Book Review: Creating a Life with God by Daniel Wolpert

I learned as a child to be the perfect student. I have learned as an adult, however, the truth of which Walker Percy spoke. You can make straight A’s and then go out and flunk life. There is a fundamental difference between ideas and their practice, between abstract knowledge and experience. Daniel Wolpert writes with the wisdom of someone who has lived what he teaches. His book on prayer, Creating a Life with God: The Call of Ancient Prayer Practices, is less an explanation and more an invitation. He doesn’t want the reader to get all A’s. He wants the reader to live.

On the surface, Creating a Life with God reads like a primer and manual for a host of prayer practices that have deep roots in the Christian faith. The book progresses thematically from prayer within to prayer without; that is, from prayer that primarily employs heart and mind to prayer that employs the body, connects us with creation, and fosters community with others. This progression is purposeful and hints at a central thesis. Prayer is not just an activity but an orientation, not just a thing we do but a way of being in the world. Seeking God’s will is not limited to a mental exercise. It naturally spills over into all of our life. It progressively changes the way we bear ourselves and relate to the world around us. As Wolpert summarizes, prayer is “a deep conversation with God beginning with communion and leading to transformation”(25). Creating a Life with God is therefore not just a primer or a manual. It is also good news. Its aim is not just that readers will understand and practice these different forms of prayer, but that readers will awaken and respond to God’s presence in all corners of their life.

Wolpert grounds each prayer practice in a historical figure or tradition, not to define and police the practice according to its original bounds, but to remind readers that these practices, despite their seemingly newfound popularity, are ancient and time-tested. For readers who have grown up in the narrow confines of a single tradition, learning about the historical roots of these practices may ease any fears of what seems strange or unfamiliar. A happy side-effect may be the broadening of one’s spiritual horizons. Indeed, Wolpert indicates that prayer is an experience that invariably opens us up. Throughout the book, prayer is likened to eyes opening, hearts opening, minds opening, doors opening, ripened fruit opening and spilling seed—the world opening and being transformed into the kingdom of God.

The specific prayer practices and historical figures that Wolpert reviews are as follows: solitude and silence as practiced by the desert fathers and mothers; lectio divina as practiced by Benedict; the Jesus Prayer as practiced by the pilgrim in The Way of the Pilgrim; apophatic prayer as practiced by John of the Cross and the author of The Cloud of Unknowing; the examen as practiced by Ignatius of Loyola; creativity as practiced by Hildegard of Bingen; journaling as practiced by Julian of Norwich; body prayer as practiced by characters in the Song of Solomon and as reflected in the story of Abelard and Heloise; walking as practiced in ancient pilgrimages and in the labyrinth; praying in nature as practiced by Francis of Assisi; praying materially as practiced by the Beguines; and praying as a community as reflected in the Rule of Saint Benedict. The final two chapters, which are new additions in this twentieth anniversary edition of the book, pertain less to prayer practices and more to particular orientations of prayer. The first orientation is one of fearless imagination as practiced by Brigit of Ireland. The second is one of freedom as practiced by Howard Thurman.

Wolpert’s exploration of each prayer practice is unapologetically practical rather than scholarly. He desires to provide not a comprehensive “history” of the practice but a “story” that conveys the “spiritual essence” of the practice and its practitioners (30-31). I found his approach to be well suited to its purpose, namely to inspire and invite readers to seek God. Wolpert shares a host of stories, drawn not only from history but also from his extensive experience as a spiritual leader. Through story, he relays relatable experiences, illustrating how a particular prayer practice looks in the flesh and cautioning against common misunderstandings and pitfalls. Wolpert rounds out his practical approach by including an appendix with simple, step-by-step guidelines for each prayer practice, for both individual and group use.

One strength of Wolpert’s work is the range of practices that he surveys. I imagine that different readers will gravitate toward different chapters according to their present need or desire. Personally, I found myself drawn to his chapter on praying as a community—“or rather, community as prayer” (162)—in which he speaks a prophetic word about the juncture at which the church finds itself. He lays the groundwork for this chapter in his note on the 20^th anniversary edition, which appears at the beginning of the book. There he observes with interest how contemplative practices have become more widespread at the same time that religious institutions have declined. He points out that when he first published the book, many church leaders had seized on the popularity of contemplative prayer practices. These practices became “the next shiny object that was going to save the church” (20). But they did not save the church, and Wolpert insists that this is no surprise. “[T]he human institutions that call themselves church are not the spiritual reality they purport to manifest” (21). The church does not need saving. As “the mystical body of Christ,” it is alive and well (21). But those who fly its banner might learn something from the communal practice of prayer, not as yet another program to attract new members and save the institution, but as a way of being in the world that brings us closer to God and fills us with life.

Sometimes in a church it is wisely said that we are not called to be successful but to be faithful. Yet moments later, we are worrying again about how to be successful: how to attract young people, what programs are most relevant, which style of worship will resonate with the neighborhood. In his chapter on praying as a community, Wolpert effectively outlines how the church might be faithful again. The subject is how a community might live in prayer together, but the resulting sketch is a healthy spiritual community. Wolpert takes as his guide The Rule of Saint Benedict and suggests that modeling a community on its general themes and principles would yield a “structured environment within which everything points to the mind of Christ” (164). I found this to be a compelling point in the light of our society’s dawning awareness that the means often becomes its own end. Because the institutional church has privileged structures borrowed from politics and business, structures that take for granted the values of power and logic, competition and efficiency, the result is often a collection of well-intentioned individuals who find themselves frustratingly embroiled in power struggles and budgetary concerns.

Wolpert invites readers to imagine an alternative structure for community with prayer at its center. He gleans from The Rule a number of fundamental spiritual principles, including humility, rigorous honesty, a spirit of listening, a certain willingness (or “obedience”) that yields the fruits of the Spirit, mutual service, the practice of hospitality, living simply with few possessions, and of course the intentional practice of prayers, both individually and communally. While Wolpert occasionally speculates what these principles might look like in practice, he wisely refrains from concretizing them into a distinct blueprint from a spiritual community. Rather he offers them as guidelines. Each community would need to apply them thoughtfully “in a unique manner” according to its context (164). “My working hypothesis is that if enough of these themes are consistently applied in some fashion, in some place, then a new type of spiritual community will arise” (164).

