"Not by Bread Alone" (Luke 4:1-13)

We’re All Cookie Monsters

Recently my nephews have started watching Sesame Street. I know my brother was excited at this development. “This is great,” he thought. “It’s not just entertainment. They’ll actually learn some good life skills.” What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was their new obsession with cookies. They love Cookie Monster. After a show finishes, they run around the pantry like little monsters themselves, screaming, “Me want cookie!” It’s gotten so bad that some mornings the first thing they ask for when they wake up is a cookie.

As I pause to think about it, their behavior is no surprise. Cookie Monster himself has a problem. A problem with cookies. A couple of weeks ago, in a Valentine’s Day episode, Cookie Monster’s obsession is front and center. In a spoof on the popular teen series Twilight, Cookie Monster is dressed up as a vampire and has a decision to make. Does he marry his true love Bella, or does he obey his inner thirst for cookies? Every time he gets close to love, he’s tempted by the smell of cookies and abandons Bella altogether. It’s funny…because it’s true. We’ve all been there. All of us have habits, pleasures, temptations, that distract us from what matters most. In a sense, we all have a bit of Cookie Monster in us, whether it’s cookies we turn to or something else.

“All I’m Living For”

Consider Bob, as he fidgets on the couch, waiting for his therapist to look up from her computer and begin their session. Finally, she lifts her head and smiles. “So, how have you been, Bob?”

“Worse than ever,” he responds. A cascade of grievances quickly follows. “My manager at work has been a real jerk lately. I swear, he’s completely forgotten what it’s like to work on the floor. Or maybe he remembers, and he’s just taking pleasure in making us suffer.”

“Hmm. How is he making you suffer?

“Well, for example, our lunch breaks are only thirty minutes long, but it takes five minutes to cross the campus to the cafeteria. I feel like I’m being cheated out of a real lunch.”

The therapist nods, “I could understand that feeling. How do you deal with it?”

“I don’t know. Lately, I’ve been chewing gum on the job, or sometimes even tobacco—just to feel like I’m eating. I mean, I deserve more than twenty minutes.” The therapist nods but stays silent. Bob continues, “Leaving work and going home is no better. My wife is constantly nagging me about our finances and asking when we can afford a move out of our current dump of a home.”

The therapist gives another sympathetic nod. “Hmm…I imagine that’s hard to hear. Do you find yourself avoiding her now?”

“We still eat dinner together,” Bob says in feeble protest.

“How are your dinners together?”

“I don’t know. I find ways to tolerate them. I enjoy a beer. Sometimes I grab an extra handful of chips or whatever snack we have around.”

“Hmm. You don’t enjoy what your wife is saying, so you find other things that you do enjoy?”

Bob shrugs. “I guess you could put it like that.” After another silence, he says, “Only after she goes to bed do I have any real peace. I mean, I should probably go to bed too. I’m always tired. But that little sliver of the day that I have to myself—it’s all I’m living for right now. I grab another beer and another handful of chips, and I sit down in front of the television where I can laugh at some other people’s problems for a few minutes. It may not be much, but I wouldn’t give this time up for anything.”

Feeding Our Face, Starving Our Heart

Long ago, in the third and fourth centuries, a number of Christ-followers in Egypt and the Near East left civilization and went to live in the wilderness. They recognized that the world around them lived according to some unhealthy patterns of thinking, and they took seriously the call of Christ to repent, or “think again.” They wanted to unlearn unhealthy thought patterns and learn instead what Paul calls “the mind of Christ.” These Desert Christians developed a rich tradition that identified eight “deadly thoughts” (which would eventually become popularized as the “seven deadly vices”). Over this season of Lent, we will explore each of these deadly thoughts: how they distort life and disconnect us from God and others, and how Jesus shows us the way back to God and our true selves.

This Sunday we’re exploring the deadly thought of gluttony. Today, many people think of a glutton as someone who eats excessively. But that idea can be a convenient way to avoid or deny our own struggle with gluttony. In the Christian tradition, gluttony has nothing to do with our weight. It has to do with our heart. Gluttony is any preoccupation with food. A picky eater, an anorexic food-avoider, a compulsive snacker—all of these people struggle with gluttony. The common denominator is an obsession with food. Gluttony is thinking that our appetite is the key to becoming happy and whole.

