History Written by the Heart (Jer 1:4-10)

History as a Game of Power

I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Game of Thrones? It was a wildly popular HBO television series based on a set of fantasy novels written by George R. R. Martin. It is estimated to have made HBO a profit of over two billion dollars.[1] I’ve only seen a handful of episodes, but I wouldn’t really recommend it. It’s filled with gratuitous violence and sex, and at the end of the day, no matter how many thrills and twists it packs, it tells a very straightforward story. It is all about power. It is exactly as its title suggests. Competitors for the throne duke it out with one another, employing whatever means suits them. Their exercise of political power assumes various shapes: military, diplomacy, alliances, espionage, betrayal, and propaganda. On the one hand, the series revels in the drama and arguably exaggerates it, regularly depicting brutal backstabbing and bloody scenes of conquest. On the other hand, you might say the series is quite realistic. It reveals the logic that animates much of our politics today, namely win-at-all-costs.

In some ways, the series reminds me of history class. In history class, we studied the past as though it were shaped primarily by people who imposed their will on the world, either through war or revolution or legislation or a decisive contribution in the form of an invention or new idea. We studied history like a sports game that was won or lost by big players making big plays.

While our personal lives rarely approach the dramatic and bloody extremes depicted in history books and TV shows like Game of Thrones, I imagine this way of viewing life is actually our default. We look around and we see various powers competing with one another: nations, political parties, candidates for office, businesses, employees scampering up the ladder, and so on. I imagine that this way of viewing life has always been the default, even over two thousand years ago in the seventh century BCE, when the people of Judah looked beyond their walls at the national superpowers encroaching on their land. To the south stood the ancient empire of Egypt. To the northeast they saw the emerging empire of Babylon, who was on the cusp of overtaking Assyria, the old guard in the ancient Near East. Poor Judah didn’t stand a chance against these empires, and the people of Judah knew it. Every year, heavy taxes turned them upside down and emptied their pockets, just so their king could go groveling to either Egypt or Babylon and pay a hefty tribute that would hopefully ensure the empire’s good favor and protection. The people of Judah knew how precarious their situation was. It was like being caught between two bullies, never knowing if your lunch money would be enough to buy one off. If something ever happened, the situation could deteriorate very quickly, and Judah would have had little hope on the basis of its own military strength.

How History Is Really Written

It wouldn’t take any political expertise, then, to imply as Jeremiah does that Babylon would one day “pluck up” and “pull down” its little neighbor. It wouldn’t take much special insight to foresee that Babylon would “destroy and overthrow” Judah. That’s what the Babylonian empire was in the habit of doing. If they were a sports team, they would have been undefeated in the seventh century BCE. This is not to say that the people of Judah would have liked hearing this forecast. Most of them were rather like an ostrich sticking its head in the ground, trying to ignore the reality surrounding them until it went away. God says elsewhere that the powerful and privileged in Judah were too busy making a profit off the poor and growing “rich” and “fat” to pay much attention to what was happening (cf. 5:27-28). But Babylon’s growing power was undeniable. They were the big kid on the block, and few would have put money on Judah in a fight with Babylon. If Jeremiah had said, “They’re bigger than us. This is going to end badly,” people would have at least understood where he was coming from.

But that’s not what Jeremiah said.

Today’s scripture tells us what Jeremiah did say, and why he said it. This scripture is often referred to as Jeremiah’s “call story,” and it follows a familiar pattern that we see throughout the Bible. God calls somebody. They resist. We see this with Moses, who protests that he can’t speak well (Ex 4:10). We see it with Isaiah, who protests that his lips are unclean (Isa 6:5). We see it later in Peter, who protests to Jesus, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man” (Luke 5:8). In each case, God insists that what matters is not the individual’s ability, but simply their faithfulness. When Jeremiah protests, “I am only a boy,” God says, “Don’t be afraid, for I am with you and will give you the words to say.”

Then God announces to Jeremiah what will be the heart of his prophecy. “Today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant” (Jer 1:10). Hidden in this message is the real surprise of Jeremiah’s prophecy. Here God claims that history is not written by the obvious forces of empires and kings and military strength, but rather by an unseen spiritual power. For most people, it was obvious that, if anyone plucked up and pulled down Judah, it would be Babylon’s military. Just as today, it would be obvious that the rise and fall of nations has to do with governments and big business and armed forces. But God declares to Jeremiah that it is not Babylon who will accomplish Judah’s destruction. It is God. And it has to do with what’s been happening in the people’s hearts.

