"The Beauty That Calls Us" (Song 2:8-13)

Sacred Sounds

In our world, some sounds are sacred.  Voices, notes, tones that set our hearts to leaping, that call us to self-abandonment.

The recess bell.   When it rings, the school shakes from inside.  Then the door nearly flies off its hinges and erupts with children.  They run this way and that, nearly losing it, kicking balls, playing chase, climbing the jungle gym, running to meet their friends in the shade of tall trees—all of them in love with life.

The dinner call.  Years ago, my mom opens the back door and calls out, “Dinner,” and my brother and I grab the soccer balls and scramble through the door and kick off our shoes still tied and run our hands through an obligatory ten seconds of water and soap and then take our seats, where glasses poured with cold milk and plates filled with food await us—and we are suddenly aware of our hunger.

The referee's whistle.  When its sharp ring pierces the waiting air of the playing field, the players lose their worries and then lose their breath—and before long, a fortunate few among them who are in that blessed place known as “the zone” will lose themselves completely. 

The ring tone.  When its familiar melody anonymously announces a caller, the young soul awakens from the tedium of the everyday and fumbles for the phone in anticipation, hoping against hope that the name on the screen will match the name of their love—and when they see the name, the day is suddenly filled with new life and possibility and adventure.

The recess bell, the dinner call, the whistle, the ring tone—just a few sacred sounds among many. They all cry practically the same invitation: “Arise!” They raise us up to new life. They call us out of ourselves.

The Greatest Song Ever: Love (or “God”)

The Song of Solomon (or by its Hebrew title, “The Song of Songs,” which really means “The Greatest Song Ever”) is a scandalous song.  Not once does it mention God by name.  (“The Greatest Song Ever” doesn't even mention God!) Instead it sings shamelessly about human love.  How it ever made it into the Bible is a mystery.  To this day, scholars debate the reasons that the ancient rabbis included this earthy love poem in their scriptures.

Of course, ever since its inclusion, rabbis and priests both have done their best to censor this love song by making it into a metaphor.  This song is really about God and Israel, they say, or about Christ and the church.  Certainly the song can be read that way.  But I wonder if it’s not even stronger when we read it simply as it is.  Perhaps it need not sing God’s name when everything it sings is intimately a part of God. Didn't John say, centuries later, “God is love”? The entire song, then, is about God. Perhaps naming God – stating the obvious – robs the song of its allusive power. Perhaps just as explaining a joke ruins the punchline, stopping to theologize the experience of love kills the mood. Rather than name God, the Greatest Song Ever simply looks God in the eye and says, “You are beautiful.”

More than Romance

But is love only a matter of romance? Certainly romance is the focus of the Song of Solomon. The entire book is a back-and-forth dialogue between two lovers. In the catalogue of ancient love songs, the Song of Solomon is unique in this, in giving both participants an equal voice.

I wonder, though, whether romance is the central meaning of the song or just the vehicle for expressing the wonders of a love that is even bigger than romance. What strikes me about the song is that the two lovers are not just enamored with each other but with the world. In the six verses that we read today, all five senses are engaged. Sight – the flowers appearing on the earth. Taste – the fig tree putting forth its figs. Smell – the vines giving forth fragrance. Sound – the voice of turtledove singing in the land. Touch – the rain over and gone, fresh air awaiting the lovers outdoors.

I'm reminded of a poem by Juan Ramon Jimenez, in which love is described not as a collapsing into the other person but as an opening up to all the world:

I unpetalled you, like a rose, 

to see your soul, 

and I didn’t see it. 

But everything around

 —horizons of lands and of seas—, 

everything, out to the infinite, 

was filled with a fragrance, 

enormous and alive.

Today’s scripture begins with an incomplete sentence, a sort of surprised exclamation: “The voice of my beloved!” the woman proclaims.  Moments later, she shares with us what her beloved says: “Arise, my love…and come away.” 

Isn't this the call of love, whether the love is romance or a playground friendship or a parent-child bond or teammates sacrificing for each other?  Isn't love a call that excites us and raises us up and entices us to abandon ourselves and to go away into the world, into the infinite, which is filled with a fragrance, enormous and alive?  Isn’t it part of what is heard in that sacred recess bell or ring tone or referee's whistle?  

Three Beautiful Places Where We Are Called

And don’t we all hear this call?  Maybe for us it’s no longer as obvious or immediate as a particular sound that sets our hearts to leaping, that throws us into self-abandonment, like a bell or a whistle or a ring tone.  Maybe we hear the call in the lower, subtler registers of a particular place or a certain situation.