Wolpert’s musings on the character of a spiritual community helped me to make sense of my own experience. I have found that communities outside the church walls often seem more spiritually alive than the church itself. Twelve-step groups, L’Arche communities, and ministries to elderly persons and those who live without homes have all impressed me with their vibrant spirit of grace, honesty, and companionship. I am now inspired to look more closely at them alongside The Rule of Saint Benedict, as I ponder new possibilities for the way a church community might share life together.

“The days of church as a center of social and community life are gone,” writes Wolpert, “and so congregations are groping about in the dark trying to decide if they are community centers, old-age homes, spiritual Wal-Marts, or filling stations for the soul. This searching is made all the more difficult by the individualism permeating every aspect of our lives. For people to commit to a life of prayer with a particular community is a huge challenge, maybe impossible” (163). I am inspired to paraphrase Wolpert’s insight in this way. The days of successful churches are gone, and yet congregations keep looking for a way to achieve this end. To live in a community centered on prayer seems foolish and weak. Such a community could not possibly be “successful.” But perhaps that is not the point.

In Creating a Life with God, Wolpert offers readers not only a valuable resource but perhaps even more importantly a call back to “the heart of the matter” (25). I would earnestly recommend it to anyone seeking more life.

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Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the author and/or publisher through the Speakeasy blogging book review network. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.

"Let It Be with Me According to Your Word" (Luke 1:26-38)

“Peace at Last!”

In 2020, I was writing my commentary on Leviticus and Numbers and teaching a course called the Bible as Literature at VCU. I remember when I first heard the news about COVID-19. It was the beginning of Spring Break. At first, the threat seemed distant. I didn’t even think about how it might affect my course. But over the span of just a few days, a distant threat became a serious concern, and VCU cancelled in-person learning for the rest of the semester.

I know that for many people COVID-19 was a serious disruption and caused real havoc. Caring for children at home, working remotely, securing various needs in an uncertain market—these problems were just the tip of the iceberg. And then there was the disease itself, which proved fatal in many tragic cases. I do not want to trivialize these very real problems. But I do want to be honest about my own experience. When COVID-19 first struck and in-person classes were cancelled, there was a little child in me rubbing his hands together with glee and dancing for joy, thinking, “School’s out!” For the rest of semester, all I was required to do was record lecture and grade papers. Now, I am a serious introvert and left to my own devices I will gladly retreat and explore the inner world of thought and imagination. Initially I thought that this turn of events would be beneficial. I thought it would provide a foundation for making some serious progress with my commentary. “Peace at last!” I thought. Gone were so many distractions, from navigating campus to extracurricular and administrative responsibilities. I envisioned myself enthroned at my desk, doing work quietly and contentedly on my own terms.

As perhaps you would guess, the reality was quite different from my expectations. The absence of demands on my time and of the other regular challenges of life did not afford me the peace I thought it would. Inwardly, I was beset with distraction and worry. Without any real interaction, I occasionally despaired about the worthiness of my work. It’s difficult to sustain a sense of purpose when you’re not regularly in relationship and receiving occasional validation.                                           

Peace Outside and Peace Inside

What I learned that semester is that there are different kinds of peace. There is outside peace, which we might describe as the absence of difficulty or challenge. When I hear the words, “All is calm, all is bright,” I’m usually thinking of outside peace. No demands on my time. A quiet environment allowing for rest and relaxation. Harmony with others.

But outside peace, I learned, is very different from peace inside, what we might call spiritual peace. I had a lot of outside peace but very little spiritual peace at the beginning of COVID-19. My heart was all over the place, unsure of its purpose, flitting from one worry to the next.

This week, we’re looking at Luke’s version of the Christmas story. Luke is a dramatist. His version of the Christmas story is the most colorful. It is filled with characters, each with their own backstory, their own hopes and fears. Elizabeth, Zechariah, John, Joseph, Mary, the shepherds, Simeon. But there is one character whom we often overlook: the Holy Spirit. In Luke’s gospel, the Holy Spirit orchestrates nearly everything that happens. In the Christmas story alone, the Holy Spirit fills Elizabeth and Mary and John (even before his birth) and Zechariah and Simeon.

If we’re looking for the difference between outside peace and inside peace, spiritual peace, then Luke is the place to look, because Luke is all about the Spirit. Luke looks within.

The Peace of Mary

Consider for a moment the conditions in which Mary finds herself in Luke’s Christmas story.

First, she lives in Nazareth, a territory heavily occupied by the Roman military. We know that around the time Jesus was born, in the year 4 BCE, the Roman legions descended swiftly and brutally upon an uprising only four miles away in the town of Sepphoris, burning the city and reducing its inhabitants to slavery.[1] The Roman historian Tacitus would later say of the Roman military, “They make a desert and call it peace.” We can imagine that, at the very least, Mary lives in a world of fear, a world that sleeps with one eye open, wary of what the Romans might do next.

Add to that constant background static of fear the news that Mary receives from Gabriel. Even if every word the angel says is true, it only makes life more difficult for Mary on the outside. Now she will know the disgrace that is reserved for infidelity. She will know raised eyebrows and wicked gossip from people who take a small, perverse pleasure in the shortcomings of others.

And the cherry on top is the simple, physical reality of pregnancy. For this will not be a normal, straightforward pregnancy. Toward the end of her term, Mary will be forced to travel on a bumpy road to Bethlehem, where she will then need to deliver the baby in the cramped accommodations of a stable, surrounded by animals and a band of stinky shepherds.

I think it is safe to say that Mary does not know outside peace. The looming threat of Roman violence, the constant buzz of shameful rumors, and the bumps and bruises of a road trip to Bethlehem make certain of that.

And yet, despite all of this, we hear Mary say, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word” (Luke 1:38).

Real Peace Does Not Make Sense

Mary’s peace was true peace. It was not dependent on the conditions around her. She lived in a storm, but in her heart there was calm. Like Jesus in the boat amid the wind and the waves, she was not troubled.

Paul would later refer to this peace as that which “surpasses all understanding” (Phil 4:7)), which I think is his way of saying that real peace does not make sense. It is not logical. Everything in the world around us could be going wrong, yet—illogically, irrationally—there is a peace within.

