"Lifted Up" (John 3:14-21)

Tales of Denial

Today’s scripture reminds me of a comical sketch in a popular TV sitcom.

At the beginning of the episode, two characters who are in a relationship are faced with a significant decision, one that neither of them wants to face. (To be honest, I can’t remember what the decision is! Maybe it was about a pregnancy or a career change.)  From one scene to the next, we find them avoiding the one conversation they need to have. Instead, they’re munching on chips. Grabbing a snack from the refrigerator. Ordering a basket of fries at the restaurant. Each scene makes evident that the characters are getting bigger…and bigger…and bigger. Exaggeratedly so.

Toward the end of the episode, when they cannot avoid noticing their mushrooming waistlines, they accept that they have a problem. But even then, they misdiagnose it. They think they have an eating problem, when in fact their eating is merely a symptom of their denial, a coping mechanism to help them avoid a painful conversation. In fact, it will take them several more episodes to acknowledge and address the deeper issue.

While I might chuckle at the humor of this scenario, there’s a part of me that squirms. Who among us does not know this pattern of events, this avoidance or denial, this rejection of a painful reality? Not studying for a test because of the anxiety it arouses. Putting off a doctor’s visit for fear of what might be found. Staying late at work to avoid an uncomfortable conversation at home.

The Israelites’ Denial

When the Israelites were in the wilderness, they did not have the luxury of surplus food. They could not eat away their stress. But their anxieties and their fears find another outlet. Impatience and negative chatter. They reject the hardship of their reality by complaining about it. Instead of being honest about their deepest doubts and fears, they are embittered and hard-hearted, closed and guarded. In today’s Old Testament scripture, their words are not an open-hearted prayer but a closed-minded prosecution. “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? For there is no food and no water, and we detest this miserable food” (Num 21:5). The people emphatically reject their painful reality, denying that it should be so, avoiding its implications of the need for help and trust. As in the sitcom scenario, they misdiagnose their problem. They say it’s a matter of food. The truth is, it’s a matter of fear. They are afraid they will never make it out of the wilderness. They’re not sure they really trust in God.

What happens next is an episode that requires careful interpretation. Scripture says, “The Lord sent poisonous serpents among the people, and they bit the people, so that many Israelites died” (Num 21:6). This chain of events seems simple enough, right? The Israelites complained, and God punished them. But the God whom Jesus reveals, of whom Jesus is the very image, is a God of mercy, not punishment. (“God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world” but to save it, as our gospel text says today.) It helps, I think, to appreciate that the idea of punishment in the Old Testament is less the idea of an authority punishing a person for their misdeeds, and more the idea of a natural consequence for a person’s actions. Sometimes, the Old Testament will say God “visits” a person’s sins “upon them”—which is to say, the person experiences the natural consequences of their actions. In this case, the Israelites’ rejection of their painful reality, their avoidance and denial, makes them vulnerable to a painful reality. (It’s sort of like when we deny a problem, and it only gets bigger and bigger, until we can’t avoid it.)

What is instructive to me about God in this wilderness episode, is not the idea that God sent poisonous serpents among the people, but what happens next. When the people cry out that they have sinned and Moses prays to God, God responds with mercy, with healing. When the people get honest about their painful reality, God brings healing.

The Problem Becomes the Cure

Now, God’s deliverance in this episode is…strange. God instructs Moses to make a bronze serpent and lift it up high on a pole. Everyone who has suffered a snakebite may then look at it and live (Num 21:8). Again, we could interpret this rather literally, as though it depicted some form of ancient magic. But I think we would be missing the deeper point. Readers have long pondered a remarkable resemblance in this scene. Snakes are the problem; and a snake is what brings healing. The problem becomes the cure.

Readers in the medical field have observed that this resembles the practice of homeopathy, or curing “like with like”—that is, treating a disease with a substance that elicits similar symptoms. Vaccines are technically not homeopathic, but practically speaking they function in a similar way. They imitate an infection (which is why you might feel a bit tired or sore after getting a vaccine) in order to engage and boost the body’s immune system. To put this otherwise, they force the body to get honest about the effects of the disease, so that it might be prepared and protected against future occasions. The problem becomes the cure.

“May Not Perish but Have Eternal Life”

In case you were wondering if I would ever get to our scripture today in the gospel of John, well, I’m finally there. You probably recognized in our scripture reading earlier one of the Bible’s most well-known verses, John 3:16. As a child, this was one of the first verses I memorized. I learned that it was effectively the promise of salvation. Which it is! I’m not about to contradict that claim. But the picture of salvation that I was largely taught, was the picture of a future destination, of an escape (one might even say, of a denial). This verse was about getting my ticket punched. Salvation was in the afterlife, not this life.

But that picture of salvation is very limited. It’s one-dimensional. The scripture itself presents a much richer picture of salvation, one that has to do with taking responsibility and receiving healing, here, now. It all starts with the verses that precede John 3:16. “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes [trusts] in him may have eternal life [the life of the ages, the life where you’re really living]” (John 3:14-15). “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent….” In other words, Jesus is comparing what will happen on the cross directly with what happens in the wilderness scene. He’s saying it’s the same phenomenon.

Just as Israel was invited to look upon its own sin, its own painful reality, in the form of that bronze serpent lifted up, so the world is invited to look upon its sin in Jesus on the cross. Jesus on the cross holds a mirror to the brokenness of the world. The violence of the cross reflects the violence of the world. Distrust, fear, hate, greed, impatience, the desire for control—violence is their end. We see all these diseased patterns of thinking in the violence of the cross.

The Best Way Out Is Through

This Lent we have been exploring the rejections that Jesus endures en route to the cross. Today’s scripture reveals that the rejection of Jesus is in fact an act of denial or avoidance of our own painful realities. The serpent on the pole, Jesus on the cross—they are held up that we might acknowledge our hurt and the ways we hurt others. Only when we accept our painful reality and our sin, only when we expose our wounds, can they be healed. And that’s precisely what Jesus promises in today’s scripture. The problem becomes the cure. When we look upon the cross and see our sin and finally acknowledge the hurt we have been avoiding or denying, there suddenly appears an opening for God’s healing love.

Robert Frost once wrote in a poem, “The best way out is always through,” which I think echoes the salvation of the cross. Trusting in Jesus is not the salvation of an escape, of going around. It involves acknowledging and taking responsibility for our painful realities and trusting that in so doing God’s love will heal us. The problem becomes the cure.

