The Peace of Broken Hearts (Isa 11:1-10)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on December 4, 2016, Advent II)

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Dreams of the Fragile and Vulnerable

Anyone who has dreamed before will know that there’s often something askew in a dream, something not quite aligned with the real world. Maybe your pets can talk. Maybe you’re living in someone else’s house. Maybe you’re just going about your normal day—missing a key article of clothing!

Like any good prophet, Isaiah is a dreamer. His dreams depict a strange, surreal world. Last week, he dreamed of spears and swords being beaten into plowshares and pruning hooks. This week, his dream begins with a modest vision: he sees a small stalk growing from the stump of a great tree (cf. 11:1). For a prophet who proclaims nothing less than the salvation of all creation, how frail and feeble this dream. Just a stalk? This is how the world will be put right? While most prophets in Isaiah’s day would have been making grandiose announcements of military victory and the conquest of kings, Isaiah is dreaming of a single delicate shoot.

Typical Isaiah. His dreams are so humble. His other famous image? It’s one that we recite often in this Advent season: a child, a baby boy, born from a young woman (cf. 7:14; 9:6).

Anyone who has dreamed before will know that there’s often something askew in a dream. In the case of Isaiah, he dreams of the fragile and vulnerable, and calls it our savior.

How the World Will Be Saved?

Of course, we could give Isaiah the benefit of the doubt, and say that his frail dreams have a card up their sleeve, that actually this tender stalk will grow into an imposing tree, that this helpless baby will grow into a mighty ruler. Maybe Isaiah was just dreaming of a humble beginning to what would ultimately be a mighty triumph of power.

Or maybe not. Jesus, remember, gave pride of place to the little children. And according to Paul, Jesus himself is weakness and foolishness to the world (cf. 1 Corinthians 1). Far from growing into something mighty and powerful, he did the opposite: he emptied himself, becoming powerless in his love for us (cf. Philippians 2).

So when Isaiah dreams of a fragile shoot and a vulnerable baby, maybe he’s actually onto something. Maybe these are images of how the world will be saved, however askew that seems.

God with a Green Card?

Tender stalks and defenseless babies are not the only things askew in Isaiah’s dream. What comes next in today’s scripture really does seem like a dream, the kind of bizarre scene that makes us do a double-take when we awake. Did we really see that?

A wolf and a lamb living side by side. A little child leading a host of wild beasts around, leopards and livestock both. A bear and a lion grazing as cool as you like with the rest of the cattle.

If that weren’t enough, this scene becomes even more bizarre the closer we look at it. A literal translation of Isaiah’s vision zooms in on this strangeness: “The wolf,” Isaiah says, “shall sojourn with the lamb” (11:6). This word “sojourn” is the word used for strangers dwelling in a foreign land, outsiders “whose survival is dependent on the goodwill of the natives.”[1] In other words, this isn’t just a wolf resisting the temptation to chow down. This is a wolf immigrant, a wolf resident alien, a wolf carrying a green card, a wolf who has given up his former way of living and made his life dependent on the ways of the lamb, who has embraced the lifestyle of the lamb. And apparently it’s not only the wolf who is sojourning. If we continue to examine this bizarre scene of Isaiah’s dream, we’ll notice that the bear is grazing with the cow, and the lion is eating straw like an ox (cf. 11:7). Like humble immigrants among the cattle, the bears and the lions have adopted their bovine ways as their own. The mighty predators are making themselves dependent on their prey.

I don’t know how much Isaiah understood his own prophecies, if he could really foresee what kind of savior Jesus would be. But this image of the mighty ones making themselves dependent on the weak—as bizarre as it is, is it not what we see in Christ? Is it not in fact a scene of how God enters into relationship with us? Isn’t that what God does: make Godself dependent on us, being born into our world as helpless as any child of our own, living within the limits of a body just like yours or mine? Who is Christ but God with a green card, subject even to human judgment and corporal punishment?

“People Can Change…”

I can’t help but wonder, then, if this is how peace is made: by the powerful not only giving up their claim to power, but making themselves dependent on the weak? If so, this peace would look different than what passes for peace in our world. In our world, what we call peace is more often a truce, a treaty, or a ceasefire. It is more often a mutual separation, a live-and-let-live policy. Peace in our world tries to preserve the way things are, and usually the people who broker peace are the people in power, which means that the peace privileges the powerful.

So it was in times of segregation. Ultimately that “peace” was exposed for what it was: an unjust suppression of life. Only when the folks on the underside of this separation agreement spoke out, and only when the folks in power relinquished their unspoken privilege, could peace become an authentic possibility. It’s one that we’re still working toward today.

John Lewis, a black Georgia congressman, lived through the so-called peace of segregation. Several years ago, while he was riding a bus and reflecting on his life, he told a moving story that Quaker educator and activist Parker Palmer overheard.

In 1961—John Lewis said—while he waiting for a bus, he was attacked by several young white men. Bloodied by their bats, Lewis did not fight back. Nor did he press charges. One day, nearly 50 years after the incident, an old white man and his middle-aged son entered Lewis’ congressional office on Capitol Hill. The man introduced himself: “Mr. Lewis, my name is Elwin Wilson. I’m one of the men who beat you in that bus station back in 1961. I want to atone for the terrible thing I did, so I’ve come to seek your forgiveness. Will you forgive me?” Lewis forgave him, embraced him on the spot, and then the three of them cried.

As Lewis finished telling this story on the bus, he gazed out the window in a pensive silence. “Then, in a very soft voice—as if speaking to himself about the story he had just told and all of the memories that must have been moving in him—Lewis [whispered], ‘People can change… People can change.’”[2]

A Peace Born of Repentance and Dependence

Peace, according to Isaiah and John Lewis, is not simply a truce or a ceasefire. Peace is not private; it is not people living separate and self-content; and it is certainly not the preservation of power and privilege. Peace, instead, is public. It is people coming together. Peace is power emptying itself and putting others first. It is downwardly mobile. Peace is people changing.

In today’s other scripture, John the Baptist preaches a very short sermon: “Repent, for the kingdom…is near!” (Matt 3:2). That word “repent” means very literally, “to change your mind, your heart.” I wonder if we might not color this image in with the help of Isaiah’s wolf sojourning with lamb. I wonder if we might not say that to repent is to immigrate, to adopt a different way of life, to make oneself dependent on people with less power and privilege?

Only a Heart That Has Been Broken

But even if that’s the case, the question remains: How? How do people change? How do people choose to repent, to make themselves dependent on others? How does the wolf decide to sojourn with the lamb, the bear and the lion with the cattle? What made Elwin Wilson go to John Lewis after 50 years to seek forgiveness?

I don’t know about you, but in my own experience, genuine change only happens when I have been broken. Only when I am confronted with my own brokenness—my own wrongdoing, my own limits—do I change. Only a heart that has been broken asks for forgiveness. Only a heart that has been broken looks for healing and reconciliation. Only a heart that’s been broken acknowledges its dependability on others.