The Truth Erupts

It’s hard not to get ahead of ourselves with today’s scripture. God gives a preview of the prophecy that Jeremiah will proclaim, but no real details. We catch a glimpse global upheaval, nations rising and nations falling, and God somehow at the heart of it, but we are not given any explanation for why one nation rises and another falls. God hasn’t gotten around yet to explaining why Judah will be plucked up.

I want to maintain this suspense. Why is God planning to pluck up Judah? Why has God authorized its destruction? We don’t know yet. All we can say right now is that God interprets history not in the conventional terms of political power, of who has the biggest army or the smartest leader, but in spiritual terms. God interprets history not in terms of battles or elections or presidents or legislative victories, but in terms of (as our Hebrews passage today puts it) what “cannot be touched.” God seems to be relocating history from empires and armies to the quiet, unseen space of our heart and the inconspicuous, automatic habits that are slowly shaping us and our world. In our unremarkable, commonplace lives, Christ either lives or is rejected. Either way, our lives and our world bear the consequence.

As I ponder God’s interpretation of history, I am reminded of Vaclav Havel, who was a poet and playwright that lived in Czechoslovakia during its communist era. He wrote a famous letter to Czechoslovakia’s dictator, Gustav Husak, in which he effectively said, You can do whatever you like, but eventually the truth always wins. “Life and history,” he says, will “demand their due.”[2] He describes the truth as something that lurks in the heart, as something that can erupt out of nowhere: “The machine that worked for years to apparent perfection, faultlessly, without a hitch, falls apart overnight. The system that seemed likely to reign unchanged, world without end, since nothing could call its power in question…is shattered without warning. And, to our amazement, we find that everything was quite otherwise than we had thought.”[3] Havel wrote this letter in 1975. For nearly 15 years, the dictatorial government seemed to control history, but underneath the surface lurked the truth—the truth, for example, that artificial entertainment and a relatively comfortable home life could not satisfy a people’s need for honesty and real community and lives of purpose. Finally, in November 1989, the truth erupted. It began with a student movement and grew day by day until the entire nation went on strike. The communist government crumbled in the face of this nonviolent movement, which has been called the Velvet Revolution (or Gentle Revolution).

What is the truth that lurked beneath the surface in ancient Judah, in its people’s hearts? What is the truth that lurks beneath the surface in the 21^st-century United States, in our hearts? If Jeremiah’s prophecy is any indication, what happens in the capitol or on Wall Street or in Hollywood is but an extension of what is already happening in our hearts, where history is really unfolding.

Stay tuned for the truth that is unfolding in Judah as we read through Jeremiah these next couple months. (If you’d like, you can read ahead. We’ll be spending the next month in the first twenty chapters of Jeremiah.) Perhaps in Jeremiah’s prophetic word to Judah, we will hear a prophetic word for our own world. For like Judah, our world also puts its trust in outside forces and disregards what is in the heart.

Prayer

Hidden God,
Whose love works unseen in our world,
Overthrowing mighty empires
And raising life from the ruins
…
Help us to see
Beyond presidents and political parties
History being written
By the humble figure of Christ,
Who is making all things new. 

In Christ, crucified and risen: Amen.

---

[1] “How ‘Game of Thrones’ Generated $2.2 Billion Worth of Profit for HBO,” https://decider.com/2019/05/21/game-of-thrones-hbo-profits/, accessed August 15, 2022.

[2] Vaclav Havel, Living in Truth (ed. Jan Vladislav; Boston: Faber and Faber, 1986), 34.

[3] Havel, Living in Truth, 30.

The Fire and Sword of Christ (Luke 12:49-56)

A Hero or a Fool?

Born in Austria at the beginning of the 20^th century, Franz Jägerstätter grew up with a reputation for being a bold, adventurous soul. He was the first man in his village to own a motorcycle. Given his competitive streak, he was no stranger to the odd fistfight. At the age of 26, he fathered an illegitimate child. At 29, he settled down and married, and he had three daughters. When the Nazis annexed Austria in 1938, he was identified as a natural leader and offered the position of town mayor, which he declined. Franz was no saint. But many of the townspeople respected him and even looked up to him. He was a man’s man, and his occasional missteps were just considered the collateral of a vivacious personality.