Another way I’ve heard it put, is, “What you resist, persists.” What we avoid or deny or run away from, will linger and fester and persist. But when we accept a painful reality, we open ourselves up to the possibility of transformation. The problem becomes the cure.

Getting Honest

The history of our faith is rich with spiritual practices for getting honest. The Catholic tradition has confession. Twelve-step recovery has checking in with a sponsor. There is a prayer called the Examen, which some people pray daily or weekly, which involves recalling both helpful and hurtful moments in the recent past and inviting God’s guidance and care in navigating them. And then there are a host of informal practices, such as journaling or visiting with a spiritual mentor or just calling a friend. The important thing is not the precise form of any one practice, but the getting honest that happens in them.

The paradox of salvation is that we really don’t do anything in the first step. We just get honest, which is a way of opening ourselves up to God’s healing love, which is always there. The desert fathers and mothers observed that the moment they confessed a struggle, the moment they got honest, the burden of the struggle was lightened. Maybe it was still there, but it was bearable now. In the acceptance they found from God and others, they felt relieved. They also often found that further guidance and support would be received in due time when they needed it.

The story of the bronze serpent in the wilderness is weird and unforgettable. And I’m grateful for that. Because now when I hear John 3:16, I do not hear the promise of an escape. I hear the promise of a richer salvation, the promise of life now. I hear the hard invitation to get honest and the gentle assurance that God’s love is always here to help.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Who comes not to condemn,
But to deliver us who stand condemned already
By the things we avoid or deny
…
Grant us the courage
To look upon your cross
And acknowledge our sin
And our painful realities,
So that we might know your love
Where we need it most,
And so that we might bear witness
To the good news of your healing.
Amen.

"What Sign Will You Show Us?" (John 2:13-22)

What Is a Sign?

What is a sign? The answer may seem obvious, but it’s a question worth revisiting.

Let’s say we’re driving on the road, looking for a particular place. We see in the distance, mounted on a pole, a large board with words on it. Do we judge the board on how high it stands? Or what material it is constructed from? Do we judge it according to its craftmanship, its neatness? Is the board itself our concern? Or are we more interested in what the board tells us? Do we pay attention instead to the words on the board? If we’re looking for a particular place, if we are not where we want to be, then no matter how glorious a board may look, it is useless if it does not point us somewhere, if it does not guide us in the right direction.

Or those of you who have been married and who wear a ring on your finger, consider your ring as a sign. What is its significance to you? Are you most concerned with the material of the ring—silver, gold, a precious stone set within it? Are you most concerned with how it looks in and of itself? Does its value consist in its costliness or its elegance? Or does it have a deeper value? I remember as a child learning that the significance of a ring was not its material but its shape. It is a circle. Eternal. Sure, we get caught up sometimes in the material of it, but its real value, what is signifies, has nothing to do with the material. The ring could be pure gold or it could be wood, but it would ultimately mean the same thing.

To answer the question, then: a sign signifies. What matters is not the material of the sign, but the meaning of it. To fixate on the material of the sign, would be like looking only at the finger and not paying attention to where it is pointing.

“What Sign Can You Show Us?”

Today’s scripture is a familiar scene: Jesus overturning the moneychangers’ tables in the Temple. The other gospels place this scene right before Jesus’ crucifixion. John, however, places it earlier in the timeline, a year or so before Jesus’ death. It is possible it happened both times. But it is equally possible that it happened once and the gospels have remembered the event a little bit differently, in the same way that several family members might remember a cherished moment differently. The differences in memory here are a not a conflict that need to be reconciled but are rather distinctions in meaning. Each family member remembers the event in a unique way that captures the event’s meaning for them.

For John, Jesus’ table-turning demonstration in the Temple is a sign that the religious leaders miss. John’s gospel is the only one that gives a voice to the religious leaders in this scene. Jesus declares, as he is driving out the money-changers and their animals, “Stop making my Father’s house a marketplace!” The religious leaders respond, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” (John 2:18).

The gospel of John is fascinated with signs. Many readers have noticed that John identifies a handful of Jesus’ miracles as signs. In fact, there are six miracles that John designates as “signs.” Six is so close to seven—and seven is a sacred number (symbolic of the seven days of creation)—that some readers have speculated that there are actually seven signs in John, and one of them simply did not receive the formal designation.

In any case, today’s scene in the Temple raises the question of the meaning of these signs. When the religious leaders demand a sign from Jesus, saying, “What sign can you show us for doing this?” they seem to be asking for a miracle. Which is to say, a demonstration of power. What Jesus has just done does not seem right in their eyes, but if he has the might to back it up, if he can prove his power, then they will perhaps change their minds. Their thinking is a reflection of the cliché, might makes right.

Neither Miracles Nor Calculations:
Christ Crucified

In our other New Testament lectionary text today, we find Paul talking about perhaps the greatest sign or symbol of our faith, the cross. He says, “Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles” (1 Cor 1:22-23). Paul is painting with a broad brush here. He’s not talking about the essentials of Judaism or Greek culture, but about two basic ways of living in the world. The “Jews” who “demand signs” represent a religious orientation that focuses on power—that is, miracles, signs. The “Greeks” who “desire wisdom” represent a worldly orientation that focuses on wisdom—that is, good sense, logic. If you would permit a paraphrase, here’s how I would put what Paul is saying when he says, “Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom.” “Religious people demand miracles, mighty deeds that prove their point; and people of the world desire spreadsheets and sound calculations, evidence to back up their decisions; but we proclaim love crucified, which is nonsense to the religious people demanding miracles, and bad sense to the worldly people desiring a profitable bottom line.

Have you ever wondered why Paul proclaims Christ crucified and not Christ resurrected? Or why at the Lord’s Table—“as often as we eat this bread and drink the cup, we proclaim the Lord’s death” and not his resurrection (1 Cor 11:26)? Doesn’t that seem a little odd?

I can’t know for certain, but I think Paul highlights the cross because as a sign, it signifies so much more about God’s love than the resurrection alone. If all we did was proclaim the resurrection, or if all we did was talk about the signs of Jesus in terms of his power and might, as though the healings and feeding of the thousands had to do with a demonstration of his godly strength, then we would miss out on the good news completely. It would be like looking at a sign and marveling at its height and craftsmanship, or looking at a ring and thinking its significance consisted in its material value, or fixating on a pointed finger and not looking toward where it’s pointing. I think Paul proclaims the cross because there’s no mistaking its significance. The cross does not show us power or wisdom, not by the world’s standards. It only shows us one thing: God’s love.