This week I tried to remember the moments in my life when I’ve experienced real peace. Surprisingly, what came to mind were not moments where I had it easy, as in the early stages of COVID-19. Instead, what came to mind were moments of difficulty. Moments when I made a difficult decision, whether it was finally owning up to my own fault in a situation where I had been avoiding it, or resolving to do something that I knew needed to be done. In all of these cases, there was a moment of acceptance. A moment where in my heart, I knew what I needed to do. I believe God is in all the world, in all things, in all our lives, whether we’re aware of it or not, and so I believe that in these scenarios it was God speaking to me in my heart. And when I finally said, “Let it be with me according to your word,” that was when I knew real peace. It doesn’t always make sense on the outside, where the immediate result might be some challenges or difficult feelings. Real peace surpasses all understanding.

Resignation or Acceptance?

Augustine once suggested that the cynics of his day were to be pitied, for all they do is make peace with their own misery. This idea helps me to understand that acceptance is different from resignation. Resignation is making peace with your misery. When Mary says, “Let it be with me according to your word,” she does not say so in resignation. She does not retreat with a furrowed brow, thinking, “Oh, what a mess I’ve gotten myself into.” No, it’s only a few verses later where we find her singing the Magnificat, her song of praise to God, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior” (Luke 1:46-47).

Mary’s peace is not resignation to a difficult life. It is acceptance of a sacred role. Her peace is an active ingredient in her life, not a passive resignation. It inspires her (she is literally filled with the Holy Spirit). It emboldens and empowers her. She looks forward to life, not away from it. She is strong enough to endure all the difficulties. Why? Because underneath it all is a deep trust. She trusts that in her God is doing something good, something beautiful, something life-saving, for her and all the world.

I see this same peace throughout the ages in all the individuals who have lived courageously in service to God’s love; in people like Francis of Assisi who stood up to a church drunk on power and money and insisted on caring for the poor and for creation, which has often been helpless in the face of people’s greed; in people like Rosa Parks who sat down in the face of cruel inequality and could not be moved.

Peace is a dangerous power. At times, it may take us directly into the storm, but only because God’s love is stronger still and capable of transforming anything. As Gabriel says, “Nothing will be impossible with God” (Luke 1:37).

Prayer

God of peace,
Born in a world of chaos—
Teach us by the example of Mary and countless others
Who have accepted your call
And discovered the peace that surpasses understanding.
Ground us and root us
In your call
…
May we live not from our worries or our expectations
But from the unshaken center of your transforming love. 

In Christ, the peacemaker whose way we follow: Amen.

 

---

[1] Josephus, Jewish Wars 2.68.

What Brings Us Home (Mark 1:1-8)

Lost

When I was about thirteen, my brother and I went for a hike. We were out at a retreat center in New Mexico, not far from Santa Fe. I had hiked before with my family, but this occasion felt special because it was just my brother and me. You feel big, as a child, when your parents trust you with something.

Exhilarated, I bounded up the side of the mountain with my brother. Hiking in the southwest, we would learn, is a bit different than here on the east coast. The trees are not densely packed. Sometimes the trail is less obvious. I’m not sure we ever reached the destination of our particular hike. Somewhere on the way up the mountain, we lost track of the sporadic trail markers. Suddenly, it seemed like there were many trails, like every step was a fork in the road.

We chose this way, then that way, but everything looked the same. Worry crept into my thinking, and it grew with each passing minute. What if we missed dinner? What if we never got home?

My brother reassured me. He began with the obvious. We had started at the bottom of the mountain, so we needed to go down, not up. As we scrambled down the mountain, we would occasionally catch a glimpse through the scraggly trees and rocky outcroppings of the valley below. We never saw the retreat center, but we saw other features that clued us in to our surroundings. At one point we stumbled upon a dried-up creek bed. My brother reasoned that water generally leads to civilization, so it wouldn’t hurt to follow the creek.

Just as the sun was beginning to set, we wandered into what seemed like a more planned environment. It was lusher and greener, and there were flowers spotting the ground here and there. Soon it became apparent. We had reached a cemetery that was on the outskirts of the retreat center. An ironic symbol of life, perhaps—but my fears were relieved. We would not miss dinner.

Mark’s Minimalist Christmas

This Advent, I want to look at how each gospel tells the Christmas story. Each gospel tells it a little bit differently in a way that reveals the gospel’s own personality and reminds us about an important part of our faith. Today we read from Mark and learn a little bit about hope.

You will have noticed in our scripture that there was no mention of Mary or Joseph or the angels or the shepherds watching their flocks by night. Here, it may help to remember that the gospels weren’t written down until a generation or so after Jesus’ lifetime. The gospel writers—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—are recording in writing the sayings and stories that had been faithfully handed down to them from other Christ-followers. Historians tell us that it is likely that Mark had never received a story or tradition about Jesus’ birth.

Even so, Mark’s introduction and opening scene—his “Christmas” story, if you will—are fitting for his style. Mark is the shortest of the gospels. His style is minimalist. If you visited Mark’s house for Christmas, you might find candles in the window or a simple wreath on the door. Maybe even a small tree. But I doubt that it would be filled with sentimental ornaments from years gone by. He is so focused on his central point that he simply doesn’t have the time or interest to decorate it.

Mark’s gospel is perhaps a tonic for our world today, which can get so caught up and distracted in the decorations and festivities. Mark keeps it simple.

“The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ…” (Mark 1:1). Right, so this is about good news. And what is that good news?

The Good News of Home

In a word, home. Mark frames his entire gospel with a prophecy that Isaiah gave to the Israelite people who were living as exiles in Babylon. The prophecy was a simple one: This exile is not forever. Soon, God will bring you home! Get ready. “Prepare the way of the Lord.”

Then Mark fast-forwards from Isaiah to John the baptizer and suggests that John is the final herald of this homecoming. Which is a little odd, perhaps, given that the people of Israel have already returned to their homeland and rebuilt their temple. They’ve been “home” now for about five hundred years.

And yet, if truth be told, their experience is otherwise. Even on home soil, they have continued to live under the thumb of foreign empires: Persian, Greek, Roman. Soldiers wander their streets and do as they please. The temple has been desecrated more than once. This does not feel like home at all.

