See—We Are Alive! (2 Cor 5:20a; 6:4-10)

(Meditation for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on March 1, 2017, Ash Wednesday)

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We All Fall Down

“Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.”

If nothing else, the ashes smudged into our skin remind us that, one day, we will fall down. No matter our achievements, no matter our money, no matter our reputation—no matter what we do, death is smudged into our skin.

Nothing can erase this smudge. Not even Jesus. The shape of the cross that lingers on our forehead reminds us that Jesus, too, fell down.

Learning How to Fall

The world does not teach us how to fall down. The world teaches us how to stand up tall, how to climb ladders, how to win and compete and survive.

But the truth of Ash Wednesday, the truth of the cross that we wear on our heads, is that we are not always in control, that even Jesus “in whom the fullness of God was pleased to dwell” was not always in control. Jesus proclaims, “It is fulfilled,” not after he has done something in his control, but after something out of his control has been done to him.[1]

The world does not teach us how to fall down. But Jesus does. And thank God for that, because the truth is we are always falling down. Not only at our death, but every day of our lives. Because we are limited and wounded creatures: we make honest mistakes sometimes; we willfully do wrong sometimes; sometimes we lose control, and sometimes—most of the time—we never had it to begin with.

The Lesson of Lent: 

Letting Go and Loving

If the body of Jesus brings us any consolation, it is in this: only by falling down does God’s life-giving love fully take on flesh in our world. That is the mysterious lesson of Lent that Christ teaches us: falling down is not the end of life. If we let go and love as Jesus did, then falling down becomes the opposite. It becomes a way of welcoming new life.

That’s the good news that Paul insists on in tonight’s scripture. Falling down—which is to say, letting go and loving—this is how Christ is saving the world. When Paul considers all the sleepless nights, all the hunger, all the hardships that he and his fellow Christ-followers have endured, he does not despair (cf. 6:4-8). He celebrates. He says, “To the world we may look like a sorry mess, but we rejoice! We may look poor, but see the richness of life we are giving to others! It may look like we’re dying—but see, we’re alive!” (cf. 6:8-10).

We all fall down. Each in our own way. But according to the words of Paul and to the body of Christ, falling down is not the end of life. If we let go and love, then our every fall—even our death—becomes in fact a blessing of new life.

Prayer

Christ of the cross,
We all fall down,
Each in our own way.
Teach us how to fall
Like you,
How to let go
And to love,
So that our every fall
Might be a blessing
Of new life.
Amen.

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[1] Henri J. M. Nouwen, Adam: God’s Beloved (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1997), 84.

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

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on February 26, 2017, Transfiguration Sunday)

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The Jesus Whom the Church Knows

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

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

The Jesus Whom the World Knew

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

“Listen to Him!”

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

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

Before Peter had followed Jesus up the mountain, the two of them had butted heads (Matt 16:21-26). Jesus had been anticipating his visit to Jerusalem, speaking strange words about death and resurrection, to which Peter had said, “This cannot happen!” But Jesus wouldn’t budge one bit. He proclaimed that only by losing yourself for others would you find yourself. He proclaimed the paradoxical gospel of death and new life, the good news of loss and more life.

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

Seeing the Dust That Covers Jesus for What It Really Is

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

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

Because Lent is about shedding ourselves of our own skin. Like Peter, we too often get in the way of Jesus. What we really need to do is get out of our own way, so that Jesus can show us the way. When Jesus starts talking about losing ourselves, dying to ourselves, death on a cross, we respond like Peter, saying, “This cannot happen!” But according to Jesus, this must happen if we are to have life. The glory is not in success and triumph, in gain and getting our own way. These things keep us focused on ourselves; they make us small. The glory is in the dust—in touching the untouchables, in keeping the company of outsiders, in welcoming strangers, in forgiving your enemies and persecutors. It is these little things that make us, and the world, as immeasurably grand as love itself.

I’ve been reading recently about a great scholar, Henri Nouwen, who used to teach theology in the ivory towers of our Ivy League institutions. In the twilight of his life, he changed direction drastically. He entered into community with the mentally handicapped. In particular, he shared life with Adam, a man who could do very little more than lift his own spoon. But Henri writes so spiritedly of this experience, declaring that Adam taught him more than any book or teacher ever did.[1] Adam showed him the way of a life where glory comes not in what you do or what you have or how you look to others. Glory comes in the little things that are shared together on the dusty surface of life, like eating breakfast together or washing up or walking together. Glory comes in the little things that incarnate God’s love and remind us we are loved simply for ourselves, and not for our achievements or appearance or possessions.

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

Prayer

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

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[1] Henri J. M. Nouwen, Adam: God’s Beloved (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1997).

The Way Love "Works" (Matthew 5:38-48)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on February 19, 2017, Epiphany VII)

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To Give Is to Get

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Today we call it revenge; the court of law calls it “retributive justice.” It’s the legal equivalent of Newton’s Third Law: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The principle of revenge goes back a long ways. Jesus is quoting from the law that Moses gave to the ancient Israelites, but in fact this principle goes back even further. About five hundred years before Moses, King Hammurabi and the ancient Babylonians were mutually gouging out eyes and knocking out teeth.