The Lenten Bible Study group is reading a book about the seven last words that Jesus utters from the cross. Susan Robb, the author, points out that Jesus’ final words on the cross exemplify the compassion, forgiveness, and love that Jesus showed people throughout his life. In a way, the cross highlights those qualities. It lifts them up and makes them unmistakable. It’s one thing to love others when life is going well. It’s quite another to do that in the midst of cruelty, in the midst of one’s own certain death. As a sign, the cross shows us more than anything else who God is. Not power. Not logic or common sense. But love.

Only a Sign of Love

This Lent we’re focusing on the rejections that Jesus endures en route to the cross, and how these rejections effectively present us with a learning opportunity. (That is what it means to be a disciple, by the way. “Disciple” simply means “learner.”) The rejections that we read about are moments of decision at which we all find ourselves from time to time. Like the religious leaders in the Temple, we might cock an eyebrow at Jesus’ crazy behavior, such as loving enemies or turning the other cheek or forgiving again and again without end. “Yes, but what sign can you show us,” we might ask, “that all of this isn’t just nonsense, that in the end you’re gonna trounce the bad guys and we will be mightily rewarded?”

In today’s scripture, the religious leaders at the Temple effectively reject Jesus because instead of seeing Jesus’ signs for their deeper meaning, they’re looking only at the surface. They’re looking at how high the billboard is, or how expensive the ring is, rather than considering what it means, what it points toward. I think this is why, when they ask for a sign, Jesus does not try to gratify them. He does not point toward the miracles. He does not say, “Haven’t you heard about what I did at the wedding at Cana?” Or, “Just follow me for a few days and witness the healings.” If they’re only looking for power, they will misread these signs. They will not see beyond their surface. They will see a powerful man instead a loving man. So instead, Jesus responds cryptically with a reference to the ultimate sign: his crucifixion and resurrection.

Granted, the resurrection of a dead body may seem like precisely the kind of sign that the religious leaders would appreciate. That’s a miracle! That’s real power! But the curious thing about the resurrection, is that only Jesus’ followers see the resurrected Jesus. Jesus does not parade his resurrected boy in front of the religious leaders, or those who were looking for a sign of power. Only the people who experience the crucifixion, only the people who see in the crucifixion the depths of God’s love, see its heights as well.

“What sign can you show us…?” the religious leaders ask (John 2:18). Perhaps we ask the same thing from time to time, looking for a show of God’s power, for certainty that will dissolve our doubts. But instead all we get is love.

It’s a little bit like the rings some of us wear, if we could go back to them for a moment. When wedding vows are made, they are not made because the two parties have run all the calculations and determined with absolute certainty what will be, or because one person has absolute control over the other and rests assured of a profitable arrangement. (Either of these theoretical circumstances would make a mockery of the marriage, making it a matter of spreadsheets or cold, callous control.) The vows are made not with knowledge of what is to come, not with control over the future. They are made only with love, which is quite vulnerable, which has no guarantees of what is to come. “In good times and in bad, in sickness and in health…” Or as we could perhaps imagine Jesus saying, “In grateful companionship around the table and on a hateful cross…I will love and honor you.”

The signs of Christ, of which the cross is the greatest, are not demonstrations of power or proof of a good investment. They are pointers toward what matters most: God’s love.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Who points us toward God’s love—
We see in our world your many signs:
Moments of healing,
Moments when our hunger is nourished,
Moments when the water of ordinary life
Is transformed into the wine of the kingdom,
Moments of love amid great suffering,
When life feels like a cross
…
Help us to accept these signs
Not as proof of power, or certainty of control,
But as reminders of what matters,
Your great love for us, your children…
So that we might not proclaim the signs alone,
But the good news toward which they point.
Amen.

Rejected from Within (Mark 8:31-38)

Losing the Crutch

My friend Bill describes it as the worst day in his life…and the best day in his life. When he came home from work, his wife was standing in the doorway with a lost look on her face, looking at him as though at a stranger. Bill knew something was wrong, but he didn’t know what. He asked what had happened, but his wife merely shook her head. As he entered the kitchen, he saw on the table a stash of drugs. His drugs. Things he had never meant for anyone else to see.

That day was his “rock bottom.” It felt like the end, but in truth it was the beginning. He felt like he would lose everything, but in fact he would start living. The funny thing about addiction is that the addictive substance or behavior is used as a crutch to keep going, to hold everything together. It is a survival tactic. It is meant for self-preservation in the face of what seems otherwise unbearable. For Bill, his addictive behavior was what seemed to hold everything together. When it was discovered, it felt like everything would fall apart.

Addiction is a loaded word and means many things to many people. I use it in a spiritual sense. I think we are all “addicted” in a spiritual sense. Which is to say, we all have a habit of becoming excessively attached to things: relationships, jobs, political agendas, our appearance, the next shiny toy, and so on. We might not have a “rock bottom” in the sense that my friend Bill had one, but if we listen closely to our lives I would suspect we can find similar experiences.

For example, no one looks forward to losing their job or to losing a relationship, and yet I’ve heard countless stories of personal renewal in the loss of these very things. It seems to me that a job or a relationship—or any other attachment—can begin to feel like the thing that holds everything else together. A person can become fixated on maintaining it for the sake of self-preservation. It becomes the crutch they walk with. The irony is, in seeking to save the thing—a job, a relationship—a person actually begins to forfeit their life. The divine flame within is slowly extinguished as they compromise their calling, their joy, that thing that made them smile as a child, just to keep everything together. For Bill, this was certainly true. The drug that had become his crutch was the very thing taking him away from his wife, his daughter, the life-giving pursuits that had once been his calling and given him joy.

But then the thing is lost—whatever the crutch is—and everything falls apart. And the surprise is, the falling apart is a good thing. With no crutch, we are free. There is suddenly a world of possibility, an opportunity to be faithful again to who God called us to be. The end is actually a beginning. The loss is actually a gain. What seemed the worst day in our life may actually be the best day.

Jesus Rejected by His Own

Today is the second Sunday in Lent, the season when we follow Jesus to the cross. This year, we are focusing on the various rejections that Jesus encounters on his way to the cross. As I hope will become clear, these rejections are not just a dramatic flourish in the story, something meant to heighten our sympathy for Jesus and inflame our dislike for his opponents. Rather, these rejections reflect an attitude or orientation that we all assume from time to time. These rejections reflect a way of living that is distrustful of God.