Imagine entering your home…only to find an armed stranger inside, telling you what to do. 

Hope Is Not a Plan

Isaiah and John the baptizer both proclaim the hope of homecoming. But neither provides a roadmap. There is no blueprint. No plan. No campaign strategy. Instead there are these nebulous invitations. “Prepare,” says Isaiah. “Repent!” shouts John. And it might help to remember that “repent” does not mean groveling in self-accusation and shame. The “pent” in “repent” comes from the same root we see in the word “pensive,” which means thoughtful. Repent literally means something like “rethink,” “think again,” “have a new mind.”

What are Isaiah and John getting at?

To me, it sounds like they’re inviting us to make room for God. To let go of our own plans and expectations long enough to hear what God might be saying, long enough to see what God might be doing.

Part of me wonders if hope does not become a more endangered experience, the more control we have over our lives. What need do I have for hope when I’ve got a secure bank account, a comfortable home, some loyal friends? When I’ve got the world at my fingertips in a glowing screen? When I can buy a plane ticket at the click of a button and be on the other side of the globe in a day?

Of course, even with all the comforts and conveniences we have at our disposal today, it only takes a second for that illusion of control to be shattered and for all our plans and expectations to be thrown out the window. Maybe it’s a bleak prognosis from the doctor. An unexpected bill. A sudden betrayal. For me, twenty-five years ago—and yes, rather trivially—it was feeling lost on the side of a mountain. I think back to that time. What brought me home? It was not a map. It was help. From outside. It was my brother. It was clues from our surroundings that we got one step at a time. It was an openness of heart and mind.

What brought me home—what always brings us home in the end—is hope. Hope is not a map, a plan, a strategy, a calculated expectation. Hope is an openness of heart and mind to help from outside.

As Paul puts it, “Hope that is seen is not hope” (Rom 8:24). Hope never knows the way. But it always trusts that there is a way.

Hope can only walk one step at a time, taking direction each moment.

Returning to the Home That Is Always Ours

The hope that John proclaims to the Judeans in the wilderness is both frustratingly vague and disarmingly simple: “a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins” (Mark 1:1-8). On the one hand, there is nothing in this message that promises the Judeans immediate relief for all their troubles with the Roman occupation. There are no battle plans, no schemes for liberation, no diplomatic maneuvers, no strategies for independence. On the other hand, there is a much greater promise. Remember how earlier we noted that “repent” means “rethink” or “think again.” When your plans have gotten you in a jamb, or when your selfish thinking has hurt others or yourself, you might repent. Well, the Hebrew word for repent has another meaning as well: “Turn around” or “return.” Turn around to whom? Return where?

John’s baptism makes it clear. “A baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” To repent is to know God’s forgiveness. It is to return home. Some people like to make God’s forgiveness conditional upon repentance, as though God is holding out until a person says, “I’m sorry.” But I like to think that God’s forgiveness is as unconditional as Jesus’ eating habits. (Remember how he made such a scene eating with the people whom society had excluded.) I like to think that God’s forgiveness is always there; repentance is just how we open our hands and receive it. Repentance is how we come home to the home that has always and will always be ours.

Hope in the Flesh

I think back one more time to my thirteen-year-old self. And to all the scenarios when we are thrown overboard from the cruise ship that is our plans and expectations. Of course, I like the happy endings best. My brother and I found our way home. A cure is found. A debt is forgiven. But in the darker scenarios, where things do not turn out quite as we would wish, where is God? The good news that John proclaimed in the wilderness is that, somehow, God is there too. Nothing can separate us from God’s love. I think I knew that in a very small way on the side of that mountain. Whatever would happen, I would not be alone. My brother was there beside me. Those who receive a difficult prognosis in the quiet company of a loved one—they are not alone on that hospital bed.

The hope that John proclaimed in the wilderness would soon take on flesh. This hope-in-the-flesh would go to be with people, to show them the way home—or rather, to show them that they were already home, already with God: tax collectors and sinners, the poor, the blind, the lame, Pharisees, Samaritans, centurions. He showed them all that home was not on the other side of a military victory or in some distant utopia—but sitting right there, across the table.

Prayer

O God our hope,
In whose love we are safe:
Help us this Advent
To let go of old ideas and tired thinking,
Of selfish ambition, shame,
Worry, and fear
…
Open our eyes to your coming
That we might welcome Christ
And know ourselves already home.
In Christ, who makes himself our companion: Amen.

A Different Kind of Shepherd (Ezek 34:11-16, 20-24)

A Shepherd or a Sheep?

In the ancient Near East, the shepherd was a metaphor for a king. The people believed that a good king was like a shepherd. A shepherd looked out for the weakest in the flock. A shepherd took care of the injured in the flock. A king would do likewise with his people.

Israel had a number of bad kings. Consequently, corruption and injustice had flourished, and society had become lopsided, divided between the very rich and the desperately poor. The fabric of society wore so thin that eventually the people were overtaken by the neighboring kingdom of Babylon. In today’s scripture, God promises a better future. God promises to be Israel’s king. “I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep” (Ezek 34:15). God explains how this will happen: “I will set up over them one shepherd, my servant David”—which is to say, a descendant of David—“and he shall feed them” (Ezek 34:23).

For us followers of Christ, the identity of this promised shepherd is obvious: Jesus! We believe that Jesus is the shepherd whom God had promised Israel.

And yet I’m perplexed this morning. Why is it that God’s shepherd is continually identified as a sheep? Not only is there John the baptizer’s familiar proclamation, “Behold, the lamb of God!” (John 1:29, 36) and Revelation’s repeated identification of Jesus as the lamb, but also Jesus himself identifies as a sheep. In today’s gospel lectionary text, Jesus tells a parable in which he identifies himself as the least among the people, the weakest of the sheep (Matt 25:31-46). I tried to capture this paradox in our call to worship.[1] In Ezekiel, God had promised to bring back the strayed and care for the injured and the strengthen the weak. In Jesus’ parable, he is the stranger; he is the injured; he is the weak.

What is the meaning of this reversal? Why does God’s promised shepherd look more like a sheep?