Apparently around the time of his marriage, Franz became curious about his faith. He had grown up in the church, but never taken it seriously. But his wife did. So he started asking questions about what it meant to follow Christ. And these questions ultimately set him on a collision course with the world, which would end in a fiery baptism. In 1943, with three daughters under the age of six, he was called to active duty in the Austrian military, which of course was under Nazi command. He refused to enlist on the grounds of his faith. He refused to take up the sword in a war machine that preyed on its neighbors and turned out death and poverty. For this, he was arrested and finally executed by beheading.

Was Franz a hero or a fool for living out his faith to the death? Opinion in his hometown and even within his family was sharply divided. Most people actually saw Franz as foolishly stubborn. In their eyes, this was a good, respectable family man who had gotten religion and gone too far. Was it worth risking his life for the sake of his faith? Would he deprive his family of a husband and a father? And what about his duty to his country? It was considered an obligation and an honor to serve one’s country when it called upon you. Even his priest and his bishop disapproved of his objection to military service. Citing Romans 13, they counseled him to submit to the governing authorities. When his body was returned to his hometown after his execution, many disapproved of the idea that he should receive a solemn funeral. Their sons, husbands, and brothers had fought courageously in the war. They were the heroes, not Franz, the man who had refused his duty. When his name was carved with other war casualties at a village memorial, it was defaced.[1]

In the eyes of the world, Franz was a fool. But in the eyes of God? Paul says that the wisdom of God is foolishness to the nations (1 Cor 1:23). Perhaps the foolishness of Franz was the wisdom of God. For his witness said “no” to the sin around him: “no” to the death camps where the Nazis sent all the undesirables; “no” to nationalism and the Nazi’s white supremacy; “no” to the sword of the aggressor that was ravaging the continent.

Change and Pain

Today’s gospel text is jarring for many of us. Jesus speaks in terms that seem antithetical to the gospel he had been proclaiming. Earlier in the story, he had rebuked James and John when they suggested calling down fire from heaven against unreceptive towns (9:54). But now he speaks about bringing fire to the earth (12:49). Earlier in the story, Zechariah had prophesied that Jesus would guide people “in to the way of peace” (1:79). Jesus himself instructs his followers to proclaim peace as they deliver the good news (10:5). But in today’s text, he insists he has come not to bring peace but rather division! (12:51). What’s going on? Is Jesus changing his message?

A closer look suggests that he is not changing his message, but rather that his message is all about change. Real peace—the peace that he brings—is like a fire and like a sword, because it says “no” to the judgment and violence that has become automatic in our lives. It burns and cuts at the sinful attitudes and practices that have become second nature. Blessing an enemy instead of retaliating? That is a real change. Giving to all who ask and not expecting anything in return? That is a real change. Not judging others or competing with them, but instead paying attention to our own spiritual condition? That is a real change (cf. Luke 6:27-38). Earlier in the gospel, John the Baptizer had proclaimed that Jesus would baptize people with “the Holy Spirit and fire” (3:16). Later in the New Testament, the writer of Hebrews refers to God’s word as “sharper than any two-edged sword” (Heb 4:12). When Christ dwells within us, there are sure to be painful moments when it feels like a fire or a sword within. The good news, of course, is that this pain is purposeful. In the words of our Hebrews scripture today, God is transforming life into “something better.” Jesus says that he cannot wait until the fire is kindled and his baptism is complete, not because he loves pain, but because God’s changes are for the better. God’s changes are what bring about the kingdom of God.

A Gospel That Burns and Cuts

It is hard for us to see it, but, according to Jesus, the life of Franz Jägerstätter was not in vain. True, he did not stop the Nazis. What he refused to do for them, someone else surely did. But he bore witness to a different way of life, and this witness was so strong that people couldn’t stop talking about it, even when they disagreed with it. That’s why his story is still told today. His story is kindling in God’s fire, a thrust of God’s sword, probing us as a society, asking us what really matters. National security? A political party’s triumph? The financial interests of the privileged? The preservation of our neighborhood’s demographic? Or…the wellbeing of the poor? The embrace of the marginalized? The welcome of strangers?