Last week, we read about the first rejection Jesus encounters, and it was from within. Alone in the wilderness, he heard the voice of Satan, a voice of rejection, a voice that said he was not enough, a voice that told him to prove himself.

There’s a curious pattern developing, because today Jesus encounters further rejection from within. Not within his heart, but within his religious tradition and his inner circle. In today’s scripture, we actually read about two rejections. First, Jesus anticipates his rejection at the hands of the religious leaders, in which he will suffer and ultimately be killed (Mark 8:31). Immediately after Jesus says this, Peter takes him aside and begins to “rebuke” him (Mark 8:32). Which is to say, Peter rejects Jesus. He rejects the script Jesus is following. Peter is expecting a conquering messiah, not a suffering one.

I wonder if these rejections from within are related to the self-preservation tactics of our addicted minds. In other words, I wonder if the Jewish leaders and Peter both are attached to the idea of power, to the idea of making Israel great again so that it can be freed from Roman occupation. They are inclined to reject Jesus because his way of living threatens their national interests and ultimately triumph over their enemies. “The first shall be last” (Matt 19:30)? “Whoever wishes to be great…must be your servant” (Mark 10:43)? “Unless you change and become like children…” (Matt 18:3)? “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you” (Luke 6:27-28)? What kind of agenda, what kind of battle plan is this?

Self-Denial, the Cross, and Losing One’s Life

For the religious leaders and for Peter, power is the drug, the crutch, the thing that’s holding everything together. It’s their survival tactic. And I think it’s what Jesus has in mind when he delivers his contrary proclamation, “For those who want to save their life will lose it” (Mark 8:35). My friend Bill thought that his drug, his crutch, was the one thing keeping his life together, just as all of us commonly attach to one thing or another, thinking it will save our lives. But the truth is often the opposite: in our aim for self-preservation, for saving our lives, we slowly compromise them, and the divine flame within grows dimmer and dimmer. We see this all too commonly on the institutional level as well, where an original mission—whether it is hospitals meant to care for the sick or educational programs meant to inspire and edify all children—is slowly obscured by the “needs” of the institution. In order to preserve itself and to “grow,” it focuses less and less on the original mission, and more and more on money and membership, power and prestige.

Instead, Jesus calls his followers to “deny themselves” and to “take up their cross” and to “lose their life for my sake and the sake of the gospel” (Mark 8:34-35). Now I’ll admit, that is some heavy language. Some people have interpreted it rather literally as self-hatred and worthlessness. Some people have used it to beat up on themselves and on others. But knowing Jesus, I don’t think this is at all his intention. I think these are strong words meant to kick out the crutch, to pry us loose from the attachments that slowly extinguish the divine flame within. To deny self is to let go of the crutch we think is holding everything together. To take up the cross is to hit the rock bottom of powerlessness, where we finally acknowledge that we are not in control. It is simultaneously the end and the beginning. Instead of trying to preserve ourselves, we open ourselves up to the good news—a kingdom of love and abundant life.

Our Old Testament scripture today is Abraham’s covenant with God. It reminds me that Abraham, in his own way, denies himself and takes up the cross. He leaves behind his family and all that he knows. His journey begins with a great loss. But this loss is in fact a great gain, for he becomes a blessing for all the families of the world (cf. Gen 12:3). His self-denial is ultimately not a rejection of himself but an opening up of himself, a turning toward others. The cross is not the end but the beginning.

To the Church

Jesus invites all of us to let go of the way things are, to let go of the crutch that seems to be holding everything together. It is a message worth hearing every day on a personal level.

Yet his invitation comes immediately in the wake of being rejected by his own—his own religious tradition and his own right-hand man, Peter. So I think it is at least worth pondering how Jesus’ words apply to his own today, which is to say, to the church. (And I speak here not of our church specifically, but of the church at large, what some would call the big-C “Church.”)

There’s been a lot of hand-wringing and hair-pulling over what seems an inevitable decline in the church. I wonder, however, if the decline might not also be a blessing in disguise. A rock bottom, of sorts. Could it be that church has become so fixated on self-preservation (“How do we save the church?” “How do we attract more members?”) that its own flame has been obscured and has grown dimmer and dimmer? Could the loss of the institution be, in fact, the recovery of the soul? Could the end be the beginning? Could the church let go of its attachment to power and prestige, and in its place rediscover the simple joy of sharing a life of faith together?

One historical tidbit that fascinates me, is that in the first four centuries of the church, during which countless theological treatises and essays were written, there is not a single discourse about church growth or methods of evangelism. The early church, even as it was persecuted, was not worried about preserving itself or growing. It was focused on being faithful, not successful, on being the body of Christ in its own small way, its participants living out their calls faithfully and in companionship with one another.

This is just off-the-cuff speculation, but I have a hunch that what right now seems to be the worst day in the life of the church, might in fact be the best. It profits the church not one bit to gain the whole world, to have filled sanctuaries and cultural domination, if its honest and simple witness is forfeited.

Worrying about church growth and strategizing how to win people back, may be a crutch by which the church is trying hold everything together. And losing the crutch and having everything fall apart…might not be so bad, if on the other side there is a return to what Therese of Lisieux called “the little way” of faith, the way of “where two or three are gathered,” the way of “unless you turn and become like little children,” the way of love.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Whose love unsettles
Our attempts as self-preservation
…
Teach us the good news
Of “rock bottoms,”
Of losing control.
We trust that your love has the power
To turn endings into beginnings
And loss into new life.
Help us to let go
Where we need to let go,
And to trust
Where we need to trust.
Amen.

"The Voice Within" (Mark 1:9-15)

“You Are Not Enough”

“Today, you will eat clean, healthy foods.”

“You’re the only one who thinks about food this much, you…freak.”

“[This isn’t] particularly hard to do. Other people don’t need this kind of hand-holding.”

“You’re such a loser!”

These are but a few snippets of the hateful self-talk that plagues Sheila, played by Rose Byrne in the Apple +TV series Physical. Set in the early 1980s, Physical revolves around Sheila’s struggle with an eating disorder. As a middle-aged housewife who is disenchanted with a life in which she seems to have little agency, Sheila seeks salvation in attaining the perfect body.

I haven’t watched more than a few clips of the show but enough to appreciate what makes it relatively unique in the world of television. Not only do you see and hear the show’s characters as they interact, but you also hear the inner monologue that torments Sheila. Sometimes people refer to emotional struggles and addictions as our “inner demons.” This show gives Sheila’s inner demon a voice. And it is a voice of rejection.