Isaiah says that our savior will “kill what is wicked”[3]—not with a sword or an army, but with “his mouth,” with “the breath of his lips.” John the Baptist says that the savior will baptize with the Spirit and fire. These images suggest to me that true change—true repentance—happens not by might and muscle that act on bodies but by conversation of the lips that breaks hearts and refines them like fire. Maybe the wolf finally hears the bleating of the lamb, listens more closely than it ever had before, and the sound burns within. Maybe the bear and the lion finally pay attention to the moos of the cow. Elwin Wilson, it seems, was convicted in his heart after 50 years. I imagine that his repentance was a slow, painful process, one that involved listened to a difficult voice in his heart, to a voice that burned like a refining fire.

The peace that Isaiah paints is a peace in community, a peace where the predator communes with the prey, where enemies dwell together. Perhaps this peace will only come from the fragile and the vulnerable, from people who become like tender stalks and helpless babies. Perhaps this peace will only come when hearts have been broken enough that they become dependent on others, the way the wolf became dependent on the lamb—the way that God becomes dependent on us.

Prayer

Tender stalk,
Helpless child,
God with a green card—
Dependent on us:
May your words,
And the many lips that speak them,
Break our hearts
And make them like yours:
Helpless and peaceable.
Amen.

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[1] John N. Oswalt, The Book of Isaiah: Chapters 1-39 (New International Commentary on the Old Testament Series; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1986), 283.

[2] This story, and the quoted portions within it, were taken from Maria Popova, “Healing the Heart of Democracy: Parker Palmer on Holding the Tension of Our Differences in a Creative Way,” accessed on https://www.brainpickings.org/2016/11/23/healing-the-heart-of-democracy-parker-palmer/, November 30, 2016.

[3] Isa 11:4. The NRSV simply says “kill the wicked,” implying the wicked persons. But the Hebrew here uses the adjective “wicked” substantivally, which may also be translated “kill what is wicked.” This translation allows for the possibility that wickedness is not identified with certain persons among us all, but with certain tendencies among all persons.

No One Knows (Isa 2:1-5)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on November 27, 2016, Advent I)

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The Hope of a Christmas List

Today is the beginning of Advent; it is also the day on which many children will begin that hallowed countdown ‘til Christmas. I remember counting down the days with the aid of one of those Advent calendars that rewards your daily patience with a bite of chocolate. Perhaps you have another tradition for counting down the days.

Today also begins that time of year when many children will write that venerated list and send it off to Santa.

When my brother, Curt, was younger, he acquired quite a reputation for his lists to Santa. The story goes that his first few Christmases, his hopes were quite modest. One year he asked for a soccer ball. The next year he asked for a movie. And each year, he got whatever he hoped for. So the little gears started turning in little Curt’s head. These requests, it seemed, were little more than a formality. Whatever he hoped for, he got. His Christmas list was a sure bet. And so the next year, little Curt shot the moon…and sent my parents into a veritable panic! The latest game console, a collection of soccer gear, toys—anything he could think of that he wanted, went onto that list.

I won’t go into the details of how that Christmas ended, other than to say that my parents had to sit my brother down for an honest little chat about Santa Claus and the virtue of modesty—after all, Santa has millions of children to take care of.

Two “Hopes”

My brother had such high hopes. He knew exactly what he wanted. If everything went according to his plan—and he had no reason to think it wouldn’t—then his hopes were a sure thing.

This first Sunday of Advent, we light the candle of “hope.” Why? For what do we hope?

The risk of talking about “hope” during this season, is that we may confuse two different hopes. According to much of the world, hope is simply knowing what you want and having a reasonable expectation that you can get it. This is the hope of Christmas lists. This kind of hope can see the future. It is calculating. It often makes plans, or campaigns, to achieve what it wants. It wasn’t too long ago that one of our presidents ran on such a campaign, using this word, “hope.”

When my brother wrote his Christmas lists, he could already see that portly man in red and white coming down the chimney; he could already see the desires of his heart, lying underneath the tree on Christmas morning. The hope that inspires much of this world is a hope that has clear designs on the future.

The hope that we see in today’s Advent scriptures, however, looks quite different. In the first scripture reading, Jesus says, “No one knows about the day or the hour.” For Jesus, hope is not about seeing the future; it is about receiving the future. For Isaiah too, hope means not knowing what’s next. In his vision, all the nations of the world say in unison, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord…that [God] may teach us [God’s] ways and that we may walk in [God’s] paths” (2:3). In other words, Isaiah dreams of a crazy world where all the nations drop their best-laid policies and plans, throw up their hands, and say, “We don’t know.” For Isaiah, hope is not a sure bet or a careful campaign or a vision of dancing sugarplums. The people’s hope is not in what they know but in what they don’t know—in what God will teach them, in the decisions and judgments God will make.

Relinquishing Certainty for Hope

Today’s scripture from Isaiah is most famous for its image of swords and spears beaten into plowshares and pruning hooks. It’s one of those images that seems to tap into a universal human desire, a feeling that, yes, it would be a better world if weapons were work tools. Plenty of folks within and without the Christian tradition have drawn inspiration from Isaiah’s vision. National icons, from Ronald Reagan to Michael Jackson, have used this image to talk about world peace. I know of musicians who have had guitars crafted out of AK-47s. And did you know that nitrogen mustard, which derives from the horrific weapon used in World War I, mustard gas, was developed into one of the first chemotherapy drug treatments? 

But I wonder if we’re selling the plowshares and pruning hooks short, limiting them only to an icon of peace. On this first Sunday of Advent, as I consider the plowshares and pruning hooks, they strike me also as a robust image of hope, of not knowing.

The spear and the sword are not only instruments of war. At their heart, they are instruments of certainty. To pick up the spear and the sword is to see the world in black and white, to be sure about things. When Isaiah imagines all the people of the world beating their weapons into work tools, he is dreaming of a world that has relinquished certainty for hope. He is praying for a world that says, “We don’t know. Let us go up to the mountain of the Lord…that [God] may teach us” (cf. 2:3). He is thinking of a world where people are humble instead of haughty. Listen to the way he describes this dream-world in the verses that follow our scripture today: “For the Lord…has a day against all that is proud and lofty, against all that is lifted up and high…. The haughtiness of the people shall be humbled, and the pride of everyone shall be brought low” (2:12-17). And then he says that all the idols—which are a symbol of our certainty—shall “utterly pass away” (2:18).

It is difficult to stress how unorthodox and strange is this hope, this not-knowing. Indeed, it is foolishness and weakness to our world. Our English language itself cannot understand it. Our primary word for “not knowing” is “ignorance.” And ignorance is an undesirable and unwanted trait. It is a negative attribute.

Something Is Coming

But this season of Advent is all about not knowing. It is all about a sort of holy ignorance. Or let’s call it “hope”—but let’s be sure to remember that this hope isn’t the calculating and self-certain kind. Advent comes from the Latin word, advenire, which means “to come.” At the heart of Advent, then, is something that is coming, something that we don’t know completely. If we knew it completely, it would already be here. It could not “come.”

So what are we to do in Advent? Simply wait? That would be the opposite error to certainty. In other words, hope is like a tightrope; on the one side one may fall off into certainty, and on the other passivity.

The images from our scripture today suggest that hope is active and seeking. When Jesus says that “no one knows,” he doesn’t then say, “Tough luck,” or, “You’ll just have to wait it out.” He says, “No one knows…so keep awake!” (cf. Matt 24:36, 42). Keep your eyes open for what is coming. And Isaiah envisions a worldwide quest, a universal search that leads all the people to the mountain of God. So hope is wide-eyed and walking, curious about what lies beyond the corner, beyond the horizon, in the shadows.