I heard the story once of a teenager who started going to church. At first, his parents were thrilled. They figured church could only benefit their son. But as it happens, the youth minister at this church was leading a study on the sermon on the mount, where Jesus boldly declares the values of the kingdom of God, such as simplicity, trust in God, and generosity. When the teenager graduated high school, he decided that he would move to an impoverished part of town to live there with a faith community that was working for better conditions in the neighborhood. His parents were surprised and deeply upset. Would he not go to college? Would he not get a job that paid him well? Would he really choose to live in this dangerous part of town? When they learned that their son had been inspired by his youth group’s study of Jesus’ teaching, their anger acquired a target. They took offense at the youth minister and clamored for his resignation. They had thought the youth group would provide their son with good friends and helpful advice for navigating life’s anxieties. They had not expected it to lead him into what they saw as harm’s way.

The prophetic Salvadoran archbishop Oscar Romero once said, “A church that doesn’t provoke any crises, a gospel that doesn’t unsettle, a word of God that doesn’t get under anyone’s skin, a word of God that doesn’t touch the real sin of the society in which it is being proclaimed—what gospel is that?” Well, today’s scripture confronts me with a gospel that burns and cuts. But it’s not a message of fire and brimstone, of punishment and condemnation. Rather, it is good news. Jesus really does take away the sin of our world. Only…it might feel like a fire or a sword, because the sinful attitudes and habits of our world are deeply ingrained and not easily removed. They do not fall away magically, but only as we follow Christ through flame and sword, and bear witness to a different, better way.

Prayer

Holy God,
Whose good news entails change:
Burn and cut within our soul
Where we still cling
To the violent, judgmental ways of our world
Instead of welcoming your kingdom
…
May we bear witness,
Like Christ, like Franz,
To your dream
Of abundant life for all. In Christ, crucified and risen: Amen.

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[1] Willard F. Jabusch, “Franz Jägerstätter: The Austrian Farmer Who Said No to Hitler,” https://www.americamagazine.org/politics-society/2007/08/27/franz-jagerstatter-austrian-farmer-who-said-no-hitler, accessed August 9, 2022.

Receiving the Kingdom (Luke 12:32-40)

Good and Difficult News

Today’s gospel reading begins with an incredibly reassuring promise: “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom” (12:32). For me, however, the reassurance is short-lived. I am quickly unsettled by the invitation that immediately follows. “Sell your possessions, and give alms” (12:33). Talk about a promise with a catch.

It is common for interpreters to soften or rationalize Jesus’ call to a life of radical simplicity and generosity. For example, when Jesus tells the rich ruler he lacks one thing and invites him to sell everything and give the money to the poor, commentators explain that Jesus is not speaking to everyone. Rather he has tailored this invitation specifically to the greedy heart of the rich ruler. For the rich man to know freedom in God, he must give up his greed and therefore his possessions. But in today’s passage, Jesus makes the same invitation not to a particular person but to all his disciples. To me, it sounds like a universal invitation. It sounds like a necessary condition for receiving the kingdom. “God desires to give you the kingdom. Go, sell your possessions and give alms, so that you can receive it!”

This is one of those occasions when the gospel does not sound like good news to me, but rather difficult news. I have a hunch, though, that precisely these occasions are the ones where I have yet to be fully converted to the way of Christ. These occasions are where I am settling for what I consider good, instead of following Christ into something better.

Good News for the Church?

So, today, instead of focusing on what seems difficult to me—which is what I already do much of my life—I want to focus on what is better about Jesus’ promise here. Maybe the good actually outweighs the difficult.

When I read this scripture and listen for the good news, I hear especially a word of promise to a church in decline. I’m not talking about Trinity specifically, but about the church in general across our nation and much of the world. Jesus has good news for this church. And the good news that I hear is that we can stop worrying about ourselves. We can stop worrying about attracting new members, saving our buildings, or growing our churches. We can stop worrying because it is God’s good pleasure to give us the kingdom.

Many churches get anxious for the future because they assume that it depends on their survival. So they strive to preserve, to maintain, to build, to grow, to expand. What fascinates me, though, is Jesus almost never talks about the kingdom of God as something that we build or advance or plan or extend. Instead, he regularly talks about the kingdom of God as something that is coming, that arrives, that we receive or enter. In other words, it is not about us succeeding at church, but about us receiving whatever God wants to give us. It is not about ability or achievement but about openness.

What follows is a bit of a mashup between the two scriptures we heard earlier. Between the two of them, I hear a word of promise spoken to the church in general. A difficult promise, to be sure, but even more than that, a good promise. I’m not sure how inspired this mashup really is. I’ll leave that to your judgment. You can take what you like and leave the rest. You really can leave it all, if you’d like.