I’m no psychologist, but judging by the show’s reception, in which many viewers have identified with Sheila’s experience, and judging by the ubiquity of this negative self-talk that we’re all familiar with in one form or another, I think ultimately the voice that Sheila hears is a voice that we all hear, whatever our history, whatever our struggles. It is a voice that can speak in any language, in any dialect, using any sort of vocabulary. But it has a single, devastating message. “You are not enough.”

Lent and the Rejections of Jesus

Today is the first Sunday of Lent, the season when Jesus begins his road to the cross and we are invited to follow him. This year, we are focusing on the various rejections that Jesus encounters on his way to the cross. As I hope will become clear, these rejections are not just a dramatic flourish in the story, something meant to heighten our sympathy for Jesus and inflame our dislike for his opponents. (I’m afraid that’s how the story is read sometimes, and with drastic consequences, as Christians have periodically persecuted Jewish people and others whom they have perceived as heretics and enemies.)

The truth is, the rejections that Jesus endures are a single rejection. It is not a rejection limited to one moment in history. It is a rejection that spans history, a rejection we perpetuate, not only against Jesus, but against ourselves. It is the rejection of the image of God in us. Why would reject the image of God? Because, to our surprise, it’s an image of brokenness. An image of needfulness. An image of vulnerability.

The Accuser

As it to highlight that the rejections Jesus encounters are not simply some external conflict of good guys versus bad guys, the first scripture of Lent features Jesus alone in the wilderness. The first rejection that Jesus encounters is within. It is the accusing voice that he hears in his heart. Mark calls it Satan. Centuries of embellishment have given rise to a tradition of “the devil,” a figure who is opposite and almost equal to God. But the biblical origins of Satan are much simpler. In the Hebrew, ha-Satan means “the adversary.” Satan is more like a prosecuting attorney, running around and accusing. Think back, for example, to the famous legend of Job. There, Satan accuses Job of having faith only because of the many blessings he has received. The implication is that Job is not enough, is not worthy of God’s love. He must have things in order to be the good person he is.

In the wilderness, Satan accuses Jesus. Mark, the first gospel to be written, does not elaborate on Satan’s accusations, but Matthew and Luke do. According to Matthew and Luke, Satan repeatedly begins his temptations with the phrase, “If you are the son of God…” (Matt 4:2, 6; Luke 4:3, 9). He is effectively accusing Jesus of not being a child of God. He is saying, “You seem weak and needy to me. Prove your worth. If you really are of God, then prove it through some demonstration of your power, of your self-sufficiency.”

Utter Depravity?

“You’re the only one who thinks about food this much, you…freak.”

“[This isn’t] particularly hard to do. Other people don’t need this kind of hand-holding.”

“You’re such a loser!”

It’s the same voice that Jesus hears. The voice of the accuser, the voice of rejection. It’s a voice within.

Our Old Testament text today takes us all the way back to right after the Flood, when God makes a covenant with Noah and all of creation never to flood the earth again. But right before that covenant, there is a curious scene, in which Noah offers a sacrifice of thanksgiving, and after God smells the pleasing odor, God says, “I will never again curse the ground because of humankind, for the inclination of the human heart is evil from youth” (Gen 8:21). I will confess, I always read that verse as an indication of humanity’s inherent wickedness or sinfulness, what the famous theologian John Calvin would call our “utter depravity.” I’m not a Calvinist, and I simply wish to point out that this theological idea of our utter depravity is not a requirement for faith. There are and have been many followers of Christ who do not understand humanity as having an in-baked wickedness as the result of Adam and Eve’s actions. Rather, they understand humanity as God seems to have understood humanity—God who, right after having created humanity, saw that they were “very good.” We humans are God’s very good creation, endowed with the creative capacity of choice. When God recognizes that “the inclination of the human is evil from youth,” that is only one side of the picture. The other side has already been told, that the inclination of the human is also good.

I revisit this story because it seems to provide a backdrop for the voice of rejection, the voice of the accuser, whom Jesus hears in the wilderness just as clearly as we do today. This voice within is the “inclination” toward evil, toward a bad view of ourselves and the world. This voice is not who we are; it does not mean we are utterly depraved. It’s just a condition of being human. Perhaps it is at least a comfort or consolation to know that we are not alone in experiencing this voice. Jesus knew it too.

Broken and Blessed

Apparently in the TV series Physical, Sheila slowly finds a sense of self and power through the burgeoning aerobics movement of the 1980s. But her empowerment is not an altogether good thing, because she begins to employ it hurtfully against anyone who gets in her way. Her sense of self is recovered, but mistakenly so. She believes herself self-sufficient, a force separate from others, a force to be reckoned with.

In the wilderness, Jesus shows us a different way to respond to the voice of the accuser. And it all seems to hinge on what he heard right before he went out into the wilderness. Another voice within, an altogether different voice, that affirmed him, “You are my beloved son; with you I am well pleased” (Mark 1:11). And so to each temptation to prove himself, to show his power, Jesus responds by claiming his identity as a child of God, which means just that—as a child, he is trustful and dependent on a higher power. This is that image of brokenness, needfulness, and vulnerability that we are all tempted to reject. But Jesus claims it.

The paradox of the good news, at least as it is seen from a worldly perspective, is that to be a child of God is to be both broken and blessed. As we follow Jesus toward the cross this Lent, we will see him continually respond to rejection not with bullish bravado and a show of force, but as a child of God, blessed in his brokenness. What might this mean for us who follow Jesus? For me, it’s pretty simple. To be broken and blessed like Jesus, is an invitation to ask for help—help from God and others. Because I cannot do it all on my own. And also because I am worth it as God’s beloved child. It is an invitation to let go sometimes, to recognize my limits and also that I am not in control. It is an invitation to accept the present reality as right where I am supposed to be. If the accuser’s voice is a voice of rejection, the voice of God is a voice of affirmation, a voice affirming God’s goodness and presence in ourselves and all things.

The poet Mary Oliver writes with this divine voice of affirmation when she reflects on a moment of quiet bliss in a field of daisies. She writes, “It is heaven itself to take what is given, / to see what is plain.”[1] This is the opposite of “You are not enough.” This is, “It is enough, enough, more than enough.” She wrote this about daisies, but it could be written about literally anything: the sunrise, a loved one, a pet, a song that breaks you open, even a time in the wilderness, a time of deprivation and loss.