On the Side of the Wounded

Recently I was talking with a friend who has struggled for the last ten years with undiagnosed chronic pain. Doctors have explored many different angles, but so far there has been no diagnosis to explain all she has suffered. She shared with me that, although she doesn’t like to acknowledge it, she bears some serious resentment toward God.

In years past, my kneejerk reaction would have been to defend God. But who am I kidding? God doesn’t need me to defend him.

In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if what God needs is the opposite. Not for me to attack God, but rather for me to place myself on the side of the wounded rather than on the side of God. Because what I read in today’s scriptural paradox, is that God himself is on the side of the wounded. God looks more like a sheep than its shepherd.

If I could imagine another verse added to today’s gospel text, it would be Jesus saying this, “I was aggrieved and resentful, and you listened to me.”

A Parable

In response to the question, “Why does God’s promised king look more like a sheep than a shepherd?”—which could also be asked in this way, “How can a sheep be a shepherd?”—I’d like to conclude with a parable. I’m reminded that Jesus himself, when he was asked questions, would often respond with a story. It is almost as though Jesus refuses the final word. He wants us to keep asking, to keep thinking, to keep seeking.

…

There once lived a strange prince. He was the king’s only son, but people had grave doubts about his suitability for the throne because this prince seemed awfully forgetful of his own royalty. He commonly neglected the imperial customs. He forgot to wear his princely coat when he attended royal events. He used the wrong silverware at banquets. He would stand he was meant to sit and sit when he was meant to stand.

Some people said he was just a dreamer. His head was in the clouds. Others questioned his sanity. “Something seems off,” they said. A few commented that it was as though he were living with one foot in another world—as though his “kingdom not from this world” (John 18:36).

When the king finally died and the strange prince became king himself, he inherited a kingdom that was falling apart. There were numerous land disputes among the nobles. Crime was on the rise in the cities. And border skirmishes happened more and more frequently, as neighboring kingdoms sensed weakness and sought retaliation for past offenses. The people all looked to the king for solutions, but they had their doubts.

As it was, the king himself had doubts. He lamented to his trusted advisor that there was nothing he could do to solve the problems of the kingdom as long as people were looking for a strongman to swoop in and secure their desires. He said that even if he had enough swords in the kingdom to do just that, the people would never be happy. “In the end, force does not fix things,” he said. “It only fractures us. It is not control that will make us whole. Only care can do that.”

Then one day the king left his palace, never to return. At first, the people thought he had abdicated his throne and fled. But then there were reported sightings of him throughout the kingdom. One day a noble said he had seen a man wandering his orchard, eating an apple. He mistook him for a homeless man, but when he came near to reproach the drifter, he recognized him as the king. “What delicious apples!” the king said. “Would you like one? The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it. What a gift we have! God has been so rich toward us, hasn’t he?” This same noble had been involved in several land disputes. But that encounter planted a new seed in his mind. Was the land really his?

Another day the king was spotted in one of the poorer districts, eating and drinking with men and women who were known to be criminals. The passerby who spotted the king drew near and eavesdropped. The king was asking the others about their lives, and listening with interest and compassion as they shared stories of tragic upbringings, of poverty and abandonment and shame. The strange thing was, at the end of the gathering, their faces almost glowed with the acceptance they had found. As they departed, there was no whispered plotting of plans to steal or deceive. The only talk was of when they would meet next.

Yet another day the king was spotted near the border. He was surrounded by a small band of warriors from a neighboring kingdom. Their swords were drawn but had fallen down to the side. They stood with rapt attention as the king, who was unarmed, asked for forgiveness on behalf of his kingdom. “I know what your families have suffered. I know about your children who have been lost to war. Nothing can bring them back. Please, know that my heart is broken for you. I cannot speak for others, but on their behalf I beg your forgiveness. Our violence toward you has left an unspeakable wound.”

As you can probably imagine, it was not long before some of the more ambitious nobles in the kingdom had conspired together. They arrested the king on charges of treason and imprisoned him for the rest of his life. But even in prison, he went on living as he had before, sharing what little he had, receiving what others had to give, and seeking companionship with all he encountered. Some citizens visited him in prison, bringing him clothes, food, and drink.

To this day, some citizens in the kingdom still refer to him as “our true king, whose kingdom will never end.” The good news they proclaim baffles the leaders around them. The good news they proclaim is not that God is in control, but that God cares—and so do they.

Prayer

God-with-us,
Who comes not with a fix
But with friendship—
Grant us the courage
To accept what we cannot control
…
And to discover your reign
In care shown to others
And to ourselves.
In Christ, the lamb of God: Amen.

---

[1] God, the shepherd, says: “I will bring back the strayed.” / Christ, the lamb, says: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” / God, the shepherd, says: “I will strengthen the weak.” / Christ, the lamb, says: “I was hungry and you gave me food.” / God, the shepherd, says: “I will bind up the injured.” / Christ, the lamb, says: “I was sick and you took care of me.”

"They Cried Out for Help" (Judg 4:1-7)

Getting Honest at Rock Bottom

John Crist is a popular comedian who has developed a strong Christian fanbase. His jokes regularly poke fun at the church in the sort of way that a person might make fun of his own family. His humor is not meant to tear down the church but to illuminate its peculiarities and especially the ways we sometimes cover up or hide from the truth with pious-sounding sentiments.

Here are a few one-liners from his bit, “Christian ways to say no that will make you sound way more of a spiritual person than you are.”

“I don’t think it’s God’s will.”

“It’s just not his timing.”

“I’m feeling led in a different direction.”

“It’s a closed door.”

“I just don’t feel peace about it right now.”

And, of course, everyone’s favorite: “Let me pray about it.”[1]

The twist in John Crist’s story is that, four years ago, right around the height of the Me Too movement, several women made allegations that he had exploited his popularity and interacted with them in sexually inappropriate and emotionally manipulative ways. John Crist was swiftly canceled. He’d been working on a Netflix special, but that was binned. He retreated for a while. Apologized. Went to rehab.

Now he’s back performing. As you might imagine, his fanbase is split over the sincerity of his repentance. I’m not a fan, so I have no comment there. But what has captured my attention is his story. He describes his downfall as many addicts do. His “rock bottom” was not a day of decision. He didn’t wake up one day and get honest with himself and say, “I need some help.” His rock bottom was a day of intervention. It was an apocalypse (which literally means revealing), when others had to hold a mirror up to him and said, “This is what you are. Look!”