But Jesus is talking about more than revenge. Because “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” applies to more than fistfights and vigilante justice. It applies not only to bitter enemies but also to friends. Valentine’s Day, in fact, is a great illustration of this principle. And I’m not only thinking of a lovers’ vengeful quarrel, where inattention is met with silent treatment, “silence for silence,” or where one sarcastic remark is met with another, “insult for insult.” I’m thinking more about the common exchanges of Valentine’s Day: “card for card,” “gift for gift,” “kiss for kiss.” In each case, to give is to get. The truth of this principle becomes unmistakable in the case of unreturned love. When one person gives but never gets, there follows a profound feeling of error or failure, like the universe made a miscalculation. Something is wrong. It was not meant to happen this way.

Nickel Creek, a bluegrass band, sings a funny little song about this kind of scenario, and it goes like this: “Anthony, Anthony/ Oh, he said, he can’t love me, / but I think he can. / Yes, I think he can. / I told him that just before he ran, / just before he ran. / … And he’s not looking back. / He’s not looking back, / ‘cause he doesn’t want anything I have / or anything I am.”[1] In this tale of unreturned love, the girl feels so strongly that something is wrong, that she keeps telling herself, and eventually Anthony, that he ought to return her love. She feels entitled to it.

Nothing More than a Computer Program?

All of this to say, “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth” points not only to the principle of revenge, but also to the basic law that rules our relationships: to give is to get. Benefactors become benefiters. This is why big donors can expect to have their names inscribed on their donation, or to have a say in how their donation is used. When they give, the recipient feels indebted and must give back in some way.

Even in the case of anonymous gifts, or charity, to give is to get. The giver generally receives that warm and fuzzy feeling at having made a difference; beneath or behind that good feeling, the giver also often obtains a sense of superiority.

If we take a few steps back from this balance of giving and getting, of “like for like,” we begin to see that the world runs a bit like an account book. Whether it is friendship or hostility, each relationship maintains an equilibrium. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A hug for a hug, a kiss for a kiss.”

If that all sounds a bit somber or lifeless, like we’re nothing more than a computer program playing itself out, a bunch of ones and zeros forever balancing themselves—then here’s the good news: Jesus feels the same way. Jesus feels that there’s more to life than this giving and getting. Listen again to what he says, “If you love those who love you, what reward do you have? … And if you greet only your brothers and sisters, what more are you doing than others?” (5:46-47). In other words, if you give only when you’ll get back, where’s the life in that?

Love Crashes the Program of Giving and Getting

So what does Jesus do? In a word, he upsets the balance, he throws the accounts into disarray, and all with one wild variable: love. Not the worldly love, which only loves when it can be sure of a return, but God’s love, which rises on the evil as on the good, and rains on the righteous as on the unrighteous. God’s love—real love—throws everything off balance. It crashes our program of giving and getting, of “like for like,” and our robotic lives suddenly acquire a living color, a risky flesh. Real love confuses the ones and zeros of the world’s computer program and infuses us with life.

The rubber really meets the road, of course, when it comes to our enemies. Jesus’ examples are well known: turning the cheek, offering our cloak, going the extra mile, giving to any who beg. Each example confounds us. Instead of responding to injustice with a fight, or a complaint, or even a nonviolent protest, Jesus advocates responding with love. Not only is such a response unnatural. It also strikes us as wildly impractical.

Consider, for instance, how Thaddeus Stevens responded to Abraham Lincoln after the civil war. Lincoln was floating such crazy ideas as the ones that Jesus mentioned—ideas like forgiveness and reconciliation—and in reply, Thaddeus struck the table and exclaimed, “Mr. Lincoln! I think enemies ought to be destroyed!” One could hardly find a clearer expression of our coding, of our programmed response to the enemy. And one could hardly find a clearer understanding of Jesus and his foolish idea of love, than in Lincoln’s quiet response: “Mr. Stevens,” he said, “Do not I destroy my enemy when I make him my friend?”[2]

Similarly, I am reminded of a friend who once shared with me her strange and bold tactic for approaching strangers of whom she was frightened, folks who looked dangerous or disturbed. Instead of crossing the street, or turning the other way, she approaches them, looks them in the eye, and says as kindly and naturally as she can, “Hi, how’re you doing?” In many cases, she says, her greeting melts the perceived barrier or threat, and the other responds with more warmth than anticipated.

Love Does Not Work

But I have to stop myself here. Because it’s beginning to sound like love works. Like love is a weapon that disarms, or a tactic that defuses.[3] Love surely has such side-effects from time to time. But as Jesus discovers, love does not always win, at least not in the way we might hope for. Jesus knows full well what loving your enemies can get you: sneers, spit, nails, spears.[4] So I have to think that when Jesus invites us to love our enemies, he’s not talking about making a deal or driving a bargain. He’s not promising a return. He’s not saying that love is effective, that love will “work.” Inasmuch as we love with the motive that it works, that it accomplishes something, that it has a desired effect, love will never work. A love with a vested interest, a love with ulterior motives, a love designed to win friends and influence people, is no love at all. When love has a purpose up its sleeve, it is nothing more than a crafty way of getting what we want.

Love Is Without Why

All of that to say, love is uncalculating. It is “without why,” without good reason, for no reason other than itself. When love looks at another person, whether friend or enemy, it’s not looking for a return; it has eyes only for the holy and mysterious and beautiful image of God.

Last week at our Daytimers luncheon, Nancy invited us who were there into a fascinating discussion. She asked us a question from the Explore God program: “Does life have a purpose?” It’s the kind of question that can set your head spinning! I didn’t answer at the time, because I couldn’t untangle my own response. Part of me said, “Yes, of course,” but then another part of me, the part who had been pondering Jesus’ ludicrous and life-giving words in this scripture, said “I’m not so sure.”