“It is heaven itself to take what is given, to see what is plain.” Heaven on earth. The kingdom of God among us. Blessing amid the brokenness. Sound crazy? Jesus invites his followers, “Come and see.” This Lent, Jesus shows us the way.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Who shares our inclination toward evil,
Who hears the accuser’s voice that we hear,
The voice of rejection that tells us,
“You are not enough”
…
Teach us anew our belovedness
As fellow children of God.
Help us to hear the voice of affirmation,
The voice of God, saying,
“You are my beloved child;
With you I am well pleased,”
So that we might accept our brokenness
And in it God’s blessing.
Amen.

---

[1] Mary Oliver, “Daisies,” in Devotions (New York: Penguin, 2017), 176

"A Broken Spirit" (Psalm 51)

“What the Heck Is Water?”

The story goes that two young fish were swimming along one day when an older fish swimming the other way nodded to them and said, “Morning, boys! How’s the water?” The two young fish swam on for a bit. Eventually one of them looked over at the other with a puzzled look and said, “What the heck is water?”

It’s a question worth asking on Ash Wednesday, when we get solemnly smudged with a reminder of our mortality. A reminder that we will not swim in this water forever, at least not in the same way that we do now. It’s worth asking, “What is all of this?”—“What the heck is water?”—before it’s gone.

Paul, who is rarely short of an opinion, has a pretty good answer. “In [God] we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). The water we swim in is God.

Which means that in every element of life you could think of—the hospital or house where you were born, the field where your remains will be buried or scattered, the dogs that jump at your side, the Shenandoah Mountains, cancer, casseroles, your adorable grandchildren, war, betrayal, sunset on the Chesapeake—in every element of life, good and bad, we are held in the embrace of God. We cannot escape the water. “Where can I flee from your presence?” the psalmist asks. “If I ascend to heaven, you are there. If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there” (Ps 139:7-8).

Or as Paul puts it, “Nothing can separate us from the love of God” (cf. Rom 8:38-39).

Anxious and Unsure of the Water

But like the two young fish, we often swim unaware of the very water in which we swim. And not just unaware. We are often anxious and unsure of the water. Albert Einstein put his finger on this when he asked, “‘Is the universe a friendly place?’ This is the first and most basic question all people must answer for themselves.” What the heck is this water?

“Do not cast me away from your presence, and do not take your holy spirit from me,” King David cries out in Psalm 51 (51:11). The truth is, there is no danger of God’s presence departing. The problem is, King David does not know this. Maybe he does intellectually, but not in his body, in his feelings, in the depths of his soul.

Sin is not the transgression of some arbitrary divine rule. It is not a mark on our permanent record by a pedantic God, who sees us when we’re sleeping, who knows when we’re awake, and who will reward and punish accordingly. Sin is simply whatever disregards the good water we swim in—and what, quite naturally, leaves us feeling separated, alone, by ourselves. Doomed. “My sin is ever before me,” David exclaims (Ps 51:3), giving voice to this feeling of alienation. He cannot see the water all around him, he can see only his sin.

Broken and Whole

But then enters God’s grace. “You have no delight in sacrifice,” David realizes. “If I were to give a burnt offering, you would not be pleased” (Ps 51:16). This is not a record-keeping God who can be bribed. Not at all. This is a God in whom we live and move and have our being, a love we cannot escape, a mercy that falls on us all like the rain or the sunshine. What restores us to life is not merit or achievement or anything we do, but simply accepting our reality, which of course means accepting God’s love.

“The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit” (Ps 51:17). Broken does not mean sinful. “Broken” means David is aware of the water. He is aware that he is just a speck, and yet a speck that is held by the water and connected through it to all of life.

Broken does not mean bad. Broken means we are built for connection. Broken means we cannot do it alone. Broken means we’re in this together. Broken means we’re impoverished by independence, that we need each other and God.

The paradox of Lent, of our faith, is that by accepting our brokenness, we are made whole. Not a self-contained whole, self-sufficient and able to do it alone, but in harmony with the whole, in tune with the symphony, in vibrant relationship with the water and all that is in it. The kingdom of God is a wholeness constituted by brokenness. It is our need that draws us into God’s grace. It is our limits and our weakness that invite us into connection.

When we are smudged with ash, reminded of our mortality, reminded of the sin that leaves us feeling separated, alone, alienated, we are at the very same time invited by that symbol of the cross to know our broken selves as held in the embrace of God, as immersed in the water that gives us life, as surrounded forever by the resurrection love of God.

So…if the old fish ever asks us, “How’s the water?” instead of responding, “What the heck is water?” we might respond, “The water’s good. Very good.”

Prayer

Loving God,
Whose attention is not won
By good deeds or holy thoughts,
But is freely and tenderly given—
With broken spirits,
We turn to you
…
Teach us the goodness
Of the water in which we swim,
The grace, forgiveness, and love
In which we swim.
Teach us to trust in your embrace.
In Christ, who leads the way: Amen.

Dropping the Mask (2 Cor 4:3-6)

(Blindingly) Shiny Stories

I remember at church youth retreats there would often be a special guest speaker. He would be young. He would be cool. He would wear jeans with holes in them and crack funny jokes and show us that being Christian was not necessarily synonymous with being a nerd.

And he would have a story. The details of the story changed from speaker to speaker, but the arc was always the same. His story would always involve a dramatic turnaround. “My life used to be a mess. Then I met Jesus. Now the mess is cleaned up, and I’m all better.”

The implication, of course, was “You can be like me.” Whatever’s got you down, whatever’s hurting you, Jesus can fix it and everything can be better.

Sometimes I wonder about the truth of these shiny stories. To be clear, I believe in the truth of the turnarounds. I just think there’s a little more to the story. I think these stories tell the truth—just not the whole truth. Listeners may walk away “blinded” by the “god of this world,” a god of control and certainty. They may walk away with unhealthy desires and expectations.

The Whole Truth

Jacob Loewen, a Mennonite missionary who taught college for a period of time, recounts a memorable incident that happened once when he took his small class to the local prison.