Think back to Bob for a moment. He is not a glutton in the popular sense of the word. What is so insidious about gluttony is how innocent it can appear. (“Just turn a few rocks into bread,” the devil tells Jesus. “Escape reality for just a second. What’s the harm?”) For Bob, gluttony isn’t even on the radar. But for the therapist who is listening closely, it is the common thread in how he responds to all his anxieties. He’s unhappy with his boss and his lack of lunch time, so he compensates with chewing gum or tobacco. He finds conversation with his wife difficult, so he offsets the struggle with a little extra junk food. He’s tired and run down, so he seeks peace in a solitary beer in front of the television. Bob may not even realize it, but his compulsive snacking reveals a repeated thought, namely, “I am having some difficult feelings, but the pleasure of eating will solve them. If I satisfy my appetite, I will be safe and happy.”

But as Bob’s own testimony makes abundantly clear, he is feeling neither safe nor happy. Why? Because as he is feeding his face, he is starving his heart.[1] Gluttony thinks that pleasing our appetite will satisfy our soul. The irony is that when we act on this train of thought, we often find ourselves deeply unhappy. Not only does the food itself become less and less of a pleasure, but we are also neglecting the things that really matter. Bob has given up on his relationships; he’s not taking care of himself and allowing himself enough sleep; he is living without any meaningful purpose. In a word, he has lost his sense of self-worth.

He is the opposite of Jesus in the wilderness. Jesus has struggles of his own, not least of which is going without food for forty days. But when the devil confronts him and suggests turning a few rocks into bread, Jesus recognizes the idea for what it really is. A rejection of reality. Those are stones, not bread. Jesus can say no because he is nourished by more than just food. His heart is already full and satisfied as with a rich feast. Just moments before being led into the wilderness, he hears a voice from heaven at his baptism, saying, “You are my beloved son” (3:22). What gives Jesus life is not a momentary pleasure, a small escape from reality. What gives Jesus life is God’s love. He knows he is God’s beloved child and trusts that God will care for him.

Hungry for Love

Traditionally, the Christian tradition has proposed fasting as the remedy for gluttony. Abstaining from food can remind us of our physical limits and our needs. And our needs can turn our attention to God—as it did for Jesus, when he was famished but told the devil that he trusted in God’s provision, not his own.

But I find it curious that after Jesus fasted in the wilderness, he soon developed a reputation as a glutton. “Look,” people would say, “a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners” (Luke 7:34). Of course, Jesus was not really a glutton. He was not preoccupied with food. He was preoccupied with something else. Every time we find Jesus eating, he is always in the company of other people. He is not hungry for food. He is hungry for love. He desires to be in relationship with others, especially those who are hurting or unloved.

The real remedy to gluttony is not just turning away from food. If that is all we do, we will be deeply unhappy people. The real remedy to gluttony is turning toward others in love.

For Jesus, turning away from gluttony meant not only going without food for forty days in the wilderness, but also feasting regularly with sinners and showing them God’s favor. For Bob, letting go of gluttony might mean putting away his gum and having an honest conversation with his boss; or refraining from the extra helping of chips and asking his wife how her day was. For Cookie Monster in the Twilight spoof, turning away from gluttony means turning toward his true love Bella. For me, repenting from gluttony means reminding myself of what I really want. It’s not that extra coffee or ten more minutes of munching before I get back to writing. What I really want is to know and be known.

What might repenting from gluttony mean for you?

Prayer

Loving God,
Who smiles on us
And calls us his children—
Wean us off the temporary pleasures
That keep us preoccupied
And turn us away from others.
We are hungry for your love.
Help us to trust in you
And to turn toward each other. In Christ, our teacher: Amen.

---

[1] Rebecca Konyndyk DeYoung uses this expression in Glittering Vices: A New Look at the Seven Deadly Sins and Their Remedies (Grand Rapids: Brazos, 2009), 139.

Re-attachment (Matt 6:19-21)

All Will Be Lost

Life is full of loss.  For every gift that we receive, we will some day be bereaved.  Whether by time or by change: by the slow decay of moth and rust or by swift and sudden theft.  Family, friends, homes, jobs, possessions, whatever we count as ours—all will be lost.