If, on the other hand, your curiosity is piqued, I hope you’ll let me know. There is a short, four-week study that has caught my eye, which our Anabaptist brothers and sisters have published, and which explores what church may look like in these changing times. I would really like to embark on this study at some point with fellow followers of Christ.

Now, without further ado:

Not Built by Us, but Given by God

Do not be afraid, little flock,
Asking, “How shall we grow?”
“How shall we attract more people?”
“How shall we keep our doors open?”

The kingdom of God is not something you build,
Nor is it something that you muster and marshal,
Nor is it something about which you can say, “Look, here it is!” (cf. 17:21).

Do not be afraid, little flock,
For it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.

So let go of your little kingdoms.
Open up your buildings, lend them, lose them;
share your savings and pour out your rainy-day funds.
Give what you do not need today to the needful.

Make your treasure something other than a building, or a civic club, or a bank account.
Did I ask for these steeples?
Does their height get you any closer to my heart?
Did I ask you to dress up?
Does formal attire clothe you in the likeness of Christ?
Did I ask you to protect the interests of a few?
Does your subsistence spread my love?

Make your treasure something that cannot be sold or stolen or set ablaze.
Make your treasure something like
The smiles of strangers
And the embracing of enemies,
The ease of the elderly
And the joy of children,
The serving of the needful
And the table of shared bread and cup.

For your life will be as good as your treasure.
So make your treasure what is truly good.

Always be ready to receive this treasure,
For the kingdom is already among you (cf. 17:21).
It will come like a knock on the door,
Like a ring on the phone,
Like an interruption on the street.
It will come in a voice that needs to be heard,
In a face that needs to be seen,
In a body that needs to be embraced.

If you but open the door,
You will see I am with you.
For I am hidden in the weakness of this world:
I am with you in those who worry,
I am with you in those who grieve,
I am with you in those who hunger,
I am with you in those who have no home.

Be with these
(Who are always closer to you than you know)
And you will be with me.
Let honest conversation with them be your prayer.
Let care for them be your praise.
Let broken bread and shared cup be your joy.

Then you will have a church that cannot be destroyed,
That cannot be sold,
That cannot be closed.
Then you will have the kingdom,
Which it is my good pleasure to give you.

Prayer

God, our shepherd,
Your rod and staff comfort us,
But they also challenge us.
“Sell your possessions, and give alms.”
This call of Christ is nearly paralyzing!
…
Help us to understand what these words mean for us—
To understand how they might be good news.
Plant these words in our heart like a seed
That may one day bear fruit better than we have ever known.
Thank you for giving us the kingdom.
Help us always to be ready to receive it.
In Christ, whose heart is gentle and humble: Amen.

"Relax, Eat, Drink, Be Merry" (Luke 12:13-21)

Living the Dream, Unhappily

I remember when a friend in college went through a particularly difficult breakup. Her first reaction was to lose herself in any amusement or recreation that she could find. She would skip classes, stay up late watching movies, and eat ice cream and junk food. She did everything she could to forget the past and to be happy. She essentially followed the advice that the rich fool from Jesus’ parable gives himself: “Relax, eat, drink, be merry” (Luke 12:19). You would probably already guess this on your own, but I’ll go ahead and share the result: she was not happy. Beneath all the self-indulgence, there was a broken soul. All the pleasures in the world would not fix it.

Similar stories play themselves out across our world every day. Sometimes it’s just a college student trying to make their way through life’s difficulties. But the story is especially evident in the lives of the rich and famous. For the American Dream has convinced many of us that happiness is to be found in prosperity, and yet the individuals who are living the dream are so often profoundly unhappy. The recent media circus around Johnny Depp’s trial is but an echo of the selfish struggles and hurt and loneliness that haunt a life that chases after riches and reputation. How many times must he have said to himself in his soul, “Relax, eat, drink, be merry.” But beneath all the riches, there lay a broken soul. All the money in the world would not fix it.

The Problem of Possessions

In today’s gospel text, a man in the crowd demands that Jesus take his side in an inheritance dispute. Jesus refuses. It is as though he already sees the heart of the matter, which has little to do with the inheritance. I remember a couple of occasions previously in ministry when someone shared with me similar disputes that they were having with others in their family. I so wanted to be helpful. I asked about family dynamics, the will, any circumstances that might pertain to the inheritance. I tried to be sympathetic and supportive. I wish, though, that I had followed Jesus’ example instead. “Friend,” he says, “who set me to be a judge…over you?” (12:14). Jesus can tell that the man is using him. He refuses to be triangled. He refuses to speak about something that is not his concern.

