The Glory Below (Mark 10:35-45)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on Oct 18, 2015)

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The Jesus Train

In today’s story, James and John both stake a convincing claim to the role of the Disciple Dimwit. You’d be forgiven for wondering if they were auditioning for the parts of Ralph and Potsie on Happy Days…or Phoebe and Joey on Friends. Already Jesus has spent days teaching his disciples. Already he has preached about God’s kingdom of the last and the littlest (9:34-35), already he has proclaimed a gospel of downward mobility (9:37; 10:14-16). Perhaps James and John did not listen past the word “kingdom.” Perhaps they were too busy dreaming of triumph and power to hear Jesus talking about being last of all and servant of all. Because, in today’s story, they not only express their desire to be first and greatest. They practically demand it: “Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you…. Grant us to sit [on either side of you] in your glory” (10:35, 37).

It’s easy to point the finger at James and John for such flagrant ignorance of what Jesus has been teaching them. Or at the very least, to chuckle at them as we might at Ralph and Potsie, or Phoebe and Joey. They just don’t get it, do they?

And yet the same could be said of many Christians today.

There’s a hip-hop song by a contemporary Christian music artist that my brother used to sing to me all the time…partly because he couldn’t sing at all and that made me laugh, but also because the song itself made us laugh. The song is called “J Train,” and its basic refrain is this: “I got a ticket to ride on the J train.” In other words, jump on board the Jesus express. He will do the heavy lifting. All you have to do is lift your feet and take it easy. Close your eyes, and when you open them, you’ll look out your window to the glory of God’s kingdom. Or as the song itself puts it, “Hades to glory in the blink of an eye.”[1]

James and John could just as well have been singing the same tune. They wanted to ride the train of Jesus’ robe into his kingdom of glory. They saw Jesus as a ticket to Easy Street. Jesus might have to do some hard work, but he was the Savior after all. All they had to do was pledge allegiance and reap the benefits: power, honor, glory. In the blink of an eye.

Bringing Glory Down to Earth

In his response, Jesus brings James and John back down to earth. As Jesus replies to their audacious request, he is, I imagine, gazing onward with unfocused eyes, seeing not the dirt road ahead of him but a dimly lit future in the front of his mind. “You do not know what you are asking. … To sit at my right hand or at my left is not mine to grant” (10:38, 40).

The point to be made here is as simple as it is disturbing. The next time that the words “right” and “left” appear together in Mark is this: “They crucified two bandits, one on [Jesus’] right and one on his left” (Mark 15:27). Jesus, in other words, is suggesting that the thrones of glory that James and John are begging for are not the thrones that they imagine. The glory that Jesus speaks about is not Easy Street. It is a way that leads to a cross.

That sounds a bit harsh to our ears. The popular version of Christianity preaches something very different. It proclaims the cross, yes, but only as the means to a glorious end. Jesus, it says, endures the cross so that we can enjoy glory. Jesus bears the scars so we can bask in splendor.[2]

But this is not what Jesus suggests. Jesus suggests that glory is not a reward for selflessness but the way of selflessness itself. Glory is not compensation for sacrificial love but a commitment to sacrificial love. Glory is not some afterlife. It is the very fabric of a life well lived.

Bringing Power Down to Earth

And just in case Jesus’ words haven’t brought the disciples down to earth, just in case they haven’t digested the madness that he speaks, he proclaims a further word of madness. He says that the rulers of this world are known for “overpowering” others (10:42). Their power is “over” and “against.”[3] But the power of the kingdom of God, he says, is much different. The power of God’s kingdom is under and for others. The power of God’s kingdom is not having our way but rather making a way for others where there is none. Power is not getting what we want but giving what others need. Power is laying down our lives in love.

God’s power, in other words, is not the power of this world. It is not the power of control or force. It is the powerless power of love.