Hope: A Luxury or Life Itself?

Many of you know Stuart Wilkinson—who by the way sends his greetings to everyone. Stuart is the grandfather of the fleet-footed Sean, who once infused our youth group with copious amounts of energy. Stuart is bound to a wheelchair and severely limited in his ability to move about. His days look much the same from one week to the next: physical therapy, lunch, television, sleep.

For many of us who enjoy the privilege of being able to plan out our lives for ourselves, who always have a list of things to look forward to, who virtually design our own future, hope is a casual thing, a luxury. We have little need for what we don’t know, for what we cannot see coming. For Stuart, though, hope is woven into the fabric of his life. When your schedule, your meals, and your recreation are already decided for you, it is in the things that you don’t know, the things that you cannot plan for or expect, that you find salvation. One day when I was visiting with Stuart, and we had very little to say, his grey cat, Titan, came waltzing into the room without a care. Rubbing against both our legs, she then hopped up beside Stuart and curled into a sleeping ball. Stuart smiled and shook his head, “That Titan…she’s a good cat.” 

I don’t mean to diminish hope to little moments of chance, to spontaneous serendipities. Rather, I’m wondering if these small, offhand moments are not in fact the sacred cracks through which hope enters our lives. Whether it’s Titan’s unplanned afternoon visit, or an unexpected treat in his dinner, Stuart has come to find the abundance of life in the things that he does not know or cannot plan for.

“No one knows about the day or the hour,” Jesus says. “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,” say the people in Isaiah’s dream. “Look—” says Stuart, “something I never would have expected.”

Welcoming an Unexpected God

If the season of Advent and Christmas teaches us anything, it’s that God makes the most unexpected entrance. Two teenagers. A pregnancy out of wedlock. A little baby born in a manger.

Only with a holy ignorance that wonders what’s around the corner can we truly seek God. Otherwise we’re only seeking ourselves—what’s already on our list, what we already “know”, what we want for ourselves. Only a hope that cannot see what’s coming, can welcome an unexpected God.

Prayer 

God who is coming, 

Whom we cannot see coming— 

Relieve of us our certainty, 

Our swords and spears, 

And spark within us 

A humble hope 

For what is far different 

And far better 

Than we can imagine. 

In the name of your unforeseeable gift, Jesus. 

Amen.

The Lord Is My Shepherd (Jer 23:1-6)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on November 20, 2016, Reign of Christ Sunday)

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How God Shepherds Us

Today’s scripture is overrun by shepherds: bad shepherds, good shepherds, and most importantly God, who is also a shepherd. It reminds me of a hall of mirrors. Some mirrors are distorted or dirtied or cracked. These are the bad shepherds. Other mirrors are relatively proportionate and clean. These are the good shepherds. And then there is the one shepherd who is not a reflection. This is God.

According to Jeremiah—and contrary to common sense—God does not see the world from a God’s-eye perspective. God does not see the world through the eyes of an impartial judge or a cold, calculating scientist. Instead, God looks tenderly on the world as a shepherd looks over his or her flock. Listen to the way God talks about the people of Israel: “I myself will gather the remnant of my flock…and I will bring them back to their fold, and they shall be fruitful and multiply” (23:3). Centuries later, Jesus will compare God to a shepherd who leaves the flock of 99 in order to seek out the one lost sheep. In both cases, God cares for the world—especially the lost and the hurting—as a shepherd cares for his sheep. 

But Jeremiah isn’t naïve. God may be the shepherd of the world, but that doesn’t mean that God shepherds the world with a supernatural staff in the way that Zeus rules the world with thunder and lightning bolts. God shepherds the world not as a puppeteer who pulls strings or as a magician who simply waves his wrist and presto! Instead, God shepherds the world…through people. According to Jeremiah, the divine shepherd raises up “shepherds” among us, good shepherds, shepherds who gather us together and encourage us (cf. 23:4). I think what Jeremiah is trying to say, then, is that God’s shepherding takes on our flesh. 

What We’re Saying When We Say “Thank You”

And so I wonder: “Through whom has God shepherded me? Who has gathered me in and brought me back to the fold, who has multiplied the life within me, who has gently overseen and encouraged me?”

With Thanksgiving just around the corner, my mind is spilling with memories of that special day when much of the family was “brought back to [the] fold,” when dishes “multiplied” on the table, when “fear” was the furthest thing from my mind; when life felt for a moment like a complete puzzle, like everything was in its right place (cf. 23:3-4). I’ve never thought about all of this as an experience of being shepherded. But I wonder now if my parents and other family were not shepherds of a sort, mirrored reflections of a Shepherd whose love takes the shape of gathering, nourishing, and encouraging.

I recognize, of course, that not everyone’s Thanksgiving memories are the same as mine. And chances are, whatever your memories are, Thanksgiving this year will not feel the way I described. You may feel instead rushed or anxious or simply exhausted. Perhaps that’s because you are doing a bit of shepherding yourself.

In any case, today’s scripture offers us a timely suggestion. If Thanksgiving is all about saying “thank you” not for the life that we think we’ve earned or achieved, but rather for the life that we’ve received as a gift, then perhaps Thanksgiving is really a day of gratitude for the ways we have been shepherded. When we say “thank you” to no one in particular, when we say it as a reflex, impulsively, filled with gratitude for what we’ve received, to whom are we speaking? What are we really saying? Perhaps at its root, our gratitude is nothing other than a profession of faith, because our gratitude does not really stop at the personal shepherds around us but extends to the Shepherd of whom they are a reflection. Perhaps saying, “Thank you,” is just another way of saying, “Yes—the Lord is my shepherd.”

We Are Not Proclaiming the Superiority of God’s Power

Today is not only the Sunday before Thanksgiving. It is also the last Sunday in the church year: the Reign of Christ Sunday, when we declare that Jesus is Lord.

That declaration by itself is earth-shattering. In ancient Rome, the slogan of the day was “Caesar is lord.” To say “Jesus is Lord,” as the early Christ-followers did, was a revolutionary pledge of allegiance, a way to say, “Caesar is not Lord.” It’s no different today. When we say, “Jesus is Lord,” we’re also saying that the free market is not lord, the constitution is not lord, the president is not lord, Hollywood is not lord.

To declare our allegiance to Jesus is revolutionary enough. But today’s scripture makes it even more subversive. Because when we say, “The Lord is my shepherd,” we are not proclaiming the superiority of God’s power. We are proclaiming that God’s power is completely different from the powers of this world. We are proclaiming an altogether upside-down reign, a reign unlike the reign of princes and presidents, power and prestige. 

We are proclaiming the reign of a shepherd. According to Jeremiah, leadership does not take the shape of rulers with iron fists, but shepherds with tender hands. In other words, Jeremiah redefines leadership as servanthood. A good leader is like a good shepherd who attends to the flock to the very last sheep, especially if it’s lost.

Does this sound familiar? To me, it sounds a lot like Jesus, who said, “I am the good shepherd [who] lays down his life for the sheep” (John 10:11; cf. 10:14-15). It sounds a lot like our savior, who said, “Whoever wants to be first must be…servant of all” (Mark 9:35).

