Untitled (Luke 10:38-42)

Talking about Food Versus Eating It

Growing up in the church, I learned to approach the Bible as a source of information. The Bible told me about God. The purpose of reading it was to gain knowledge.

There’s nothing wrong with approaching the Bible this way. But there is a lot lost if this is the only way we read the Bible. Reading the Bible for knowledge about God is a very modern approach, and it has a scientific feel about it. Science divides the world up into objects that can be studied. There is the subject, us, and then there is the object, which is under the microscope or behind a glass exhibit. Science requires a certain distance between us and the object of study. It presumes that the object is separate from us and can be observed in its entirety. The result of this approach, then, is that we treat God as an object, as a thing that is distinct from us, as a thing that we can comprehend in its entirety and perhaps even master—instead of treating God as an experience, a relationship, a mystery in which we live and move and have our being.

Imagine with me a group of people who think they love food. They see a feast, and immediately they start talking about it. They talk about the chefs who prepared it and the recipes that may have been employed; they speculate and debate about the ingredients that were used and the cooking instruments and various methods; they share theories and they debate and they proclaim the greatness of this food, until their mouths are positively watering. But imagine that they do not eat the food themselves. What a sad scene it would be. There they are, proclaiming the greatness of this food right in front of them, yet they remain starving. They might know all about the food, but they have not tasted it, experienced it, enjoyed it.

Reading the Bible for knowledge is a little bit like talking about food instead of eating it. It’s like trying to God see through a microscope, instead of encountering God in the mystery of one’s own life. It’s like reading romance novels but never entering the risk of a real relationship.

Lectio Divina

Since the beginning of the Christian tradition, followers of Christ have read scripture in a much fuller and more profound way. They have not read it for information, but rather transformation. They have not read it for analysis, but for experience. They have read it with the expectation that they would personally encounter the God of all the universe, and that this God would speak to them and embrace them and guide them.

In the 12^th century, a monk named Guigo (“Guy”) the Second offered a helpful tool for reading scripture this way. The tool is called lectio divina, or “divine reading,” and I’d like to share it with you today as we read our gospel scripture, which is Luke 10:38-42.

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

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

1.     Now I will read our scripture a first time. Listen for a word that catches your attention, that beckons to you, that makes a special impression on you. Don’t analyze why it draws your attention. Simply abide with it, and let it settle within you. I will leave one minute after the reading for you to identify the word and to sit with it.

[Read scripture. Afterward, wait one minute.]

If you choose, I invite you now to turn to a neighbor (or two, if you happen to be in a clump), and share the word.

2.     Now listen as our scripture is read a second time. This time, allow your word to unfold or grow. Notice any images, feelings, or memories that emerge in association with your word. I will leave one minute after the reading before inviting you to share with your neighbor.

[Read scripture. Afterward, wait one minute.]

If you choose, turn to a neighbor (or two, if you happen to be in a clump), and briefly, in one or two sentences, simply name the feelings, images, or memories that emerged.

3.     Now listen as our scripture is read for a third and final time. This time, reflect on your word and its unfolding, and consider how God may be speaking through it to you. Is God inviting you to something, calling you, challenging you, asking you a question, declaring something to you? How is God speaking to you through your word? I will leave one minute after the reading before inviting you to share with your neighbor.

[Read scripture. Afterward, wait one minute.]

If you choose, turn to a neighbor (or two, if you happen to be in a clump), and briefly, in one or two sentences, simply name how you sense God’s call through your word.

4.     The practice of lectio divina concludes with resting in God’s presence.

I will invite us, then, to pray silently in response to God’s personal call. There is no right or wrong way to pray here. Just be honest with God. Maybe you’ll share your feelings, maybe you’ll ask for help, maybe you’ll express your gratitude…or maybe you have nothing to say. When you’re finished praying, rest in God’s embrace. In one minute, I will say a short blessing to conclude.

Loving God, keep us rooted and grounded in your love, and in your call to us.
In Christ: Amen.

Meditation:

Sitting While Not Sitting

I would like to share with you the word that grabbed my attention. It was the word “sat.” Mary “sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to what he was saying” (10:39). It reminds me of today’s psalm, which proclaims, “I am like a green olive tree in the house of God. I trust in the steadfast love of God forever and ever” (Ps 52:8). I imagine the psalmist sitting, rooted and grounded in God’s presence.

I wonder: Was Martha wrong not to sit? Was she wrong to stand, to move about, to have her hand among the many tasks of hosting a guest?

In the previous passage in Luke, Jesus tells a story about a good Samaritan who was very active in caring for the beaten and robbed man on the roadside. Caring for others is not wrong. Today’s passage begins by saying that Martha cared for Jesus the way any good host would care for a traveler. She “welcomed” him (10:38). Martha was not wrong to be up and about. Food must be cooked if empty stomachs are to be filled. Places must be prepared if weary souls are to find rest.

It is only when Martha becomes resentful and requests that Jesus rebuke her sister that Jesus gently invites her into his presence. He expresses concern not for the hustle and bustle of her hand but for the hurt and hard feelings in her heart. “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing” (10:41-42).

The divine call that I hear in this story is not an invitation to physically sit in contemplation like Mary, but rather to live out my responsibilities like Martha all the while remaining present to God. What I hear in this story is this:

There is a way to sit even when I’m not sitting.
A way to sit while I’m walking, working, talking, thinking.
This way of sitting is not the absence of activity.
It is activity that is fully present.

This way of sitting while not sitting is activity without an agenda.
It does not try to be productive or successful.
It tries to be faithful.