“The Kingdom and the Power and the Glory”

I wonder how far the church today has come from James and John on that day they approached Jesus with their bold request. Every week, we say these words: “Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.” On the weeks when we say these words and they actually sink into our hearts, what are we envisioning? What do we imagine? What pictures of power and glory do we see? As children, many of us perhaps thought of heaven as a place in or beyond the clouds, so maybe we see a clear, white, shining courtyard, and maybe we hear the victory songs of angels. Maybe we think of the stars and the universe and whatever exactly it is that set it all into motion. Whatever we think of, our hearts and minds are almost always directed upward.

But today in just a couple of searing sentences, Jesus has brought “the kingdom and the power and the glory” back down to earth. The kingdom and the power and the glory are found on the road that leads to a cross. They are found in a man breaking bread and passing a cup. They are found in simple acts of sacrificial and selfless love: a glass of cold water shared with the thirsty, a teddy bear shared with a sick person, a smile and a conversation shared with a homeless person. The kingdom and the power and the glory are not somewhere else, not in a heaven up in the clouds with bright shining lights and the wings of angels flapping serenely and a perfect performance of Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus. The kingdom and the power and the glory are here on earth, are heaven on earth. The kingdom and the power and the glory are wherever we live for others like Jesus lived for us.

Centuries ago, Saint Augustine penned the famous lines: “God became [hu]man, so that [hu]man[ity] might become God.” It is easy to hear these words and imagine the transformation from a flesh-and-bones body walking this familiar earth to some triumphant body ascending to the heavenly courts. But if Jesus’ words and example today are any indication, St. Augustine’s catchphrase means just the opposite. God took on flesh in Jesus, not so that we might ascend into some heavenly otherworld, but so that we might become God, which is to say, so that we might embody the selfless and sacrificial Love that God was, is, and always will be.

Glory Lives Below

Where does the glory of God live? Glory does not live in the afterlife. Nor does glory live in a mansion on the hill, nor up in some ivory tower, nor in some hallowed hall of power. No, glory walks anonymously on common roads, kneeling before others. Glory is not found above but below.

Prayer

Christ, on that road to Jerusalem, you redefined glory and brought James and John back down to earth. Bring us down to earth today. Down to where yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen.

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[1] Jeff Savage, Randy Crawford, and Toby McKeehan, “J Train,” on Tobymac, Momentum.

[2] Or in the words of singer-songwriter Sam Beam, who sings the following words on “Innocent Bones,”  on Iron & Wine, The Shepherd's Dog: “There ain’t a penthouse Christian wants the pain of the scab, but they all want the scar.”

[3] The two verbs Jesus uses here to refer to the actions of the rulers of the nations may both be roughly translated “overpower.” They have the connotations of a person above exercising authority “over” a person below. Both verbs also begin with the prefix kata-, which may be translated “against.”

the monstrous magic of mirrors

power is a mirror
in which i
picture myself
bigger.

prestige is a mirror
in which i
perceive myself
better.

pleasure is a mirror
in which i
glimpse myself
fuller.

money is a mirror
in which i
dream myself
more.

god is a mirror
in which i
see myself
only.

the wonderful way of windows

who cannot be named is a window
through which Love
loves.

Something's Missing (Mark 10:17-27)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on Oct 11, 2015)

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Preface

Today’s scripture is like a ferocious lion that, over time, the church has domesticated into a tame house cat.[1] In what follows, I hope to release today’s story back into the wild where it can challenge us anew. If my reflection fails to reveal the sharp teeth and claws of this story…then I would strongly encourage you to read it again for yourself. And as you read it, try not to soften its message. Try not to rationalize the demands of Jesus. Try not to put a leash on the story. Rather, let it lead you….

On the Threshold

The young man was happy. He was the son of a wealthy merchant. He enjoyed the comforts of a safe and secure life. He was socially respected. He had friends. One day, a friend told him about a troupe of nomads traveling through the city. They were famous for their music and their large, ornate tents and their magic. The young man went to see them. He watched their shows, listened to their music, marveled at their magic. He had fun. That much he had expected. What he didn’t expect was that he would fall in love with one of the travelers. And like that, his world was turned upside down. He began to doubt his previous happiness. Suddenly the old comforts of his life seemed stale.