A college sophomore with a radiant smile had been asked to give her testimony. When she got up in front of the jail group, she grasped the bars with both hands and with a voice choked with deep emotion revealed to the prisoners that her father, a prominent minister, had committed suicide and that this had caused some very intense conflicts in her life. She admitted that in her darker moments, she hated her father for what he had done to her reputation. Then again she realized in those very thoughts the [brokenness] of her own heart and could only say that she was deeply grateful that she knew that God still cared for her, was concerned about her, and wanted her to find peace, joy, and meaning in life.^[1]

This story took the prisoners by complete surprise. In all the other testimonies they’d heard from church folks, the message was, “Let me tell you how bad I was. But now that I am a Christian, everything is completely different. I invite you all to become like me!”^[2] But that kind of story did not move them. They could detect a mask, a certain pretense. The story was too shiny, too packaged. It wasn’t real. But this girl’s story was real. It confessed to the darkness in her life, the loss and anger and ongoing struggle—perhaps in a way that made the light in her, the hope and joy, shine more brilliantly.

One of the prisoners later remarked, “I don’t know why that girl had to be so honest….She had no business taking off her mask like that.”^[3]

Christ, the Image of God

In today’s short scripture, Paul repeatedly refers to Christ as a shining light. Several verses earlier, he talks about seeing the glory of God “as though reflected in a mirror” (2 Cor 3:18), which suggests that Christ is the mirror in which we see God. Or as he puts it in today’s scripture, Christ is “the image of God” (2 Cor 4:4).  Like a mirror, Christ reflects God.

For us who follow Christ, this is a really helpful theological benchmark. If you want to know who God is, how God behaves, what God thinks—after all, these can all be rather high-minded and abstract ideas—look to Christ. Christ brings God’s glory down to earth. Christ is like a mirror in which we see God. In Christ, we see the image of God.

This is all very straightforward. The problem, Paul says, is that we have trouble seeing Christ as he really is. The world has been “blinded” to God’s glory in Christ. Blinded by “the god of this world” (2 Cor 4:4).

Peter, Blinded by the God of This World

Today is Transfiguration Sunday. Our gospel text is that famous scene where Peter, James, and John see Jesus transfigured on a high mountain into dazzling white clothes. And then they hear a voice, “This is my beloved son; listen to him!” (Mark 9:8). But to understand the meaning of this epiphany, this remarkable revelation, we must go back to what immediately precedes it.

Peter has just proclaimed Jesus to be the messiah, and in response Jesus reveals to his disciples for the first time that as the messiah he will soon endure suffering and rejection at the hands of the religious leaders (Mark 8:31). Ironically, Peter rejects Jesus right then and there. As Mark puts it, “Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him” (Mark 8:32). I can imagine him with an arm around Jesus’ shoulder, shushing him and shaking his head. “No, no, Jesus, you must be mistaken. You’re the messiah!”

But it’s not really Peter speaking. It’s, in Paul’s language, “the god of this world,” who has blinded him. Jesus rebukes Peter, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things” (Mark 8:33). Peter cannot see God reflected in Christ because he is blinded by his desire for a god of control. He’s looking for a god who controls things, not a God whose care for us goes to the lengths of suffering with us and for us. He’s looking for a god who will fix things with force, not a God whose love is patient and does not insist on its own way.

Peter’s blindness, I think, is part of the reason that God must proclaim on the mountaintop, “This is my beloved son; listen to him!” If you want to know who God is, look to Jesus. Listen to him.

Learning We Are Not Alone

The good news that emerges from today’s scripture is not necessarily obvious.
It is counterintuitive by the world’s standards.
It is, as Paul says in today’s scripture, “veiled” to the world,
Which has been “blinded” by the god of this world (2 Cor 4:3-4).

The glory of God,
The light that shines in the darkness,
Is not reflected in control and certainty.
Jesus did not triumph over the Roman occupation of Judea,
Nor did he come to argue and make his point.

The glory of God,
The light that shines in the darkness,
Is reflected as in a mirror
In a man who bears God’s vulnerable love;
A man who cries with the grieving,
Who endures the sin and violence of this world
And yet offers forgiveness;
Who shares with us this body
Of hunger and thirst, aches and pains,
And eternal glory.

The glory of God,
The light that shines in the darkness,
Is not reflected in a mask of perfection.
It is reflected only when the mask is dropped.
It is reflected by the college girl in prison,
Sharing the darkness of her struggles
And all the more, the light of her hope in Christ.
It is reflected in us,
Being honest about the darkness of our lives,
And all the more, about what gets us out of bed in the morning,
What brings hope to our heart and a smile to our face.
Our honest faces are a mirror for God’s light.

Because when we are honest,
Others know that they are not alone,
Just as in Christ we discovered
We are not alone.

The glory of God,
The light that shines in the darkness,
Is the love of a Companion,
Who shares the journey with us.

Prayer

Loving God,
Whose thoughts are not our thoughts,
Whose ways are not our ways—
In Christ we see your true glory:
Not victory but vulnerability,
Not control but companionship.
…
Grant us peace and courage
Through your company,
That your glory might be reflected
In our honest companionship with others.
In Christ, who calls us friends: Amen.

---

[1] Jacob A. Loewen, Culture and Human Values: Christian Intervention in Anthropological Perspective (Pasadena: William Carey Library, 1975), 64.

[2] David J. Bosch, A Spirituality of the Road (Scottdale, PA: Herald, 1979), 54.

[3] Loewen, Culture and Human Values, 64.

"Free to All" (1 Cor 9:16-23)

Unattached to Insult or Praise

You may remember the Desert Fathers and Mothers from our Lenten series last year. They were an odd and inspiring movement in the fourth century, a group of Christ-followers, mostly lay people, who fled to the desert in order to unlearn the habits of the world, such as greed, envy, and anger, and in their place to cultivate the fruits of the spirit. One tale in particular came to mind as I read this week’s scripture. I’ve adapted it slightly:

A brother came to see Abba Macarius the Egyptian, and said to him, ‘Abba, give me a word, that I may be saved.’ So the old man said, ‘Go to that grove of trees near the oasis and insult them. Insult every part of them: their roots, their branches, and their leaves.” The brother went there, insulted the trees, and even threw stones at them; then he returned and told the old man about it. Abba Macarius said to him, ‘How did they respond? Did they say anything back to you?’ He replied, ‘No.’ The old man said, ‘Go back tomorrow and praise them.’ So the brother went away and praised them, extolling their roots and their branches and their leaves. He returned to the old man and said to him, ‘I have complimented them.’ And the old man said to him, ‘How did they answer you? Did they say anything?’ The brother said no. The old man said to him, ‘You know how you insulted them and they did not reply, and how you praised them and they did not speak; so you too if you wish to be saved must do the same and become like a tree. Like those trees, do not be yoked to either the insults of others or their praises, and you can be saved.’[1]

Occupation and Calling

In today’s scripture, we find Paul giving a robust defense of his missionary activity. One of the accusations to which he is responding, stems from the observation that he does not take payment as other missionaries do. Some people are saying that his no-charge policy is because he knows he’s not a real apostle.