A Shepherd’s Power

In our first scripture today, Luke’s account of the crucifixion (Luke 23:33-43), we see just what the world thinks of Jesus’ powerless power, his upside-down reign. First the leaders mock him, “Let him save himself if he is the anointed one” (Luke 23:35). Then the soldiers mock him, “If you are the king of the Jews, save yourself” (Luke 23:36-37). Finally one of the criminals mocks him, saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” (Luke 23:39).

I wonder if these mockers had read the prophecy of Jeremiah that we read today. On the one hand, they would have read the grand promise of a future king in whose days “Judah [would] be saved” (Jer 23:6). Perhaps they were justified to expect some saving, to anticipate a king who would deliver himself and the whole nation with a strong fist. On the other hand, if they had read Jeremiah, they would have also read that the reign of God is the reign of a shepherd. And a shepherd cares for his flock, tending to the least, the last, and the littlest, as Jesus did. A shepherd’s power takes the shape of not a sword but a staff. 

Thanksgiving and a New Way of Living

“The Lord is my shepherd.” Maybe we’ll say these words this Thanksgiving. For it is our Shepherd whom we have to thank for being gathered together, for being nourished, and for being encouraged.

But within these words—“the Lord is my shepherd”—there also echo the anarchic tones of revolution. For to proclaim, “The Lord is my shepherd,” is to declare, “Jesus is Lord.” It is to declare allegiance not to the dollar bill or to the silver screen or to the flag but to a homeless Jew in whom God’s love took on flesh most fully. It is to exchange the sword for the staff, to give up the love of power for the power of love. 

To utter the words, “The Lord is my shepherd,” is to declare that the kingdom of God is not only coming. It is here already, where our thanksgiving is one and the same with a new way of living.

Prayer

Christ our leader,

Who cares for the lost

And lays down his life

For the least and the littlest:

Thank you for gathering us together,

For nourishing us and encouraging us.

You are our shepherd,

And we delight in your reign.

Amen.

Like the Days of a Tree (Isa 65:17-25)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on November 13, 2016, Proper 28)

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“A New Heavens and a New Earth” 

Last week, we heard from the prophet Haggai as he gave encouragement to the Israelites who had returned to their homeland after 50 years of living in forced exile. Do you remember what he promised them? A “glory greater than before.” As we discovered, however, this glory looked a bit different than might be expected, for ancient Israel would never reach the heights of its former power or prestige again. Its temple was smaller than before. It no longer housed the ark of the covenant, and so it was emptier than before. And the nation itself was weaker than before, as it would always play second fiddle to a foreign empire.

The glory that Haggai proclaimed was smaller, emptier, and weaker than before. That probably struck us as a bit odd. But then we recalled the tiny glory of God who is born in a manger, the emptying glory of God who took the form of a servant, and the weak glory of God whose crowning moment was a cross. For Jesus, glory had less to do with might and material, power and prestige, and more to do with a love that lives for others.

Jesus called this way of life “the kingdom of God.” Haggai caught a hint of it, I think, and called it “a glory greater than before.” Today, Isaiah catches sight of it too and calls it a “new heavens and a new earth.”

A Daydream 

…The sun is beginning to set, and I’m walking along a dusty road lined with field and forest. There are also gardens and vineyards, where young men and women are kneeling among leaves and branches, pruning, planting, scooping, filling baskets with fruits and vegetables. Occasionally I pass by a small home. Each one glows with a warm orange light inside, and through the windows waft the smells of dinner. If I listen closely, I can hear the clink-clank of dishes, the gentle tones of overlapping voices, the odd burst of laughter. As I pass by the fourth or fifth home, a couple of children run out the front door, chasing one another. So great is their vigor, they are out of my sight in a matter of seconds. A couple more homes down the road, I notice an elderly couple sitting silently on the porch, enjoying the evening breeze. Their silence feels like a smile, a quiet nod to the dusk. It’s getting dark, and so I decide that I will need to end my journey soon. I have a feeling—a trust—that any one of these homes would welcome me for the night.

As Down-to-Earth as You Could Get 

I didn’t even mention the wolf and the lamb together, or the lion and the ox, but you’ve probably already guessed the whereabouts of my daydream. Isaiah’s vision transported me there. Some people have called it “the peaceable kingdom.” That seems like a reasonable enough name, considering how God promises that predators will no longer “hurt or destroy” in that place (Isa 65:25).

If Haggai’s promise last week suggested that the kingdom of God might look smaller, emptier, and weaker than we expect, then Isaiah’s vision today develops the picture a bit further. In Isaiah, the picture is one of simplicity and sharing. There are no mentions of a grand temple or great riches or a war to end all wars. The dream is as down-to-earth as you could get: people who build homes and live in them; children who are born healthy and who grow up without fear; people working the field and eating its fruit with satisfaction; elders growing old and grey in the comfort of their community.

“Lord, Make Us All like Trees” 

Like any prophet worth his salt, Isaiah uses a strange image to get his point across. He says life in the kingdom will be like “the days of a tree.” To put that more bluntly, he’s saying that in the peaceable kingdom, we will be like trees.

Think about that the next time you pray the Lord’s prayer and say, “Thy kingdom come.” According to Isaiah, what you’re really praying is, “Lord, make us all like trees.”

I jest—but only partly so. In fact, I’m only taking a page from the book of Hildegard of Bingen, a Benedictine abbess of the 12th century. Hildegard was a creative and visionary church leader, which was a highly unusual thing for a woman in the 12 century. She had a unique word to describe the power of God: “greenness.”[1] She proclaimed that all of creation contained God’s greenness. God’s power was not a matter of might or muscle, but a matter of sap and spirit. What better word to describe the power of God that Isaiah envisions? “Greenness.” Growth. Life. Children in good health, gardens full of produce, workers whose hands multiply the life of their patch of land, elderly whose last days are as beautiful as their first, as beautiful as the autumn leaves.

“To Life—Here, Now!” 

What will heaven be like? If Isaiah has anything to say about it, heaven will be a lot like earth. It won’t be some white, spotless, luxurious place where we all just float about happily. How boring. Heaven will be life: that includes building houses and planting gardens, cooking meals and setting tables, children playing and elders tinkering. In other words, in Isaiah’s mind, heaven has nothing to do with eternal rest. It’s eternal life—which includes work, but fulfilling work; relationships, but fulfilling relationships; change, but fulfilling change.

But to focus on Isaiah’s vision as a vision of the afterlife is an injustice to Isaiah, I think. In Isaiah’s vocabulary, “afterlife” would be an awful word because of that prefix “after.” For Isaiah, life is the main course, and anything “after,” or other than, cannot compare. For him, heaven would not be an “afterlife” but simply “more life,” or “better life.”

When Isaiah delivered this dream—God’s dream—to the people of Israel, he wasn’t comforting them with a picture of what would happen after they died. He was inspiring them with a picture of the life that God wanted for them now. Like Jesus, who prayed, “Thy kingdom come…on earth as it is in heaven,” Isaiah was crying out, “L’chaim! To life—here, now! More life, better life!”

More than Pliable Propaganda 

Of course, dictatorships have been built on such promises. A safe and healthy environment, homes for everyone, food on every table, worthwhile work for every able body. What distinguishes Isaiah’s dream from the dangerous dreams of a dictator?