What a strange place to be. The young man unexpectedly found himself on the threshold of a great joy, and yet he was more deeply unsettled than ever. Because for the first time in his life, he was faced with a real decision. The troupe would be leaving soon, and so would his beloved. No matter how hard he tried, he could not convince her to stay in the city. She said life moved on and so would she.

The folk tale continues, but I'd like to stop here. Because I think that, in a peculiar way, this young man who is both more deeply happy and more deeply unsettled than he ever has been, is in the same place as the man whom we read about in today’s scripture.

The man who approaches Jesus is portrayed as a respectable, responsible, religious man. You could just as easily imagine an enthusiastic churchgoing professional here in the West End, someone who does things the right way, who doesn’t cut corners, who isn’t yet jaded by the cold calculation that runs much of the business world. He’s good and earnest. And he’s read enough of the Bible and seen enough spiritual transformation in the lives of others to know that there’s something in all the God talk that he hears. And this makes him more deeply happy than he could explain—to know that there is a Spirit drawing life out of what sometimes seems a cold and lifeless world. Yet it also makes him deeply unsettled. Because it means that there is more to life than simply doing nothing wrong and enjoying the comforts of a respectable living.

The man who approaches Jesus is like the son of the wealthy merchant. He must decide either to be faithful to the disturbance in his heart or to remain in the reasonable happiness of the present. He must decide either to expose himself to risk, to the possibility of change, or to remain in the controlled comfort of his current existence.

A “Holy” Lack

Have you ever heard of the idea that people don’t know what they’re missing until they meet it? This is commonly expressed in terms of relationships: psychologist Adam Phillips says, “[I]t is only when you meet [the person of your dreams] that you will start missing them.”[2] This gets at what the son of the wealthy merchant was feeling. Only once he fell in love did he become unsettled.

I think the man who approaches Jesus must know this feeling too. He’s caught a glimpse of God in the synagogue and in the lives of others. And now he knows what he’s been missing. This is precisely why he approaches Jesus. His heart has already been unsettled. He desires to know God more fully. He desires to hear more clearly the whisper in his heart, a whisper that runs deeper than all the rules and principles and doctrines he’s learned and followed. He knows there is more to life than what he has learned and done. Why else would he come to Jesus with his question?

And so when Jesus says, “You lack one thing,” I imagine that he’s nodding his head vigorously—yes, exactly! He already feels that something’s missing. He feels a lack. A “holy” lack, we might say. Because it’s a lack that leads him to Jesus. It’s not a lack that limits life but rather leads to life. It’s not a lack to be filled but to be followed.

“Follow me”

Which is exactly what Jesus tells the man. “Come, follow me” (10:21). Of course, following Jesus would require the man to leave behind all that’s he acquired. Jesus makes this explicit. And always keeping one eye out for the needy, Jesus tells the man to pass along any proceeds to the poor (10:21). And this is where the story takes its tragic turn. Despite having heard the call of God, despite having sensed the movement of the Spirit in his heart, the man ultimately cannot part with the security of his wealth. On the verge of life, the man ultimately shuffles back into the safety of what he knows.

It is no surprise that commentators have been trying to soften this passage for years. How difficult it is for people like us to hear, us who enjoy more comfort and security than much of the world could ever hope for.

The Impossible: Good and Difficult News

And how easy it is for us to join the disciples in their astonishment, to ask with them, “Then who can be saved?”

Listen to Jesus’ answer: “For mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible.” This news is as good as it is difficult. For us who cling so tightly to what we have and are afraid of losing it, we interpret this as a get-out-of-jail-free card. We take it to mean that even if we hold onto our wealth, even we keep living the exact same life that we’re living, God will wave a magic wand over us and we will be saved. But that misses the point that life happens in the here and now, salvation happens in the here and now. The impossible that God will do is not to save us despite ourselves but to save us by transforming us and renewing our world.