It helps to know that in the ancient world, a religious professional found their subsistence in the support of the people whom they served—not unlike today, really. So, for example, priests who served in the temple were supported by the tithes of the people who brought sacrifices to the temple.

But Paul is not taking payment. Why? Are his opponents right? Is he refusing payment because he knows he does not deserve it?

Earlier in this chapter (1 Cor 9), Paul addresses this accusation head-on. “The Lord [even] commanded that those who proclaim the gospel should get their living by the gospel,” he acknowledges. “But I have made no use of any of these rights, nor am I writing this so that they may be applied in my case” (1 Cor 9:14-15). Why is Paul not accepting support? He explains in today’s scripture, “An obligation is laid on me, and woe to me if I do not proclaim the gospel!” (1 Cor 9:16).

Paul is touching here on the difference between an occupation and a calling. An occupation is what you do for money. A calling is what you would do even if no one paid you. Sometimes, there’s considerable overlap between a person’s occupation and calling. Many teachers in our schools would acknowledge that teaching is their calling. Which means that, after working hours, or later in life after they have retired, they will still find themselves teaching, because it’s a calling—and “woe to [them] if [they] do not!” Paul is saying that he cannot help but proclaim the gospel. It’s not something he does for money, it’s something he is compelled to do, regardless of payment.

Freedom

And he continues on to explain why he’s chosen not to receive money: so that “I may make the gospel free of charge” (1 Cor 9:18). Paul does not want anything to stand in the way of his calling. If others have no means to support him, no problem. His proclamation is free. And this freedom cuts both ways. As he says moments later, “I am free with respect to all.” Paul has no patrons to please. They say the customer or client is always right, and that can compromise any calling. It introduces the dilemma: do I stay faithful to my calling, or do I try to make my audience happy?

The kernel of good news that I hear in today’s scripture is a little bit hidden by Paul’s passionate rhetoric, which at times gets a little convoluted. But as I untangle what he’s saying, what I hear is this: Our calling liberates us. Our calling grounds us in God’s love, so that we do not have to go looking for all the things we think will satisfy and secure us, things like approval, possessions, power. I think of what Jesus tells Martha, “You are worried and distracted by many things, but only one thing is needed” (Luke 10:41-42). The paradox of calling is that by focusing on “one thing,” we are free—present, available, able to serve—in all things. Thus Paul can say, “I am free with respect to all” in the same breath that he says, “I have made myself a slave to all” (1 Cor 9:19).

The Opposite of People-Pleasing

To put some flesh on this idea, let me share a simple story. I remember once being a part of a small group of ministers. We would gather to share from our experiences: what we were learning, where we were struggling, how we needed help, and so on. One day, after the group, I felt particularly unsettled. I felt like what I had shared had been unhelpful. I felt like I had rambled. I felt like I had said a lot and said nothing at all.

When I shared this with my spiritual mentor, he asked, “Were you honest?” I thought for a moment and then said, “Yeah, I was.” He smiled and nodded as though the matter were settled and everything was alright. Only then did I realize that my worry had been for the approval of others. I was not like that grove of trees that Abba Macarius held up as an example. Unlike those trees, I was worried what others might think or say. I had wanted in some small way to demonstrate my wisdom and to improve my standing in the eyes of others. I was living for their praise and to avoid any criticism. My mentor was a bit like Abba Macarius, reminding me that my calling—part of which, I think, is to tell honest stories—is more important than the praise or criticisms of others.

When Paul talks about being “all things to all people,” I don’t think he’s referring to pleasing all people. I think he’s referring to its opposite: the freedom of his calling. There is little freedom in people-pleasing. But when a person is grounded in God’s love—rooted in it like a tree—needing no approval from this group or that, he can do what he is called to do in any setting. He can be all things to all people.

Called to Be Faithful, Not “Successful”

Lest we confuse calling with a religious thing, with something we do in church or for church, it may help to remember that Paul’s calling had to do with his unique experience. In other words, it had to do with the gift that he had to share with others. Our calling is not a religious thing; it is a unique, personal, holy thing that inherently builds up others and connects us to God and ourselves. The English poet and novelist Dorothy Sayers comments:

In nothing has the Church so lost Her hold on reality as in Her failure to understand and respect [callings outside of the Church.] … How can any one remain interested in a religion which seems to have no concern with nine-tenths of his life? The Church’s approach to an intelligent carpenter is usually confined to exhorting him not to be drunk and disorderly in his leisure hours, and to come to church on Sundays. What the Church should be telling him is this: that the very first demand that his religion makes upon him is that he should make good tables.[2]

Our calling may be making good things that help others. It may be teaching. It may be caring for the hurt or lonely. It may be organizing resources in a way that enriches the common good. It may be things like listening, greeting, or giving encouragement.

Whatever it is—and it may be more than one thing, and it may change over time—it is from God. It is holy. And as Paul’s writing suggests, it is liberating. It orients us in what really matters, which is being faithful to God rather than successful among peers. We work not for prestige, possessions, or power, but for the joy of that thing which we would do for no money at all. I’ve heard it said that our calling is where our deep gladness meets the world’s deep hunger.[3] It’s as good a definition as I’ve heard. We work not for results, but for the joy of our calling, and it makes us more present, more available, more able to serve—wherever there is need.

Prayer

Holy God,
Who equips and calls each of us uniquely,
To build up others in ways
That only we can—
Where we remain distracted and enslaved
By quests for approval, wealth, or power,
Help us to hear anew the words of Christ,
“There is need of only one thing”
…
Grant us freedom
In the small but mighty deeds
Of faithfully living out our call,
That we might know peace
And serve where there is need.
In Christ, who knew what he came to do: Amen.

---

[1] Adapted from Benedicta Ward, ed., The Sayings of the Desert Fathers, The Alphabetical Collection (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1984), 132.

[2] Dorothy Sayers, “Why Work?” accessed January 29, 2024, https://www1.villanova.edu/content/dam/villanova/mission/faith/Why%20Work%20by%20Dorothy%20Sayers.pdf, 6-7.

[3] Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC (New York: Harper & Row, 1973), 95.