This way of sitting while not sitting is attentive.
It hears the words that are spoken.
It sees what is not spoken.
It knows the needs of a situation.

This way of sitting while not sitting is certainty—
Not certainty with the head,
But certainty with the heart;
Not the certainty of knowledge,
But the certainty of commitment.
It knows the peace of God that surpasses all understanding (Phil 4:7).
It knows the love of Christ that surpasses all knowledge (Eph 3:19).

There is a way to sit while I’m walking, working, talking, thinking.

Prayer

Loving God, let us be like a green olive tree in your house.
Keep us rooted and grounded in your love, and in your call to us.
In Christ: Amen.

One Who Draws Near (Luke 10:25-37)

 

A Good Neighbor

The friendliest neighbor I ever had was Richard. I was living at the time with several other research students in a terraced house in the hills of Sheffield, England. Two of us would regularly drink an early morning coffee just outside the back door, as the sun rose over the valley. Richard would often pop out and have something interesting to say. We learned over the course of time that Richard was a bit of a hippie back in the day and boasted an extensive collection of Bob Dylan’s records. We learned that he had a granddaughter of whom he was very proud. And we learned that he was suspicious of the university students who were renting all over his neighborhood.

Of course, we were university students ourselves. But we were different, he said. We were good neighbors. What he meant, I think, was that we did not throw loud parties, we spoke the same language that he did, we had the same color skin, and we drew from a similar cultural heritage and could appreciate together the finer things in his life—like his record collection. In other words, a good neighbor (according to Richard) is someone who lives near to us and someone who is rather like us.

When the lawyer in today’s passage asks Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?” I think what he’s really asking is, “How far must my love extend? To the students next door who throw loud parties? To the people down the street who speak a different language? To people who have different stories and traditions—who cannot appreciate my record collection?” Must I care for them the same way I would care for my own? Where’s the line?

“It's a Trap!”

Luke tells us the lawyer was “testing” Jesus, which suggests his question may have been a trap, intended to make Jesus say something that would ruin his reputation. Perhaps the lawyer had earlier heard Jesus say something about loving your enemies, and he wanted to see if Jesus would follow that statement through to its ultimate logical heresy. Would Jesus actually say, “Yes, you must care for the oppressive Roman soldiers who regularly spill Israelite blood the way you would care for your grandmother”? Or “Yes, you must care for the greedy tax collectors who bleed you dry the way you would care for your own children”? It would be like, today, if Jesus visited America and a Christian asked him, “What about undocumented migrants? How must I love them? Or what about Antifa—or the Proud Boys—or the Capital rioters—or Black Lives Matter?” If Jesus were simply to say, “Yes, they are your neighbors, you must care for them as you would your own family, no exceptions, no ifs ands or buts,” then Jesus might well find himself on his way to another crucifixion.

A Neighbor Is as a Neighbor Does

If the lawyer’s question is a trap, then Jesus deftly sidesteps it the way he regularly does: he tells a story. Like all his stories, this one does not answer any questions, but rather turns things around and puts the listener in question.

The lawyer assumes that neighborliness is a matter of identity. He essentially asks Jesus, “Who’s in? Who’s out? Is it a matter of ethnicity? Religion? Politics? Just tell us how far our love must extend.” But through his story, Jesus transforms neighborliness from a matter of identity to a matter of behavior. The priest and the Levite are both meant to be model Israelite citizens, holy in all their conduct. Yet when they see a fellow Israelite half-dead on the side of the road, they move away from him. They may be neighbors in the common sense of the word, but they do not act like it at all. Then there’s a Samaritan—and suffice it to say, Samaritans were considered enemies by many Israelites due to historical differences of culture and religion. This Samaritan, Jesus says, draws “near” to the Israelite and cares extensively for him. He’s not a neighbor in the traditional sense of the word, but he acts like one.

When Jesus reaches the end of the story, he has not answered the lawyer’s question. He doesn’t say, “Your neighbor is of the same race, or the same religion,” or anything like that. Instead, he asks the lawyer, “Who in this story was the neighbor?” The lawyer cannot even bring himself to say the name of “Samaritan.” He can only identify the man by his action: “The one who showed…mercy” (Luke 10:37). And thus Jesus has changed the definition of neighbor from what a person is to how a person acts. A neighbor is as a neighbor does. A neighbor is not someone who is near (such as the person who lives next door), but someone who draws near.

Whatever Distances Us

There’s a part of me that really wishes Jesus had shared why the priest and Levite do not draw near, why they actually do the opposite and go to the “other side” of the road (Luke 10:31-32). Some commentators suggest that they were afraid the man was dead; if they touched him, they would be rendered ritually impure for seven days and unable to fulfill their services at the temple. I think this is unlikely, as they were actually leaving Jerusalem and thus had just finished their temple service. Seven days of ritual impurity would not have been a problem for them.

Why else, then, would these model Israelites shirk their duty of love and compassion? Your guess is as good as mine. They were both men of considerable importance in the community. Maybe they were on their way to teach Torah at their local synagogue, to visit the sick and dying in their community, or to resolve a legal dispute at the town gate. And maybe they were afraid of committing to yet another responsibility that would threaten to eat up their calendar. Maybe they rationalized that there were plenty of passers-by, and someone else would offer aid soon enough. Whatever their motivation is, I think Jesus keeps it hidden on purpose. He knows that his audience—us as much as the lawyer—wants to justify itself. As soon as we know what the priest and Levite’s motivation is, we can begin to justify how we are different than them, how if we ever avoid the needful it is for better reasons than theirs. By keeping silent about the priest’s and Levite’s motivation, Jesus invites us simply to identify with them, to accept that we too have crossed to the other side of the street.