In the light of today’s scripture, here is how I would respond: Life has as much purpose as a painting. If there is a single, unified, capital-P “Purpose,” then life is nothing more than a paint-by-numbers painting. It is like an imperial garden, planned out to the very stem and leaf, and nothing at all like the wild, unpredictable beauty of a mountain meadow.

But if God is love, and love is as uncalculating as Jesus says, then I think life’s purpose is not a program or a plan but a possibility. Life’s purpose is empty—as empty as a blank canvas. Life’s purpose is unplanned—as unplanned as a newborn child’s life. All this to say, the purpose of life is as vast and wide and unknowable as love. The purpose of life is not predetermined by an all-powerful man in the clouds. The purpose of life is a possibility of beauty and truth and goodness—a possibility that grows by love, much like a forest nourished by the indiscriminate love of rain and sunshine, much like a child nurtured by the unquestioning love of a parent.

Throw Away the Script

We have heard it said, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; a hug for a hug, a kiss for a kiss.” But Jesus says to us, Where’s the life in that? Where’s the life in following the script of this-for-that, like-for-like? That only “works” if we want to get what we’ve already got. Jesus says to us, If you want life, then throw away the script and love others as God loves you, without a card up your sleeve, without why, without a thought as to whether it will work. If you want life, then love others, friend and foe alike. Speak to them as a friend when they act as an enemy. Believe that they are good when they do bad. Hope new life for them even when they deserve none at all. When the time comes, carry your cross. And know that love is the strongest power of all, stronger even than death.

Prayer

Jesus,
Whose love
Leads us beyond
Bargains and balances
Into immeasurable life:
Upset our accounts today
And draw us into the way
Of the uncalculating, loving Father and Mother of us all.
Amen.

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[1] Nickel Creek, “Anthony”; written by Sara Watkins; track 9 on Why Should the Fire Die?

[2] Clarence Jordan, The Substance of Faith and Other Cotton Patch Sermons (ed. Dallas Lee; Eugene: Cascade, 2005; orig. New York: Association Press, 1972), 78.

[3] Jordan, The Substance of Faith, 78.

[4] Jordan, The Substance of Faith, 80.

More Life (Matthew 5:21-37)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on February 12, 2017, Epiphany VI)

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Missing Out on Life

You’re with a good friend on the way to a gathering of good friends, and you’re looking forward to it. You’re looking forward to the honest smiles, the natural flow of conversation, the mischievous jokes. You’re looking forward to catching up with people with whom you haven’t talked in a long time. You’re looking forward to dropping the mask that you wear most of the time, at work, at school, in the midst of strangers and acquaintances that you try to impress.

You’re looking forward to all of this, when your companion beside you in the car says something, or does something, that pushes one of your buttons. Maybe he revives an old, bitter argument. Maybe she questions something that is close and personal to you. Maybe it is simply suggested that you are wrong about something. Whatever it is, it rattles you. Annoys you. You don’t say anything, but the fire has been kindled. The offending words burn beneath your skin. Soon, what began as a minor irritation, grows and grows: first into a frustration, then into indignation, and finally it fans out into a full-blown anger.

The two of you arrive at the gathering of good friends, but you are little more than a shell of yourself for the evening. It’s like you’re on auto-pilot, like you’re sleepwalking, like you’re a well-programmed robot. You ask the right questions, respond with the appropriate responses, laugh at the funny and embarrassing stories.

But the truth is, you’ve checked out. Your body is there among friends, but your spirit has removed itself to a faraway place. You are dwelling alone in your anger—maybe imagining accusations against the friend who offended you, maybe hosting a bitter pity-party for yourself, maybe dreaming of retaliation.

One thing is for sure. You are missing out on life. Rather than relishing every word and savoring every smile, rather than yearning that the night would last a few more hours, you feel the burden of each passing minute, the pain each time you must force a smile or a laugh. This has somehow become the last place you want to be.

We’ve all been there. Jesus captures the feeling perfectly. This is not life. This, he says, is like being thrown into prison and not getting out until the anger has somehow been accounted for (cf. 5:26), until forgiveness and reconciliation have unlocked the shackles of resentment.

All of this to Jesus’ point: you don’t need to break the law to lose your life. Murder is not the only thing that robs us of life. Simply holding onto anger can do that.

Beyond the Letter of the Law

In last week’s scripture, Jesus proclaims that he comes not to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. In today’s scripture, we see just what he’s talking about. If we didn’t know any better, we might think he was questioning the law, challenging it, like a revolutionary, like our American forebears who disputed certain laws imposed by the British government. He keeps saying, “You have heard it said…but I say to you.” He keeps confronting the law with new words of his own.

I imagine if someone charged Jesus with contempt for the law, he would have denied the charge and in fact suggested the opposite. Because it’s not that Jesus isn’t taking the law seriously enough. On the contrary: he’s taking it more seriously than many of his fellow Judeans. While they’re merely attending to the letter of the law, he’s seeking out the spirit of the law. While they’re merely obeying, he’s fulfilling. For Jesus’ fellow Judeans, the law is the final word. The law draws boundaries around life. For Jesus, the law is a first word, an invitation into abundant life. Life is not meant to serve the law; the law is meant to serve life, to stir up life, to inspire life.