Since we’re not far off from the Christmas season, we might also compare this experience to what happens to Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Scrooge doesn’t simply wake up one day and decide to change his ways. His rock bottom involves an intervention: three ghosts, who each in their own way forces him to confront his own reality. Only after their visit does he become honest enough with himself to say, “No. This is not who I want to be.”

Israel Gets Honest: “Help!”

In our scripture today, the people of Israel hit their own rock bottom. Our storyteller summarizes, “The Israelites did what was evil in the sight of the Lord” (Judg 4:1). There are no further details. But we might imagine some. A recurring theme in Israel’s covenant with God is that the people will look after the needful: the widow, the orphan, the stranger. And according to the prophets, what is evil in the sight of the Lord is not bungling a sacrifice or getting the rituals wrong. No, what is evil in the sight of the Lord is the mistreatment of people who need care. What the Lord desires is not sacrifice but mercy. Hosea said this (Hos 6:6). Jesus as well (Matt 9:13). The problem in ancient Israel is that the rulers and business leaders often pay close attention to sacrifice and piety while at the very same time they not only neglect the needful but also exploit them (e.g., Amos 4:1-5).

In other words, the problem is that the people of Israel are living a lie. The people of God are living ungodly lives, and they are hiding from this truth under the cover of religion. As with John Crist, as with Scrooge, their rock bottom is not a simple day of decision. They do not come to their senses on their own. Notice when it is that the people of Israel finally cry out to God for help: only after twenty years of cruel oppression under King Jabin and his army’s nine hundred chariots of iron (Judg 4:2-3).

That is some intervention. Twenty years of cruel oppression. Perhaps without it, the people of Israel would have gone on living a lie, people exploiting the needful rather than caring for them, the gap ever increasing between rich and poor. But the consequences couldn’t be ignored forever. They had become a feeble, selfish people, lacking a commitment to the care of others and thus falling prey to an oppressive tyrant. So finally, after twenty years of living in the miserable state of foreign occupation and cruel oppression, they wake up to their reality and get honest with themselves. They need help!

A Woman Sitting Under a Tree

There is a pattern in the book of Judges. It’s simple, and it goes like this. First, the people do what is evil in the eyes of the Lord. Second, they cry out for help. And third, God raises up a judge to deliver them (cf. Judg 2:10-17). (This is before the time of kings. The leaders, who were called “judges,” were charismatic individuals who periodically unified the people and led them to care again about one another and about God.)

The fascinating thing in today’s scripture is that when God raises up a judge, we do not find ourselves looking at a warrior or a rousing speaker calling people to arms at the town gate. We find ourselves looking at a woman. Who is sitting down. Under a tree. It’s about as passive an image as you could imagine. Yet something about this woman draws the Israelites to her (Judg 4:4-5). They come streaming to her “for judgment,” we are told, which is perhaps a way of saying, that the people of Israel are hungry for honesty, desperate for truth. They know deep down that they are living a lie and are suffering the consequences—in the same way that Scrooge, deep down, was haunted by his greed, literally so; in the same way that John Crist felt like a fraud, calling the church to account even as he was selfishly exploiting others.

The people of Israel know that they need what Deborah has. They have been impulsive, living on autopilot, living for themselves, living a lie. This woman is patient, waiting, listening. Honest.

Listening to the Cry of the Heart

It’s not easy to be honest. It takes real courage. I read recently about a study conducted by a social psychologist at UVA, in which participants actually chose to receive a small electric shock rather than to have to sit alone quietly for fifteen minutes. I think it is telling that we would prefer an electric shock to being left alone with our own thoughts.[2] It is frightening what we might hear if we actually stop to listen to ourselves. Beneath all the surface chatter, we might actually hear the cry of our heart, saying something we’ve been trying to avoid. “I’m not actually happy here. Something feels off. I don’t feel right about the way I’ve treated my partner. I don’t feel right about the work I’m doing. I don’t feel right about the choices I’ve been making.” We might hear the cry of our heart, saying, “I’m feeling hurt and alone, disconnected from others. Disconnected from God.”

Our scripture today ends with Deborah summoning an Israelite commander, Barak. Our translation misses a small but significant piece of grammar in the original Hebrew. Where our translation has Deborah say to Barak, “The Lord, the God of Israel, commands you” (Judg 4:6), the original Hebrew includes an interrogative marker, which is sort of like a question mark. In other words, Deborah is really saying, “Has not the Lord, the God of Israel, commanded you…?” The implication here is stark. God has already been speaking to the commander, Barak, but he has not been listening. He needs a second prompting from Deborah. Barak means “lightning” in Hebrew, but he is not living up to his name. His sharpness has been blunted. Because he has not been listening. Because he has not been honest with himself about what God is calling him to do.

An Honest Heart

When I read today’s scripture, this short chapter in Israel’s history, I am inclined to see faith less as a set of beliefs and more as a cry from the heart.

What brings Israel back to God (and back to life) is its honesty. The people have been living in harmful and self-destructive ways for twenty years. Only when they become honest with themselves and acknowledge their need, do they cry out to God for help. It is the heart’s cry that brings God to their side—or rather, helps them to realize that God has been at their side all along.

What brings Barak back to God (and back to life) is honesty. He has been ignoring the still, small voice of God within himself. But then Deborah summons him and calls him to hear the cry in his heart that God wants to do so much more with him.

In the same way, what brought John Crist back to God (and back to life) was honesty. And not just the honesty of a confession or an apology. John has made clear that the real work of his recovery was becoming honest about what lay beneath his behavior: his own wounds and needs. He had misguidedly been trying to care for himself by winning the attention and admiration of others. The cliché here rings true. Hurt people hurt people.

But when hurt people become rigorously honest, God is near. Help is on the way. Healing is possible.

Today’s scripture reminds me of this good news: what brings me close to God is not a set of beliefs but an honest heart. (David said it more poignantly: “A broken and contrite heart, O Lord, you will not despise.”) An honest heart: it is so simple…but not necessarily easy. It may mean sitting for fifteen minutes alone with my thoughts. It may mean listening to someone else’s observations about how I am living. It may mean letting go of plans I have made or fantasies I have nurtured, which are the kinds of things that keep me from being honest; they keep me in autopilot.