At around the age of twenty-one, Saint Augustine lost one of his closest friends.  For a time, he was inconsolable.  Eventually, the company of other friends helped to repair his soul.  But according to him, this consolation “was all one huge fable, one long lie.”[1]  “The place of one great grief,” he writes, “was slowly taken…by the seeds from which new griefs should spring.”[2]  In other words, he had not defeated grief but only deferred it; not mended it but in fact multiplied it.  For he had exchanged one friend for many.  And one day he would lose these friends too and would endure much more grief anew.

Letting Go

The tragedy, according to Augustine, is that he was looking for life in the wrong place—“where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal.” Life comes not from the things of this world that we can see, but from the Giver who is in all things unseen. Writing to his past self, he cries out, “[Do] not cleave too close in love to [other people and things].  For they go their way and are no more.”[3]

In one sense, Augustine was telling himself to “let go” of that to which he grown so attached.  That is part of what Lent is about. Letting go. It makes sense. If attachments are what bring us suffering and grief, then letting go is the solution.

But by itself, that’s a sad solution. It’s like giving up. It’s like saying, because love might bring heartbreak, I won’t love anymore.

Loving Anew

But this is not what Augustine was saying, and it’s not quite what Lent is about either. Letting go is only half the story. Augustine urges his past self earnestly, “The good that you love is from [God].”[4] “If [other people and things] please you, then love them in God because they are [changeable] in themselves but in [God] firmly established.”[5]

In other words, Lent is not simply about letting go of God’s gifts. We let them go so that we might love them anew, more fully, more truly. Not as they are by themselves, but as they are in God. We learn to love our family and friends and all the good gifts of life as echoes and reflections and revelations of God. They become handles by which we hold on to God, and when they leave, we find that we are not clinging onto thin air but onto God. Storing up treasures in heaven is another way of talking about treasuring the heaven that is here on the earth, loving the Giver whom we discover in the passing gifts.

Lent is not about non-attachment, but about re-attachment. We let go of things, so that we might hold them more lovingly—which is to say, so that we might love them in God. We learn to love the world not as a collection of things that stand on their own, for our momentary satisfaction or benefit, but as a slow dance that brings us closer and closer to our Beloved—God, the Giver, the One from whose love nothing can separate us.

Lent is about letting go, yes—but it is also about falling in love. “Blessed,” Augustine writes, “is the person who loves Thee, O God, and [their friends] in Thee, and [their enemies] for Thee.  For [this person] alone loses no one that is dear…if all are dear in God, who is never lost.”

Prayer

O Great Giver,
Whose gifts
We love dearly:
Family and friends,
Gardens and tables,
Bread and wine.
Loosen our grip
On the outside of these gifts,
That we may love
The You deep within.
In the name of our Treasure, Jesus Christ. Amen.

---

[1] Augustine, Confessions (trans. F. J. Sheed; rev. ed.; Indianapolis: Hackett, 1993), 57.

[2] Augustine, Confessions, 57.

[3] Augustine, Confessions, 58.

[4] Augustine, Confessions, 60.

[5] Augustine, Confessions, 60.

Covered in Dust and Glory (Matthew 17:1-9)

The Jesus Whom the Church Knows

“He was transfigured before them, and his face shone like the sun, and his clothes became dazzling white” (17:2).  This—this, I think, is the Jesus that many Christians worship. This is the clean, spotless Jesus. This is the good-looking Jesus of blonde hair and blue eyes, who wears a winsome white robe, whose portrait hangs in Sunday School classrooms all over the world. This is the triumphal Jesus, the Jesus whom much of the church hopes for, who will descend from the clouds in power, whose light will overpower the darkness of the world. Chances are, this is the Jesus whom we envision when we pray: wrapped in white, serene, heavenly. Even in Bruce Almighty, which famously imagines God as Morgan Freeman, God sports a sparkling white suit, which exemplifies his character: cool, calm, and collected, he is a God who is ultimately above it all and in control.