According to the world, “something’s missing” is a negative statement. It means a problem needs solving, an emptiness needs filling. But in the kingdom of God, “something’s missing” is a good thing. It means the Spirit is astir in our hearts. What’s missing is not the final piece to a puzzle but the next piece to the story. What’s missing is not a thing that will complete us but the next step of a relationship that will transform us. The feeling that something’s missing is a sign that God wants to do the impossible. It’s a notice that God is on the move. Which is good news, but difficult news too, because it means that we will be faced with a real decision. We will find ourselves on the cusp of deep happiness, of abundant life, but we will also be deeply unsettled, because it will require change.

Several years ago, Shawnee Community Christian Church in Kansas confronted the reality that they were devoting themselves—their money and their time and their energy—more and more to the upkeep of a building that was aging fast and less and less to the mission of God. Listen to their decision: “After a season of prayer and discernment we determined that ‘church’ was, above all things, supposed to be a people living the mission of love and mercy of Jesus- not a building or a piece of property. We chose to sell our property, relocate to a more sustainable rented space, invest more of ourselves in real mission, and start over as a new church, doing ministry in new ways…. We are alive [today] because [we] laid down…personal preferences and comforts in hope of greater things.”[3]

Shawnee Community felt that something was missing. The Spirit of God rustled within their hearts, and they followed the holy lack that would ultimately transform them. They sought the life God was calling them to, and in their case, God was calling them to leave behind a cherished place they had built and met in for over 30 years. God was calling them to step forward in the faith that Christ was doing something new.

Yesterday as we cleaned and spruced up around the church, perhaps more than ever, my eyes were opened to how beautiful this place is. And how much more beautiful, even, when God’s love and redemption are seen here, in the fellowship and support that happens in these buildings or in the play and imagination that runs outside. So in case you’re wondering, I’m not suggesting we sell our property like the good folks of Shawnee. But I would want to invite us to listen closely to the Spirit of God. Who knows where that would lead?

Jesus says to us the same thing he said to the rich man, the same thing he said to Shawnee Community: “You lack one thing…. Come, follow me.” Where is the holy lack in your heart leading you? Where is it leading us?

Prayer

O God whom we always lack, lead us—through the eye of a needle, through whatever impossible passage You have in mind. Where our hearts stubbornly cling to the desire for things of comfort and security, disturb us and make us aware of a deeper desire. Grant us a vision of Your kingdom, where love reaches the last and the littlest, the outcast and the stranger. Lead us to do the goodness You so desire. Amen.

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[1] See, e.g., the unfounded idea (told as early as the 9th century) that “the eye of the needle” refers to one of the gates to Jerusalem. Thus Jesus’ point of comparison—leading a camel through the eye of the needle—would not be an absurd impossibility but a qualifiable reality. In other words, Jesus would be saying that it is difficult but nonetheless possible for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.

[2] https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/10/05/adam-phillips-missing-out-frustration-love/. Accessed Oct 8, 2015.

[3] http://shawneecommunity.org/about-us/who-we-are. Accessed on Oct 8, 2015.

The Last Piece of Creation (Gen 2:18-24)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on Oct 4, 2015)

(World Communion Sunday)

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Aloneness Is a Divine Feeling

