Why Do the Shepherds Hear the Good News? (Luke 2:1-3, 8-10)

A Lowly Bunch

James Rebanks is a shepherd in the Lake District of northwest England, a beautiful region filled with mountains, forests, and lakes. His family has farmed sheep there for a long time, since before the parish church began recording births, deaths, and marriages in the 16^th century. In his book The Shepherd’s Life, he writes tenderly and toughly about all the messy intimacies of farming sheep: breeding, feeding, lambing, clipping, dosing, bathing, shearing, medicating, gathering, herding, chasing, and protecting. The list of responsibilities goes on. Some of the techniques that he uses have been handed down through the centuries, even millennia. The shepherds in the Lake District were tending their sheep there before there were kings, perhaps even before the Vikings landed on the shores of the British Isles. Their care for their sheep goes back a long way. Their care for their sheep is older than thrones and armies and nations.

While James clearly delights in the shepherd’s life, he does not gloss over its difficulties. Today, he farms over 900 sheep and still struggles to make ends meet. It’s nothing new. Centuries ago, he says, shepherds needed to find other work to eke out a living. And they did. Rather than leave the trade behind to find a more profitable line, shepherds stayed with their sheep and scraped by on the other odd jobs they could find. James writes that, growing up, his schoolteachers presumed that education could lift children like him out of the trade, could lead them to “rise above [themselves].” The assumption was clear. A shepherd was not something a child should aspire to be. They could be more.

When James visited the United States for the first time on his book tour, what he saw of our countryside both shocked him and was perhaps all too familiar. He writes, “I saw shabby wood-frame houses rotting by the roadside, and picket fences blown over by the wind. I passed boarded-up shops in the hearts of small towns, and tumbledown barns and abandoned farmland.”[1] In other words, he saw a similar disregard for the people closest to the land.

The disregard for shepherds and farmers today, is nothing new. When Luke writes about the birth of Jesus, he purposefully paints a stark social contrast. The scene opens with Emperor August, the mightiest man in the known world, whose very word has the power to move people from one location to another. But when Jesus is born and the good news is announced by God’s angels, the proclamation does not first issue in a palace as would be customary for a royal birth. Instead it is announced to some peasants, some dirty, stinky shepherds with not even a proper roof over their heads. Earlier, Mary had sung a song that celebrated how God would bring down the powerful from their thrones and lift up the lowly (Luke 1:52). Here is a first illustration of that reversal. It is a reversal we will see time and again in Luke, as Jesus repeatedly welcomes and embraces the last and the least, from the sick and diseased to little children, from prostitutes to Samaritans and gentiles.

Why the Shepherds?

I love these reversals. Yet I wonder at the meaning of them. I cannot help but notice that the angel declares “good news of great joy for all the people” (2:10). All the people. So why is it that on that first night some hear the good news, and others do not? Why do the lowly shepherds hear the angels’ song, but not the mighty emperor Augustus and the governor Quirinius?

There is an old folk tale that the Jewish rabbis tell. Abraham, they say, isn’t the only person who received God’s call. God called other individuals, but they refused. Abraham was the only one who said, “Yes.” And Israel, these rabbis say, aren’t the only people whom God invited into a special covenant. God invited others, but they refused. Israel is the only people who said, “Yes.”

I wonder—I wonder if a similar tale might not also be told about the shepherds. Imagine with me for a moment. Imagine that the angels go announce the good news to the kings and princes of the world. But they are making merry in the radiance of their palaces and cannot see the shine of the angels or hear their message above the noise of their festivities.

And the angels go to the merchants. But they are counting money by well-kept fires and cannot see the shine of the angels or hear their message above the clang of their coins.

And the angels go to the soldiers. But they are bent over maps and planning their next battle and cannot see the shine of the angels or hear their message above their heated discussion.

The rulers, the merchants, and the soldiers are all preoccupied with a world of things to possess and to control and in which to indulge themselves.

But when the angels go to the shepherds who are only caring for their sheep, the shepherds who have no ambitions toward greatness and who are building no kingdoms of their own—they see the angels in the darkness of the night. They hear their song in the silence of the fields.

Following the Shepherds

Today is the last Sunday of Advent. It’s not quite Christmas, and so I want to be careful that I don’t get ahead of myself in my reflections. The story today is not that Christ is born, but that the good news of Christ’s arrival is announced—and some characters hear the news, while others do not.

The story of the shepherds, then, invites me to ask: Am I able to hear the good news of Christ when it is proclaimed? Am I more like Emperor Augustus? Do I presume that the world revolves around me? Do I presume to stay in control by my words and actions? Or am I more like the shepherds, taking one step at a time and watching for what’s next? In this season, when I am easily caught up in the rush of my plans, the shepherds bid me to slow down for those who are in need, to stop for those who are injured. In this season, when I am easily caught up in the desire for everything to be just right, the shepherds bid me to be content where I am, trusting that God can use me right here.

The ironic thing about the shepherds is that they are held in rather low regard, but their job description is awfully close to God’s. In fact, “shepherd” is one of the most ancient titles for God, not only in Israel but in all the Ancient Near East. It’s no coincidence that David’s most famous song begins, “The Lord is my shepherd…” (Ps 23:1). Over the course of his life, Jesus will demonstrate again and again how God is not the warrior that the world wants, but rather the shepherd that the world needs.

The shepherds, then, are characters after God’s own heart. Their desire is not power but relationship. So, when the angels announce the good news of God’s relationship with humanity, the shepherds are the first to hear. Unlike the others, they have no other  preoccupation, no agenda. They only have hearts hungry for relationship.

Prayer

O great Shepherd of us all,
Who cares for us intimately
From birth to death—
Sometimes we live too fast
Or with too many plans
To receive your love
…
Lead us in the footsteps
Of the shepherds
To desire relationship more than power,
To be hungry for your love, Christ himself. Amen.

---

[1] James Rebanks, “An English Sheep Farmer’s View of Rural America,” https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/01/opinion/an-english-sheep-farmers-view-of-rural-america.html, accessed December 12, 2022.

Magnifying God (Luke 1:46-55)

The Invisible Gorilla

You would think that if a gorilla wandered across your field of vision, you would notice, right? About twenty years ago, a couple of psychologists ran an experiment. They asked participants to watch a video. In the video, two teams are passing around two basketballs, one team in white shirts, the other in black. The psychologists instructed the participants to count the number of times that the players in white passed the ball. At the end of the experiment, they asked the participants, “Did you see the gorilla?” Because, sure enough, in the middle of the video, a person in a gorilla costume wanders into the middle of the screen, beats his chest, and then wanders off screen. Incredibly, only half of the participants noticed the gorilla. The rest were too focused on the basketball.

The creators of the experiment, Christopher Chabris and Daniel Simons, explain that the exercise illustrates the phenomenon of selective attention. The idea is simple and apparently true. We tend to see only what we are looking for. We might think that we would notice something new and unusual—surely we would notice a gorilla!—but in fact we’re liable to miss it because our attention is focused elsewhere. About a century before this gorilla experiment, American philosopher William James made a similar observation. He explained that at any point in time, we are surrounded by infinitely more external stimuli and internal thoughts than we can pay attention to. To prevent us from becoming overwhelmed, our mind chooses to attend to whichever objects we deem relevant, and it disregards the rest.

At the risk of oversimplifying the point, we could summarize it this way. We only pay attention to one thing, when in reality there are many things. We only pay attention to one thing, when in reality there are many things.

From Fear to Joy

When the angel Gabriel visits Mary and says, “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you,” Luke tells us that “she [is] much perplexed by his words” (1:28-29). She likely has many thoughts and feels many things, all at once. I am favored? The Lord is with me? I’m just a girl, not even out of her father’s house. Fear is perhaps the predominant feeling, the one she pays the most attention to, because upon seeing her reaction, Gabriel rushes to reassure her, “Do not be afraid, Mary” (1:30). He then promises that her child will be called the Son of God and will inherit the throne of David. Israel has been without a true king now for centuries. It lives under Roman occupation and oppression. A king is a big deal. A king is the promise of freedom and new life.