It is no wonder that Peter suggests building a dwelling for this Jesus there on the mountain. This is the Jesus he’s been waiting for; this is the messiah in all his glory. Peter sees this Jesus as the victor, the winner, the champion. Once the world sees this Jesus, there will be no question. Peter wants to keep this Jesus around, to preserve this dazzling white Jesus—and so he proposes a dwelling place. It is, perhaps, his way of saying to this glorious Jesus, “Please don’t leave us!”

The Jesus Whom the World Knew

But this triumphal Jesus whom Peter worships, whom many churches put on a pedestal and proudly proclaim—this Jesus looks strikingly different from the Jesus whom his own world knew. The glorious Jesus is wrapped in regal robes of white. But Mary and Joseph and the shepherds knew a Jesus wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a lowly manger. The glorious Jesus shines and dazzles. But the fishermen of Galilee knew a Jesus whose tunic got soaked in water and caked in dust. The glorious Jesus stands high above everyone else. But the lepers and the lame, the people who were considered unclean, they knew a Jesus who stretched out his hand and touched them. The glorious Jesus has a home in heaven. But the crowds in Galilee and Judea knew a man who had nowhere to lay his head, and probably occasionally smelled to high heaven. The glorious Jesus keeps the company of heroes, like Moses and Elijah. But the nameless children of Capernaum knew a Jesus who held them and declared their like the greatest in the kingdom of God. The glorious Jesus reigns high up on a mountain. But the people who came to Jerusalem on that fateful Passover knew a Jesus who hung high on a hill, crowned not in glory but in shame, flanked not by heroes but by outlaws, covered not in brightness but darkness.

“Listen to Him!”

The Jesus whom the world knew, looked much different than this momentary glimpse of glory that Peter, James, and John have. The easy way of reconciling this difference in appearance is to say that the transfigured Jesus is a vision of the future, that this is a preview of what is to come, that only after the dusty struggle will God’s glory be unveiled. Jesus must endure the dirt of the earth in order to bring it to heavenly, spotless glory.

My guess is that this is what Peter thinks. But then when a bright cloud appears over him on the mountain, and a voice from the cloud proclaims, “This is my son, the beloved, with whom I am well pleased; listen to him!”—Peter falls to the ground with the other disciples, and I imagine those last words were ringing in his ears, “Listen to him!  Listen to him!” Because not long ago, Peter had done just the opposite: he had not listened to Jesus.

Before Peter had followed Jesus up the mountain, the two of them had butted heads (Matt 16:21-28). Jesus had been anticipating his visit to Jerusalem, speaking strange words about death and resurrection, to which Peter had said, “This cannot happen!”  But Jesus wouldn’t budge one bit. He proclaimed that only by losing yourself for others would you find yourself. He proclaimed the paradoxical gospel of death and new life, the good news of loss and more life.

So when Peter hears these words from the clouds, “Listen to him!” I imagine that he remembers his heated disagreement with Jesus. Maybe now, for the first time, he really listens to what Jesus had been saying. Maybe now he starts piecing two and two together. If Jesus had insisted on death as a part of new life, and loss as a part of more life, then maybe this glorious Jesus wasn’t the triumphal victor he had been hoping for, the messiah who would simply overpower his enemies and establish heaven on earth by force.  Maybe this glorious Jesus was one and the same with the dust-covered Jesus he already knew, the one who was living his life for others, the one who would ultimately give his life in love for others.  Maybe that is the glory of God.          

Seeing the Dust That Covers Jesus for What It Really Is

This Wednesday, Ash Wednesday, begins the Lenten season. What is Lent?  It’s basically a time of preparation for Easter, in the same way that Advent is a time of preparation for Christmas. (In fact, Advent has been called the “Little Lent” in some church traditions.) Lent prepares us for Easter by inviting us to follow Jesus on the way of the cross. The cross means many things. For us Christ-followers, it means that love lays down its life for others; it means that loss can lead to new life; it means that our wounded and weak bodies are the very vessels that share God’s powerful love in this world.

Transfiguration Sunday, which is today, always comes right before Ash Wednesday.  As I reflect on Peter—and the way that he had been hoping for a triumphal, glorious Jesus, only to realize, perhaps, that this glorious Jesus is in fact the same as the dust-covered Jesus—I think maybe he unwittingly ushers us into Lent.