If Jesus is chipping away at the exterior of the law, it’s only so that he can get to the heart of it. He’s looking beyond the letter of the law to the life that it harbors and nourishes. He’s looking beyond the cold, hard gavel and handcuffs of the court to the warm, fragile lives that resist classification. If he picked up a newspaper in today’s world—where we measure death by the murder rates, marriage by divorce rates—I imagine he would point to these charts and say something like, “You measure life by numbers, but life is more than a biological fact or social statistic. Murder is not the only thing that robs us of life. Resentment and little grudges do that. Divorce is not the only thing that robs us of relationship. Lust does that well enough on its own.”

The Case of Divorce: 

Seeking Life behind the Law

Jesus’ words on divorce itself are particularly tough. It would be tempting to pass over them, to write them off as idealistic and impractical. But we needn’t be frightened. Jesus, remember, isn’t talking about the law in order to make life tougher or to impose punishments on us. He’s talking about the law in order to facilitate life, to fertilize life, to free up life. As we see in today’s Old Testament scripture, the law has always been about life. “See,” Moses says to the Israelites, as he gives them the law, “I have set before you today life and what is good, and death and what is bad” (Deut 30:15).

So let’s look a bit more closely at this difficult law on divorce. The ancient Jewish law allowed for a man to divorce his wife. The rabbis debated over the valid grounds for divorce: for some rabbis, an undercooked meal would have been enough reason. For other rabbis, only unchastity would justify it.

The Bible itself hosts an interesting conversation on the matter. There is no single voice, no unanimous decision, no divine decree from the clouds. Moses suggests it’s okay; Jesus suggests it’s not; and then Paul ends up somewhere in the middle, advocating it in select cases but not in others. So which voice is true?

Maybe that’s the wrong question to ask. To ask that question, I think, is to make the same mistake that many of Jesus’ fellow Judeans were making when they held rigidly to the letter of the ancient law rather than seeking the life behind it. For Jesus, life is not in service of the law; the law is in the service of life. And in his day, the law that allowed divorce so easily was depriving people of life. Some men were treating their marriages like a commodity, like a matter of convenience or advantage. The moment it became a burden, they simply dropped it. Thus Jesus isn’t so much challenging the act of divorce as he is the attitude with which men were marrying. The problem wasn’t divorce: it was the way that people were forfeiting relationship from the start, treating marriage as a matter of self-gain. When they looked at their spouses, they saw not the holy and mysterious image of God but the possibility of self-gain and satisfaction. They were cheating themselves and others out of life and all its joys and difficulties.

All that to say, to hold onto Jesus’ word on divorce as the black-and-white final word, is to make the same mistake that Jesus is warning against. To try to pin down Jesus is to focus on the wrong thing. It is the classic avoidance of responsibility: “I was only doing what I was told.” The truly responsible thing to do is to follow Jesus’ example, to search for the life behind the law, to seek out the goodness of life and relationship, even among the most difficult situations and decisions.

If You Could Have More Life, Would You?

Jesus fulfills the law not by following its letter but by freeing up the spirit of life within it. So rather than settling for a commandment against murder, which merely preserves biological life, Jesus invites us to watch out for anger that drains the real life from our relationships. Rather than settling for a commandment against adultery, which merely preserves the social order, Jesus invites us to watch out for lust, which consumes the inner life. Rather than settling for a commandment that anticipates divorce, and prepares for damage control, Jesus invites us to make unconditional commitments that deepen our relationships and enrich our life. Rather than settling for a commandment that anticipates deceitful speech, Jesus invites us to make our every word true and alive, so that our life together grows from a living responsibility to one another. In every case, Jesus fulfills the law, making it even truer to itself, which is to say, more life-giving.

At the heart of the law, then, is not a threat or a challenge. At the heart of the law is a heartbeat, and a gentle question:

If you could have more life, would you? I don’t mean more days or years, necessarily. I mean more laughter and tears, more gazes into the infinite depth of another’s eyes, more sacred silence, more steps along the wooded path. I mean more changed diapers, more hugs and touch and blessing, more shared meals, more whispered prayer. I mean more words that actually mean something, more holy hushes, more sanctification by starlight. I mean more love.

If you could have more life, would you?

Prayer

God who is always speaking
A new word
So that we may have abundant life—
Lead us beyond mere obedience
To what we have heard said;
As Christ fulfills the law,
So may he fill our hearts
With your desire for more life.
Amen.

Bringing Out the Flavor (Matthew 5:13-20)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on February 5, 2017, Epiphany V)

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Fight or Flight…

Ancient Judea in Jesus’ time would have looked a little bit like our world today. Social unrest and uncertainty plagued the Jewish people. Why? Because of the Roman Empire. The Roman Empire cast a shadow over just about every part of Jewish life: the ancient Judeans paid taxes to Rome; the Roman soldiers wandered their land at will; and there always lingered in the background the threat of imperial retaliation if the Judeans did anything amiss.

The Jewish people were divided about how to live their lives in such a world. On the one side were the militant nationalists, the folks who believed that God was waiting for them to take up arms, like in the stories of their ancestors. On the other side were the pious isolationists, the folks like the Pharisees who believed that they needed to get their hearts right with God, and eventually God would deal with Rome the way God dealt with any oppressor.

If we take a couple steps back from the situation, we can see that the ancient Judeans were acting out the typical response to danger or trouble: the “fight or flight” response. Some Judeans wanted to fight the problem head-on. Others wanted to flee from it, to find refuge in the comfort of a like-minded community. Perhaps the uncertainty that our nation faces today, leads to a similar response among us. On the one side are the fighters, the shouters, the willful folks who struggle over power. On the other side are the self-righteous, the wise guys, the folks who have all the answers but only ever talk to themselves because the other side wouldn’t really understand.