There are many things that might distance us from those in need, that keep us from drawing near to them and acting as a neighbor. The boardgame Monopoly sheds some surprising light on the anti-neighborly forces in our world. Growing up, my family rarely played Monopoly...primarily because my mom said it turned it my dad into a different person! She might feel validated to learn that her experience has actually been documented by a social psychologist who ran an experiment with the game Monopoly and observed “dramatic” behavioral changes in the players who were winning. In the experiment, the game was rigged so that a randomly selected individual would be given all sorts of advantages, including more mobility and more money. Time and again, this privileged individual exhibited behavioral changes that seemed antagonistic to the other players: they talked louder, their movements were more forceful, and they assumed more arrogant postures and conduct (including hogging all the pretzels).[1]

Elsewhere in the gospel of Luke, Jesus tells a story about a rich man and a beggar who lived beside him. But the proximity counted for nothing. The rich man ignored the beggar. The implication of the story is simple: money can create an unbridgeable chasm between people who live side-by-side. But not just money. Throughout the gospel of Luke, Jesus acknowledges a host of “cares” that can distance us from the needful, including religion (e.g., 6:6-11), social status (e.g., 9:46-48), heritage (e.g., 9:49-50), and even our own family (e.g., 9:61-62; 14:26). The point of the parable of the good Samaritan is to demolish the conditions of identity that distance us from others, and to invite us unconditionally into deeds of mercy for whoever is in need. To love our neighbor is to draw near to the needful, to make them our neighbors. The lawyer asks Jesus for information about who a neighbor is, but instead of giving him information, Jesus invites transformation. Make yourself a neighbor to everyone—no conditions, no questions.

What Draws Us Near and Gives Us Life

The parable of the good Samaritan begins with the lawyer’s question, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” which is to say, the life that is full and abundant and worth living. Jesus answers, Love God, love your neighbor. “Do this, and you will live,” which is to say, you will live an abundant life, fuller and more meaningful than anything you can imagine or foresee.

What follows in Jesus’ parable is a suggestion of what keeps us from others, and what draws us near to them. Riches, social standing, nationality, religion, family pressures—all these may distance us from others. In so doing, they distance us from God and abundant life. What draws us near to others? In this parable, the doorway to neighborliness is not virtue or achievement or any standard of greatness. It is the opposite. It is weakness and woundedness. Jesus says that when the Samaritan sees the half-dead Israelite, he is “moved with pity” (10:33). He does not see an Israelite, a heretic, an enemy, someone who speaks in a different dialect and worships on a different mountain. Rather, he sees something closer to home: a wounded body. As an enemy Samaritan in Israelite territory, he would be familiar with the experience of being beaten and bruised, if not physically, then at the very least verbally and emotionally.  When he sees this man, whose body has been wrecked, his own body churns within him. He can identify with the wounds of this man. And so he draws near and becomes his neighbor.

It is a paradox of our faith. In our weakness, is strength—the strength of God’s love and mercy. It cuts through all the barriers we might set up, whether language, or skin color, or nationality, or record collection, or sexual orientation, or income, or religion. Those conditions can determine an awful lot in our world, including who gets a loan for a house in the nice neighborhood, who gets a promotion or a pay raise, who really belongs in a church, and so on. But those conditions of identity say nothing about God’s mercy. In Christ, God knows the weakness and woundedness of every human, identifies with all of us in our brokenness, and shows us mercy. In Christ, God draws near to us and makes himself our neighbor. And in Christ, we are called to do the same for others.

Prayer

Merciful God,
In Christ, you show us
Who a neighbor really is.
You draw near to us
In our woundedness.
Help us to see beyond the constructs of identity
That distance us from others…
Help us to see the wounds of others
Who live in our neighborhood, our workplace, our city.
Help us to identify with their wounds,
That we might make ourselves their neighbors
And know the fullness of life.
In Christ, whose kingdom is our neighborhood. Amen.

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[1] https://planetsave.com/2013/12/23/a-rigged-game-of-monopoly-reveals-how-feeling-wealthy-changes-our-behavior-ted-video/, accessed July 6, 2022.

Bearing Each Other's Burdens (Gal 6:1-5)

A Different Way Than the Empire’s Way

In the fourth century, Christianity went from being a persecuted faith to becoming the official religion of the Roman Empire. You would think that was a good thing. No more persecution, right? But curiously, this moment inspired a mass exodus of Christ-followers from the cities to the desert. At the very moment that the Roman Empire accepted Christianity, many Christ-followers rejected the Roman Empire and fled into the wilderness. Why? Because they could see that the empire’s way was not the way of Christ. If they lived as citizens of the empire, they would risk compromising their faith. Many early Christ-followers rejected the class system of Roman society, welcoming slaves and foreigners and the poor as equals, but as citizens they would be expected to honor the class system and uphold it. Many early Christ-followers rejected violence, but now they would be expected to enlist in the Roman army and take up the sword.

This mass exodus of Christ-followers to the wilderness resulted in a fascinating grassroots movement. Its participants developed such a reputation that they came to be known as “the Desert Fathers and Mothers.” The Desert Fathers and Mothers bore witness to the way of Christ in a revolutionary, countercultural manner. And although they aspired to holiness and the kingdom of God, they were anything but pretentious. Rather, they were humble, painstakingly honest about their condition, and often surprisingly humorous.