Because Lent is about letting go of control and trusting in the way of love. When Jesus starts talking about losing ourselves, dying to ourselves, death on a cross, we may find ourselves agreeing with Peter, who says, “This cannot happen!”  But according to Jesus, this is the way of abundant life itself.  His glory is not in success and triumph, in gain and getting our own way.  These things keep us focused on ourselves; they make us small and close us off to the world. His glory is in the dust—in touching the untouchables, in keeping the company of outsiders, in welcoming strangers, in breaking bread for hungry hearts, in giving without return, in blessing your enemies. It is these little gestures of faith that reveal the grandeur of our world. It is these little gestures that open up the possibilities of resurrection, which dwell in all of creation.

The transfiguration of Jesus is a vision. For a brief moment, we see what God sees. And God sees all the dust that covers Jesus for what it really is: the glory of love.

Prayer

Glorious God,
Whose love steps foot
Into the dirt of our world:
Divert us from our quest
For success,
And lead us into a love
Covered with the dust and glory
Of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Reconnecting (Matt 5:21-37)

“The Graves of Craving”

Mount Sinai was a mountaintop moment for Israel. Previously, they had been living as slaves in Egypt, but there at the mountain they encountered God and learned just how much God loved them. Later, the people would compare Mount Sinai to a wedding ceremony. There they had entered into a holy covenant: God would be their God, and they would be God’s people.

It is a beautiful moment in Israel’s history. And it is quickly followed by a terrible lesson. When the people of Israel depart from the mountain, one of the first places they camp is Kibroth-hattaavah. The translation of that place name? “The graves of craving.” There, the people become consumed by their own desire. They are tired of manna, and they desire luxurious food—the kind that they could not find in the wilderness. Which is perhaps understandable. On the days that I go without coffee, I often find myself later visited by a strong desire for what I have missed. But the Israelites cannot let go of this desire. Instead it eats away at their soul. When God later provides the people with a healthy supply of meat, some of them eat so much that it starts coming out of their nose. A number of them die and are buried there in the wilderness. Hence the place name: Kibroth-hattaavah, “the graves of craving” (Num 11:4-35). It remains a part of Israel’s history as a reminder that our cravings can indeed consume us and keep us from life.

I wonder if we can identify with Israel’s experience here. Maybe not the food-coming-out-of-our-noses part. But the being-consumed-by-a-feeling part. Maybe some of us know a little bit about road rage. Maybe others of us have known the bitter taste of an affair that promised to be so sweet. Maybe some of us know what it feels like to be gripped by an obsession for money, seeing dollar signs in just about every encounter. The details may differ, but the storyline is the same. What begins as a natural feeling becomes a craving that consumes us and disconnects us from the rest of life.

“You Can’t Stop Air Coming Into Your Lungs”

In today’s scripture, Jesus seems to raise the bar for righteousness. Last week, Jesus had told his disciples that their righteousness must exceed that of the scribes and Pharisees, the religious leaders of his time. Today, he illustrates just what he means. Don’t just refrain from murder, refrain from murderous thoughts. Don’t just refrain from adultery, refrain from adulterous thoughts. Don’t just refrain from false oaths, refrain from oaths altogether. Jesus seems to be raising the bar for righteousness.

One common interpretation is that, here, Jesus moves sin from the hand to the heart, from deeds to thoughts. Maybe that gives us a momentary feeling of spiritual superiority, as though we are called by Jesus to be purer than the rest of the world. But if this sense of spiritual superiority gives us a momentary high, then what follows is a devastating crash. Life suddenly becomes a lot harder.

I remember the confusion I felt as a teenager reading this passage, particularly the passage about lust. Where was the line between attraction and lust? Was I living in sin every time I noticed a pretty girl? I am somewhat comforted to have learned that I was not alone in this experience. Many of my peers have described our upbringing in the church as one of “purity culture.” One of the marks of purity culture is a repressive attitude toward sexuality and an excessive policing of attraction. The result is that some youth felt shamed for feelings that are in fact natural and God-given.

