person felt not only full, but fulfilled. 

A couple of weeks later, Jason and Sarah were talking about how great a time they had.  They wanted to recreate it.  So they called the others and made arrangements for a precise repetition of the evening.  There would be tacos.  There would be bean dip.  There would be chips.  And there would be guacamole.  Because those were the ingredients of that first miraculous gathering.

But this time, the gathering wasn’t miraculous.  This time they left the gathering feeling only full, not fulfilled.  All the same food items were there.  But what the friends did not realize is that their first gathering had been about much more than the food on the table.  It had been about a loving trust in each other, a liberation from the pressures of the world, peace somehow amid the uncertainty of their lives.

What they did not realize is that their deepest hunger was not for food.  Their deepest hunger was for love. 

Loaves and Fishes

When Jesus fed the five thousand, the crowd was so overwhelmed with the miracle that they were going to take Jesus by force and make him king.  But Jesus realized this and quickly withdrew.

The next day, however, the crowd goes looking for Jesus.  When they find him, Jesus tries to change their hearts.  Or rather, he tries to tell them what is already in their hearts but is deeper than they know.  He tries to tell them the real reason that they are looking for him.  “You are looking for me,” he says in today’s scripture, “not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill”—not of “food that perishes” but of a different kind of food, a “food that endures,” a food that gives life to the world (John 6:26-27, 32-33). 

When the crowd goes searching for Jesus, they think they are looking for another miracle.  What they do not realize, Jesus points out, is that they are looking for the wrong miracle.  The real miracle was not the five loaves and two fishes.  It was something that happened in the food, in the gathering, in the selfless sharing of Christ.  What the crowd does not realize is that their deepest hunger is not for food.  Their deepest hunger is for love.

“The Wife of Uriah”

It seems that our hunger is often deeper than we know.  We think it’s one thing when actually it’s something inside that.

When David saw a beautiful woman and learned that her name was Bathsheba, he thought he knew what he wanted.  But he was confused.  He knew only the outside, her name and her appearance.  When Nathan the prophet broaches the matter of Bathsheba, he does not refer to the outside.  He does not refer to the beauty of her appearance or the name by which she is called.  He calls her the “wife of Uriah.”  The narrator, too, calls her not Bathsheba but “the wife of Uriah.”  In his genealogy of Jesus, Matthew will also refer to her as “the wife of the Uriah.”   Nathan and the narrator and Matthew all know the inside of this tragic situation.  David has not just taken a woman.  He has taken the wife of another man.  He has destroyed a family.  He has violated the law, the Torah.

I don’t know what David really wanted.  I don’t know what he was really hungry for.  But I imagine it was not far from the real hunger of the five friends who gathered for dinner on Friday or the five thousand who gathered around five loaves and two fishes.  What the five friends really hungered for was not tacos and chips and guacamole.  What the crowd of five thousand really hungered for was not a miracle of loaves and fishes.  What they really hungered for is what was happening inside those things.  What they really hungered for was love.

The Love Inside

I remember how when I was younger, if someone asked me before Christmas or my birthday what I wanted, I might have rattled off a list of things.  My answers today have surely evolved, but I sometimes find myself approaching life the same way.  (Perhaps you do too.)  “If only I had this or that, if only things were this way or that way.” 

But of course, it was never the presents that I really wanted when I was younger.  It was the love inside them.

Prayer

Compassionate Christ,

Who knows our hunger

Better than we do ourselves—

We have had our fill

Of the things of this world,

Which leave us feeling full

But far from fulfilled.

Draw us more deeply

Into our true hunger

And its true fulfillment:

Your love,

Which gives life to the world.  Amen.