If Mary’s first response to the news is fear, her later response is the opposite: joy. In today’s scripture, which takes place while Mary visits her cousin Elizabeth, she erupts into jubilant song. Her song has since become a beloved prayer in the church, known as the Magnificat. Some communities of faith recite it on a daily basis. Mary’s song rejoices in the special attention that God pays to the lowly and left out. Remember how Gabriel’s greeting declared to Mary that she was a favored one and God was with her (1:28)? Now she perceives that the child in her womb will declare this same good news to others, that they are beloved by God, and God is with them. Her song celebrates how God “lift[s] up the lowly” and “fill[s] the hungry with good things” and “help[s] his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy” (1:52-54).

Sometimes I take Mary’s joy for granted. It’s such a familiar part of the Advent story that I just assume anyone would be joyful in her circumstances. But I wonder if that is true. Because Mary’s situation is filled with complications and uncertainties that she could do without. When her pregnancy starts to show, there will be mean stares and sneers and whispers of judgment. Never mind all the responsibilities that will come with having to raise a child before she was prepared to do so. And what if Joseph leaves her? Make no mistake, life is not going according to plan for Mary. Life is being thrown at her.

Yet that initial feeling of fear, human and understandable as it is, fades when Mary focuses on God’s favor toward her, God’s presence with her. When she pays attention to God’s love, she rejoices.

Making a Big Deal out of God’s Love

“My soul magnifies the Lord,” Mary sings. The Greek for “magnify,” megaluno, simply means “make big.” I would compare it to the English expression “to make a big deal out of something.” The reality of our lives is that there are always many things going on, but we selectively pay attention to one thing. We all make a big deal about something.

Some people make a big deal about their boss and how unreasonable they are. Some people make a big deal about money and how they need more of it. Some people make a big deal about their spouse and all their grudges toward them. Some people make a big deal about their misfortunes and how everything seems to be going against them. In my experience, making a big deal out of my resentments has a snowball effect; I see more and more problems all around me, and I am left feeling worried and anxious.

Mary makes a big deal out of God’s love for her. She makes a big deal out of God’s love for everyone, and especially for the people who have been told (or silently shown) that their lives don’t really matter, the poor, the hungry, the homeless. Mary’s song actually echoes much of Hannah’s song from the Old Testament (Hannah was the mother of another miracle child, Samuel), which suggests that Mary has practice in singing this sort of song. She has already made a habit of looking for God’s love in the world. Which explains her joy. Mary could have made a big deal out of the humiliation she would soon experience among her pious neighbors. She could have made a big deal out of not being prepared for a child and all the responsibilities motherhood would entail. She had a lot of possible resentments and anxieties that she could have magnified. But instead she magnifies God’s love for her. And her joy eclipses her fear.

Unlearning and Relearning

Mary’s song invites me this Advent to ask, “What am I making a big deal out of?” What am I magnifying?

The news teaches me to make a big deal out of power. Social media teaches me to make a big deal out of fame and image. The holiday advertisements teach me to make a big deal out of comfort and convenience. All of this can leave me feeling anxious and fearful. Do I have enough? How do other people see me? Is the world falling apart?

I have been taught by the world to magnify power, prestige, and possessions, and to magnify all the problems that result when I don’t have these things. It is not natural for me to magnify God. I have learned from the world a language of control and complaint, but not the language of praise and prayer. All the more reason this Advent to study Mary’s example, to unlearn old habits and to learn instead a new habit of magnifying God. One practice that helps me to learn this new habit is gratitude. I know some people who like to begin their day by making a list of five things they are grateful for. I know others who practice gratitude in a more contemplative manner; they sit patiently and simply wait to see what gratitude arises, if any. In either case, the idea is not to burden oneself with a spiritual duty or a box to check off. The idea, rather, is to exercise one’s attention on God’s love.

In my experience, God’s love is often quiet. (Is it a coincidence, I wonder, that the angels in the Christmas story frequently appear at night, when the day’s work is done, and the world has quieted?) Every week now, I get Christmas cards in the mail with short, hand-written notes. And I am comforted to remember I have friends who care for me. God loves me. Last week, I was at a nursing care center, and a group of children were wandering the halls. I saw how their smiles were infectious, invisibly passing through doorways and lighting up the faces of residents. God loves others, especially the lowly and left out. God makes his face to shine upon them.

Mary’s story teaches me that the joy of Advent (and the joy of our faith) is not the simple high of a good feeling. It is a practiced song. It is an exercise of attention. It is learning and speaking the language of praise and prayer. And, amid the many things of this world, it attunes me to what matters most: God’s love.

Prayer

Tender God,
Whose love lifts up the lowly and left out,
Whose love topples the high and mighty,
Not with force but with a disarming embrace
That invites the surrender of control—
Turn our attention away from the grudges and complaints
That keep us mired in fear
…
And attune our hearts
To your love,
To joyfully sing its praise.
In Christ, whose eternal approach is good news of great joy: Amen.

Making Peace (Luke 1:39-45)

Peace as a “No”

I don’t know about you, but when I hear the word “peace,” my first thought is “the absence of war.” If someone said to me, “I come in peace,” I would think, “This person has no intention of fighting.” In other words, my tendency is to define peace in negative terms. I define peace by what is missing rather than by what is present. I think of peace as a “no” rather than a “yes.” No shouting, no hitting, no guns, no violence, no death.

But I think this definition is missing something.

On the one hand, I remember schoolteachers who preserved peace in the classroom with what I would call a reign of terror. They yelled. They threatened. They smoldered. They did not make me feel safe. Their classrooms were not what I would consider peaceful, even though no one spoke out of turn or fought. Their peace was like the peace of Rome, the pax romana. As the Romans would say, “If you want peace, prepare for war.” In this frame of thought, peace is only ever secured by an iron fist and fear.

On the other hand, I remember schoolteachers who were perfectly peaceful themselves…and also perfectly passive. They were the proverbial doormats. They did not maintain the rules or boundaries of the classroom, and the students were free to do whatever they pleased. The result was chaos. In these classrooms, I did not feel safe. They were not what I would consider peaceful environments, even though the teacher refrained from shouting or harsh discipline.

Both types of schoolteachers—the dictators and the doormats— say “no” to any signs of hostility or violence, either in the students or in themselves. Both aspire toward a kind of peace. Yet in neither type of classroom did I feel at peace.

Where did I feel safe? In classrooms where the teacher was less focused on maintaining control (whether of the class or herself), and more focused on caring for the students. The teachers in whose presence I felt most at peace were the teachers who responded to problems or accidents with compassion. They would not simply punish troublemakers, they would ask them what was the matter. They did not seek to eliminate conflict, but to resolve it by addressing the underlying matters of hurt and misunderstanding. I felt safest—at peace—with the teachers who cared for us.

A Peaceful Pause

When I read today’s scripture, I feel an overwhelming sense of peace. I feel like I’ve climbed through the window of scripture into a home of deep warmth and welcome, a home where I am safe. I feel comforted and nurtured in the presence of Mary and Elizabeth.

I think part of the reason for this experience is that our scripture today gives us a precious glimpse into the personal lives of key characters in the Christmas story. In Matthew, Mary and Joseph are both silent, and we are left wondering how they feel about their experience. Luke, however, rounds out his characters by showing us their reactions and letting us into their thoughts and feelings and conversations. Today’s scripture picks up right after the angel Gabriel’s visit to Mary. Mary has just heard from Gabriel that she will bear the son of God (1:35). She also hears that her relative, the elderly Elizabeth who everyone thought was barren, is sixth months pregnant (1:36). Our scripture tells us the first thing that Mary does after the angel Gabriel leaves. She makes haste to the home of Elizabeth (1:40). Why? I imagine it is because she is desperate not to be alone. Everything we know about Joseph suggests he is a thoughtful guy (cf. Matt 1:19), but in the wake of the impossible news she has just received, Mary needs more than a sympathetic ear or shoulder to lean upon. She needs someone else who knows what she’s going through, who’s going through something similar herself. So she goes to Elizabeth, who also is bearing a miracle child.

The scene of Mary and Elizabeth together is a tender intermission in the Advent narrative. It is a peaceful pause. Mary enters Elizabeth’s home, and blessings immediately pour out of Elizabeth’s mouth. “Blessed are you,” “blessed is the fruit of your womb,” “blessed is she who believed” (1:42, 45). And I imagine that as these blessings flow from Elizabeth, she is embracing Mary and covering her with blankets and whipping up whatever she can in the way of food and gently prodding her bewildered, mute husband, John, out of the way so they can have some privacy and talk about the things that only they can really know.