I don’t think that was Jesus’ intention at all. I don’t think he was policing our feelings or telling us that we’re bad because of the thoughts that visit us. I find great encouragement from an ancient story in our Christian tradition. A man came to the wise Abba Poemen and was worried about some thoughts that he was having. Abba Poemen sent him into an open field and told him, “Open your lungs and do not breathe.” The man replied, “That’s impossible.” Abba Poemen explained: “Just as you can’t stop air coming into your lungs, so you can’t stop thoughts coming into your mind. Your part is to say ‘no.’”[1]

It’s not wrong to feel anger or attraction or a sudden conviction. That’s not a sin. But it is dangerous if we are unaware of these feelings and become captive to them. I recently heard it put this way: Never be ashamed of your feelings. But always be aware of them—because they can eat you alive. 

Not to Make Life Harder, But Easier and Better

I don’t think Jesus was moving sin from the hand to the heart, from deeds to thoughts. I don’t think he was trying to make life harder. In fact, when I pay close attention to his instructions, it seems the opposite to me, that he’s trying to make life easier and better. If anything, he seems to be saying that indulging certain thoughts, like anger or lust, makes life much harder than it needs to be. If we are not aware of these thoughts, they can grow and consume us, like they did the ancient Israelites at Kibroth-Hattaavah. Jesus repeatedly warns us that the consequence of indulging these thoughts is like being thrown into prison or being thrown into “hell”—and here it’s vitally important, I think, to know that the word for “hell” is Gehenna, which was basically a big dumpster fire outside Jerusalem, a stinky site where trash was burned. Some interpretations have seized on these passages to fabricate a frightening mythology of the afterlife, but I think what Jesus is doing is much simpler. He’s saying that when we are consumed with a thought like anger or lust, when we let it run unchecked, it’s like being burned alive. It’s like being bound up in prison. I suspect we already know this terror from experience. We know what it’s like to be eaten alive by a grudge or envy or obsession. It devours us. It disconnects us from our relationships and from life.

And that, I think, is Jesus’ primary concern. The context for these instructions is righteousness. Last week, we noted how the Jewish concept of righteousness (tzedakah) has to do with right relationship. Righteousness is not the moral character of our inner thought-life. It has to do with a healthy connection with others. Unchecked anger and lust lead us to treat other people as objects or obstacles, as things to control or to possess. It goes without saying that such an approach prohibits real relationship. It prohibits us from seeing and appreciating others as children of God.

An Aside

As an aside, I do want to pause and acknowledge that many readers of today’s scripture have been shipwrecked with shame or guilt over Jesus’ instruction on divorce. I do not claim to have the authoritative interpretation, and I encourage you to interpret it for yourself. But I do want to invite you to read this instruction within the context of first-century Judaism, in which marriage entailed an unequal relationship in which divorce was the sole prerogative of the man. One rabbi roughly contemporary with Jesus famously decreed that a man could divorce his wife for anything he found offensive, such as a badly cooked meal! As you can imagine, this left the woman in a vulnerable predicament. Anything that displeased her husband could be grounds for divorce, which would leave her shamed and without the security of a protector. She could essentially be ruined for life. I find it intriguing that Jesus’ instruction on divorce comes directly after he has addressed the indulgence of lust, that is, the treatment of women as objects of gratification and control. It seems likely to me that Jesus’ words on divorce are an extension of his words on lust, warning men against a flippant recourse to divorce, which reflects the same diseased thinking as sustained lust. Such a person is already bound by the unhealthy desire to control and possess another person. 

Where We Encounter Christ

Did you know that there are three places where Jesus promises to be with us? One is at the communion table (Matt 26:26-29; cf. 1 Cor 11-12). Another is when we serve “the least of these,” the hungry, the sick, the stranger, the imprisoned (Matt 25:35-36). And the third place is where “two or three are gathered” to seek Christ (Matt 18:20).

The common denominator of these three places where we encounter Christ, is other people. Christ tells us that we will encounter him in connection with other people.

And I think that’s the heart of Jesus’ concern in his “You have heard it said” instructions. His instructions are not meant to make life harder, but to make life better. He is not threatening us with punishment, but describing what we already know to be true, namely that unchecked feelings of anger and lust can grow and consume us and disconnect us from life and each other. And he wants us to stay connected.