I think Hildegard got it right. It’s the “greenness” of God that makes all the difference. Dictators cannot appreciate the greenness of God in all things. They are ultimately concerned with the selfsame, not the other; they care only about certain homes, certain tables, certain able bodies. But for Hildegard, all of creation is green, which means that God dwells in all things—and all people. It’s this greenness that brings Isaiah’s vision down to earth, that makes Isaiah’s vision more than simply the pliable propaganda of a power-thirsty dictator. And it’s this greenness of God in all things and all people that makes Isaiah’s vision particularly pertinent today.

No Weeds in the Kingdom of God 

In the wake of this last week’s elections, tensions are running high. Sometimes when we see someone who voted differently, we have trouble seeing the image of God. The greenness of God. The potential for beautiful and abundant life. For all we care, perhaps, that person is a weed. The world would be better without weeds.

But horticulture teaches us a valuable theological point: a weed is not a reality but a matter of perspective. A weed is merely a plant that a person considers unnecessary. In the kingdom of God that Isaiah envisions, that Jesus prays for, there are no weeds. Every person and thing is filled with God’s greenness, blessed with an uncounted possibility for life. The first task in the great garden of God, then, is not to change people but to love people. It is to “water” them, to tend to them in ways that help them to grow. In doing so, we may find that the change happens first not in their green hearts but in ours.

The Kingdom of God Is Growing 

The kingdom of God, Jesus says, is like a mustard seed.[2]

Which means the kingdom of God grows. It does not appear overnight. It is not be achieved by a final victory or a quick fix. It will not be accomplished by might or muscle or material.

It will come forth like a shoot from the stump of a tree.[3] Slowly. Inconspicuously. By a green power that is unseen in all things.

It will come forth with the simplest gestures, the kind available to us everyday. Smiles and “hellos” that grow into invitations and homes of hospitality. “I’m sorrys” and “I forgive yous” that grow into shared tables and healed hearts. Working hands and caring faces that grow into environments for healthy childhoods and worthwhile living for elders in their twilight.

The kingdom of God will come forth, and we will be surprised, perhaps, to discover that it was here all along—in the gracious greenness of God.

Prayer 

God of abundant life—
Make us all like trees.
Open our eyes
To the greenness in one another;
Teach us your loving touch,
That we might tend
To the life all around us.
In the name of our vine, Jesus Christ.[4]
Amen.

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[1] Shane Claiborne, Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove, and Enuma Okoro, Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2010), 444.

[2] Mark 4:30-31; Matt 13:31; Luke 13:18-19.

[3] Cf. Isa 11:1.

[4] John 15:5.

Greater Glory (Haggai 1:15b-2:9)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on November 06, 2016, Proper 27)

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The Glory of Holidays Gone By

The holiday season, like it or not, is more or less upon us. Some of us have already begun shopping. Others may sneak a tree up before the month has ended.

As our anticipation heightens and we look ahead, many of us will also look behind. In the same way that our mashed potatoes are covered in gravy, or our pumpkin pie is smothered in whipped cream, the holiday season is spread thick and deep with nostalgia. We are besieged by memories, by the glory of years gone by. Some of us may recall a particularly meaningful gift that we received. Other minds might wander back to a legendary sled ride or snowball fight. Still others will simply remember putting up a tree, hanging up some lights, and then watching as day by day the gifts underneath began to accumulate.

I think this nostalgia is part of the reason that so many folks have made a holiday tradition out of watching the 1983 classic, A Christmas Story—you know, the one about that boy and his desperate hopes for a Red Ryder BB gun. That entire movie is a like a sepia-tinged photograph. It resonates with our own memories of a glory gone by. Remember when Christmas meant carefree weeks with no school? Remember when it meant big gifts? Remember when it meant the fullness of family and feasting and fun games beside the fireplace?

“Remember the Glory of Before?”

According to our scripture today, the ancient Israelites were probably asking similar questions when their forced captivity under the Babylonians ended and they returned to rebuild their homeland. “Remember when the temple was bigger?” “Remember when we still had the ark of the covenant?” “Remember when our leader was a true king, and not the powerless puppet of some other empire?”

According to one of Haggai’s contemporaries, the priest Ezra, when the older Israelites saw the measly reconstruction of their homeland, they wept with a loud voice (Ezra 3:12). Haggai himself appears to acknowledge that things are not quite as great as they once were: “Who is left among you that saw [the temple] in its former glory?” he asks. “How does it look to you now? Is it not in your sight as nothing?” (Hag 2:3). You can almost see the elders shaking their heads ruefully in the background, their hearts full of nostalgia, their eyes glazed over with the past. They cluck their tongues, saying to each other: “Remember the glory of before? Remember…? Remember…?”

Glory Greater than Before

I can only imagine, then, that what Haggai says next would have been music to their ears: “‘I will fill this house with glory,’ says the Lord of hosts. ‘The silver is mine, and the gold is mine…. The glory of this house shall be greater than before!’” (Hag 2:7-9).

When the crowd heard him speak these words, they probably erupted with joy. Their glazed eyes probably glowed even brighter. Silver. Gold. Glory greater than before.

Funnily enough, it appears that the translators of this passage were also mesmerized with the dream of greater riches. Because the word that they had previously translated as “glory”—indeed, the word that is translated as “glory” throughout the Old Testament—here they translate as “splendor,” suggestive of the shine of that gold and silver. And not only that. In Haggai’s next prophecy, where God promises shalom, or “peace,” the translators tell us that in fact God promises “prosperity.” Haggai’s crowd is not alone. Our translators too have fallen under the spell of wealth and comfort, assuming that when God promises glory and shalom, what God really promises is what they really want: “splendor” and “prosperity.”

“Smaller, Emptier, and Weaker…”

The only problem is, this “splendor” and “prosperity” would never come true. The reconstructed Israel would never reach the heights of its past. It would never attain its former splendor. The temple was smaller than before. It no longer housed the ark of the covenant, and so it was emptier than before. And because the people’s leader was no more than a puppet of a foreign empire, the people of Israel were weaker than before. Seen from this standpoint, the reconstructed Israel was a ghost of its former self. It was smaller, emptier, and weaker than before.

So when Haggai promised greater glory than before, either he was lying or he was talking about a different kind of glory. Either he was one of those false prophets who tells the people what they want to hear, or he was talking about glory in a different kind of way.

I can’t know for sure what Haggai meant. But when I listen to other prophets in the Old Testament, I hear them proclaim a different kind of glory, a glory less concerned with material and might. There are some prophets, like Isaiah and Hosea, who warn people that the material religion of the temple often masks an empty heart.[1] There are others, like Jeremiah, who dreams of a day when the ark of the covenant will no longer be missed or even remembered.[2] And it’s no secret than many prophets were critical of the monarchy and its power. For all of these prophets, the problem with being bigger, fuller, and more powerful, was that this threatened to distract the people from God. It tempted the people to trust in themselves.

In other words, maybe smaller, emptier, and weaker than before isn’t as bad as it sounds. Maybe that’s what some of the prophets were pointing toward. Maybe that’s even “the greater glory than before” that Haggai was pointing toward, whether he knew it or not.