Amy is a special needs high school student. This is her first day of the sophomore year. Much of her day, she is alone. It is not easy to be alone. When she walks the maze of crowded halls, where lockers are constantly banging open and shut, other kids either don’t notice her at all or they do and they tease her. When she makes it safely to her next class, she takes her seat nervously, surrounded by strangers. She keeps her head down and avoids eye contact with other students and especially with the teacher. She is alone, and it is not easy to be alone. When her lunch period finally arrives, she hugs the side of the cafeteria wall, scouting the boisterous and uncaring crowd of students. Just the thought of approaching a table and being rejected brings a tear to her eye. Then, out of the corner of this teary eye…at last…she sees Layla, her friend from last year. Layla is wandering among the tables more confidently than Amy ever could. Their eyes meet and Layla excitedly waves Amy over. Her wave is like a life-raft amid the storm of students. For thirty minutes, Amy is not alone. She and Layla share themselves with one another. They share food. They share their hurts and hopes and curiosities. They share laughter, deep sighs, smiles, and silences. It is good to be together. And then the bell rings, and after a brief hug, Amy wanders back into the labyrinth of crashing lockers.

We have all walked in Amy’s shoes. Maybe not in a high school hallway, but surely among the larger corridors of our world. Perhaps we felt aloneness most acutely as children, when our parents dropped us off at school for the first time. Or when we experienced rejection by our peers. But it doesn’t end with childhood. We continue to feel it. Perhaps like Amy, we feel it most when surrounded by a crowd of people with whom we have no connection, among whom we can find no sympathy. Or perhaps we feel our aloneness most when we have time to reflect on our lives and we realize how far adrift we have been pulled from family and friends.

Aloneness is a divine feeling. It is an echo of the way God felt long, long ago. God had been creating diligently. At the end of each day, God had surveyed creation and saw that it was good. Day one, good. Day two, good. And so on. And then God creates the human. Good, right? Well, no actually. For the first time in the history of the world, something is not quite right. Now there’s a bit of drama. Now things get interesting. God can feel the aloneness of the human, and this, God says, is not good. The human needs a companion.

Companionship: 

Divine Quest, Human Affirmation

What happens next can only be described as comical. Too often our reverence for the Bible represses its playful and humorous spirit. So here a gentle retelling is in order.

Having decided that the human needs a companion, God sets to work. The human was created from the earth, so it makes sense to create the companion from the earth also.[1] God sets to work molding and shaping of the earth and forms a lumbering, cumbersome creature. God parades the new creation before the human, who ponders it as it leisurely chews at a patch of grass. “I call this creature,” the human says, “a cow. But not a companion.” So God sets to work again, this time creating a lighter, more mobile creature. God parades it before the human, who ponders it as it flutters around, picking at seeds along the ground. “I call this feathery thing,” the human says, “a bird. But not a companion.” And so God sets to work once more. The next creature saunters before the human, giving a low growl. The human’s eyes open wide in awe. “I call this furry monster,” he says, “a bear. But not a companion.” The spectacle continues until God has created all the creatures of this earth. But still, a companion is not to be found (2:20).[2]

Exhausted by this ordeal, the human begins to nod off. God draws the human further and further into a deep sleep. Then, while the human slumbers, God takes one of his ribs and creates a creature beyond his wildest dreams. When the human awakes, he exclaims: “At last!” (2:23). For here, at last, the man looks into the eye of someone who looks back into his eyes and somehow recognizes him, gets him, sees him beyond the surface of his skin. Here, at last, the man looks into a face of infinite depth.[3] Here, at last, the man meets a companion. And so it is that God puts into place the last piece of creation: companionship.

But that is not the end of the story. Creation is a story that continues, even today. And the aloneness of that first human echoes over and over again in countless lives. For too long this story in Genesis has been shackled to the context of matrimony. But this is not a story that defines aloneness as singleness and marriage as the solution. God does not mandate that every man find companionship with a woman, and vice versa. The only pronouncement that God ever makes in the story is simply this: “It is not good for the human to be alone.” It is the human who makes the final pronouncement of what is good, who proclaims the words, “At last!” This is a story where God seeks what is best for the human and pays close attention to the human’s heartfelt, soulful response.