God’s help may look different than I want, just as a woman sitting under a tree was probably not what Israel expected for its salvation. But I can trust that when I am honest, open, and willing, God is near. Help is on the way. I can be who God made me to be.

Prayer

Saving God,
Whose real strength is not in the sword
But in the heart:
Grant us the courage
To sit.
To listen.
To hear the cry of our heart.
…
May our honesty
Open us up to your saving love
And help us to grow into our true selves. 

In Christ, of gentle and humble heart: Amen.

---

[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B3oc735Ay2k, accessed November 13, 2023.

[2] https://www.science.org/content/article/people-would-rather-be-electrically-shocked-left-alone-their-thoughts, accessed November 13, 2023.

"Choose This Day" (Josh 24:1-3a, 14-25)

After Retirement

When as a child I first learned about the idea of “retirement,” I thought of it as a finish line. It meant you had “made it.” I thought of it as the bell on the last day of school. It meant work was over and the fun could begin.

Now, I’m nowhere near that bell. My race is not even halfway run. But many of you have crossed that fabled finish line. And from what I’ve heard, retirement is not at all what I as a child had thought it would be. You have discovered (or perhaps you already knew) the work is never over. Whether it’s caring for grandchildren, checking on your neighbors, building ramps for others, going on trips and learning something new—whatever it is that brought you life before retirement, is what still brings you life after retirement. When my dad retired, it was not long before he had found himself enlisted again in doing the same kind of work he had done, which was event planning. Secretly, I think, he was happy to be working again. What gave him life before, still gives him life now. (Of course, it is more enjoyable when you can work on your terms.)

We’ve all heard stories of people who worked their entire lives, and then shortly into a full-fledged retirement, in which they have absolutely nothing to do, they die. I wonder if part of the reason is because they have lost a reason for living. Our work—whether it’s our employment or other meaningful tasks that we take on in our adult lives—is fundamentally about being in community and sharing our gifts with others. Apparently this is a need for us as humans. It’s part of the fabric of life. It doesn’t change at retirement.

Choosing God When You’ve Made It

In today’s scripture, God addresses the people of Israel after they have come into the Promised Land and begun to settle there. Our lectionary selection only features the beginning of God’s address (in verses two and three), in which God reminds the people of their origin story. Their ancestor Abraham had once served other gods in a land beyond the Euphrates, but then God chose him to be the start of a new people and new way of life. The point of God’s speech is to remind the people of Israel that they have not made it into the Promised Land on their own. From the very beginning, God has been with them, guiding them, teaching them, doing for them what they could not do on their own. God has chosen the people of Israel. The question is, Will the people of Israel choose God?

When God finishes God’s speech, the leader Joshua turns to the people of Israel and invites them to respond in kind. “Choose this day whom you will serve” (Josh 24:15). I hear a special emphasis on the phrase “this day.” Because for Israel, “this day” is the day when they have finally settled in the Promised Land. “This day” is the finish line. “This day” is the bell on the last day of school. They have made it. Now they will live in houses instead of tents. Now they will have land and their herds and flocks will multiply. Gone is the wilderness. Now they are living in the land of milk and honey.

It is one thing to choose God when you are enslaved and desperate. When God first made God’s covenant with Israel, they had just been liberated from a lifetime of slavery in Egypt. Their covenant with God was arguably more of a foxhole prayer than a deliberated decision. Of course, they would take God as their God. Next to slavery, just about anything looked better.

It is one thing to choose God when you’ve got nothing else to lose. It is another thing entirely to choose God when you’ve made it. When you’re living securely in the land, happy and healthy. When you’ve got a roof over your head and a barn filled with plenty and your past suffering and desperation is a distant dream. In the wilderness, Moses warned the people about this day. He said, “When you have eaten your fill and have built fine houses and live in them, and when your herds and flocks have multiplied, and your silver and gold is multiplied, and all that you have is multiplied, then do not exalt yourself, forgetting the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery… Do not say to yourself, ‘My power and the might of my own hand have gotten me this wealth’” (Deut 8:12-14, 17).

“Put Away the Foreign Gods”

According to Moses, the danger of having “made it” is the illusion of self-sufficiency. When things are going well, it is easy to think I’m in control. It is easy to think I have brought this about by my own hand, through my own power.

Twice in today’s scripture, Joshua tells the people, “Put away the foreign gods that are among you, and incline your hearts to the Lord, the God of Israel” (Josh 24:23; cf. 24:14). The implication is that, at least in their hearts, the people are still serving other gods. Serving other gods—which is elsewhere called idolatry—is in fact a self-serving behavior. It is a sort of deal or trade-off that we make for our own benefit. It gives us the illusion that we have a handle on things. These gods we serve are actually meant to serve us.

Think about the foreign gods we serve today. What are their temples? Where do people turn their eyes? Where do people flock? I think of Wall Street, Hollywood, Silicon Valley, the Capitol. Are they not temples to money, appearance, technology, and power? We serve these other gods thinking that they will secure the good life for us. (That they have secured the good life for us.) We serve them thinking they will help us get the things we want, the attention we want, the control we want.

Nothing Has Changed

I think back to the experience of retirement. Some of you are experts in this matter of life, so it really should be you talking and not me. But my observation is that in the later years of a person’s life, the road diverges in one of two directions. And I’m going to paint here with very broad strokes.

In one direction, the person looks back upon their life and sees with pride all that they have accomplished and built. “My kingdom,” they think. And then as their age slowly takes its toll, they begin to feel their kingdom crumbling around them. And they become bitter and resentful and grasping. It turns out that the foreign gods we serve will always disappoint us in the end. They do not secure us life. Rather, they disorient us, disconnecting us from God and others; and so when their short-lived treasures begin to slip through our fingers, we find ourselves as we really are, incredibly isolated and alone.