Instead, he addresses a danger he sees lurking in the man’s heart. Maybe the man is right in his claim, maybe not. But the rightness of his claim has nothing to do with righteousness—that is, living in right relationship with others and God. The man could be legally entitled to the inheritance, but his very grasping for it may deprive him of what really matters. Even now he is at odds with his brother. Jesus suggests that, in fact, he is at odds with life itself. “Take care!” he says, “for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions” (12:15). And then he tells a story about the problem of possessions.

What is the problem? Well, it depends on who you ask. If you ask the rich man, the problem is simple: space! This is someone who literally has more than he knows what to do with. What’s curious—and perhaps illuminating—is that the man lives entirely in his own world; he never once acknowledges anyone else. Perhaps this is the real problem. His possessions have become like a wall between him and the world. It’s a little odd that he neither gives thanks to God for the abundant harvest nor considers the possibility of sharing its surplus with the less fortunate around him. Instead, he has only himself to talk to. And what he tells himself is that these possessions have secured him the good life for many years. “Relax,” he tells himself; “Eat, drink, be merry” (12:19). Jesus, however, closes the story on the ominous note that the man’s life will soon be ending, and his possessions will be for naught. My own take is that this ending merely dramatizes what is already true. This man is already dead to the world. Beneath the abundance lies a broken soul. All the possessions in the world would not fix it.

Of Things and People

I’ll confess that, growing up, this parable seemed a bit stern and severe to me. It scared me in the same way that the ghost of Jacob Marley scared me in Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. I would have conceded that the rich man is rather greedy. He’s got more than he knows what to do with, and he’s so selfish that the thought never even crosses his mind to share it. He can’t really complain when it catches up with him. But still, it did not sit well with me that God chastises him right after the man has expressed his desire for the goodness of life, “Relax, eat, drink, be merry” (12:19). Is it so bad to think those thoughts? To say to yourself, “Life is good. Enjoy it.” Does God want to take that away from us?

I realize today that this discomfort and unease was, in part, an expression of my privilege and my fear of losing what I had. Even though I wouldn’t begin to compare myself or my family to the rich fool, I could still identify with him. When he says, “Relax, eat, drink, be merry,” my mind is suddenly flooded with occasions when my family did just that. I think of Thanksgiving dinners, when I couldn’t even fit all the food on one plate. I think of Christmas gatherings that began early in the morning and ended late at night. I think of summer evenings, when my dad would grill out and my family would sit on the back deck and relax and eat and drink and be merry. So, when God says to the rich man, “Tonight you’re going to lose it all,” I wondered if God were saying the same thing to me. I wondered if it were wrong for me to have enjoyed all those good moments.

…of course not. There’s a big difference between enjoying the company of others and trying to enjoy possessions. I think back to my friend in college. Why was she binging on mindless pleasures in the first place? She was heartbroken. There had been another person, a relationship. That’s where she had discovered life. And then that person was gone, and she tried to fill the void with things. “Relax, eat, drink, be merry” can be heard in two very different ways. It can be filling the void with things. Or it can be enjoying God’s gifts with others.

In fact, the very same terminology of the rich fool—“Relax, eat, drink, be merry”—appears elsewhere in the gospels to depict the goodness of life. These very same terms illustrate a very different way of living. The word “relax” is what Jesus uses when he tells his disciples, “Learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest [relaxation] for your souls” (Matt 11:29). In other words, truly relaxing does not mean drowning oneself in possessions but following the gentle, humble, childlike way of Christ, trusting God to provide according to each need. The words “eat” and “drink,” of course, refer to the activity for which Jesus was notorious. “This man eats and drinks with tax collectors and sinners,” the people would say (cf. Matt 11:19; Luke 5:30), reminding us that Jesus saw tables as an opportunity to connect with others, especially the marginalized. And “be merry” is the same expression used to describe the celebration of the loving father when his prodigal son returns home. In other words, God’s love is all about celebrating—being merry—in the good moments of reconciliation and communion.

I guess what I would want to say to anyone else who feels privileged like me, is that my childhood fears are not confirmed in scripture. God does not want to take the good life away from us who are already enjoying moments of it with others. But—God also does not want the good life to be squandered, and that is what happens when we put possessions before people. The good life is meant to be shared. That’s precisely what makes it good. The Catholic bishop Fulton Sheen once observed that loving things and using people is a recipe for unhappiness, but loving people and using things is a recipe for life.