The Last Piece of Creation:

The Companionship of Christ and His Common Table

And it is a story that is played out every day in endless variation. It is played out wherever the divine echo of aloneness is heard. God looked upon Amy on her first day of school, and said, “It is not good that Amy be alone.” God looks upon your life and mine in our times of isolation—when we live days on end without someone genuinely asking how we are, when we walk among crowds of people without meeting a single pair of eyes that look into ours, when the most company we can find is in the high-definition pixels of our televisions—God looks upon us at these moments and says, “It is not good that they are alone.”

In fact, if we listen closely enough, we may hear God murmuring these words at the beginning of the story of Christ. God looked upon humanity—saw how it was turning in on itself, becoming insular and recklessly self-reliant—and said, “It is not good that humanity is alone.”

Theology has formulated the doctrine of salvation in a number of complex ways. But perhaps it can all be reduced to this: when we are alone, Jesus comes to us. Jesus looks into our eyes and sees each of us as a person of infinite worth. Jesus waves us over and makes himself our companion.

The word “companion” itself literally means “with bread”—in other words, a companion is a person with whom we share bread. And can you think of a better example of a companion, a bread-sharer than Jesus? There's a reason people called him a drunkard and a glutton. There's a reason he’s always telling parables about dinner feasts and making metaphors of bread and water. He was always at a table, breaking bread and passing a cup—and more often than not with the nobodies and nothings (Matt 11:19). Jesus is the companion par excellence. And at this table where people all over the world gather today, he went so far as to say that he is the shared bread and cup of companionship. So that wherever food and drink are shared in his selfless spirit, there is Christ. There is companionship. There is our salvation from aloneness. There is the last piece of creation.

It is a mystical gift, a miracle. Amy received it when she sat down with Layla amid that noisy and crowded and utterly lonesome cafeteria. We receive it when we gather here around this bread and cup.

Creation is a story that continues today. And the last piece is not missing. It’s right here. Here at the Table. This table. Your dinner table. The lunchroom. Wherever we find genuine companionship and say, “At last,” wherever two or more share themselves the way Christ shared himself.

Prayer

From time to time, God, we wander your creation alone. We take comfort that you feel the depths of our aloneness. We find solace in your words, “It is not good.” And we find hope in your everlasting quest to draw us together in companionship. Open our eyes to the companionship of Christ wherever it appears. Around tables known and unknown, near and far. In eyes and faces familiar and strange, in homes next door and on the other side of the world. It is a gift that we receive, and a gift that you call us to give as you continue to seek what is good, very good—what is best—for this world. Amen.

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[1] The word for “human” in the Hebrew is adam, which comes from the word for “earth,” adamah. The human, in other words, is an “earth creature.” When God decides to make the human a companion, God forms more creatures “out of the earth [adamah]” (2:19).

[2] The idea that God creates all the creatures of the earth in an attempt to find a partner for the human is suggested by a key repetition. Just as God “brought” the woman to the man, so God first “brought” the animals to the human (2:19, 22). The implication is that God brings them all to the human in the same manner to see whether the human affirms the creature as a companion or not. The highly enthusiastic and poetic response that follows the creation of the woman leaves no room for doubt that, at last, the sought-after companion has been found.

[3] The Hebrew for “a helper as his partner” might be translated more literally, “a helper who is opposite to/facing him.” This expression “opposite to/facing” is used elsewhere to illustrate a scene where one person stands before another and thus suggests an intensification of the persons’ relations. In English, we might say they “face” each other. To me, the connotations of this expression bring to mind the idea that the companion whom God seeks for the human is one whose face draws the human into a relationship. For centuries, people have spoken of the infinite depth of another’s face or eyes, and so perhaps it is this that defines, at least in part, the companion whom God seeks for the human.

The Real Scandal (Mark 9:38-50)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on Sep 27, 2015)

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The Problem Is Not Without—It’s Within

In the portion of Mark that we’ve been looking at, Jesus is leading his disciples to Jerusalem. Along the way, he’s been teaching them about the way of the cross (8:34). The world says greatness is being first and most important and strongest. The way of the cross says greatness means being last and welcoming the littlest. The world prizes upward mobility. The way of the cross is the way of downward mobility. The world wants certainty and security. The way of the cross celebrates the mystery of faith.