In the Greek, the word for beauty, kalon, appears to have come from the word for call, kaleo.  In other words, the ancients believed that beauty is what calls us.  If we reflect for a moment on where we are drawn most deeply to in this world, on what sets our hearts to leaping and leads us into self-abandonment, I imagine that we might find ourselves thinking about matters of deep beauty and joy. 

Of course, it is easy to miss the call of beauty.  Caught up in our own plans and programs, our thinking in terms of business and this-for-that and what’s most effective, we sometimes miss the beauty right before our eyes—a sunset, a child’s smile, a gratuitous gesture of compassion.  

Here, I find some help from the church. There are three places where people at church seem most alive to me, most joy-filled, most connected. Tables. Small groups. And time shared with the needful. I suspect that in these places can be heard the same cry we hear in our scripture: “Arise…and come away” into the wide and wonderful world.

Tables, small groups, and the needful. Here is where the church encounters its calling, a deep beauty and joy.  I am not talking about the superficial kind of excitement that we might compare to a romantic crush or obsession, which is an excitement more often than not selfish in its nature. I am talking about a deep and abiding joy that draws us out of ourselves, a breathless sense that we have happened upon the most precious thing in the world, what matters most.  This is the beauty of the bed-ridden holding a hand and praying tearfully with someone who cares, knowing that they are not alone.  It’s the beauty of multiple voices becoming one, whether in the sharing of honest experience or the singing of songs that express what no lesson or lecture ever could.  It’s the beauty of difference, even disagreement, gathering around the same table in peace and love.

Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places

And is it any surprise?  These three places are where Christ promises us he will be.  The table, where he says “Remember me” and “I will meet you again here” (Luke 22:16-18); small groups “where two or three are gathered” (Matt 18:20); and the needful, for “as you did it to one of the least of these…you did it to me” (Matt 25:40).

Jesuit priest and poet Gerald Manley Hopkins once wrote that “Christ plays in ten thousand places, lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his.”  Perhaps this is another way of saying that these three Christ-haunted places are everywhere, that there is no limit to the ways that we hear the call of the beautiful, “Arise, my love…and come away.”  

I wonder where you hear the call of beauty. Where Christ calls to you, “Arise…and come away!” Having grown up in a religious environment, I sometimes have trouble hearing the call myself. Instead I hear all of the oughts and shoulds – pious expectations instead of God's unique call to my heart. I fear that following them is fruitless in the end if I'm being false to the person God has called me to be. My suspicion is that while the actual call of beauty and joy may seem to be quite trivial – maybe it's “just” toward your back garden or the dog staring up at you – it contains within it a pathway into all the world, which if followed faithfully leads us into the abundant love and life of God's kingdom. 

…And if you're still wondering where you hear the call of Christ, which is the call of beauty, and you need a clue to point you in the right direction, I would wager it's not too far from a table, or a small, honest gathering, or a person or creature in need.  

Prayer

Beautiful Christ,

Whose call to us 

Raises us to new life

And draws us into the world:

As bells and whistles

Rouse the hearts and bodies

Of children,

So may your voice

Excite and entice us

To take the risk of faith—

To rise and go away

On your risky adventure of love.  Amen.

"Hear in Heaven" (1 Kgs 8:22-30, 41-43)

Gaps in Our World

Pause your life. Freeze it. Take your remote and stop everything for a minute. Inside you is a world. A world of plans. After church, you will eat lunch. You’ll catch up on errands you didn’t have time for in the week. Inside you is a world of expectations. In fall, the leaves will change color and the temperatures will drop. As school begins, you’ll be called upon less to watch the grandkids, and you’ll get a bit of your life back. Inside you is a world of decisions to make. What kind of care do mom and dad need? Who’s going to host Thanksgiving this year?

Inside you is a world. What you think. What you anticipate. What decisions you’re deliberating.

This world inside you is closed. Finished. Whole. Complete. If you took the remote and resumed play and everything ran according to plan, then the future would really only be a foregone conclusion: a natural unfolding of the present, a foreseeable development, a potential eventually to be realized. At the beginning of the 20th century, as industrial and scientific revolutions promised a society of comfort and convenience, many people understood the world in just this way. The future, they thought, was already written. They boldly predicted and planned for a century of peace and pleasure.

After two world wars, multiple genocides, continued struggles with hunger, and an increasing gap between the rich and the poor, we’ve conceded that maybe there was more to the world than we could see or know. As the world inside us began to play out, there were shocks and surprises. Things we did not foresee. Things we could not plan for. Our world, it appeared, had gaps and cracks unaccounted for. 