More Than a Feeling

The peace that I discern in today’s scripture is, on the surface, a good feeling. It just feels good to read about the caring camaraderie of Mary and Elizabeth. I imagine it’s a little bit like the experience some people enjoy when they watch a Hallmark Christmas movie or read an uplifting Christmas memoir. It simply makes them feel good. And I wouldn’t want to diminish that experience.

But I do wonder if the peace on display in this passage isn’t a little bit more than simply the absence of conflict, or even the absence of worry and bad feelings. Because make no mistake, both of these women know adversity. Elizabeth has silently suffered the shame of her culture, in which having no children severely diminishes one’s standing in the eyes of others. Mary will undoubtedly receive similar looks of shame, as her pregnancy starts to show. On top of these personal experiences, both women live as voiceless nobodies, whether in the immediate surroundings of their patriarchal Jewish community, or in the broader setting of Roman occupation and oppression. They must daily submit to other authorities, whether it’s an emperor who orders a census that requires a harsh, impromptu journey, or simply impulsive husbands and greedy tax collectors and aggressive Roman soldiers.

I wonder, then, if their peace is not the fruit of a deeper experience, an experience that knows pain and fear and conflict and yet is not determined by those feelings; an experience that knows adversity and yet insists on blessing. Is it a coincidence that this peaceful scene involves two mothers-to-be? Elizabeth twice makes mention of their wombs, which reminds us that both women are actively carrying and caring for the life that is within them. Could it be that their peace is not so much a feeling, but rather their full-bodied commitment to care? Could it be that their peace has to do with their partnership with God?

Saying “Yes” to God

Later in the gospel, Jesus will talk about peace as something you do, something you make. “Blessed are the peace-makers.” It’s a reminder to me that peace is more than the absence of violence. Peace is more than a feeling. Peace is partnering with God, as Mary and Elizabeth did. Peace is saying “Yes” to God and trusting in God’s work in our world. Peace is what my best teachers made, when they saw the image of God in every child and responded accordingly, seeing them not as problems but as children of God worthy of care and healing. They did not simply say, “No more of that!” They said, “Yes, you are loved. Yes, you deserve goodness.”

The peace of Advent is not the absence of conflict or bad feelings. It is not just something we experience. It is a full-bodied partnership with God. It is not a feeling from which we act, but action from which we feel better. The peace of Advent is caring for the world as God cares for the world. Peace has to do with care, not control. Controlling others is the false peace of the pax romana (and dictator teachers). Controlling ourselves is the false peace of passivity (and doormat teachers). Care is where peace is made. Is born. Here’s how Paul puts it: “Let your gentleness [your care] be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests [your care] be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus” (Phil 4:5-7). 

Prayer

Most merciful God,
In whose womb creation is reborn—
Where we seek the false peace of control,
Of simply saying “no” to conflict and bad feelings,
Remind us of your care,
Your insistent “yes” to the world
…
May the examples of Elizabeth and Mary
And other Christ-followers then and now
Inspire us to partner with you.
May we know your peace by making it,
By caring for the world around us.
In Christ, the prince of peace: Amen.

Untitled (Isaiah 9:1-7)

Lectio Divina

Advent is about preparing for God’s arrival. The thing about God, though, is that God often arrives in ways we do not expect. To prepare for the unexpected means we must make space—plenty of space. If we are only looking for this, or only looking for that, we may miss God’s arrival.

As we read our scripture, I’m going to pull out a spiritual tool we used several months ago, called lectio divina, or “divine reading.” Maybe you remember it. Lectio divina is a prayerful way of reading scripture. It is a way of making space for God. It is a way of letting God get the first word in our conversation. Instead of addressing scripture with our own interpretations and analyses, we let scripture address us, asking us questions, challenging us, inviting us.

Lectio divina consists of four basic steps, through which I will guide us. Let me say now at the beginning that this practice is entirely voluntary. I will invite you after each step to share a word or a sentence or two with a neighbor around you, but it’s also fine if you prefer not to do that (or you may not have a neighbor sitting nearby).

We begin first with a prayer. Would you join me? Loving God…help us to set aside our thinking, controlling minds. Open us up to your presence in scripture and in our lives. Amen.

1. Now I will read our scripture a first time. Listen for a word that catches your attention, that beckons to you, that makes a special impression on you. Don’t analyze why it draws your attention. Simply abide with it, and let it settle within you. I will leave one minute after the reading for you to identify your word and to sit with it.
   
   [Read scripture. Afterward, wait one minute.]
   
   If you choose, I invite you now to turn to a neighbor (or two, if you happen to be in a clump), and share the word.
   
   2. Now listen as our scripture is read a second time. This time, allow your word to unfold or grow. Notice any images, feelings, or memories that emerge in association with your word. I will leave one minute after the reading before inviting you to share with your neighbor.
   
   [Read scripture. Afterward, wait one minute.]
   
   If you choose, turn to a neighbor (or two, if you happen to be in a clump), and briefly, in one or two sentences, simply name the feelings, images, or memories that emerged.
   
   3. Now listen as our scripture is read for a third and final time. This time, reflect on your word and its unfolding, and consider how God may be speaking through it to you. Is God inviting you to something, calling you, challenging you, asking you a question, declaring something to you? How is God speaking to you through your word? I will leave one minute after the reading before inviting you to share with your neighbor.
   
   [Read scripture. Afterward, wait one minute.]
   
   If you choose, turn to a neighbor (or two, if you happen to be in a clump), and briefly, in one or two sentences, simply name how you sense God’s call through your word.
   
   4. The practice of lectio divina concludes with resting in God’s presence.
   
   I will invite us, then, to pray silently in response to God’s personal call. There is no right or wrong way to pray here. Just be honest with God. Maybe you’ll share your feelings, maybe you’ll ask for help, maybe you’ll express your gratitude…or maybe you have nothing to say. When you’re finished praying, rest in God’s embrace. In one minute, I will say a short blessing to conclude.
   
   Loving God, keep us rooted and grounded in your love, and in your call to us. In Christ: Amen.

“On Them Light Has Shined”

The word that speaks to me most in today’s scripture is “light.” The prophet Isaiah peers into the future, and he sees a light. Not the light of a torch or a bonfire, not the light that people make with their own hands. Humans are not the source of this light. Instead, it comes from beyond. The people who are in darkness suddenly see it. It shines on them.

Hope is a tricky thing. Often when we say, “I hope…,” we have a definite result in mind. “I hope your team wins.” “I hope you get the job.” “I hope more people will come to church.” This kind of hope lends itself to planning and hard work. We do everything in our power to achieve the results that we desire.

But there is another kind of hope. What I would call a biblical hope. Biblical hope cannot see what is coming. As Paul explains, “Hope that is seen is not hope” (Rom 8:24). Biblical hope is not a firm expectation or a calculated plan. It is a trust that waits patiently and pays attention. Biblical hope recognizes that God’s ways are not our ways. It appreciates that salvation might not mean victory on the battlefield or success in the courtroom or negative results from the x-ray.

To make the point as clearly as possible…who in the world, who in their right mind, would have expected a messiah who is crucified? Who could have foreseen that a cross, the emblem of suffering and shame, would be the very place where God triumphs over the forces of sin and death?

Biblical hope does not set parameters on the outcome. It only trusts that God is faithful and does good, and it patiently waits and looks for God’s arrival.

It does not make the light. It watches for it.

Hope Is Not a Plan

The Advent story is filled with characters who watch for the light, who are attentive and open to God’s strange and unexpected ways. There is Mary, of course, who is “much perplexed” by the angel’s visit, yet who nonetheless says, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (Luke 1:29, 38). She cannot know all that lies in store for her, yet she is willing. Then there is her cousin, Elizabeth, who feels the future of the world kicking in her womb. She knows it is “just” a child, but she also believes that it is bigger than she can imagine (Luke 1:39-45). Her husband, Zechariah, likewise trusts that God’s light will shine through this child “to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide [their] feet into the way of peace” (Luke 1:79). Then there are the wise men, the ancient astrologers, who look up into the sky and see something that they did not expect and respond with hope, with gifts and a warm welcome. And on the other side of the aisle, there are characters like King Herod, who hears the news and formulates a plan to stay in control (Matt 2:1-18). King Herod has no hope. He only has a plan.