…Or Something Else Entirely?

Into such a world, Jesus comes and proclaims to those who would follow him, “You are the salt of the earth” (5:13). But what does that mean?[1] Is Jesus advocating the fight or the flight, or something entirely different? Another way of asking this question, might be to ask: What is the relation between salt and its world? How does salt get on with its fellow foodstuff?

Allow me to share my own experience of salt:

Ode to Salt

“Dear salt,

“You make french fries finger-licking good.

“Because of you, I chomp recklessly on my corn on the cob.

“I wouldn’t have thought caramel could be improved, but you improve it.

“I remember when my mom taught me to scramble eggs for the first time. Those eggs would have been nothing without you.

“You make a heavenly ham. (The town Smithfield is surely indebted to you.)

“You make a savory, slurp-worthy soup.

“You and vinegar make an exceptional duo.

“With your help, I was able to eat all those vegetables my mom insisted I eat.

“There’s hardly a food that can’t be improved with a touch of your divine stuff.

“Once when I was younger, I thought you were so good that I could eat you all by yourself. But I discovered the opposite. You are not so good on your own. What you’re good at, is making other foods better. Making them more themselves. You draw out their natural flavors. You unlock their hidden tastes.”

Salt: Not Self-Superior, But Selfless

That is my personal ode to salt. I imagine you could write one yourself. Chances are, it would sound similar. Of course, your ode might feature some different foods: pretzels, beef, potato chips…margaritas? I don’t know! The salient point is, your ode would not praise salt alone. It would praise salt for the many other foods that salt enhances. It would give glory to God not solely for salt, but for all the many salted foods that you enjoy.

All this to say, salt is rather selfless. It cannot claim glory for itself. It can only reveal the glory of other foods. You’re probably familiar with the advertising formula: “We didn’t invent the product, we just made it better.” A similar slogan could be said of salt: “Salt didn’t invent any food, but just a touch of it can make almost any food better.”

When we look at ancient Judea, or our own world, we see plenty of folks who think their way is simply better than any other way. Whether they fight against others, or take flight and seclude themselves in the comfort of their own kind, they do it with a sense of superiority. Even if they are facing dark times, they maintain a triumphal tone.

In fact, Christians have even interpreted today’s scripture in such a self-superior, triumphal way. All that talk about being “the light of the world,” being “a city built on a hill,” has been taken to mean that we are the world’s savior, whether the world knows it or not. But I’m not sure that’s what Jesus is saying.

I don’t think Jesus is proclaiming that his followers are better than everyone else, but rather that his followers have a responsibility. Light does not rule or conquer or reign superior to other elements of the world. It gives itself to the world; it enables and empowers. It shows the beauty of other things. Salt is not a food enjoyed alone; it is not a food that can claim superiority over other foods. It gives itself to the world of food; it enhances and enriches. It showcases the wonderful tastes of other foods. It brings out their naturally good flavors.

Losing Ourselves, Finding Ourselves

What does this mean, though, for people who are light and salt? Are they nothing more than a function, a role, a task? Do they have no identity themselves? Perhaps that’s what the disciples are wondering, because Jesus follows these metaphors with a word of explanation. “Don’t think I’m doing away with the scriptures,” he says, referring to the law and the prophets that tell the distinct history and identity of the people of Israel. “I’m not abolishing them but fulfilling them.” In other words, he’s suggesting to his followers that their identity—told in all its glorious detail in the prophets and the laws of their ancestors—is not erased in being salt and light. Rather, it is somehow fulfilled.

On the face of it, this is confusing stuff. Although Jesus demonstrates a deep respect for the traditions of his ancestors, he and his followers will occasionally disregard them. Thus he will later choose to heal on the Sabbath, which some will consider a transgression of the law; but for Jesus, life is more important than the letter of a law. So which is it, Jesus? Are you for the law or against it?

Jesus responds with a hearty “Yes” to the law—even going so far as to say that only when we follow the law with all our heart will we find the kingdom, and ourselves in it (cf. 5:20). Over the next few chapters, though, we discover that Jesus interprets the law differently than many of his fellow Judeans. He interprets the law not according to its letter but according to the spirit that inspired it. And what inspires the law, according to Jesus, is love. All of the law hangs on two commandments, he will later say: Love God and love each other (cf. Matt 22:37-40).

It is this love, I think, that gives us our saltiness. For love brings out the natural flavors of our world. Love believes and hopes in the greatness of each different taste. And love is patient, bearing and enduring all things, knowing that the best flavors take time.

In a world that lives by “fight or flight,” Jesus calls us to neither. We’re not called to win, to triumph, to overpower all the other tastes in the world. We’re not even called to be right, to think ourselves the best flavor out of all the flavors. We’re called to be salt, to be sprinkled all over the world, bringing out the natural goodness in our neighbors as in our enemies.

To be salt is to lose ourselves for the sake of other flavors. And according to Jesus, it is only in doing so that we will find ourselves (cf. Matt 10:39)—and a whole new world.

Prayer

Inspiring God,
Whose love draws out
Our deepest and best flavors;
Whose light illumines
The beauty in all creation;
Even as we savor your love,
So may we share it
Among the dullest and darkest places.
Amen.