Ammonas Condemns the Accusers and Saves the Condemned

I was reminded of the Desert Fathers and Mothers when I read this week’s scripture, where Paul instructs the Galatians to restore sinners “in a spirit of gentleness.” I must confess, scriptures like this one make me anxious because they acknowledge the reality of confrontation. Generally, when I sense that someone else may be caught up in a particular sin, in something that is unhealthy to themselves or others, I would prefer to ignore the situation or to cast judgment on it safely from afar. In either case, I would prefer to keep my distance. The church has historically behaved in a similar manner. Today, we have only to open the newspaper to read the story of another cover-up, where a church was afraid of addressing situations of abuse, often perpetrated by its own leaders. On the other hand, the church has often exercised a heavy hand of judgment against its enemies, quick to blame and shame the people with whom it disagrees. In either case, it has kept a safe distance from the situation and avoided any genuine efforts at restoration.

Thankfully, though, there are followers of Christ who have actually put into practice the countercultural manner of confrontation and restoration that Paul is preaching here. There are examples for us to consider. The Desert Fathers and Mothers give us one of those examples. Ancient Rome had an honor-shame culture, much like our own today. It judged people according to the merit of their actions and punished them accordingly. But the Desert Fathers and Mothers followed Christ and exemplified another way. When the Desert Father Ammonas learned that a fellow monk “of evil reputation” had received a woman visitor for illicit purposes, he dropped in on him. Now, several others were already there, pointing the finger and accusing the monk of wrongdoing. Ammonas knew that their accusations were accurate. In fact, he could tell that the woman was in the room with the monk, but hiding in a large cask. The story goes that he kept this a secret “for the sake of God.” In fact, he sat on the cask and then commanded the rest of the room to be searched. When no woman was found, Ammonas reprimanded the accusers, saying, “May God forgive you!” After they left, however, he turned to his fellow monk, and said, “Brother, be on your guard.”[1]

Care, Not Condemnation

By the standards of our culture, Ammonas has it all backwards. He does not rebuke the man who is guilty of sexual sin. Instead, he rebukes the accusers—even though their accusation is correct! He condemns the self-righteous accusers and saves the condemned. Ammonas knows his fellow monk has done wrong, but he does not point the finger. He does not judge him or give him unsolicited advice. He only expresses concern for him: “Brother, be on your guard.”

One of the curiosities of today’s scripture is the way that Paul begins by talking about a “transgression” but later speaks in terms of “burdens.” In today’s culture, wrongdoing is understood fundamentally in terms of crime and punishment. You do the crime, you serve the time. But Paul says that when we detect a brother or sister in a transgression, we should “bear [their] burdens” (6:2). In other words, Paul understands wrongdoing as a burden, a wound, as an affliction. First and foremost, it requires care, not condemnation.

Care, Not Control

To bear a burden is simply to feel its weight. What is heavy for someone else, becomes heavy for us. Bearing a burden, however, does not mean controlling it or becoming personally responsible for it. When Paul says, “Take care that you yourselves are not tempted,” the context of the letter suggests that he is referring to the temptation to judge and manage someone else’s life. At the end of today’s scripture, Paul talks about taking responsibility for our “own work” and concludes by saying, “All must carry their own loads” (6:5). Here, again, Paul seems to be advising against our kneejerk instinct to manage other people’s lives for them. I don’t know about you, but I can relate to that instinct. When someone else is uncomfortable or not doing well, I become uncomfortable too. I want to help them, but really it’s because I want to feel better myself. I want to be in control. But Paul says that when another person is lost and hurting, our responsibility is not to control them. It’s to care for them.

I think, again, Ammonas provides a good example. He does not judge his fellow monk or exclude him or try to fix him. He has compassion for him, but he does not try to control him or change him. (My dad is fond of telling me that the only person you can change…is a person who wears diapers.) Ammonas merely invites his fellow monk to be honest with himself and with God—who is the only one who can truly heal and restore a person anyway.

What Is Healing Our World

Today’s scripture is an uncomfortable message for our world, and perhaps for that very reason a necessary one. Because our world gravitates to the comfort of two extremes. Either it takes a hands-off, laissez-faire approach to sin, letting people living their own lives and quietly suffer the consequences; or it takes a hands-on, judgmental approach, naming and blaming and shaming people, excluding them without any sympathy or effort toward restoration. Either way, it says, “Not my problem!”

What it would look like if we, as followers of Christ, bore witness to a different way? What if we saw the sin of the world as a deep wound? What if instead of condemning or trying to control all the wrong we saw, we got close enough to feel the wound ourselves and to show care for it? What if we, like Ammonas, gently guarded the dignity of others even as we pointed them to God? What if we trusted in the healing and restoring power of God’s love? What would that look like?

One of the healthiest spiritual traditions in the modern, western world that I know is the twelve-step tradition, and I think it gives us a helpful glimpse of this countercultural way of compassion. For on the one hand, it acknowledges the woundedness of our world. It understands that hurtful behavior is but the symptom of a spiritual disease, and it is quick to offer its sympathy and care. On the other hand, it discourages taking the moral inventory of anyone other than ourselves. It acknowledges that we are not the ultimate agents of healing. We are responsible to care for others, but not to control them.

For what is ultimately healing the world is not our condemnation or our control of crime or consequence, but God’s love. As Paul says in today’s scripture, by bearing each other’s burdens, we fulfill the law of Christ. And the law of Christ, which he cited in last week’s scripture, is simple: “Love your neighbor as yourself” (5:14).