God on High

I must confess that I have a hard time with the traditional imagery of God on high, of heaven as God’s dwelling place. Which is exactly what we find in our scripture today, where King Solomon dedicates his newly built temple to God. Twice in our scripture, and twice more in the surrounding verses that are not included, Solomon prays to God with this address: “Hear in heaven your dwelling place” (1 Kings 8:30, 39, 43, 49). 

The imagery doesn’t resonate with me because it sits at odds with my faith experience. I have only ever encountered God on the ground level. From the moment I was born, when as a helpless infant I was held close and loved in the flesh by the people around me. As I grew up, when I was given more second chances by my parents and teachers and coaches and friends than I can count. As I meet with you each Sunday, when we gather around this Table and share not only bread and cup but our trust in a life that is greater than death. In all these things, I have encountered God on my level. 

Or as we’ll say around Christmas time, “Emmanuel”—God is with us. Or as Christ said, “Where two or three gather in my name, I am there with them” (Matt 18:20) or, “Whatever you did to the least of these, you did to me” (Matt 25:40). Or as Paul says, “You are the body of Christ” (1 Cor 12:27).

Heaven is God’s dwelling place?  My faith and my hope are that all the world is God’s dwelling place. Emmanuel. God is with us.

Heaven as the Gaps in Our World

But maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe like the expressions “lamb of God” or “bread of life,” God “in heaven” is metaphor. After all, what would it even mean that God dwells on high in the heavens?  Where exactly?  If everyone on earth pointed up, we’d all be pointing in different directions. 

I wonder if our own expressions about the heavens don’t point us in the right direction, toward what this metaphor really means. Expressions like “Heaven knows,” which really means I don’t. Or “Heaven help me,” which really means I can’t do it myself. Or “It fell straight from heaven,” which really means it came out of nowhere, out of God-knows-where.

All these expressions suggest our inability and our ignorance. Heaven is shorthand for I don’t know everything, I can’t do this on my own, I didn’t see that happening. Heaven is the opposite of the world that is inside us, the world that we know and plan for and anticipate, the world that is closed and complete. Heaven is in the gaps and cracks in our world.

Which if we are honest, are our only real hope of salvation. I think the reason that Solomon keeps praying to God in heaven—and the reason that Jesus keeps talking about the flesh needing something else, needing spirit—is that they know that the world inside us, the world that we know and prepare for and expect and plan for, is actually small and shortsighted. Just ask the hopeful who predicted paradise at the start of the twentieth century. What we know, what already exists, what we can see coming—these things won’t save us. It’s what we don’t know, what doesn’t exist, what we can’t see coming—it’s God, in a word, or “heaven,” if you like, that will save us. It’s through the gaps and cracks of our own world.

Death…and Resurrection

If you’ve ever held onto a grudge, or hidden a lie, or simply hogged what you could have been sharing, you know just how important “heaven”—the gaps and cracks in our world—is. Because holding onto a grudge is holding onto the world inside us, the world that we know, the world where we’re right and the other person is wrong. And hiding a lie is preserving the world inside us, the world that we want, the world where we are accomplished and admired and accepted. And hogging what we could be sharing is protecting the world inside us, our world of plans and possibilities, the world where we’ve worked hard and earned it and deserve whatever we can afford.

In each case, we are clinging to the world that we know. But then there are cracks and gaps, thank God. Have you ever held onto a grudge only to have your opponent give you the nicest compliment?  And it destroys your world…before opening up a new one where you have one more friend than before. Or have you ever hidden a lie only to have it exposed?  And for that split second it feels unbearable…but then all of the sudden you can breathe and the weight of the lie is lifted and then in this truth it feels like you’ve been set free. Or have you ever hogged something only then to share a little bit begrudgingly?  And at first maybe it feels like your world is lost…but then you enter into a new world richer and fuller and friendlier than before.

When heaven breaks through the gaps and cracks in our world, it often feels like this, doesn’t it?  A little bit like death…and then resurrection.

Salvation from Outside

Emmanuel. God is with us. But we can ignore God just as easily as we can ignore our neighbor. 