In the other direction, and perhaps this is the road less traveled, the person looks back upon their life and sees with gratitude all the gifts they have been given. They see the hard times not as obstacles that they had to mount, but as moments when God came to their side. They see the good times as God’s grace, doing for them what they could never have done for themselves. “This is my Father’s world,” they might think. God’s kingdom—right here, on earth as it is in heaven. And they realize that, post-retirement, after the finish line, after the bell has rung, after the River has been crossed, nothing has changed. God is still here, still our Help. Life is still a gift to be received in community with others and in meaningful work shared with them. And so they can do now what they did before. They can choose “this day” to serve God. When their life is going well, they can choose to serve God. When all that they had gained in life is lost, they can choose still to serve God.

Because in the end, nothing has changed. All of life is a gift. Not to be grasped and accumulated, but to be received, shared, and celebrated.

Prayer

Loving God,
Who is the same on both sides of the River,
In times of difficulty and times of ease—
This day we choose to serve you.
We look back on our lives
And we see your help,
Not magic or instant fixes
But steadfast presence and care
…
Make us servants of this love
That has brought us life.
In Christ, our companion and guide: Amen.

"All Students" (Josh 3:7-17)

Not a Knower but a Learner

Not long ago, I was on nephew duty at my brother’s house, when the toaster oven suddenly failed. My nephew Nathan looked up at me and said, “It’s alright Uncle Jonny. Daddy will know how to fix it.”

I think it is this kind of childlike trust to which Jesus refers when he says we must become like little children to enter the kingdom of God. Nathan has a reverential awe for all the things Daddy can do. He speaks about my brother almost as though he were God himself. Daddy knows how to mow the lawn. How to drive the car. How to do just about everything.

I smile, sometimes, when Nathan extols my brother’s abilities, because I can remember when my brother and I looked up to our dad in the same way. I remember when my brother learned how to mow the lawn from my dad, how to prime the carburetor and yank the pull cord and push the mower in even rectangles and triangles. I remember my brother’s first driving lessons in the family car, cautiously coasting down West Creek on a quiet Saturday morning.

In my nephews’ eyes, Daddy knows everything. They look up to Daddy as they look up to God.

In my eyes, my brother is not a knower but a learner. My brother knows what we learned from our dad, and what our dad learned from his, and so on.

God Does Now What God Did Then

Today’s scripture tells the story of Israel’s entrance into the Promised Land by the crossing of the River Jordan. As we know from last week’s scripture, Moses has died. Joshua is the new leader. God promises Joshua at the beginning of today’s scripture, “I will be with you as I was with Moses” (Josh 3:7). God wastes little time coming good on this promise.

For readers or listeners who are familiar with Israel’s story, the crossing of the Jordan sounds familiar. The waters being raised up into walls (Josh 3:13)? The people “crossing over on dry ground” (Josh 3:7)? Where have we heard this before?

There is a rich symmetry in this scene. A miraculous crossing of water is how the story of Israel began, remember? When God delivers the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, God divides the sea for them and provides safe passage into the wilderness. In today’s story, the Israelites’ wilderness wandering comes to an end as God again divides the water for them and provides safe passage into the Promised Land. In both instances, Israel’s leader guides the people, but it would be a mistake to look upon the leadership as the reason for the successful crossing. As God says to Joshua, “I will be with you as I was with Moses” (Josh 3:7).

The common thread here is not a mighty leader, but a faithful God. The good news is simple: God does now what God did then.

“You Have One Teacher”

That is the good news that we celebrate today on All Saints Sunday. God does now what God did then. So we remember our loved ones passed, not in a hopeless way, as though they are gone completely and forever, but instead in a hopeful way, trusting that the God who lived in them still lives; that the God who gave us them, still gives; and that they still live in Him who lives.

In today’s gospel lectionary text, Jesus warns his disciples against the hypocrisy of religious leaders whose actions are superficial and spring from the wrong motives, who do things to be seen by others and praised by them rather than to be faithful to God. Jesus’ warning, which begins sensibly enough with the desire that our deeds should match our words, escalates rather quickly into a radical claim that the church seems largely to have ignored: “You are not to be called rabbi”—that is, teacher—“for you have one teacher, and you are all students” (Matt 23:8).

The danger with titles, such as pastor or pope or saint, is that there is a tendency to elevate the person as a teacher and to forget that they are just as much students as we are, and that we all have one Teacher.

I think back to my nephews. They look upon my brother, Daddy, as an almost Godlike figure, but I know that in fact he is just as much a learner as they are. We are all learners. All students.

Our Saints Are Not Saviors:

They Are the Saved

The invitation, then, on this All Saints Sunday is not to glorify our loved ones as self-made individuals. It is to glorify God in them, to remember them as gifts from a good Giver, as learners of a good Teacher, as humans made of the exact same stuff as us, whose good example inspires us to trust in the Love that made them who they were. The invitation is to remember that God does now as God did then, that God does in us what God did in them, that in God we may live as they still live.

As a little exercise, I would invite you to think about a loved one passed who is on your heart this morning. What is it about them that you are most thankful for? What is it about them that made them a gift to you and others?

…

I can’t know for certain, of course, but I would guess that what you are thankful for has very little to do with the conventional pursuits of life, wealth, property, prestige. I doubt your deepest thanks is reserved for how much money they made or the professional recognition that they received, even if you are proud of these things. My guess is that what you are most thankful for has to do with their faith (whether or not they would have used that term). My guess is that what you are most grateful for is something spiritual. Maybe it was their compassionate attention, or their steadfast faithfulness, or their unconditional acceptance, or their exuberant joy that could not be quashed. Maybe it is as simple as a habit of theirs that you can still see in your mind’s eye, like a smile or laughter or a certain look in their eyes. What you are remembering, what you are thankful for—I think—is God in them. It is what they learned from God.

Our saints are not saviors. They are the saved. They are not the ones who parted the waters; they are the ones for whom, in whom, through whom, God parted the waters. They are not knowers. They are students, learners, just like us. We see in them not their own strength, but God’s salvation, which gives us hope for today. 

For God does now what God did then. Or as our psalmist today proclaims, “O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his steadfast love endures forever.”

Prayer

Holy God,
Our one true Teacher,
Whose gifts and lessons we celebrate
In the lives of our saints
As well as in the life of Christ
…
Make us learners of your love,
Students of your Spirit, gentle and humble,
That we would trust in your steadfast care
And live with integrity,
Our deeds bearing witness to your good news.
In Christ, our brother: Amen.