“…Is What the Glory of God Looks like.”

I can’t help but notice a vague pattern forming. After the exile, ancient Israel was smaller, emptier, and weaker than before. To the world, it might appear as if their glory had been stripped from them.

Years later—so the story of our faith goes—a little baby Jesus was born. His life is the glory of God. And yet what a different kind of glory it is. Paul proclaims this paradoxical glory best in his letter to the Philippians:

Though he was in the form of God,
He did not regard equality with God
As something to be grasped,
But emptied himself,
Taking the form of a slave,
Being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
He humbled himself
And became responsible to the point of death—
Even death on a cross.[3]

“Humbled himself.” “Emptied himself.” “Death on a cross.”

Smaller, emptier, weaker. This is what the glory of God looks like.

The Presence of God

The promise of Haggai that likely mesmerized his ancient audience—and that certainly mesmerized our translators today—was the promise of “a glory greater than before.” To an audience that dreams of material gain and might, this promise is irresistible.

But the key to Haggai’s promise comes just a moment earlier. “‘Take courage, all you people of the land,’ says the Lord…. ‘I am with you…. My spirit abides among you’” (Hag 2:4-5). The glory of God is none other than the presence of God. And if the life of Jesus is any indication, the presence of God is manifest not in power, prestige, or possessions, but in a love that lives for others.

The Heart of Things

There was a wonderful little piece of street art near where I lived in Sheffield, England, with a picture of two children playing together, and a caption that reads, “The best things in life are not things.” It is a truism whose truth we forget all too often. Is this not the truth of the holiday season?

Nostalgia parades all around us, reminding us of how great it was when we were younger, when the holidays were bigger, fuller, and more intense, when they were full of fun and free time and big gifts. But is it these “things” that made the holidays such a memorable experience? Was it really the Red Ryder BB gun that made Christmas so memorable for Ralphie? I don’t think so.

Nostalgia tempts us with things: bigger, fuller, better things. But what we really miss is not these “things,” but the heart of things—like faith, hope, love, all of which are on full display in Ralphie’s story. And the funny thing is, we always have the heart of things with us, however small, empty, or weak our lives may feel. Deep down we know that. We all know that the real glory of the holidays is not found in the big presents or the shiny ribbons and bows, but in family and friends and strangers. The real glory of the holidays is not things but the heart of things, and we always have the heart of things with us. Which is another way of saying, what Haggai said, “‘I am with you,’ says the Lord of hosts.” “My spirit abides among you” (Hag 2:4-5).

The Demise of the Church—or the Glory of God?

The “greater glory” that Haggai proclaims, which is to say the glory that takes on a smaller, emptier, and weaker shape, is not only a helpful reminder for us as we step into the nostalgia-themed halls of the holidays. It is also worth pondering as we consider the church in today’s world.

Haggai could just as well have been preaching to us. Like his audience in ancient Israel, the church too is smaller, emptier, and weaker than before. Its numbers are dipping, its sanctuaries are emptying, and its voice in the world of politics is weaker than before. What then should we say? Is this the demise of the church?

Our nostalgic memories might suggest so. But then nostalgia never remembers things quite as they were. It doesn’t remember the exclusion and discrimination practiced against people of other ethnicities and orientations. It measures by the bodies in the pews but not by the hearts in those bodies.

Taking heart from Haggai, and from Jesus Christ himself, I would suggest that a smaller, emptier, and weaker church is not the demise of the church, but in fact a holy opportunity for greater glory. Church never was about being powerful or successful or effective. Church is about being the body of Christ, given faithfully for the life of the world, come what may. That is the smaller, emptier, weaker—and greatest—glory of God.

We see it first in the life of ancient Israel. We sense it deeply in our holiday experience. And we know it most fully in Jesus Christ, whose life—we pray—is our life.

Prayer

Companion Christ,
Who is always with us—
When our heavens and earth shake,
And we are tempted by nostalgia,
Open our eyes to see
Not demise
But the coming of your glory,
Small, empty, and weak, though it may be.
May we live faithfully for you,
As you have lived for us.
Amen.

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[1] E.g., Isa 1:10-17; Hos 6:6.
[2] Jer 3:16.
[3] Phil 2:6-8.

Unlikely Saints (Luke 6:20-31)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on October 30, 2016, All Saints' Sunday)

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“Count Your Many Blessings”

In just a few weeks, many of us will gather around a table. And there we will give thanks to God for our many blessings: the food that fills our bellies; the friends and family that fill us with contentment; the comfort and conveniences that fill our lives with ease and satisfaction.

There are a number of songs associated with Thanksgiving—my favorite being the Shaker tune, “Simple Gifts”—but the one that stands out in my thoughts today is the old hymn “Count Your Many Blessings.” Perhaps you know it. “When upon life’s billows, you are tempest-tossed, when you are discouraged, thinking all is lost, count your many blessings, name them one by one, and it will surprise you what the Lord has done.” In other words, we have much to be thankful for, if we take the time to stop and think about it. Our blessings are many: relationships, food, money, well-being.

A Different Understanding of Blessing?

If today’s scripture is any indication, though, you wouldn’t hear Jesus singing this song. In fact, on the evidence of today’s scripture, I would suggest it’s best not to invite Jesus to your Thanksgiving dinner. Given his track record of overturning tables, you might be putting your turkey at grave risk.

I’m teasing, of course. I can’t imagine that Jesus would overturn our Thanksgiving tables. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he raised an eyebrow when we recited our blessings. I wouldn’t be surprised if he raised an objection, however gently. Because according to our gospel reading today, Jesus has a very different understanding of blessing than we do.

An Upside-Down Thanksgiving Gospel

For us, blessing means a steady income and a secure financial future. Jesus says the poor are blessed. For us, blessing means a full belly. Jesus says the empty bellies are blessed. For us, blessing means smiles and laughter and sunshine. Jesus says the tear-stained faces are blessed. For us, blessing means good relationships and plenty of connections. Jesus says the hated and excluded are blessed.

As if that weren’t enough, Jesus goes on to say that what we consider blessings, are in fact curses. Woe to the financially secure, woe to the full bellies, woe to the smiling faces, woe to the popular and well-liked.

Jesus may not have overturned our table and ruined our turkey. But he does proclaim a rather upside-down Thanksgiving gospel. Our blessings, it seems, are in the exact place we’d never think to look.

The Beatitudes: 

Stretching the Boundaries of Sainthood

Today is All Saints’ Day. In some churches, there is an official list of saints. In ours, there is not. I like that. Saints are not superheroes. Saints are simply people who echo Christ. We have all encountered saints in our own lives. Earlier today, some of us lit candles for the personal saints in our lives who have passed—parents, grandparents, dear friends, everyone whose words and touch linger on within us, reminding us of the love that has changed our lives and, we believe, will change the world.

Surely at Thanksgiving we will give thanks for these personal saints.

Perhaps, though, our gratitude should extend a bit further. Because Jesus’ upside-down Thanksgiving gospel—his set of bizarre beatitudes—points us to blessings in places we’d never think to look. Which is also to say, it points us to saints in people whom we’d never think of.