Today Jesus continues his lessons about the way of the cross.

John and the disciples have just complained to Jesus about a healer who is working outside their group. They sound a little like tattletales pointing the finger—“he wasn’t following us!” (8:38). For John and the disciples, it was a bit of a scandal to have an outsider healing people. Just as it might be a bit of a scandal for someone to suggest that sometimes the real healing at Gayton Road happens not in this building but in the building next door where the AA groups meet.

In response to his disciples’ concern, Jesus does what he does so well: he turns things upside down, inside out. He says that the real problem here is not to be found without but within. The real danger is not a stranger who heals people. Where else could that healing come from but God? The real danger for the disciples—or the “stumbling block,” as Jesus will start saying—is the disciples themselves.[1]

The “Scandal” of Losing Trust

Actually, the word for “stumbling block” is skandalon in the Greek, or as we would say, “scandal.” Now, Jesus is not talking about the flashy scandal that attracts the media: not the scandal of former governor Robert McDonnell, not the scandal of the Ashley Madison leak, not the common scandal of celebrity mischief. The kind of scandal that Jesus talks about today is what you would read not on the glossy pages of a magazine but only in the secret, and perhaps dusty, archives of one’s heart.

The scandal that Jesus talks about is losing trust, or as we sometimes say, becoming jaded. When Jesus first addresses the disciples, he warns them against “scandalizing”—against putting a stumbling block in front of—a little one who trusts in him. And as Jesus hinted at last week, little children are remarkable in this way. They walk through life with an exceptional trust and vulnerability. They expect goodness. They say, “Yes,” to life just like God did when God created the world and blessed it and called it good.

Jesus says that it would be a real scandal to cause a little one to lose trust in God. To make them dread the morning instead of eagerly anticipating it. To extinguish their dreams of the impossible with a cold bucketful of what the world imperiously calls reality. To shut their storybooks of truth and throw them into the account books of facts.

There is a sense in which it is these little ones who trust in God that are the lifeblood of our world, the real religious leaders. It is their spirit of trust that keeps us open to the God who is always doing a new thing.[2] And so, Jesus says, using exaggeration to make his point: anyone who causes these little ones to lose trust would do better to drown. Because to make the little ones lose trust is to deprive our world of the only hope that it really has.

Deadly Scandals

When I was growing up, my family and I would religiously go out for Mexican food on Friday nights. My tastes evolved over time—from the burritos locos to the enchiladas verdes to chilaquiles calientes. But one thing would always be the same. At the end of the meal, having devoured baskets of tortilla chips and whatever my main course was, I was stuffed. And if my mom or dad asked me how the food was, I would reply, “I’m full to death.” Just as someone still sitting at her work desk after 8 hours might say, “I’m bored to death.” Or like someone who was tired of a nagging problem would say, “I’m sick to death of this.”

They’re all exaggerations, of course. In each case, we’re biologically very far from death. And yet, our exaggerations get at a certain truth. When we say these words, it’s because life has, in a sense, come to a standstill for us.

And I think it’s this kind of exaggeration that Jesus uses when his talk of scandal entertains the idea of lopping off hands or feet or taking out eyes. It’s a scandal enough that we cause little ones to lose trust, but that’s not the whole story, Jesus says, because really, when we do this, it may be a sign that we ourselves have already lost trust in God. To such an extent that it might be said we no longer live. And the real scandal for Jesus—the scandal that leads him to talk about missing hands or legs or eyes—is almost too easy, too plain for us to catch. The real scandal is not the dramatic public failure, but simply our feeling of self-sufficiency. The real scandal—the real stumbling block—is the trust we place in ourselves: our hands, our feet, our eyes.

We use our hands to possess things, and we acquire more and more. To the point that we are full…but unfulfilled. Full to death. And so the real scandal is not when a man is caught for embezzling but rather is the moment that his paycheck replaces his lifelong passion, whatever God is calling him to do. It won’t be long before such a life is nothing more than burnt ash.