Many of the earliest Christ-followers developed a most simple practice to respond to difficult thoughts, such as anger and lust. They practiced mutual confession—not for the sake of correction or advice, but just for the sake of being honest. They found that simply being honest about their feelings and thoughts with another person diminished the strength of those feelings and thoughts. I think their experience provides a fitting conclusion to our passage. When our thoughts and feelings threaten to disconnect us from God and others, the best thing to do is to reconnect. When we are honest with other trusted followers of Christ, we open ourselves to God’s grace and discover what it is we have been seeking all along: connection. Relationship. With God and one another.

Prayer

God of deep connection,
In Christ you have reconciled us all to yourself:
Awaken us to those feelings and thoughts
That end up consuming us
And keeping us from healthy relationship
…
Inspire us not to be ashamed
By these thoughts and feelings,
But instead to be honest about them
And to turn toward what we really desire:
Connection with others and with you,
For in this we find abundant life. 

In Christ, who is with us in each other: Amen.

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[1] Adapted from The Desert Fathers: Sayings of the Early Christian Monks (ed. and trans. Benedicta Ward; New York: Penguin, 2003), 101.

What Is Righteousness (Matt 5:13-20)

Following the Rules

I still remember my first-grade classroom at Short Pump Elementary. The desks were arranged in clusters of four. The room smelled of crayons and glue and chalk. A large easel that displayed word charts stood over in the corner, where we would sit in a circle for story-time. I still remember the day that my teacher, Ms. Markwood, approached me at my desk and told me that I was being moved into another desk cluster. I was mortified. The only reason for a desk change was bad behavior. But I didn’t think that I had done anything wrong. Ms. Markwood must have seen a worried look on my face because she hurried to explain that I was not in trouble. In fact—and here she leaned in close, so no-one around me would hear—I was being moved because of my good behavior. She confided to me her plan. She hoped that I would be a good influence on Erica, our class clown who probably could have given the Energizer Bunny a run for his money. As terrified as I was to be moving to within a three-foot radius of Erica, I was even more relieved to know that I had not broken any rules.

That was just first grade, but it set the course for the rest of my education. I was a good student. I followed the teacher’s directions. I kept my head down and got good grades. I was careful never to step out of line. I remember in middle school how some teachers would check to see if we completed our homework at the beginning of class. I could not bear the thought of ever being called out for not doing my homework. So, every night, before I went to bed, I reviewed my assignments for each class and confirmed that I had completed them and secured them in my binder. It almost became an obsession. I remember on several occasions, I would lie in bed at night and start to doubt that I had completed one assignment or another, and I would tiptoe through the house to my backpack just to check one more time.

I was a good student in school. But I wouldn’t say that I was always genuinely interested and learning. Much of the time I was memorizing, reciting, and presenting the teacher with the desire result. I may have done all the assignments, completed all my homework, and got an A, but the subject did not always touch my heart. For me, school was about following the rules and making a good impression.

The Dark Side of Following All the Rules

Maybe this explains my first impressions of the word “righteousness.” I remember being in church youth group and thinking that righteousness was about following the rules and making a good impression before God and others. In my mind, righteousness was reading my Bible every day, going to church on Sundays and Wednesdays, tithing, and praying before I went to bed. Righteousness was obeying my parents, being polite to my elders, and not getting into fights with my friends. Righteousness was working hard at school and achieving good things. I had learned, of course, that salvation cannot be earned through righteousness. But I also learned that my salvation should somehow be reflected in righteous living. So, I still strove to follow the rules and make a good impression. Righteousness made me feel good about myself.

But if I’m being honest, there was a dark underbelly to living this way. The flipside of following all the rules and making a good impression, was that I was actually putting on a mask. I was posturing and pretending, as though to say, “I’m a good person. Right? Can’t you see?” I thought that church would only accept a certain kind of me, a righteous me. I didn’t feel like I could be honest about some of my feelings, like shame or doubt. I didn’t feel like I could be honest about some of my experiences, like failure and disappointment. If I were “saved,” I wouldn’t be having feelings or experiences like this, would I?