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[1] Salt would have been a rich metaphor in Jesus’ time even as it is today. In the ancient world, salt was used to flavor foods and to preserve them; it was also rubbed on newborn children, sprinkled on sacrifices, used to seal covenants. Cf. Kathryn Matthews, “Letting the Light Through,” http://www.ucc.org/weekly_seeds_letting_the_light_through, accessed February 1, 2017.

Kingdom Manifesto (Matthew 5:1-12)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on January 29, 2017, Epiphany IV)

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Sunday School and the Ten Commandments

My chief memory of Sunday School consists not of the lessons we learned or the verses we memorized. What I remember most are the crafts that we did. Popsicle sticks. Pipe cleaners. Toilet paper cardboard rolls. Macaroni. Socks. You name it, we probably used it in Sunday School.

I still have a number of these crafted masterpieces. Some go up on the family Christmas tree each year. Others of them are tucked away in my childhood Bible. One craft that we did on several occasions—and so I have several duplicates—is a Bible bookmark. Can you guess what was on that bookmark?

The Ten Commandments.

I wonder, why were these bookmarks always the Ten Commandments, and not some other Bible verse? A couple reasons immediately spring to my mind. First, the Ten Commandments can almost all be captured in just two or three words—“don’t steal,” “don’t lie,” “honor your parents”—so it’s easy to display them on a paper imitation of the two stone tablets where Moses wrote them. Second, and perhaps more significantly: what better reminder for a bunch of rowdy church children to behave, than a replica of the Ten Commandments staring up at them through their Bibles?

The Ten Commandments: 

A Me-First Manifesto?

But now that I look back on it, having lived through the culture wars of the last few decades, I wonder if there weren’t perhaps a deeper reason for the popularity of these Ten Commandment bookmarks. For many people, the Ten Commandments were more than ten very important laws; they were a flag to wave, a line to draw in the sand, a mark of religious identity. To display the Ten Commandments was another way of saying, I’m a Christian.

Which is a bit odd, I think. What about the Ten Commandments distinguishes us as Christ-followers? Jesus doesn’t say, “Don’t kill.” He says, “Watch out for anger in your heart.” Jesus doesn’t say, “Don’t commit adultery.” He says, “Don’t lust.”

The Ten Commandments originally signified a holy relationship between the people of Israel and God. They were sort of like the wedding ring that God and the people of Israel wore on their fingers, marking their commitment. But I’m afraid that, in today’s world, the Ten Commandments have been hijacked by our me-first culture. If you think about it, the Ten Commandments now pass as a rather good manifesto of our modern world, where what matters most is what’s yours: your money, your property, your good name. “Don’t steal,” “don’t give false witness,” “don’t covet,” “don’t murder”—these laws are self-evident to anyone who fears losing what they have acquired and earned and achieved.

In today’s world, the Ten Commandments have become laws that protect and preserve the way things are. Is that how the kingdom of God will come on earth as it is in heaven?

The Beatitudes:

Pointing toward Goodness 

Not according to Jesus in today’s scripture….

Last week, Jesus called his disciples. This week, he prepares them for the adventure of faith that lies ahead. I think of today’s scene a little bit like a locker room huddle. The disciples have put on their uniforms; they’re ready to take the field. But before they do that, Jesus sits down, and they gather around him in a holy huddle. At this point, we might be expecting them all to put in a hand and give an enthusiastic shout, “One, two, three—go God!” But instead we get something very different.

In our translation, it looks like Jesus is giving his disciples a lesson in holiness, a sort of “sainthood for dummies.” Sort of like he’s saying, if you really want to excel out there, to raise your game, to play your best, here’s what you need to do.

But this is where, I think, our translation lets us down a little bit. That word “blessed” elevates Jesus’ message to the playing field of angels and saints, monks and nuns. We read this passage as a list of heavenly ideals, which allows us who live in the real world to settle sometimes for a lower, more practical way. Being meek and merciful is great if you’re living in a sheltered community of like-minded brothers and sisters, but to be that way in the dog-eat-dog world of business and politics would just be silly.

If we read this passage in the original Greek, though, the heavenly elevator drops beneath our feet and we find ourselves plummeting to solid, earthy soil. The word with which Jesus blesses is not a religious word, a holy term of consecration. It is a worldly word, an everyday word, makarios, a word that means something more like “good for him or her.” It’s the sort of word you would use to describe someone who is in a good place. Someone’s just gotten engaged? Good for him. Someone’s just received a college degree? Good for her. A couple has just had their first child? Good for them!

All this to say, Jesus isn’t giving his disciples a crash course in sainthood. He’s not raising the bar for those who want to take their faith to the next level. He’s plainly pointing to where the goodness already is in this world.

The Kingdom of a Fool and a Weakling

And look to where he’s pointing. If you asked the world where is the goodness of life, it would probably say: “Good for them who are content with what they have, who have a happy family, who sit at a fully furnished dinner table; good for them who dwell in a comfortable home, who have secured their future, whose strength always wins out.” But Jesus points in the opposite direction. Good for them whose spirits are empty, whose faces are tear-stained, he says; good for them whose hands are unguarded and childlike, whose hearts are simple.

It’s just like Paul says in our other scripture today (1 Cor 1:18-31). Jesus is a fool and a weakling. He does not proclaim the goodness of power and achievement, might and material. He proclaims the goodness of the nobodies and the nothings, “the things that are not.”