Elliot Was a Loser

Elliott’s parents divorced when he was six months old. Growing up, he suffered abuse at the hands of his stepfather. Then, as a teenager, he moved across the country from his mother’s home in Texas to his father’s home Oregon. He could not, however, outrun his depression, and so he looked for other means of escape. It wasn’t long before he began to dabble in drugs and alcohol. For the next fifteen years or so, his life resembled the life of many addicts and junkies. He would come clean and recover. Then he would relapse. The cycle continued until, at the age of 34, Elliott died.

Elliott was a loser. Some might cast an eye over his life and call it worthless.

I never knew Elliott personally. I know Elliott through his music. Through the spellbinding melodies he weaved on guitar and piano, the crackled register of his hushed, hangdog voice, and his plainly profound lyrics. Some would simply say that his music is sad. But within that sadness, I hear the beat of a blessed heart.

Elliott Smith talked about the world in a strange, sort of upside-down way. He lamented the myth of self-sufficiency that rules our world, that drives us to work harder, earn more, feel happier, be better than others; he called it “the cult of the winner.” “You can’t get away from it,” he said.[1] When asked about his musical achievements, he suggested that his achievement wasn’t a big deal. Achievement is what the world programs us for. “I didn’t have a hard time making it,” he said. “I had a hard time letting go.”[2]

The Blessing of the Losers: 

Letting Go

It is hard to let go. We would rather trust in ourselves. We would rather win.

And so here’s where we can finally understand Jesus’ peculiar beatitudes. The blessing of the losers—of the poor and the hungry, the tear-stained and the excluded—is the blessing of a broken heart. It is the blessing of letting go. It is the blessing of crying out for help and the blessing of having a heart that is open to receiving help. The white-knuckled fists of our world may indeed succeed in many small personal achievements, but a quick glance at the world at large will tell you that its rulers and leaders have done very little to welcome the kingdom of God. It is the weary, broken, open hands of the losers that are most ready to receive the kingdom.

Being Led by Losers

All of us know such persons. Chances are, they’re the people that we tend to hide from others. They’re the black sheep in our family whom we keep quiet about when we’re catching up with old friends. They’re the friends whose names we whisper with pained faces. They’re the addicts, the depressed, the hospitalized, the distraught.

And Jesus calls them “blessed.” Jesus calls them saints.

To be sure, Jesus isn’t calling their addiction itself a blessing, or their depression or their illness or their poverty. But whereas the rest of the world treats these conditions as diseases or marks of failure, and writes the persons off as losers, Jesus sees that their hearts are the most welcoming to the kingdom of God. Losers have let go and are ready for something more, something better.

The reason that Jesus proclaims “woe” upon the winners of our world, is because oftentimes when the kingdom comes knocking on their doors, it is greeted with a, “Thank you, but I’m pretty satisfied with what I’ve got right now—a secure future, a full stomach, a light heart, a good reputation.” But when the kingdom comes to the losers and the lowly, to folks who have let go of the myth of self-sufficiency, it finds fertile ground. It is they, Jesus suggests, who will lead us into the kingdom. These unlikely saints may in fact be our salvation, if we have eyes to see.

The Kingdom from Down Low

Once when Jack Kerouac was asked on television what characteristic defined the Beat movement, he responded in a heartbeat: “Sympathetic.”[3] Such a response makes me think that maybe the Beats were marching to the step of the beatitudes. The blessedness of losing and letting go is an increased sympathy and compassion for others. The poor, hungry, sad, and hated know just how impossible life is when you try to live it on your own. They know just how much we need each other. Their broken hearts are inclined toward sympathy more so than are the hearts of winners.

Jesus’ senseless and impractical instructions—love your enemies, do good in the face of bad, bless those who curse, give to whoever asks—these will only make sense to a heart that’s already been broken, to a person who’s already let go of his drive to win, her need to succeed. It only makes sense to love your enemy, to pray for those who hurt you, if you have a sympathy deeper than your desire for personal triumph, a compassion that seeks not only your own good but the good of others. Winners are tempted simply to win out against their enemies. But I’m guessing that the losers and the unlikely saints in our lives will point us in a different direction. Their addiction and sadness and reputation may make it harder for us to see the depths of their heart, but I’m guessing that if we look deep enough, we’ll find that they’re already welcoming the kingdom of God in their own lives.

The grand comedy of faith, I think, is that when heaven finally makes its way to earth, we’ll be surprised to discover that it was here all along. Not in the top dogs and world-beaters, but in the losers and unlikely saints. Jesus once said, rather provocatively, that the tax collectors and prostitutes would enter the kingdom of God before the chief priests and the elders (Matt 21:31). Here it is no different. If his words are any indication, the kingdom of God will not come from on high but from down low, for it is among the losers and the lowly that the kingdom finds fertile ground. It is from among our unlikely saints that the kingdom grows.

Prayer

Christ of magnificent defeat,
Whose kingdom finds welcome
Among blessed losers:
Inspire us today
Through the unlikely saints
Who direct us toward you;
Break our hearts
And loosen our fists,
That we too might welcome
Your kingdom of sympathetic hearts and turned cheeks.
Amen.

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[1] “Elliott Smith: Emotional Rescue,” http://www.magnetmagazine.com/2001/01/02/elliott-smith-emotional-rescue/, accessed October 26, 2016.

[2] Quote commonly attributed to Elliott Smith. I was unable to determine an original source.

[3] David Dark, The Gospel According to America: A Meditation on a God-Blessed, Christ-Haunted Idea (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2005), 58.

Praying Blind (Luke 18:9-14)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on October 23, 2016, Proper 25)

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What Makes a Proper Horror Story?

This time of year, there are many distinctive delights that we enjoy: the leaves aflame on our trees, the hearths aflame in our homes as the nights cool off, the indulgence of pumpkin and apple and cinnamon-flavored culinary pleasures, football under the Friday night lights or on the warm glow of our televisions—and in just a week or so, Halloween. Children will dress up as ghosts and witches. All of us will eat a bit more candy than we should. And some of us—a peculiar subset of our society—will take a strange delight in watching scary movies.

Personally, I have little taste for scary movies. But having passed dutifully through the stage of adolescence, I’ve watched my share. And in conversation with friends, I’ve speculated on what it is that makes a proper horror film. What is its fundamental ingredient? Is it the grotesqueness of the evil character? Is it the dark unknown? I’m not sure that the horror movie can be reduced to one individual element, but I am fairly certain that one element it cannot do without is the familiar. Horror movies take familiar experiences and then infuse them with sinister meanings—blank phone calls, flickering lights, inexplicable noises at night, the quiet neighbor who never says “hello.” The reason that a horror story is so scary is that it is familiar enough to be our own story.

In other words, a horror story is a story that threatens to repeat itself in our own lives.

A Story That Repeats Itself

Today’s parable is not a horror story—at least not in the conventional sense. But in an almost sinister way, it repeats itself in our own lives.

Imagine you’re watching a horror movie. In the movie, the phone rings, and the frightened woman on the screen picks it up. There’s no answer on the other end. Then, in your own home, the phone rings. You pick it up. There’s no answer on the other end. 

It’s the stuff of goosebumps. And it’s no different when we read this parable. 