Prayer

God who is rich in mercy,
Who cares for us
In whatever condition we are in—
Embolden us to bear witness
To your revolutionary manner of care
In our own relationships.
Where we see wrongdoing around us,
Help us to see more deeply the wounds
From which it springs.
. . .
Help us to bear others’ burdens
And make space for your healing love. In Christ, who bears our stripes. Amen.

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[1] Benedicta Ward, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian, 2003), 27-28.

Real Freedom (Gal 5:1, 13-25)

You Don’t Have to Do a Thing

I still remember a conversation I had with a stranger nearly two decades ago. I was working at a café in college, and a friendly customer had struck up a conversation. When he learned that I was a religious studies major, he immediately became concerned for my eternal salvation. I guess the fear is that too much study might lead a person to question their faith. (My experience has been the opposite, but that’s another story.) The man asked me, “Do you believe in the trinity? Do you believe that Jesus was the son of God and was God himself? Do you believe in the resurrection?” Suddenly my neck felt hot, and I couldn’t think straight. I certainly wasn’t thinking about my own firsthand experience of Christ. Instead I felt only the pressure to answer “correctly,” so that this man would approve and we could be on the same team.

Two thousand years ago, the Galatians had a similar experience. The Galatians were a community of gentiles—that is, non-Jewish people—who had become followers of Christ. Apparently when they first became followers of Christ, it had transformed their lives. Paul says earlier in his letter that they had been filled with the Spirit and witnessed wonderful deeds of power (Gal 3:4-5). But later, other Christians began to interrogate their faith. “Have you been circumcised? Do you keep kosher? Do you abide by the purity laws?” In other words, these other Christians criticized the Galatians for not becoming Jewish. After all, Jesus was Jewish and had followed the law. If a person wanted to enjoy the full embrace of God, they said, they first needed to become a part of the Jewish people, with whom God had already established an everlasting covenant. 

I imagine the Galatians felt uncomfortable—not unlike how I felt in the coffee shop years ago. I imagine they felt pressured to answer with the “correct” answers. They probably began to doubt their own experience of faith. This is why Paul writes them. Remember your original experience of Christ?—he asks earlier in his letter (cf. 3:2-5). You didn’t have to do a thing for that. Belonging to God is not a matter of what we do but a matter of what Christ has already done for us. In Christ, who loves us all, we already belong to God; it doesn’t matter if you’re Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female (3:28).

“For freedom Christ has set us free,” Paul says in our scripture today (5:1). Faith is not tied up with doing the right things or having the right beliefs. We don’t have to pass a test. In Christ, we already belong to God. We don’t have to do a thing. “Stand firm, therefore,” Paul concludes, “and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery” ( 5:1). If we become slaves to certain behaviors or beliefs, thinking those are what save us, then we have effectively unwrapped God’s arms from around us and left God’s unconditional embrace (cf. 5:4).

The Enslavement of the Flesh

Right after Paul celebrates our freedom in Christ, he does a curious thing. He warns us about our freedom in Christ. We are only one step away from disaster, he says. If we put the emphasis on freedom and forget to live in Christ, we may end up thinking we have license to do whatever we want. For this reason, Paul begs the Galatians, “Do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence” (5:13). He proceeds to explain the dangers of this self-indulgence, which he calls living in the “flesh.” The flesh is just Paul’s shorthand for our shortsighted, impulsive way of living. Living in the flesh is doing whatever promises instant gratification. It’s eating a slice of cake disregarding the fact you’ve just had a full meal and you’re not really that hungry. It’s winning an argument at the cost of a friendship.

The “flesh” is a good word for what Paul’s talking about, because our selfish desires generally originate in the body, such as desires for food, comfort, and especially the security of being in control. (Doesn’t it feel good to be in control?) Traditionally readers have assumed that the word “flesh” refers to sexual sins, but in today’s scripture, only two of “the works of the flesh” clearly refer to sexual immorality (5:19). Most of the words refer to competition and conflict: “jealousy, anger, quarrels, dissensions, factions, envy” (5:20-21). I would playfully suggest that the key to Paul’s list is actually the word that seems the least relevant to us today: “sorcery.” I used to think that sorcery was a biblical idea that we have outgrown in the modern world. We know better than the ancients, right? Spells, magic wands—those things don’t actually work. What I have learned, however, is that the fundamental biblical concern with sorcery is not some outdated belief that sorcerers could actually change reality. The problem with sorcery is not that a person might actually succeed in their magical incantations. The problem is what’s in their heart and how it influences their behavior. Engaging in sorcery is saying to God, “My will, not yours. My kingdom come. We’re doing things my way.” Sorcery is telling God what to do.

At its heart, sorcery is like every other item on Paul’s list. It’s about control and getting our way. Paul is adamant that, while living this way may promise satisfaction, it actually results in profound disappointment. Doing whatever we want looks like freedom, but it is actually enslavement. Addiction, or what the spiritual traditions call “attachment,” is a stark example of this truth. Our attachments are in fact heavy shackles on our souls. They keep us, Paul says, from living in the kingdom of God (5:21).

The Parable of the Successful CEO

What, then, does real freedom look like—if it’s not being in control, if it’s not the pursuit of happiness? Paul’s answer is actually quite simple. You could say it in a single word. But first I’d like to try to say it in a story. Let me share with you a parable about a man who was enslaved by the works of the flesh, who was attached to getting his way—but whom Christ visited in a very unassuming manner, offering him freedom.