“You Serve Your Own Interest”

Apparently I am not the only one who has struggled with the dark side of following the rules, with what could otherwise be called legalism or moralism. In today’s Old Testament reading in the lectionary (the church calendar for scripture), we find the people Israel struggling with a similar problem. “Day after day they seek [God and] delight to draw near to God,” the prophet Isaiah says (Isa 58:2). But actually their religious practice has more to do with following the rules and making a good impression. Beneath all their pious deeds, they feel empty and forsaken. “Why do we fast, but you do not see?” they cry to God. “Why humble ourselves, but you do not notice?” (Isa 58:3).

God’s response is blunt: “Look, you serve your own interest on your fast day” (Isa 58:3). The fasting isn’t really about drawing near to God and others. It’s about satisfying a religious requirement and making themselves feel good. The people are still living for themselves. Following the rules to be a good person is not really righteousness; it is self-righteousness. And it can make a person very lonely and bitter. Just as I could follow all the rules as a student and make a good impression on the teacher, and yet leave the class with my heart untouched by the subject, so a person can do all the right things and yet end up feeling very alone and empty.

But God doesn’t leave the self-righteous people in Israel to languish in their isolation. Through Isaiah, God reminds them of what matters even more than rules: relationships. “Is not this the fast that I choose:…Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin? Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up quickly” (Isa 58:6-8).

Who Shone the Brightest?

I want to invite you to participate in a small thought experiment. Think back across your life and ask yourself, “Who among the people I have known shone the brightest? Who infused life with real flavor and zest, making life tasty and irresistible for the people around them?” Think about this for a minute. And let me encourage you to think freely and openly. Maybe someone who comes to mind wasn’t a Christian. That’s okay.

I’m going to pause for one minute to allow some time for reminiscing.

[Pause.]

Now what I want to ask is this: what about these people or this person made them so bright? What gave them such compelling personalities?

My hypothesis is simple. I predict that the brightest, zestiest people in your life were not that way because they followed all the rules. In fact, they may have broken one or two or twenty along the way. I predict instead that their brightness and flavor came from the joy they got from relationship. I don’t mean that they were extroverts or even necessarily sociable people. I mean that when they were with you, they were with you. They weren’t scanning the room for someone else. They weren’t looking at their watch to get away. They cared about you and wanted to share life with you, for that was what gave them life.

Being Ourselves—For “One Another”

In our gospel text today, Jesus declares to his followers, “You are the salt of the earth…You are the light of the world” (Matt 5:13-14). Salt and light are both phenomena that are not for themselves but for what is around them. We don’t sit down to eat salt. We sit down to eat something flavored with salt. We don’t stare at the sun. We gaze with wonder upon all that the sun illuminates.

We are salt and light. We are here not to live for ourselves, but to live in relationship. The word “righteousness” that Jesus uses, has its root in a Hebrew word, tzedakah, which refers primarily to people’s conduct toward one another. In other words, righteousness has less to do with our interior thought-life or our pious behavior, and much more to do with being in right relationship (that is, good, faithful relationship). Righteousness does not ask how much money my hand gives to the beggar, but whether my hand actually touches his. Righteousness does not ask if my faith is doctrinally correct, but whether it opens my heart to others, to seek their company and to care for them. Biblical commentators have noted that the majority of instruction that we find in the gospels and Paul’s letters have to do with relationship. Some have called these instructions the “one another” passages. “Love one another,” “forgive one another,” “do not pass judgment on one another,” “build up one another,” “pray for one another,” “confess your sins to one another,” and so on.

Jesus is not against rules. He insists that he’s not here to abolish the law or the prophets. He just realizes that rules can become a lonely game of self-righteousness rather than a gateway to relationship. And that is where the light of God really shines. That is where the zest of life can be found. Real righteousness has much less to do with rules and much more to do with right relationship.

Think again about the people or person who shone so brightly in your life, who gave life such an irresistible flavor. Jesus does not command us to try to be that way, as though it were something that took extra effort. He affirms that we already are that way. “You are the salt of the earth…You are the light of the world.” May that affirmation sink deeper into our hearts today. We need not make a certain impression or get an A on the test. We need only be ourselves—for “one another.”

Prayer

God of light and flavor,
Whose love enriches life—
Lead us beyond the letter of the law
To the righteousness of healthy relationship.
May we know that we are salt and light—
Not as we wish we could be,
But as we are right now
…
May we and others might share together
The joy of abundant life.
In Christ, the light and flavor of the world: Amen.