We use our feet to go places, to reach a destination that we think will be better than where we are. To the point that we are busy…but bored. Bored to death. And so the real scandal is not the shocking affair that covers the frontpages but the loss of wonder in the here and now. It won’t be long before such a life is nothing more than burnt ash.

We use our eyes to see how we are seen, to see how we stack up against the world. To the point that we can be idolized…and yet somehow sick of ourselves. Sick to death. And so the real scandal is not the paparazzi photos plastered on the tabloids but the heart that no longer receives love freely because it thinks that love must be earned or won. It won’t be long before such a life is nothing more than burnt ash.

The real scandals of our lives go by unnoticed, like a text message we never receive because we’ve silenced our phones. In such moments, we are as good as dead. Biology may confirm that our bodies are alive. But what life is there in a world in which we only can trust ourselves, a world that is limited only to what we can imagine or muster? Such a life becomes meaningless. Or as Jesus would say, flavorless.

The Great Cook

Left to our own devices…we would eventually lose flavor. We would become fossilized around our habits and assumptions. We would become automatized, like a computer program set into an infinite loop.

Thank God we are not left to ourselves, to our dulled desires and our petrified presumption. Everyone, Jesus says, is salted.[3] And so pardon my imagination as I envision a great Cook stirring all of us into a big pot of Brunswick stew, and then occasionally adding a dash of salt. The salt does not magically transform us into something different. It draws us out of ourselves even as it makes us more ourselves. There’s a paradox here. When we trust in ourselves only, in our hands or feet or eyes, our flavor stays locked inside and we lose ourselves. But when we open ourselves up to the unknown mystery and allow the great Cook to sprinkle salt on us, our distinctive and tasty flavor comes out and we become more ourselves.

And I’ve tasted it here at Gayton Road. Not the Brunswick stew—I mean, I have tasted that, and if any of you haven’t, you should. It’s wonderful. But I’ve also had a taste of the Brunswick stew that God is stirring. Ivan’s earnest hellos and handshakes, Emily’s channeling of our children’s energies into creativity, Daniela’s floral enthusiasm, Carl’s buoyant welcomes…each and everyone one of us have a divine flavor within us. And chances are, we’re not even aware of it, because we’re most flavorful, we’re most ourselves, when we’re not even thinking of ourselves. It’s like when a sports player is in the zone, or when a poet is caught in the rush of a spirit deep within herself. We are most ourselves when we are most in tune with the God who stirs within our hearts and calls us out of ourselves.

The great Cook desires this: that the sacred flavors we were created with be drawn forth from our lives more and more. The great Cook desires that we avoid the scandal of trusting ourselves alone and that we give ourselves over to an evolving recipe we will never know completely, that we allow ourselves to be salted and drawn out of ourselves even as we become more ourselves.

The great Cook desires, quite simply, to cook.

Prayer

Draw us away from the scandal of self-certainty, Lord. Salt us anew and from deep within us, from a place we know not where, bring out our unique and sanctified flavors in fresh ways. Amen.

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[1] The word Jesus uses is skandalízō, a verb that means “to cause to stumble.” Its noun form is skandalon, which is often rendered “stumbling block.”

[2] See, e.g., Isa 43:19 and Rev 21:5.

[3] “For everyone will be salted with fire” (Mark 9:49). This verse is cryptic, but many scholars read it as a reference to the ancient Israelite practice of salting sacrifice (cf. Lev 2:13). It is not uncommon for the New Testament to envision life as a sacrifice. In such a framework, this verse would be suggesting that we are all salted so as to become pleasing sacrifices to God—in other words, so as to live meaningful lives.

pealing

i have watched men
with carefully combed hair and
suffocated suits
turn god into bullet points

i have heard unrestrained laughter
pealing from a room full of
play and imagination
where the Impossible is not