Perhaps the best embodiment of “Relax, eat, drink, be merry” is Jesus himself. A homeless man whose love met frequently with fear and rejection and ultimately with a cross. Yet we believe he lived the best, fullest life of all. We believe he enjoyed it more than anyone else. He relaxed in his Father’s care and provision. He ate and drank with others, drawing them closer to God. He was merry with others, as merry as a father reconciling with a long-lost son. His life consists not in the abundance of possessions, but in the abundance of God’s love.

Prayer

God of life,
Whose good gifts are meant
To draw us closer to you and one another:
Give us eyes to recognize
Where our possessions have become a wall;
Give us hearts to feel
The loneliness of this false security
…
Lead us opposite the rich fool.
Lead us in the way of Christ,
Who lived and enjoyed life to the fullest.
In him who was crucified and risen: Amen.

Not Me (Luke 11:1-13)

“Anyone Want Anything?”

God is not a cosmic vending machine. We all know this. And yet…

Who among us has not begged God for what we wanted? “Please just let me pass this class, God!” “Please get me this job, God!”  Even an atheist may find himself praying in a real pinch. “If you’re really there and you just let me survive this, God, I’ll change my ways, I promise.”

For many people, this is what prayer is. A request for something we want. As comedian Flip Wilson once put it: “I’m gonna pray now; anyone want anything?”

When the disciples ask Jesus to teach them how to pray, I think they already have an inkling that prayer is something different. Because by now, they have seen the effects of prayer on Jesus. They’ve seen Jesus repeatedly steal away to pray. But has it brought him riches? No. In fact, he’s what we might call homeless; “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head” (9:58). Has prayer brought him prestige? Not quite. He has met with rejection repeatedly, including in his own hometown where they tried to throw him off the cliff. Has prayer brought him power? No, at least not in a worldly sense. The religious authorities have set their face against him. And he keeps talking about a cross and great suffering.

All of this to say, Jesus’ prayer life does not reap the rewards that many people seek in prayer. His prayers do not result in riches, prestige, or power, or even comfort or convenience. They have not made his life any easier by worldly standards. If anything, his life seems pointed in the direction of hardship and adversity. So why would the disciples ask Jesus to teach them to pray? Why would they desire a prayer life like Jesus’ if there was no benefit to them?

The Presence of God

My guess is that they saw something in Jesus that they did not see in people who had great riches, great prestige, or great power. They saw in him a certain ease with the world, a deep joy, a steady serenity, a real peace. They saw in him not struggle or striving, but acceptance and trust. In a word, they saw God in him. In today’s lectionary passage from Colossians, Paul writes, “In [Christ Jesus] the whole fullness of [God] dwells [in a body]” (Col 2:9).

So they ask Jesus, “How did you get this way? Teach us how you pray.”

In response, Jesus gives them a prayer that is remarkably different from the popular version of prayer. It is completely empty of “I” or “me” language. Perhaps this is part of the reason for what the disciples see in Jesus. There is no “I” or “me” getting in the way of God. The fullness of God can dwell in Jesus. Instead of praying for himself, Jesus prays for something larger than himself. He prays for God’s glory to become tangibly real in the world, for God’s kingdom to appear. He prays for the material and spiritual needs of his community, for bread as well as for forgiveness. And Jesus envisions that his community will become partners in God’s response. They will forgive one another as God has forgiven them. Presumably, he envisions that they will provide bread to one another as well, as God has provided it for them. For he follows up his model prayer with a story in which one friend begs another for bread—not for himself, but for someone else, a guest.

In Jesus’ model prayer, the self is not the center of the universe. Rather, God is the center, and God’s goodness radiates into all the community. The last few verses, however, throw a bit of a curve ball. They seem to present prayer according to the popular view, as a request that will be granted. “Ask…search…knock…,” Jesus says, and you will receive (11:9-10). But notice what is received. “If you then…know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!” (11:13). Jesus assumes that we will be praying desperately not for any old thing, but for the Holy Spirit, which is to say, the presence of God within us. At the heart of Jesus’ prayer is the desire for the presence of God.