Once upon a time, there lived a very successful CEO. At work, he was ruthless. And people respected him for it. He was a master of manipulation, a man who knew how to get what he wanted and prosper his business. He knew how to work the press. He knew how to advertise and shape the hearts of consumers. He knew how to outwit his competitors. He knew how to quietly remove employees who were more trouble than they were worth. Occasionally his selfish desires resulted in certain “indiscretions,” but he knew how to cover those up and maintain the look of innocence. As if by some sorcery, he always came out on top.

But being successful was exhausting work for our CEO. He was always competing, always grasping, always seeking more control. Only when he returned home late at night did he know peace. At home, he was almost a different person—and for one reason: his dog. His dog was his one joy. He could not resist his dog’s earnest eyes, his wagging tail, his faithful presence. Toward his dog, our successful CEO was patient, kind, generous, faithful, gentle—all the things he was not at work. He indulged his dog with treats. He readily forgave him his canine blunders. It is not an exaggeration to say he loved his dog.

Sometimes at night, after our CEO had turned off his lights but before he had fallen asleep, he found himself dreading the next day and wishing he could live a different life—a life more like the one he shared with his dog.

Freedom Is Like Fruit

Real freedom, Paul says, is love. We find it first when we discover God loves us unconditionally—sort of like a dog loves us. Christ reveals to us that we don’t have to do a thing to belong to God. We belong to God just as we are. That is liberating news.

But that’s not the full picture, Paul says. Being loved naturally flows into loving others. And this love is freedom because it does not need to be in control. The freedom of love, Paul says, is like fruit. Fruit, of course, is not something we can control. We can plough, we can sow, we can reap, but we do not grow the fruit itself.  When Jesus compares the kingdom of God to a seed, he explains, “The seed sprouts and grows, the [farmer] knows not how” (Mark 4:28).  Fruit is not about control, but about love and faithfulness.

Our successful CEO knew the freedom of love—when he was with his dog. He did not control his dog but rather delighted in him, giving him treats, forgiving him, just enjoying his company. The irony is that at nights he wished for a life he already had. The lesson is one we could all learn, I think. The love of Christ, which sets us free, has to start somewhere. It could be something as small as a pet, or birds at the birdfeeder, or family or a friend—whatever primes the pump. But to know the full freedom of Christ is to celebrate this love and to allow it to flow into the rest of our lives.

Who knows? Maybe one day our CEO will wake up and recognize the face of Christ not only in his dog. . .but in his employees, in his competitors, in his customers. Perhaps at nights he will stop dreading the next day. Perhaps he would not be as successful. . .but perhaps he would be at peace—and free indeed.

Prayer

God of tiny seeds,
Whose kingdom is growing in our hearts
And in our world—
Awaken us to where we are shackled
By selfish, short-sighted desires.
And awaken us to where we are alive and free
In the love of Christ.
. . .
May the fruit of your Spirit
Be the feast we most desire.
In Christ: Amen.

The Bigger Picture (Gen 45:3-11, 15)

 

The Pits

Today’s scripture tells the most celebrated moment in the Joseph story.  Twenty-two years after Joseph’s brothers had sold him into slavery hundreds of miles away, they reconcile.  The sheer time and distance of their separation makes the moment remarkable.  But the backstory makes it miraculous.

Let’s rewind twenty-two years.  We find ourselves with a teenage Joseph, who is his father’s favorite, and also a bit of a brat.  He tattles on his brothers (37:2).  He repeatedly dreams that in the future they will bow down to him (37:5-11).  One day, his brothers cannot take it any longer.  They throw him into a pit in the wilderness.  For the next thirteen years, Joseph’s life is the pits.  Literally!  After his brothers throw him into a pit, they sell him into slavery, where the wife of his new master falsely accuses him of making an advance on her, with the result that he is thrown into prison—or in the Hebrew, another “pit.”  When Joseph helps a fellow prisoner who happens to be Pharaoh’s chief cupbearer, he asks to be remembered.  But the cupbearer does not remember Joseph when he gets out of prison.  So, there Joseph is.  Forgotten.  In a foreign land.  In another pit.  Thirteen years after his brothers waylaid him in the wilderness, not much has changed.

But suddenly things do change, and rather significantly.  Through a surprising twist of events, Joseph becomes the Pharaoh’s right-hand man.  He is given command over all the kingdom.  Having foreseen a great famine, he gathers and stores up the extra crop from the harvest.  When the famine finally hits, he is prepared.  Everyone comes to Egypt seeking help.  Including his brothers.

Same Old Story

The stage is set for a miraculous reunion.  But at first there’s no miracle.  Instead, it’s just the same old story that has afflicted our world for centuries.  It’s the story of settling scores, getting even, an eye for an eye.  Joseph’s first impulse is not to embrace his brothers and let bygones be bygones.  His first impulse is to give them a taste of what he has suffered the last twenty-two years.  He speaks spitefully to them as they once had to him (37:4; 42:7).  He imprisons them for a few days (and one of them for longer), just as he had been imprisoned for years (39:20; 42:14-17).  He plants riches on them and accuses them of stealing, just as he had been falsely accused by Potiphar’s wife (39:16-18; 44:1-5).  

What Joseph does to his brothers is nothing new.  It’s a story we know all too well from our own lives.  It’s a story that plays out every day, whether we’re nursing a grudge against a friend, trying to teach a coworker a lesson, or leaving the dishes in the sink because someone else has left the clothes in the laundry basket.  It’s the story of our world, a story as old as Cain and Abel, or Jacob and Esau, stories in which one brother felt he did not get his due and made up for the lack in his life with an attempt on his brother’s.  It’s a story of opposition and competition and rivalry, a story of payback and evening the score. 