Because the Christmas story is so familiar, it is easy for Advent to become a sort of memorial. We celebrate what is in the past, what is well known. But that first “Advent” was all about an unseen future, what was unknown, unexpected. It was all about “hope”—not the planning, calculating kind, but the unseeing and trusting kind. May it be so for us today. May we relinquish our particular desires and expectations and make room for God’s unexpected work. May we look for God in the darkness and in the bad news and in the neglected corners of our lives. No one expected a king to be born out of wedlock between two teenagers in a stinky stable. No one expected a cross.

But that is where the light shined.

Prayer

O God our hope,
You are always coming to us
In strange and unforeseen ways—
Relieve us of our plans,
Our narrow desires and expectations
…
Open our eyes and our hearts
In darkness and in uncertainty
To wait and to watch for and to welcome
What is far different
And far better
Than we can imagine. 

In the name of your gift, Christ Jesus: Amen.

Let Go (Psalm 46)

"Have It Your Way"

My mom was recently telling me a story about one of her first students. She was a young first-grade teacher in Simpsonville, Kentucky, a small rural community outside Louisville. Charlie was one of her students. Like many others, he had not gone to kindergarten, so this year marked his official introduction to the alphabet. When Charlie learned to write his name, he spelled it with an uppercase, backwards r. Several times, my mom explained the proper way to write a lowercase r. But Charlie continued to write the r uppercase and backwards. Finally, one day when my mom was explaining the proper way to write an r, Charlie looked up at her in exasperation and said, "Miss Kruschwitz…it's my name, I can write it however I want to!"

Chances are you've encountered a similar obstinance in a young one yourself. It's not uncommon for toddlers and young children to have a bossy streak in them. They see the world around them as their own little kingdom and expect to get their way. (As my dad likes to joke about my nephews, "They love you and have a wonderful plan for your life!")

I wonder if we don't all have a little bit of Charlie in us. Sure, we learn at an early age that we won't always get what we want, but that doesn't stop our wanting it. We just learn to be a bit more subtle in our attempts to control things. There's a reason why our advertisements declare things like "Have it your way" and "Obey your thirst." We all desire to do things our way. We all desire control and certainty.

A Different Kind of King

Today's psalm envisions God as a victorious king. As "kingdoms totter" and nations unravel (Ps 46:6), God declares with a noble solemnity, "I am exalted among the nations, I am exalted in [all] the earth" (Ps 46:10). It's easy to hear this and imagine an all-powerful God in the heavens, pulling strings and bringing everything under his control, a God who has it his way. But if we pay close attention to the opening verses, we get a different picture. "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though"—and this is the crucial word—"though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains tremble with its tumult" (Ps 46:2-3). The psalmist declares that God is a refuge and a strength and a help—not to say that God is in control, but to say that even as the world spins out of control, God is with us, helping us to live well, giving us strength to endure.

Already, then, we catch a glimpse of a different kind of king. This is not a king who reigns over the world outside us, who imposes his dominion by force. His reign looks different. Notice what the psalmist says. Twice he insists our king is with us. So, to begin, his reign is not so much about power over the world but presence with us.

And his presence is disarming. What's fascinating to me about this psalm is what God changes. God does not change the circumstances around us. As the psalmist reminds us in the beginning, God is our help, not as insurance that the world will never spin out of control, but as a faithful companion who helps us even as it spins out of control. What God does change is our hearts. The real realm of God's dominion is not without but within. "Come, behold the works of the Lord…He makes wars cease to the ends of the earth; he breaks the bow, and shatters the spear; he burns the shields with fire" (Ps 46:9). God does not control the world without, where mountains and seas and kingdoms and nations continue to tremble and roar. Rather, God reigns over the world within. God disarms the hearts of humans. In God's presence, wars are ended, weapons are destroyed.

In fact, the most famous verse in this psalm is all about this disarmament. "Be still" comes from a Hebrew world which literally means "drop," as in "Drop what you're holding." Another English expression that captures this sense well is "Let go."

The picture that emerges from this psalm is surreal. Our God is a king whose strength and help is not control and certainty (what we would all prefer) but rather acceptance and trust. "Let go", God says, "as I have let go."

“I Am with You”

I'll be honest. That interpretation by itself might seem fanciful or a bit of a stretch. But there's a key to it that I haven't mentioned yet: Jesus. We Christ-followers believe that "in [Jesus] all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell" (Col 1:19). In other words, if you want to know who God is…look at Jesus. Jesus shows us what God's kingdom looks like in the flesh. And over the course of his life, Jesus "let go" of a lot. He does not climb the ladder, he descends it. He lets go of power, possessions, home, dignity, and even his very life.

And lest we think of letting go as a form of resignation or masochism, we might appreciate that Jesus' letting go was not suffering for the sake of suffering, but simply a demonstration of what love looks like. Love lets go because it trusts in God's power, which is a power of the heart. It trusts that redemption and restoration happen not by bow or spear or shield (cf. Ps 46:9), but by faithful relationship. The biggest form of help that God offers us, and that we can offer others, is really simple. It is saying, "I am with you. I love you." We see this power every day in the unsung saints of our world, mothers and fathers, teachers and nurses, strangers who take the time to look into our eyes and friends who sit with us through unbearable times.

"I am with you. I love you." This is the gospel at its core. The rest is commentary. This is the good news that Jesus, our king, proclaims as he lets go of everything en route to the cross. It is not the promise that we will have things our way, but rather the immeasurably better promise that we are never alone, no matter the difficult reality we face. It is not power over the world around us, it is even more powerful: it is the power to heal what is broken, to restore what is lost, to reconcile what has been divided.

"I am with you. I love you." This is our refuge and our strength, stronger than any earthquake or flood, stronger than bow, spear, shield—even stronger than death itself, if you would believe it.

Prayer

Our refuge and our strength,
Our help amid change and difficulty,
O Christ—you are our king.
Reign in our hearts,
And disarm us of fear, hate, and our need for control
…
Recalibrate our hearts
To your simple way
Of togetherness.
May we know that your presence and love
Can do what no sword can do,
Can heal, restore, and raise to new life. 

In Christ, crucified and risen: Amen.

Out of Control (Luke 21:5-19)

Jesus’ “Mini-Apocalypse”

If you think today’s political climate is a disaster, you should have seen first-century Judea. The Jewish people were split every which way. Nearly everyone agreed that living under the heel of their Roman occupying forces was not ideal. But that was the extent of their union. Everyone had a different solution. The extremists, known as the zealots, desired an armed rebellion. Others, including the community responsible for the Dead Sea Scrolls, thought it best to retreat to the wilderness and wait for God’s catastrophic intervention. And yet others, including many of the Pharisees and scribes, counseled patience and cooperation. If the Judeans would just settle down and not cause the Romans any trouble, maybe the Romans would take a more relaxed stance and let them live in peace.

Enter Jesus into the fray. He looks upon the temple, the monument of Jewish faith, the glory of the Judean people. It is the center of everyone’s attention. All the different factions are, in one way or another, trying to save it. But not Jesus. He says, “The days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down” (Luke 21:6). He then delivers what some readers have called a “mini-apocalypse.” Famine, plagues, earthquakes, war. Trials and death penalties.

 

Jesus is right. He surveys the conflict and chaos that is fomenting in his own time, as various individuals and groups struggle for power and popular support, and he interprets accurately that it only has one outcome. This social climate is not constructive. It is the opposite. It is destructive. And sure enough, about forty years later, the temple falls. Isolated incidents of Jewish protest against Roman taxation and violence against Roman citizens escalate into a full-blown insurrection. The result is a brutal war with the Roman empire, which does not suffer protesters gladly. Its army eventually breaches Jerusalem and razes the temple to the ground.