For Jesus, the kingdom of God has already breached our world, but it is not where the world would expect a kingdom: the goodness of the kingdom is here where there is need and lack; it is here in the shadows of possibility and potential. The kingdom dwells in prayers and promises, in starry hopes and unseen visions—which is to say, in all the places that are empty enough to welcome it. The kingdom comes not where we are content and well rested and self-assured, where we are ready to put up our feet and call it a good day. It comes where we are restless and risky and hopeful, where we are spooked and haunted by the holy possibility of something more. The kingdom of God is not coming by way of world leaders or CEOs or pop stars, whose lives are consumed with protecting and preserving their own kingdoms, but by way of people who claim no kingdom of their own: by way of hearts that are hungry, fists that unfold into helping hands, spirits that are always seeking, eyes that see the best possibilities in the worst realities.

From the Ten Commandments to the Beatitudes

The Ten Commandments make a lot of sense to the modern world, because the modern world hears in them the promise of protection and preservation. “Don’t take my stuff,” “don’t even get any ideas about my stuff,” “don’t say anything bad about me”—above all, “don’t take my life.”

I wonder then: when we enshrine these words in the halls of our courts of justice, what are we really saying? Are we proclaiming the kingdom of God? Or the kingdom that we have built and acquired and secured for ourselves?

The Ten Commandments seem so obvious, so commonsensical, and the Beatitudes so strange, because we generally live by the rule of self-interest. We can appreciate the Ten Commandments because they protect our interests and preserve our life. But Jesus goes beyond them, because his interest is the kingdom of God, where life is not something to protect or preserve, but something to seek out and something to share, something to sow and something to grow.

What would it look like, I wonder, if the Beatitudes adorned the halls of our courts of justice? How crazy would it be if the poor-spirited and humble were lifted up in our halls of power? If ever such a day were to come, then, I imagine, would we have relinquished our own small kingdoms for the kingdom of God.

“Good Adventure” to You

Letting go of what we have so that we might welcome the kingdom of God is not easy. But it is good. It is a good risk, a good leap of faith, a good adventure.

Which is exactly what the Spanish translation of today’s scripture beautifully and prophetically proclaims. Bienaventurados. “Good adventure.” Good adventure to you who have nothing, to you who have given away what you have, to you who have lost and are losing. Good adventure to you, for you are open to a new way, a better way. Good adventure to you, for you more than anyone are on the cusp of life; you stand at the trailhead of the kingdom.

Prayer

Lord of the lowly,
God of “the things that are not,”
Whose power is neither might nor material—
Lead us on the good adventure
Into your kingdom.
Grant us the poverty of spirit
That finds riches only
In love for the other. Amen.

God of Goodbyes (Matthew 4:12-23)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Sunday Worship on January 22, 2017, Epiphany III)

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A Faith Full of Farewells

For many religious folks, faith is another word for the familiar. Faith means the same seat in church, the same friendly faces every week, the same routine of worship.

But when I read the Bible, I get the sneaking suspicion that we have domesticated faith. Because in the Bible, faith is not the assurance of the familiar. Quite the opposite. In the Bible, faith always seems to be waving farewell to the familiar. Faith is always saying goodbye to what is safe and secure.

Abraham, the legendary ancestor of three world religions, begins his journey of faith when he hears God’s call. And God’s call is simple: “Leave your country and your family and your home” (cf. Gen 12:1). So Abraham waves farewell to all that he knows and strikes out into the wilderness, traveling to God knows where.

Like father, like son. Abraham’s children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren also live a life full of farewells. The Bible calls them all sojourners, which means that they are always strangers in a strange land, always leaving one place and journeying to another. When Pharaoh asks Jacob how many are the years of his “life,” Jacob responds by saying, “The years of my wandering are one hundred thirty” (Gen 47:8-9).[1] For Jacob, life is defined by wandering, by leaving one place after another.

Before the story in today’s scripture, Jesus himself has said plenty of farewells. First he must say farewell to his manger in Bethlehem: for he and his parents must flee to Egypt when King Herod discovers about Jesus and flies into a rage. Later they say farewell to Egypt and return to a different town in Israel. And then just before today’s scripture, Jesus hears the call of God and is led into the wilderness, after which he will journey for the rest of his life as one who has no home—as one who has “nowhere to lay his head” (Matt 8:20).

If Jesus’ life has anything to say about it, faith is full of farewells.

Farewell to Safety and Security

That is certainly the case for Peter and Andrew, James and John, in today’s scripture.

When Jesus calls Peter and Andrew, they leave behind their nets, which is to say, they say farewell to their livelihood. In first century Galilee, the fishing industry had a wide market. Fishing may not have been the most glamorous of lifestyles, but it was solid and certain. It would have put bread—and fish—on the table. For Peter and Andrew to leave behind their nets, is no less than to leave behind their life.

James and John leave behind their father. Scripture commonly calls James and John “the sons of Zebedee,” which suggests to me that their family heritage is important—and perhaps even that they are particularly close to their father. Indeed, when Jesus calls James and John, they are with whom else but their dad.

If I’m being honest, it’s this part of the story that upsets me the most. I know that James and John are going to leave, as Peter and Andrew just did. I know that they are going to make a big sacrifice; Peter and Andrew left behind the security of work, James and John are going to leave behind the safety of family. But there’s not one mention, not even a hint, of a tearful goodbye or a long hug. James and John simply leave the boat—and their father in it. (A goodbye like this would be an unspeakable sin in my mother’s book.)