“My Best Thinking Got Me Here”

Old-timers in the twelve-step program will often confess, “My best thinking got me here.” Whether their struggle is with alcohol, drugs, food, relationships, gambling, is irrelevant; the struggle itself begins with their will. It’s not that their will is too weak. It’s that their will is too strong. They think they know best. They think they can manage their own life. But as their grip on things gets tighter and tighter, their life spins further and further out of control.

You don’t have to be in a twelve-step program to identify with this feeling. “Addiction” is just a special modern word for an ancient human problem: attachment. We all get attached to things. It could be a substance, or a person, or a political party, or a certain way of thinking. Whatever it is, we think it is the answer. The ultimate reality. We think it will satisfy us, solve all our problems. We think it will give us certainty and happiness. The real problem, of course, is not the object of attachment, but our single-minded, willful pursuit of it. We think we know best. We think we can manage our own lives. All the while, our own thinking detaches us further and further from God and the world.

Growing up, I understood prayer as thinking to God. Talking to God inside my mind. I have no doubt now that God hears these prayers—just as a parent hears their child’s endless rationalizations for getting what they want. I would not want to dismiss those honest, heartfelt prayers filled with emotion; many of the psalms follow just such a pattern. What I would like to suggest, however, is that, by itself, simply praying whatever we’re thinking leaves little room for God. Praying what we’re thinking directs God more than it allows God to direct us. Praying what we’re thinking may well keep us mired in our own mess, in denial, self-deception, and judgment of others. If it’s true what many addicts have said—“my best thinking got me here”—then praying what we’re thinking may be little else than a monologue to accompany our long descent to “rock bottom.”

Breaking the Toxic Trance

The gospel texts for the last two Sundays featured characters who justified themselves before Jesus. First there is the lawyer, who engages Jesus in debate about who qualifies as a neighbor (10:25-37). Then there is Martha, who points out that Mary is doing none of the work (10:38-42). Both characters are stuck in their own thinking, and it seems to be dragging them down with self-importance and resentment. The Lord’s Prayer presents a stark counterpoint to these stories. Rather than double-down on his own thoughts, Jesus opens up to God. He practically begs God to be present with him, in him, all around him.

One of my favorite names for God comes from the Twelve-Step Program: “Not me.” Whatever else God is—and there’s plenty of room for debate here—God is “not me.” Prayer, then, is first and foremost about opening up to something other than me. It’s not about getting the words right. It’s not about having the right request. It’s not about my worthiness or not. It is about welcoming something other than me. In the words of Anne Lamott, it is about “break[ing] the toxic trance” of my own thinking. Prayer is not me changing the world, it’s God changing me.

This past Wednesday, I was gardening and apparently got too close to some plants that waged war with my allergies. As a result, I’m afraid I look a little bit like a zombie if you get close enough to see my face. Now, I’m a self-conscious person. The last thing I wanted was to stand up in front of a congregation with a zombie-face. When I read Jesus’ instruction on prayer, however, this trivial, self-centered fear began to evaporate. I was changed. In prayer, I found peace. Not the peace of getting what I wanted, of my allergies magically lifting…but the peace of not being the center of the universe, the peace of knowing God did not care about my zombie-face nearly as much as I did, and the peace of knowing that God would be with me and help me to be with others.

The irony of authentic prayer is that we receive so much more than we ever receive in the “gimme, gimme, gimme” popular version of prayer. And maybe one of the reasons for this is that God is actually for us more than we are for ourselves. Our own thoughts tend to disconnect us from the world, but when we pray for God’s presence and God dwells within us, we are reconnected to the world and our own life becomes fuller and richer. We become even more ourselves, as we begin to share our gifts with others and as the needs of others draw us out of our shell. When we open up to the great “Not Me” of our world, we find our authentic “me,” who is in relationship with God and all the world around.

In today’s lectionary passage from Colossians, right after Paul says that the “whole fullness of [God] dwells” in Christ, he says that we “have come to fullness in him” (Col 2:9). I have to believe that prayer is an essential part of this transformation. Just as Jesus emptied himself and was filled with the fullness of God’s love, so we too may relinquish our own best thinking and welcome the fullness of God into our lives, wherever we are—right here, right now. All it takes is saying “yes” to something other than ourselves, to the great “Not me.”

Prayer

Faithful God,
Who is for us
More than we are for ourselves—
Our own best thinking
Is like a trance,
Desensitizing us to the world,
Disconnecting us from others and from you
…
Open us up to your presence,
Where we discover our true selves.
Not our will, but your will, be done.
In Christ, crucified and risen: Amen.

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.

---

[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.