How Jesus Responds

Jesus cuts a peculiar figure in today’s scripture. Everyone else is trying to stay in control. Everyone else is trying to save the Temple. In contrast, Jesus accepts that things are out of control, and he does not try to control them. It is a curious feature of Jesus’ ministry. He is always calling people—“Follow me”; inviting people—“Take up your mat and walk”; challenging people—“Sell your possessions and give the money to the poor”; asking people questions—“What do you want from me?”…but never does he use force on a person. Never does he control them. Read through any one of the gospels, and ask yourself, “Is Jesus ever in control of any person other than himself?” The cross stands ever as a reminder that Jesus relinquished the way of control.

The good news of Jesus is not control but care. The good news of Jesus is how he responds to a world that is out of control. He responds not by taking up the sword or seeking the popular vote, but by caring for widows and children, by loving his enemies and blessing those who curse him, by befriending strangers and making peace.

For Jesus, what happens to the Temple is out of his control, and quite frankly, has nothing to do with his good news. His good news is not about controlling others but caring for them. That is what his kingdom looks like.

Jesus in DC?

Many of us may have voted this past Tuesday. The airwaves have pounded into our heads that our votes on that one day are more important than anything else we might decide this year. But as I read today’s scripture, I wonder.

I imagine Jesus sitting on the steps of the Washington Monument or standing by the fence around the White House. I imagine him saying, not with revolutionary venom, but with thoughtful pause, “As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down” (21:6). I imagine a host of worried looks and furrowed brows, as we all agonize at the thought of our nation’s demise.

He continues, “There will be big men who rise up and say, ‘Join my cause. It is up to us. The time is now.’ They may even invoke my name. Do not follow them” (cf. 21:8).

He continues, “Terrible things may happen. Do not be terrified. Wherever you are, you are right where you are supposed to be. For there, as the world around you spins out of control, you have an opportunity to respond. You have an opportunity to bear witness to God’s care” (cf. 21:9-15).

Muting the Television to Talk

I remember visiting my grandpa in the nursing home where he lived the last years of his life. Walking through the nursing home’s entrance was like entering a different world. The rush of traffic and all the hubbub of life suddenly became muffled. In its place were the quiet sounds of a community in its last stage of life. There were the sounds of medical equipment beeping. There was the occasional cry from someone needing help. And from just about every room, there was the sound of a television. I could usually pick out the programming within a few seconds: Fox news or CNN. The animated news anchors and analysts could be heard almost shouting, inviting listeners into their righteous indignation and imploring them to take up one cause or another. Even back then, over a decade ago, the news proclaimed that the world was out of control, and it was the listener’s duty to help the right side take control by voting the right way and supporting the right big men and women.

We would enter my grandpa’s room. The news would be on, but he would mute it. As we were finding places to sit, he would insist that my brother and I take a chocolate from a welcome basket that he kept on his dresser. Then we would talk. About family and friends whom we cared about. About the flowers outside my grandpa’s window and the birds that daily visited his feeder. About our hopes and our fears. During our conversation, his nurse Reba would quietly slip into the room and tidy up. My grandpa might take notice and insist that she have a chocolate too. Sometimes, it would be time for a pill, or time for him to use the bathroom, and Reba would tenderly guide him through the necessary movements. All the while, during our close-knit gathering and Reba’s caregiving, the talking heads on television got red in the face. But they did not make a sound. Before we left, we would all hold hands and pray. If it were our last visit before leaving Kentucky, there would be tears.

Being Different

In today’s passage, Jesus tells his followers that their world will fall apart and it is out of their control. But he encourages them: “Do not be terrified….This will give you an opportunity to [bear witness]” (21:9, 12). That is not an easy word. The good news that I read is not that Christ is in control of our world. If anything, the world around him seems out of control, and he himself will become a victim of its power-hungry conflicts. The good news that I read is that Christ cares for us, for every single hair on our head (cf. 21:18), and that his care gives us the strength to show the same care to others.

The partisan struggles of our nation that clamor for our attention, lure us with the illusion of control and threaten to distract us from what really matters. We are in danger of worrying more about how we vote once every two years, than how we live every day. We are enticed to make a difference rather than to be different. But that is what Christ invites from us. To be different. To bear witness to a different way, a way of care rather than control, a way that includes blessing those who curse us, loving our enemies, lifting up children, caring for our widowed neighbors, befriending the poor and the homeless.

Remembering those sacred visits to my grandpa in the nursing home, I am struck by a contrast. All those televisions clamoring for control. And all those residents, with little to no control, living by the care of others and, in some cases, showing care themselves. I do not hear Christ on the televisions. But I see Christ in those rooms, slipping in quietly and tidying up, guiding the needful patiently through the rituals of life. I see Christ, frail and feeble in a hospital bed, offering visitors a chocolate, asking how they’re doing, holding hands and praying with them. I see Christ, dying and gaining life.

Prayer

Loving God,
Whose care we know
In Christ crucified—
Help us to recognize in ourselves
The treacherous thought
Of controlling others
And to tune it out
…
Sensitize us to your care
That we might know its salvation
And might bear witness to it
Day by day.
In Christ, whose love endures: Amen.

More Than Survival (Luke 20:27-38)

Heaven—The Self Glorified 

I remember the first time that I read this scripture on my own as a child—let’s say as, maybe, a nine or ten-year-old. It absolutely terrified me. I had already heard about the idea of hell, which frightened me. But this passage made me frightened about heaven. Because what I heard in this passage was that I would not be with my family in the resurrection. Jesus tells the Sadducees that in the resurrection there will be no marriage. “If there is no marriage,” I thought, “then neither will there be families.” Suddenly I was facing an eternity without my mom, my dad, and my brother. I knew heaven was supposed to be the greatest thing ever. But without my family…it might as well be hell.

Today, I read the passage very differently. And yet, I think that my initial interpretation as a child actually contains an important kernel of truth. I interpreted Jesus to be saying that heaven would not be everything that I expected. It would not be everything just the way I wanted it.

Let’s be honest. In popular thought, that’s what heaven is. Heaven is the self glorified. It is the extension of everything we like. All the good stuff from this life—let’s just put that on repeat. In heaven, we’ll be with our loved ones, we’ll be our younger, best-looking selves, and we’ll live in comfort, forever and ever, amen.

This popular picture of heaven is nothing new. It is almost as old as time. Take the Sadducees, for instance. The Jewish aristocrats of the first century, sophisticated and influential—they did not believe in the resurrection. They were above such low-minded daydreams. Yet even they had their own version of heaven. You could call it posterity. Legacy. The family name. The Sadducees didn’t think they would live forever in the same body, but they did think they would live forever by their descendants. A man’s memory, his possessions, the little kingdom that he built in his time on earth—it does not die but survives through his children. A different picture of heaven, but heaven nonetheless. The self glorified.

We see this in the riddle that the Sadducees pose to Jesus. Suppose, they say, a man dies without any children. The ancient Jewish custom prescribes that his brother must marry the widow and “raise up children for his brother” (20:28)—in other words, to preserve the brother’s name and legacy. So, in their riddle, the deceased man’s six brothers, one at a time, marry his wife, but each of them dies childless. Whose wife, the Sadducees ask, will the woman be in the resurrection?

The Sadducees’ question is meant to show that resurrection is a silly idea. Surely all seven brothers cannot all be married to the same woman in the resurrection. But what this question really does is show the Sadducees’ self-centered mindset. They are thinking of resurrection in the same way that they think of posterity—as an extension of everything that is ours in life. Just as a man’s son would carry on his name, his possessions, the family business, and so on, heaven in their mind would do the same. A man would have the same wife, and presumably he would maintain possession of his other property as well.

And if that word “property” lands wrong, if it sounds harsh to your ears, I think you’re hearing it right. I think you’re hearing what Jesus heard. True to their patriarchal world, the Sadducees are thinking about wives as the property of men. Whether they are thinking about their posterity, where a wife is the necessary vehicle for childbearing, or whether they are thinking about the possibility of resurrection, where a man’s possessions live on forever, including his wife—in the end, the Sadducees are really only thinking about one thing: themselves. How will everything that is mine live forever?

Letting Go in Order to Live

When as a nine-year old I heard Jesus deny the reality of marriage in the resurrection, I heard an elimination of family. But now I simply hear a challenge to the Sadducees’ self-interest. Jesus effectively responds, “You marry in order to preserve your name and your kingdom, but in the resurrection there is no need to preserve these things. The resurrection is about more than self-preservation” (cf. 20:34-35).