Unsatisfied

But a funny thing happens when Joseph gets his payback.  At the very time that his debt is satisfied, he himself is left profoundly unsatisfied.  Moments before today’s scripture, Joseph listens as his brother Judah breaks down in front of him (Gen 44:18-34).  He hears about his father’s suffering and his brothers’ suffering.  And suddenly he breaks down too.  Scripture says that he “could no longer control himself,” that he sent everyone else away and then “wept so loudly” that everyone could hear him anyway (Gen 45:1-2). 

There is a rich tradition in the history of our faith that identifies tears with divine encounter.  When we cry, our eyes are opened to the reality that neither we nor the world around us are as we thought.  We see clearly our helplessness and our need for God and for each other.  When Joseph weeps, he suddenly sees clearly what he really desires.  He thought he desired revenge, but really he desires relationship.  He realizes that his family’s suffering is in fact his own suffering, that the more he hurts them, the more he hurts himself.  

The Real Miracle

Joseph’s breakdown is how God breaks in to the story.  In the clarity of his tears, Joseph sees the bigger picture.  He sees the eleven men in front of him not as bullies but as his brothers.  He sees not only his own wounds but theirs too.  And so he is moved to declare that the sins of the past are nothing in comparison to the opportunity of the present.  Twice he acknowledges, “You sold me,” but three times he insists, “But God sent me” (Gen 45:4-5, 7-8).  You sold me, but God sent me.  That is a big picture.  I’ll admit it, that is a much bigger picture than I usually see.  Usually, I get as far as an accusation, “You did such-and-such…” and then stop.  I don’t see what God sees.  I don’t see the possibilities for redemption.

For many readers, the paradoxical claim—“You sold me, but God sent me”—evokes the image of a divine puppeteer hidden behind the clouds, imperceptibly directing the drama toward survival.  Everything that has happened—the father’s lopsided love, Joseph’s self-important dreams, the brothers’ hate, and Joseph’s rags-to-riches glory in Egypt—all of this has been invisibly choreographed by a divine director.  God orchestrated Joseph’s roller-coaster journey so that he would end up as governor of Egypt, where he could then provide food for his famine-stricken family.  That, according to many readers, is the miracle in Joseph’s story.

But I’m suspicious of interpretations that absolve the characters of any responsibility.  If Joseph had not broken down and opened himself up to God, if he had instead contented himself with getting even and not forgiven his brothers, then God could have pulled every string possible and we would still be left with the same old story of an eye for an eye.  Imagine for a moment that Joseph didn’t make himself known, but instead simply sent his brothers on their way after putting them through the wringer.  They would have returned home to a father still grieving the mysterious loss of his son.  They would have returned home conflicted with themselves, restless with the guilt of their past.  And Joseph would have remained in Egypt, confused and unsatisfied.  It would have been an unremarkable story.  It would have said nothing new, at least not to me.  I know all about having the last word only to feel the victory hollow, or shutting someone out only to feel disconnected, or putting someone in their place only to feel small and petty myself.  I know all about getting even and feeling unsatisfied. 

For me, the real miracle is when Joseph breaks down and lets God break in.  The real miracle is not fate, but a forgiveness that alters fate.  The bigger picture that Joseph sees is not a God who masterminds everyone and everything, like a programmer coldly typing code into a computer.  The bigger picture that Joseph sees is a love that can break any heart and change any story, even the age-old story of getting even.

Prayer

Merciful God,
Who sees redemption everywhere,
Help us out of the pit
Of the same old story.
Help us to be aware of the moments
Where we seek to get even or make our point.
…
Open our eyes to see the bigger picture,
To know the hollowness of control
And the fullness of relationship,
That we might break down
And your love might break in.
Through Christ: Amen.

The Shock of God (Isaiah 6:1-8; Luke 5:1-11)

The Comfort of the Familiar

I don’t know about you, but I like the comfort of familiar rituals.  I like knowing that every day will begin with a freshly ground dark-roast coffee and a warm bowl of oatmeal garnished with fresh fruit.  I like knowing that every evening will end with getting under the flannel sheets and opening a book.  I like knowing that every Friday I will go to the park with my nephews. 

I don’t know about you, but for me church can be a comforting ritual too.  There I am greeted by familiar faces and casual conversation about shared interests.  I find my favorite seat and get comfortable in it the way I might burrow into the couch before my favorite TV show.  There’s quiet, calming music in the background.  Perhaps it is meant to invite me into an empty space where I might encounter something or someone other than myself—but usually I listen to it more like I listen to lounge music in a hotel lobby, as a pleasant backdrop to my own thoughts.  As the chatter dies away and I focus my attention on the front, as though it were a stage and I were its audience, there is before me the most comforting element of the whole ritual.  The idea of God.  The idea that I am not alone, that the creator of the universe is sympathetic to me, to my struggles and to my desires.  Oh, it is a comforting idea indeed.  I wouldn’t admit it to anybody, but truth is, this imagined God looks quite a bit like me.  Votes like me, thinks like me, condemns the same people that I do.

In short, this church experience is a comfort because it conforms to me and my interests.  There are no surprises, and I am always reassured.

A Shock to the Self

Isaiah, however, had a very different experience of worship.  In today’s first scripture, he imagines himself in the temple—and it is anything but comfortable.  I imagine Isaiah was like you and me, someone who went to worship regularly, prayed regularly, tried to do the right thing in life.  I imagine he had his own idea of God that regularly brought him comfort.  But in this vision of the temple, God shatters through all the familiarity.  God shatters through his very idea of God.  At the end, he does not cheerfully remark, “What a lovely service,” before wandering off to a full meal and an afternoon nap.  Quite the opposite: “Woe is me!  I am lost, for…my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts” (Isa 6:5).  Peter says almost the same thing by the sea of Galilee, when his net suddenly becomes full of fish, and he suddenly realizes that he is standing in the presence of God.  “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” (Luke 5:8).