If It Were I

And so I have to wonder: did it really happen like this? Do Peter and Andrew, James and John, say farewell to safety and security so easily, so abruptly, without a look over the shoulder, without a hint of regret or worry? Perhaps so.

But I like to think that maybe our storyteller, Matthew, is just getting ahead of himself. Maybe he wants to get to the good stuff, the adventure of Jesus’ life, and so he rushes through this opening scene breathlessly, failing to mention some of the details. Maybe before Peter and Andrew leave, they first give their nets to some of their fishing buddies and let them know that they’ll be taking an indefinite leave of absence. Maybe James and John really do give their father a gruff hug before leaving him alone in the boat.

I wonder: how would it have looked if it had been us in the fishing boat? If it were I there, I know things would have looked a bit different. In fact, I imagine it would have looked a lot more like the beginning of another adventure, a story with which many of us may be familiar….

The Hobbit Who Left His Hobbit Hole

Bilbo Baggins was standing just outside his door, enjoying the morning, when a man in a long, grey cloak approached. After exchanging pleasantries—for everyone knows that there is little a hobbit enjoys more than small talk—the grey man said what Jesus said: Follow me. Except—he said it a bit differently.

“I am looking,” he said, “for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it’s very difficult to find anyone.”

Unlike Peter or Andrew, James or John, Bilbo did not immediately say farewell to his life. No self-respecting hobbit would up and leave for an adventure. Instead, he responded: “Sorry! I don’t want any adventures, thank you. Not today. Good morning! But please come to tea—any time you like! Why not tomorrow? Come tomorrow! Good bye!”

Now if their conversation had ended there, there would be no epic tale. No The Hobbit. No The Lord of the Rings. But things do not end there. The next day, the grey wizard Gandalf returns, and with him an entire troupe of dwarves, ready to set out on an adventure. As the dwarves whisper tales and sing songs of danger and triumph and glory, something strange happens inside Bilbo. For a glimmer of a moment, the prospect of new life captivates him. As the storyteller puts it: “Something…woke up inside him, and he wished to go and see the great mountains, and hear the pine-trees and the waterfalls, and explore the caves.”

But it’s only for a moment. Before too much longer has passed, the hobbit’s good sense returns, and he demands some assurances, similar to the ones I think we might demand: “First I should like to know a bit more about things,” he says. “‘I should like to know about risks, out-of-pocket expenses, time required and remuneration, and so forth’—by which he meant: ‘What am I going to get out of it? and am I going to come back alive?”[2]

An Adventure with Risk and Danger…and Life

He takes some convincing, but eventually Bilbo says goodbye to the familiarity and comfort his hobbit-hole. Never does he receive a guarantee of safety or security or survival. Quite the opposite, in fact: this is a journey filled with risk and danger. He is stepping foot into a most incredible adventure, where he will encounter trolls and wolves, elves and giant spiders, and the most fearsome of all, a fire-breathing dragon. And yet it is also an adventure where he will live more abundantly than ever before: trusting in strangers, forgiving quarrelsome companions, hoping against hope in the darkest of situations. By saying goodbye to the safety and security of the familiar, Bilbo—for the first time in his life—comes to life.

I wonder if the same might not be said for the disciples in today’s scripture. When Jesus says, “Follow me,” he doesn’t promise them a safe journey. Quite the opposite: when they say goodbye to the life they know, they will be stepping foot onto a most incredible adventure, filled with risk and danger and ultimately a cross. But it is on this adventure of faith that they will also find abundant life through some of the strangest experiences, like loving their enemies and welcoming strangers and trusting in a leader who leads them into the darkest of valleys and beyond.

Blessed Be the Ones Who Let Their Blessings Go

Life is a curious thing. As Jesus says elsewhere in scripture, if we seek to hold onto life, to preserve it in safety and security, we actually lose our life. But if we say goodbye to the life we know, if we strike out onto the path of faith, which is also a path of risk and danger, there we may actually find life, new life, the life of a holy adventure.

In our culture, “goodbye” is generally a sad word. It means loss. It means the end. But as I reflect on the experience of the disciples, who say goodbye to their work and their family, and also Bilbo Baggins, who says goodbye to his homey hobbit hole, I cannot help but think that “goodbye” might also be a good word, a word of hope, a word of promise.

I don’t think this means we must literally say “goodbye” to our family or our work, but rather that we must say “goodbye” to the life that these and other things bring us, in the faith that there is always more life ahead. Faith means we are in the habit of saying “goodbye” wherever we are, because we’re also in the habit of following God somewhere new. Our God is a God of “goodbyes” because our God is also a God of new life.

And so for us Christ-followers, the word “goodbye” takes the form of a paradox. If we were to put it into the shape of a beatitude, we might say, “Blessed be the ones who lets their blessings go.”

Perhaps the easiest way of remembering the good news and blessing of this word, “goodbye,” is to remember what it actually means. “Goodbye” is a contraction of a longer phrase: “God be with ye.” At the heart of every “goodbye,” then, is God, who goes with us and invites us ever forward onto the road of faith, the holy adventure that goes ever, ever on.

Prayer

God of holy adventure,
Loosen our lips
To say “goodbye,”
Whether we are confronted with loss,
Or we are comfortable and content;
May we like the disciples
Leave behind our life
In order to follow you into new life.
In the name of him who had no place to lay his head, Jesus Christ.
Amen.

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[1] Literally, “the years of my sojourn.”

[2] J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit (New York: Ballantine, 1997), 4-22. All narration and dialogue taken from the novel are enclosed within quotation marks.