If the resurrection isn’t about the survival of the self and everything just the way we like it, then what is it about? Knowing that the Sadducees are students of the Torah (the first 5 books of the Bible), Jesus alludes to a passage in the Torah, where God confronts Moses as a burning bush and refers to Godself as “the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob” (20:37). Now, when Moses was alive, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were long dead. Yet here God claims to be in relationship with them. Why, Jesus asks, would the God of the living claim these relationships unless “to [God] all of them are alive” (20:38)?

What grabs my attention here are Jesus’ examples. Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. These are the ancestors of Israel, and all three of them lived as landless sojourners. It all began with Abraham, who left his house, his homeland, and all that he knew. Why? Because God promised that Abraham would be blessed in a way that would bless all the families of the earth. The paradox of faith, is that by giving up his life, Abraham multiplied life. By letting go of the life that he knew, he lived a fuller life than he could have known. By giving up all that was familiar, the little kingdom he had spent decades building, he and his became a blessing to all the families of the earth.

“Alive to God”

Consider the saints in your own life, the individuals who bore witness somehow to the way of Christ. How did they bless you? Was it through the possessions they accumulated, the name that they made for themselves, the little kingdoms that they built? Is that why you remember them? Or is it because they set all of that aside and gave themselves to you?

This past year, I lost a good friend, Jim. To make a long story short, I’ll say only a few things. Jim lost most of his sight seven years ago. When that happened, he retreated from much of his life. He lived alone and became a bit of a survivalist. Even so, he would occasionally venture outside his home to be with friends and family. And when he did, he was a blessing. He had a way of listening and conversing that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. This was how he loved, how he gave himself to others. Here, in the moments when he let go of survival and risked life, he lived in God. I believe that he is, as Jesus says, “alive to God,” because his love lives on in my own life. His love continues to give me life—to multiply life. In the few months that I have been here, I have heard you speak similarly about Anne, Catherine, and Jean, all of whom were a blessing to you and others by the way they gave themselves in love. And as their love lives on and gives us life, we know also that they are “alive to God.”

Never Lost, Only Multiplied

As a child, I had hoped that heaven would mean the survival of my family and all that was mine. Today’s scripture had terrified me that it would be the opposite. With no marriage, I would lose my parents and therefore my family. But now, I believe that Jesus was inviting the Sadducees and all of us beyond a life of survival, whether that’s through posterity in this world or in some heavenly immortality.  Life and resurrection are not about me forever and ever amen. They are about a self-giving love that defies death and multiplies life.

If I could go back in time, what would I say to my nine-year-old self, worried about losing his family in heaven? I would say this: What lives in love is never lost, only multiplied. 

Prayer

Living God,
God of Anne, Catherine, and Jean—
When we settle for survival,
May we remember the example
Of the saints who have gone before us
…
Inspire us by their self-giving love
And lead us more deeply
Into your life and resurrection. 

In Christ, crucified and risen: Amen.

"He Was Happy" (Luke 19:1-10)

Someone Who Believed in Me

I grew up with a soccer ball never too far from my feet. My dad made sure of that. He had taught at a high school in Nigeria for a couple of years, and while he was there he had fallen in love with soccer. My older brother took me under his wing when I was old enough to play. In our backyard, he taught me proper technique and all sorts of tricks. Entire afternoons would be lost as we played against one another. I was an attacker, he was a defender. Like iron sharpening iron, we made each other better. Because we never fell into the same age bracket, we never played on the same team. But he would show up at my games, and I would show up at his. His support meant a lot to me.

About seven years ago, I began to play in an adult recreational league. It was exhilarating to be playing soccer again, but it took a while to recover everything I had learned—in part because I was playing on a team of strangers, and it takes time to build relationships and earn the trust of your teammates. A couple years later, my brother, who had been living in Texas, returned to Virginia. (As some of you know, he’s pastor at Goochland Baptist Church.) I invited him to join my soccer team. For the first time in our lives, we would be playing on the same team. I remember vividly the first game we played together. I played better than I had in years. Usually, if I were lucky, I might score a single goal in a game. In that game, I scored four. Everything I tried came off. You know how sports players will sometimes point to the heavens after they accomplish a great feat, as if to say, that wasn’t all me? Well, that’s how I felt.

But I don’t believe that God above had preordained that I would have an amazing game that night. I believe the reason for my performance was much closer to the ground. That night, I was playing the game with someone who believed in me. My brother was shouting encouragement at every turn, urging me to shoot when I had a shot, celebrating when I scored a goal. The paradox is that what I did that night, was very much within my capabilities. My body knew all the right motions. Yet, it had never put them together like that before. It needed to be unlocked, unleashed. I think that is what my brother did, just by being there, just by believing in me.

I’m willing to bet that, if you consider your own life, you will find similar moments, when another person’s belief in you called forth from you something you did not know you had. Maybe it was a spouse’s support that inspired you in a difficult time, or a child’s love and trust that made you more responsible than you knew yourself to be.

“What Is Impossible for Mortals”

Nobody believed in Zacchaeus. We learn this in the middle of today’s scripture, when Luke tells us that everyone in the crowd grumbled about him that he was “a sinner” (19:7). Maybe this reputation is because he is a tax collector who takes more than his share. Or maybe he simply fails to live according to the moral standards of his Jewish community. In either case, his reputation precedes him. I remember as a child thinking that Jesus spoke Zacchaeus’ name as a demonstration of his divine knowledge. Now I think he spoke Zacchaeus’ name simply because he had already heard all the grumbling about Zacchaeus, this sinner of Jericho. Now I think that if Jesus’ address to Zacchaeus demonstrates any sort of divine power, it is not the power of knowing everything, but rather the power of love. Jesus believes in Zacchaeus.

Luke’s introduction of Zacchaeus—“he was a chief tax collector and was rich” (Luke 19:2)—draws a comparison between him and a rich man whom Jesus has only moments ago encountered. In the previous chapter, a rich man asks Jesus how he might receive the fullness of life. Jesus invites him to sell his possessions and follow him, but the rich man cannot let go of his riches. He walks away from Jesus sad, and Jesus laments, “How hard it is for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” When the disciples ask, “Then who can be saved?” Jesus answers, “What is impossible for mortals is possible for God” (18:18-26).

In other words, there are some things we cannot do by our own will. It takes something outside of us to unlock us. For me on the soccer field, that outside something was my brother’s belief in me. If you’re familiar with fairy tales, you might recall that very often what breaks the evil enchantment is not a person’s own magical power or intelligence. It is someone else’s kiss. Love breaks the shackles of the spell and liberates the enslaved person.

That is precisely what we see in Zacchaeus. Luke tells us that when Jesus invites himself over to Zacchaeus’ home, Zacchaeus is “happy”—or “joyful” is probably a better translation (19:6). Perhaps for the first time in years, Zacchaeus feels that someone else loves him and believes in him. Here is someone who does not judge him, someone who does not look at him with recrimination. Here is someone who, before anything else, desires to spend time with him. He scrambles quickly down the tree, and soon he does what the rich man was unable to do. He gives away half his possessions and pays back four times all his fraudulent profits (which may well account for the remaining half of his possessions). Jesus then pronounces, “Today salvation has come to this house” (19:9).

What’s fascinating here is the order of events. Usually, in our world, repentance comes first, and forgiveness comes second. Forgiveness must be earned. “Tell me you’re sorry. Prove it to me.” But this course of action is often counter-productive. Shame does not unlock a person. It does not liberate us. If anything, it isolates a person and closes them off to the world. Shame shuts us down. Jesus shows us another way. He makes no demands on Zacchaeus other than that they eat together.[1] Zacchaeus’ joy suddenly unleashes a whole new person. This is what repentance means anyway—a change of mind. What this story suggests is that forgiveness comes before repentance, that forgiveness can help to change a person’s mind. Just as my brother unlocked certain abilities within me on the soccer field, just as a kiss awakens the sleeping beauty or transforms the toad prince, Jesus’ acceptance of Zacchaeus changes his mind. Trusting in his own goodness, he lives not out of fear and greed but out of love for others.