Isaiah and Peter both exclaim their brokenness.  “Woe is me!  I am lost,” says one; “I am a sinful man,” says the other.  It is as though when they see God, who is love unfailing, they also see themselves in a mirror for who they really are.  They see the feebleness and fragility of their lives, their failures in the way of love.  They feel it viscerally in their body, this distance between themselves and God.

It’s a feeling that we’ve all had before.  God is not a privileged experience.  Some of us have encountered God looking into a child’s eyes and feeling the infinite, unbearable weight of responsibility and the certainty of our failure.  Some of us have encountered God waking up in a sweat in the middle of the night, suddenly aware that our days are numbered and we will not live forever and we’ve already wasted so much time.  Some of us have encountered God in the haunting suspicion that we have not been true to ourselves, that in the pursuit of some goal we have lost ourselves and begun living a lie.  Some of us have encountered God at rock bottom, when our eyes are opened to the reality that we cannot manage our own lives.  However we have encountered God—that infinite distance between unfailing love and our mortal and misguided expressions of it—the experience is the same as Isaiah and Peter’s.  We see clearly and suddenly that we are not, nor is the world, as we thought.

Avoiding God Until We Can’t Help but Cry

The only difference between Isaiah and Peter and us is that, oftentimes, we do not recognize God in these uncomfortable moments.  At least, I do not.  I usually run away from these moments.  I try to find ways to cover them up.  I think most of us do.  We have phones in our hands to fill up every empty moment and to keep us from ever having to feel deeply or think about what really matters.  We live for cheap thrills that keep us distracted, like the weekend or the next television series or the newest household comfort or convenience.  Even church can become an escape from God.  Methodist theologian Will Willimon quips, “No wonder we tiptoe around this Presence, turn our churches into carpeted bedrooms, fearful that we might awaken this One.  Note how we often chatter, nervously, before the music begins, the way people chatter when they’re scared of what might come next.  We transform our worship into the backslapping conviviality of a Kiwanis Club meeting; everybody smiling, reassuring one another that this is only church, only Sunday, only God, nothing over which to be alarmed.”[1]

Yet try as we may to avoid God, God breaks through.  Maybe not at church.  Instead, it is usually in our weakest moments when we cannot help but cry.  There is, in fact, a rich tradition in the history of our faith that identifies divine encounter with the experience of tears.[2]  When we weep, our eyes are opened to the uncomfortable truth of our mortality and our mistakes, our weakness and our need for help.  Tears clear our vision.  We see the reality of who we are.  With Isaiah and Peter, we finally cry out the truth we have been trying to avoid, “Woe is me!  I am lost….”  “I am a sinful person.”

An Even Greater Shock

But this painful truth of our stumbling, sinful selves that we spend so much of our lives avoiding, is not the whole truth.  These tears that we desperately try to suppress are not the end of the story.  They may be a necessary beginning, but they are not the fullness or finale of our faith. 

If at first God is a shock to Isaiah and Peter, to their self-centered, shortsighted way of life, then they are in store for an even greater shock when God responds to them.  Peter cries, “Go away from me.”  But Jesus draws nearer.  Isaiah cries, “I am lost,” but God is looking for him to help in the world.  “Whom shall I send?”  Isaiah isn’t lost, he’s found.

There are two shocking truths in the story, then, a small truth and a big truth.  And to get to the big truth, we must go through the small truth.  The small truth is that we are indeed imperfect and broken.  Or in church lingo, “sinful.”  We judge, we condemn, we exclude, we fight for control, we put up walls, we put ourselves in front of others.  We bear a flawed image of our loving creator.  In the clarity of our tears, however, we see the big truth that Isaiah and Peter see.  Despite our protests of unworthiness, despite our cries to be left alone, God draws even nearer.  Why?  Because that is the way of love.  Does a mother leave her child for falling down?  Does a lover renounce his love when his beloved is at fault? 

This big truth of God’s love, the shockwaves of which could turn our world upside down, transforms us whenever we accept it.  No longer bound by striving to be this or that and inevitably failing, no longer bound by pride and shame, we are free to be ourselves, which is the greatest gift we can give others.  And so it is that Isaiah cries out, “Here I am; send me!” (Isa 6:8).  And Peter and the others, we are told, “left everything and followed him” (Luke 5:11). 

Prayer

Loving God,
Who is always drawing near to us—
Help us not to run away
From our tears
And the shock of our brokenness.
…
For it is here, shockingly,
That we are nearest to you
And your love,
Which leads us into life.
Through Christ: Amen.

---

[1] William Willimon, “Depart from Me,” Sermon for Duke University Chapel on February 9, 1986, accessed on January 31, 2022, https://repository.duke.edu/dc/dukechapel/dcrst003219.

[2] Alan Jones, Soul Making: The Desert Way of Spirituality (New York: Harper & Row, 1985), 82-106.  Simeon of Byzantine in the tenth century referred to tears as “the second baptism” and an essential stage of a person’s spiritual growth.  Ephrem of Syrian in the third century said that our tears are actually God’s tears for us, shed that such a lovely image of goodness should be lost.

an easter haiku

sun in the room through
the gauzy closed curtain.  it
warms my back slowly.