On the surface, the story is simple. There’s a Pharisee and a tax collector. The Pharisee is a type that we all know. He’s self-righteous. He’s smug and superior. His prayer is little more than a way for him to pat himself on the back, “Thank God I’m not like other people” (18:11). And on the other side, there’s the wretched tax collector, crying for God’s mercy. Before Jesus even reaches the end of the story, we all know what’s what. We know that the Pharisee is going to get his, and that the tax collector is in fact the hero.

In other words, we’re all feeling a bit smug and superior to that Pharisee. We’re all patting ourselves on the back, saying, “Thank God I’m not like that Pharisee.” 

Can you feel the goosebumps? The story has repeated itself already, in our very reading of it. In the instant that we condemn the Pharisee, we in fact become the Pharisee, sure of ourselves and exalted over others.

In this way, the parable turns our world upside down. We point the finger all too readily at the Pharisee, only to discover that we’re pointing at ourselves, at our own pride, at our own self-certainty. There’s a reason the word “churchy” means what it means. It is because of people like the Pharisee and people like us who go to church, people whose faith sometimes freezes over into arrogance, people for whom the name God really means “what I believe in,” “what I know is right.”

Even More Topsy-Turvy

As if this alone weren’t enough to convict us, when we read the parable with Jesus’ original audience in mind, we discover that it has an even more revolutionary flavor, an even more topsy-turvy shape. Because when Jesus originally told the parable, his audience would have been expecting a conclusion opposite to the one they heard.

When Jesus originally told the parable, the audience would have actually regarded the Pharisee with a healthy measure of respect. His prayer, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people,” actually follows the model of some prayers that we find in the Old Testament.[1] So you could say that his prayer was dutiful; he was affirming the law of God, saying that the law was good, and he was expressing gratitude to God that he was on the right side of the law. Beyond his prayer, folks would have seen in the Pharisee what many people see today in a respectable churchgoer. They would have seen a model congregant, the kind of fellow you’d want teaching your children in Sunday school. They would have seen a good influence, the kind of guy who speaks sense in meetings. And not least, they would have seen a big donor, someone who tithes on everything that he acquires. This Pharisee, in other words, is a principled and generous man. If it weren’t for him, there probably wouldn’t be a building to meet in. This kind of man is the bedrock of many churches.[2]

And the tax collector? Well, the less said about him, the better. For the original audience, they would have seen only a man who had sold his soul. He was a traitor. He collected money for the Roman empire—the same empire that oppressed his own Jewish people—and then he’d collect a little more for himself. His money-grabbing hands reeked of greed and were stained with the blood of his own people. 

For the original audience, then, this story is yet another kingdom reversal, another upside-down depiction of God’s world: the wretched tax collector is justified, but the upstanding Pharisee is not.

To Be Left without a Prayer Is Where Prayer Begins

However we hear today’s parable—whether we point our accusatory finger at the Pharisee and his smugness or the tax collector and his disgrace—we also come to find out that we’re pointing the finger at ourselves. By the simple act of presuming who’s right and who’s wrong, we do the very thing that Jesus warns us against: we trust in ourselves and we regard certain others with disapproval. We exalt ourselves over others. 

Did you notice what the Pharisee says when he prays? “God, I thank you that I am not like…this tax collector” (18:11). In other words, the Pharisee is praying with his eyes open. He sees that tax collector. Maybe not literally. Maybe his head is bowed the same way we bow our heads. But he’s praying with his eyes open all the same. He’s praying as though he can see everything that matters, as though he knows what’s what. To pray with one’s eyes open means to trust in oneself and to exalt oneself over others. The problem with praying with our eyes open, of course, is that we’re not really praying. We’re simply outlining our own plan for the world, our own program for the way things should go. You know how some people dominate conversations by interrupting, cutting off, and amplifying their voice? They’re really just having a conversation with themselves. And that’s what an eyes-wide-open prayer is. There’s no room for God.

The alternative is to pray blind. To pray blind is to pray like the tax collector. Because we sit outside the story, we know the result of the tax collector’s prayer. But the tax collector, remember, does not know the result. He does not pray with presumption like the Pharisee. He does not have a plan for the world or a program for the way things should go. He only knows that he is helpless. Like the widow before him, or like the children who Jesus says lead us into the kingdom, he cannot do it on his own. 

Maybe blindness is the condition for prayer. Maybe to be left without a prayer is precisely where prayer begins.

A Timely Reminder for This Election Season

It is a timely reminder in this election season. When folks cast their ballot in just a couple weeks, many of them—many of us—will pray in that voting booth as the Pharisee prayed in the temple, trusting in their own righteousness and regarding others with contempt, saying, “Thank God I’m not like those crazies voting on the opposite side of the ballot.” Their votes will be little more than a way to pat themselves on the back. Chances are, some of these folks are the same ones who speak so forcefully and controllingly about the elections, interrupting each other, cutting each other off, amplifying their voices.

Are they not exalting themselves? 

This last Wednesday night, at Common Table, a small group of us reflected on the furor of this election season. The conversation we shared was surreal. There were no loud voices. There were no do-or-die sentiments. There was no hopeless feeling that the future of the world hangs in the balance of this election.

Instead, there were profound expressions of hope. What if this dark time were also a holy chance, a sacred opportunity for the church to live differently than the world around it? What if while the world divides and polarizes, the church helps to heal and reconcile? What if while the world exalts itself, trusting so surely in its own policies and positions, the church humbles itself, responding to the fist of power with a heart of love? 

How To Pray Blind in the Election Season

If today’s scripture tells us anything about how we live during election season, it is that our trust is not in the ballot but in God. Recently I’ve been reading the work of David Lipscomb—one of our Disciples forefathers from the 19th century, whose parents hailed just a stone’s throw from here in Louisa—and he goes so far as to say that “to vote or use…civil power is to use force…. [It] is to distrust God.”[3] Whether or not you agree with David’s conclusion, his larger point is difficult to shake. The ballot tempts us to trust in ourselves rather than in God. It tempts us to exalt ourselves over others, to think we know better than others. It is a way to claim power over others.

I’m honestly unsure whether Jesus would step inside a voting booth today, had he the chance. But that’s a point of great speculation. Whether we step into a booth or not, the call of Christ is to pray blind, not presuming place or power, not imposing ourselves on others, not pushing our plans on the world. The call of Christ is not to trust in our own righteousness, mediated through the ballot or whatever powers the world has to offer, but rather to live like a child, a widow, a desperate tax collector, allowing ourselves to be small so that the greatness of love might have mercy on us and reign in our world.

Prayer

God,

Be merciful to us.

Where we exalt ourselves over others,

Humble us gently.

Where we humble ourselves,

Bless us:

Make our selfless love

A courageous witness

To your reconciling kingdom.

In the name of our brother, Jesus Christ.

Amen. 

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[1] See, e.g., Deut 26:12-15 and Ps 17:4-5. See also the rabbinic “blessings of identity” (i.e., thank God I’m not a gentile, woman, or slave). 

[2] This characterization of the Pharisee was inspired by Paul D. Duke, “Praying with a Sideward Glance,” The Christian Century 112 (1995): 923. 

[3] David Lipscomb, On Civil Government: Its Origin, Mission, and Destiny, and the Christian’s Relation to It (Library of Radical Christian Discipleship—Stone-Campbell Series Book 4; First Kindle Ebook Edition, 2012), ebook loc. 2507-2509.