Jesus at Our Tables

Growing up in a church where we shared the Lord’s supper only once a month and in great solemnity, I understood the Lord’s table to be an almost magical, otherworldly fixture. The Lord’s table was the sacred property of the church; it had scripture printed on it and fine silver lying on its surface. It required silence and a recollection of my sin and shame.

But today’s scripture turns the tables on my old understanding. Jesus invites himself to Zacchaeus’ table. He turns our tables into his own. The Lord’s table is not a heavenly table descended to earth, but an earthly table blessed with God’s love. It is not a table that requires our penance, but a table that declares we are accepted just as we are. The rest of the world might look upon such a table and say it’s folly. If you just accept people as they are, they’ll never change or grow! But Zacchaeus’ story suggests otherwise.

Remember the rich man who could not let go of his money and follow Jesus? If ever there was a picture of a model disciple, it would appear to be him. He says he has followed the commandments since his youth. And as if that weren’t enough, he wants to know what else to do. He’s the student every teacher dreams of. But when it comes down to it, he cannot learn. He cannot change and grow as Zacchaeus does. Why? Let me suggest an unconventional—even ridiculous—interpretation. It’s because he’s not happy. I’m not talking about superficial happiness, but about the deep joy that Zacchaeus feels when he learns that Jesus believes in him and accepts him as he is. The rich man is uneasy and unhappy; he does not believe that God accepts him as he is. For this reason, he feels compelled to secure his life by power and wealth. He cannot let go of it.

The good news of Zacchaeus is that we do not need to secure God’s love. It is already ours. Christ accepts us as we are and makes our broken tables his own. And his acceptance does what we could never do on our own. It is like the kiss that breaks the enchantment. It is like when someone’s belief in us unlocks unbelievable capabilities within ourselves. When we receive Christ’s acceptance, it makes us deeply happy; it changes our mind about who we are…and may transform us in ways we could never foresee.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
You make our tables
Your own table.
Help us to know
The joy Zacchaeus felt.
Help us to feel your kiss on our lives,
Your steadfast belief in us.
…
Awaken us to a fuller life.
May salvation come to our houses today:
Amen.

---

[1] Scholars point out that the language in this text bears strong connotations of table hospitality.

Written on the Heart (Jer 31:27-34)

Is It All Over?

For the people of Judah, the Temple was not only a site of worship. It was a symbol of God’s presence and protection. Seeing the smoke rise from its daily sacrifices and smelling their pleasing odors would have assured the people of God’s nearness. Many people assumed that the Temple would stand forever. After all, God had promised King David that his kingdom would have no end (2 Sam 7:12-13). According to Jeremiah, the leaders of Judah encouraged this perception. They would say, “This is the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord” (7:4). Imagine a national parade in which flags are raised and glory is proclaimed and the nation’s demise is simply inconceivable. For many people, that feeling of triumph and eternity accompanied the Temple. As long as it was standing, they knew that God was on their side. And they believed it would always be standing.

But then one day, it wasn’t. When Babylon conquered Jerusalem in 587 BCE, it destroyed the Temple. Suddenly the people were thrown into doubt. The Temple’s destruction meant that maybe God was not on their side. It meant that maybe God had left them. They felt desolate and wondered if they had thrown it all away. They wondered if they had broken God’s covenant beyond repair.

Maybe you know what this feels like. We all have little Temples of our own—people, places, possessions, achievements that somehow become the meaning of life for us. When these little Temples suddenly collapse, we are left wondering if it is all over. Maybe it is divorce, or the loss of a job, or serious financial trouble, or a relapse. Whatever it is, we are suddenly left feeling very alone and wondering if we blew it.

Getting Past Our Deeds to God’s Love

To a people who felt like they had blown it, Jeremiah announces a curious prophecy. On the one hand, the first thirty chapters or so of Jeremiah are precisely an announcement of having blown it. Jeremiah declares the unsavory truth that deeds have consequences. In the case of Judah, the people had violated God’s covenant so boldly and for so long, neglecting the poor and vulnerable and chasing after their own greed, that their society had become divided against itself and crumbled. God describes the consequences that Judah must endure in terms of a clearing out: God will “pluck up and break down,” “overthrow” and “destroy” (31:28). We might flinch to hear this terminology of judgment, particularly if we apply it to our own lives and those moments when our world has suddenly collapsed, but it may help to understand that God’s judgment here is not a matter of punishment or retribution. It is simply the consequence of our own deeds.

But if Jeremiah proclaims the difficult truth that deeds have consequences, he also proclaims an even deeper truth. Consequences do not define us. God’s love does. “As I have watched over them to pluck up and break down…so I will watch over them to build and to plant, says the Lord” (31:28). Earlier in the same chapter, God declares God’s motivation for restoration, “I have loved you with an everlasting love; therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you” (31:3).

When our Temples collapse, the tendency is to think that we are done. We mistake our identity for what we have done—in particular what we have done wrong. We identify with our scars. We think they tell the whole story, a story of our failure and our not-enough-ness. (We might forget that when God first marked a human for his wrongdoing, it was not a mark of punishment, but a mark of protection. God marked Cain out of love, so that he would live.)

“I’m Gonna Tattoo That on My Heart”

Father Greg Boyle is a Jesuit priest who founded Homeboy Industries, a gang intervention and rehabilitation program in Los Angeles. Today his ministry supports over 10,000 men and women who are escaping the vicious cycle of violence and incarceration. Greg explains that the gang members who enter into the program share one thing in common: they all have grown up in terribly deprived and hurtful settings. Early in their lives, they absorb the destructive message that they are not worth anything, which becomes a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy as they embark on destructive gang careers. Degraded and abandoned as little children, they act out their perceived worthlessness on the streets.

One day, Greg was struggling with Sharkey, a “particularly exasperating homie.” (“Homie” is the affectionate name that the former gang members have for one another). Greg realized that he had been acting harshly toward Sharkey and expecting too much from him. So, he decided to switch his strategy and catch Sharkey in the act of doing something good. He praised him for his bravery. He pointed out that Sharkey’s old peers had a “hollow” bravery, acting violently but never trying to change their circumstances, whereas Sharkey had actually given up his old ways and was forging a new life for himself. He told Sharkey, “You are a giant among men. I mean it.” Suddenly, Sharkey grew silent and stared at him. Then he said, “[Dang], G…I’m gonna tattoo that on my heart.”[1]

Many of the homies whom Greg serves are covered in tattoos. In fact, one of the services his ministry provides is tattoo-removal. It can be a big help when a homie is looking for employment—as most employers steer away from people with hateful words and images etched prominently onto their faces or forearms. It strikes me that tattoo removal for these homies is more than simply erasing a piece of body art. It is liberating them from their old identity, promising them that they are not defined by their past deeds. They didn’t blow it. Their race is not run. What defines them is not the past tattooed on their skin, but the unconditional love that gives them new life—the unconditional love that Sharkey wanted to tattoo on his heart.

Covenant Re-understood

When God declares God’s love to the people of Judah and promises restoration, God also declares a new covenant that will be different from the old covenant. To hear God describe it, the difference is not so much the content of the covenant, which was and always will be God’s unconditional love for the people (cf. Deut 30:1-5); the difference is how the people understand the covenant. Earlier, God says, the people broke the covenant. They did not trust in it. They did not trust that God’s love would give them life, but instead sought life in the competitive realms of wealth and power and reputation. But this time, God says, they will trust in God and know God “for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more” (31:34). In other words, the difference between their first understanding of the covenant and this second, renewed understanding of the covenant, is what has happened in between. They have done all the wrong things, and God still loves them. They blew it, but God loves them just as much as ever. God cannot magically erase all the consequences of their past deeds, but God’s love can draw them beyond the past into new life.

God describes this renewed understanding of covenant in the most intimate of terms. “I will put my law within them, and I will write it”—tattoo it?—“on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people” (31:33).

Greg Boyle tells another story about a homie named Miguel. As a little child, Miguel had been mistreated and abused by his family. Then one day they abandoned him. He grew up an orphan. Over a recent Thanksgiving holiday, he had no family to join, so he invited several other homies who were orphans like him over to his home. Later, he proudly told Greg that he had cooked a turkey. “How’d you do that?” Greg asked. “You know, ghetto-style,” he replied. When Greg shared that he wasn’t familiar with the recipe, Miguel explained, “Well, you just rub it with a gang a’ butter, throw a bunch a’ salt and pepper on it, squeeze a couple of limones over it and put it in the oven. It tasted proper.” Marveling over Miguel’s hospitality and kindness of heart, Greg asked him, “How do you do it? I mean, given all that you’ve been through—all the pain and stuff you’ve suffered—how are you like the way you are?” Miguel responded, “You know, I always suspected that there was something of goodness in me, but I just couldn’t find it. Until one day,”—he quieted a bit—“one day, I discovered it in here, in my heart. I found it…goodness. And ever since that day, I have always known who I was. And now, nothing can touch me.”[2]

Miguel had discovered the ancient, everlasting covenant of which Jeremiah spoke. Just like Sharkey before him, who gave us an updated translation of Jeremiah, “Dang, G…I’m gonna tattoo that on my heart.” This covenant written on our heart is not that our temples will stand forever and that we will be successful in all that we do. It’s deeper than that. It’s a covenant of God’s care, and it will be standing even when our temples collapse. (And for some of us, it may be only when our temples collapse that we become fully aware of it.) It’s a covenant that cannot be broken by the past or anything we’ve done or even death itself. When this covenant is written on our heart, when God’s love defines us, everything is transformed. It’s like we were in a prison of our own making, and suddenly we are free. Nothing can touch us because we know who we are. We are God’s beloved, and we are here to love.

Prayer

Tender father and mother of us all,
God of steadfast care—
Help us to accept
Our past,
Its difficult consequences,
And our responsibility
…
And help us to know
What defines us—
Not these things
But what is written on our heart:
Your love,
Which is making all things new.
In Christ, our brother: Amen.

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[1] Gregory Boyle, Tattoos on the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion (New York: Free, 2010), xiv.

[2] Boyle, Tattoos on the Heart, 88-89.

Right Where You Are (Jer 29:1, 4-7)

“I Know the Plans I Have for You”

There’s a good chance you’ve read it on a piece of devotional paraphernalia, maybe a magnet or a bumper sticker or a card of encouragement. You may have heard it on television or the radio, spoken by someone promising good things just around the corner. If you grew up in the church, you may have memorized it at some point. “‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’”—Jeremiah 29:11.

But did you know that those words were spoken to a people who were doomed to live the rest of their lives in the land of their enemy? Did you know those words were spoken to a people whose future was learning a new language, scraping out a subsistence among strangers, and living under the suspicious eyes of their Babylonian conquerors?

When the people of Judah first went into exile, many of them hoped for a speedy return to their homeland. In fact, in the chapter before our scripture today, Jeremiah gets into a fierce debate with another prophet, Hananiah. Hananiah tells the people not to worry. He prophesies that they will return to their homeland in just a couple of years. Jeremiah disagrees. He prophesies that they will only return to their homeland after seventy years. If you’re like me, and you choose whichever weather forecast suits your plans best, then you can imagine which of these prophets was more popular among the people. 

“Make Your Homes There”

Yet it is the unpopular prophet, Jeremiah, the one who announces that they are in Babylon for the long haul, who declares God’s famous promise to prosper the people and not to harm them, to give them hope and a future. All of which begs the question: how does a lifetime of exile fit in with God’s promise of prospering?  Where is the hope in knowing that you and your children will spend most if not all of your lives living in the land of your enemy?

We read elsewhere in scripture that God’s thoughts are not our thoughts, God’s ways not our ways (Isa 55:8-9). This situation is a perfect example. The typical human response to a difficult or uncomfortable situation is fight, flight, or freeze and appease. First, the people of Judah had fought the Babylonians. Now that they are defeated, some of them are hoping for a speedy flight from their exile, a quick return to their homeland. Others of them are frozen in fear. They are playing dead, so to speak; they are considering putting their Israelite identity to death in order to become as Babylonian as possible, to appease their new lords and make their lives easier in the land.

But God has a different plan than fight, flight, or freeze and appease. We hear it in our scripture today, which is actually part of the same scripture from which we get that famous promise to prosper the people and to give them hope and a future. To all the exiles in Babylon, God says, “Make your homes there. Grow your families there. Seek the peace of the enemy among whom you live, and pray for them. Their peace is your peace” (29:5-7).

I’m going to go out on a limb and say, this is not what the people of Judah wanted to hear. No more than Jesus’ disciples would have wanted to hear him say, “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you” (Luke 6:27-28). This way of living does not come naturally to us. It is counterintuitive. God is effectively saying, “The good life is right where you are. Live it there!” (Excuse me, God, have you seen where I’m living?)

Fight, flight, and freeze and appease, are all responses that look for life somewhere else: in the future or in a different place. They all presuppose that the present time and place is somehow lacking and needs to be changed. They either try to change it themselves by force, or they wait for the change to happen. By contrast, God invites the people to make their home in the present and to bless it. We see this in other Bible stories of exile, such as the stories of Daniel and Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. These young Hebrew men neither fought the Babylonian empire nor fled from it nor tried to appease it. Instead, they made their home there. They even served in its high court. They lived, however, not as citizens of Babylon, but as followers of God. In all their life—from what they ate to how they worshipped—they bore witness to God’s care.

From Daniel in Babylon to Dan in America

Dan Nanamkin is a Native American of the Colville Reservation in Washington state. Like the people to whom Jeremiah prophesied, Dan and his people are living in a sort of exile themselves. They will never be able to return to the life that their ancestors once enjoyed. Many of them fought the changes to their land a long time ago. Now many of them flee from it; the rates of addiction among Native Americans are disproportionately high. Some of them have relinquished their cultural heritage in an attempt to assimilate. But Dan has chosen a different response. He has dedicated his life to sharing the sacred stories of his tradition and seeking the welfare of the land and the people who dwell on it.

Several years ago, Dan showed up at Standing Rock, where many Native Americans and others were pleading against the construction of an oil pipeline through reservation territory. The threat to the land had brought together a diverse company, as more and more people came to share a concern for the land. Dan’s appearance made for quite a scene. On the one side of the blockade was a massive armed force, which occasionally resorted to tear gas and rubber bullets. On the other side, was Dan, in full regalia, and always singing. His presence was magnetic and made a particular impression on one reporter, who identified him as “one of the most prayerful, peaceful people” there.[1]

Crushed Into the Ground…As Seeds

Dan’s story inspires me. It is like the story of Judah in Babylon. It is like the story of Jesus in our world. All of these stories show us the way of God. It is the way of God to make a home right where you are and to bless those around you. To meet the sword with a song. There is a Oaxacan saying that captures this way of God beautifully, “You crushed us into the ground, but you didn’t know we were seeds.” That’s it. We are seeds. Right where we are.

These stories invite me to ask, “What is my hope?” Is it that God will make things the way that I want them to be? If that’s the case, I may well be disappointed. If, as Paul suggests, hope is about what I cannot possibly see or foresee (Rom 8;24; cf. Heb 11:1), then perhaps I need to relinquish what I wish for in my mind’s eye. I wonder: what would the people of Judah have hoped for, marooned among their enemies? What does Dan hope for, living amid an empire that threatens his people’s land? What did Jesus hope for, as he made his way toward Jerusalem and the cross? Perhaps their hope all has less to do with certain results, which are out of our hands anyway, and more to do with their witness and the way that they lived. Perhaps they are simply hoping for the strength to make their home right where they are and to bless the world around them.

What results from making our home right where we are and blessing the world around us, is not for us to say. But God does indicate in Jeremiah’s prophecy that it may take a surprising shape. “In their welfare (shalom) will be your welfare (shalom)” (29:7; my trans.). In other words, what first seemed like an irredeemably hostile situation may turn into a new community of friends.

When I pause to think about it…that looks and sounds a lot like the kingdom of God that Jesus proclaimed.

Prayer

Courageous Christ,
Whose way leads
To the cross and beyond—
In your tender care,
Disarm us of our selfish hopes
…
Help us to make our home
Right where we are,
And to bear witness to your love,
By which we and others may together know peace. 

Amen.

 

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[1] Camille Seaman, “A Native American Faces Teargas, Baton Charges and Rubber Bullets,” https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2022/may/04/standing-rock-pipeline-protest-native-american-tear-gas-batons-rubber-bullets-camille-seamans-best-photograph, accessed October 4, 2022.