For this reason, I think, King Solomon prayed, “Hear us in heaven!”  For this reason, we say, “Heaven knows!”, “Heaven help me!”  Heaven is our way of confessing I don’t know everything, I can’t do this on my own, I didn’t see that happening. Heaven is our way of inviting what we can’t see coming, of celebrating the gaps and cracks in our world. Heaven is our way of praying for a world bigger than our grudges, freer than our fictions, rich beyond our riches. Heaven is our highest prayer—not as an escape from earth, but as redemption for earth: “On earth as it is in heaven.” It is this salvation from outside, Jesus says, that actually gives us life. “The flesh is useless”—“it is the spirit that gives life” (John 6:63). Patience, gentleness, forgiveness—these fruits of the spirit come not through our willpower and determination, not through the world we plan for and expect, but through our surrender to something beyond us, something that comes through the gaps and cracks of our world. God, in a word—or “heaven,” if you’d like.   

Prayer

God of the gaps,

Who breaks into our world

In the openings

Of nonexistence,

In what we cannot see coming,

In what we do not know—

Hear us in heaven

And save us.

Lead us beyond

The world we cling to.

Lead us in the way

Of death and resurrection.

In the name of him whose spirit gives life, Jesus Christ.

Amen.

"Only a Little Child" (1 Kgs 2:10-12; 3:3-14)

“What Would You Wish For?” 

“If a genie in a bottle granted you three wishes, what would you wish for?” This was the question du jour in third grade while shooting the breeze at the bus stop or chewing the cud in the cafeteria. Disney’s animated version of Aladdin had just come out. I imagine that’s where the question originated.

The conventional wisdom was, of course, to ask for more wishes—that is, to maximize your return, to get everything you wanted.

A Lesson from His Father

Solomon does not follow the conventional wisdom at this point in his life. When God invites him to make a request, he does not seek to maximize his return. Part of me wonders if this is because he remembers the experience of his father. David usually got what he wanted, but the result was often trouble. Bathsheba here is the prime example. But more generally, David’s success comes at the cost of making more enemies.

Perhaps Solomon can see that getting what you want is not all it’s cracked up to be.

Where Solomon’s Wisdom Comes From

Solomon is a legendary figure in the Bible. He is especially famous for one thing. His wisdom. Which strikes me as a little bit ironic. His fame is for something for which he does nothing. His wisdom is not a special ability he’s been born with or a skill he’s developed or knowledge he’s acquired. It is not the result of any effort or merit on his part. It is a gift from God.

And I don’t know—perhaps that is still reason enough for fame. To be the special recipient of an extraordinary gift. Except…I wonder if he’s meant to be an exclusive recipient and if the gift is meant to be extraordinary. In other words, I wonder if his wisdom is meant to be not an outrageous, otherworldly ability that we envy and admire but rather a very practical example that we imitate. 

The Wisdom of a Child’s Heart

To reiterate: for Solomon to receive God’s gift, it is not a matter of doing anything. It is only a matter of orientation, attitude. “I am only a little child,” he prays. “I do not know how to go out or come in” (1 Kgs 3:7). “Going out and coming in” is a Hebrew expression for a person’s daily activities. The image that Solomon’s prayer conjures in my mind is my nephews, who still need help tying their shoes before they go out, who still need help taking a bath at the end of the day when they come back in. Yes, they can do many things on their own. For instance, they both recently demonstrated mastery of the monkey bars on the playground. But even when they’re doing things like this on their own, they’re never alone. The love from their parents is in their hearts. The behaviors their parents have taught them are in their body. And their parents are never too far away when they cry out. And, perhaps crucially, they’re not afraid to cry out.

I do not think it’s a coincidence that Jesus says that to receive the kingdom of God, we must become like little children. Little children are supreme examples of what it means to know our need and to trust in a loving higher power.

Solomon’s prayer fleshes out a further dimension of a child’s wisdom. Our NRSV translation says he asks God for “an understanding mind” (1 Kgs 3:9). But the Hebrew, I think, is more profound. Lev shome‘a literally means “a listening heart.” (Lev, “heart,” is the word used in the scripture, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart…” [e.g., Deut 6:5].) “An understanding mind” suggests mastery. It suggests a grownup who’s been around the block and knows what is what and how to do things. “A listening heart” suggests attention. It suggests a child who knows there’s always more to the world than they know, who is curious and open.

My nephews have a listening heart (at least some of the time!). They are little sponges. When they see something for the first time, like when they saw deer on the edge of the woods, or when they hear something for the first time, like when I gently explained what a hurricane is, they are rapt with attention. You can see the fascination in their eyes,  the little wheels turning in their mind, their heart open wide.

I wonder if Solomon’s wisdom is as legendary as we have made it out to be or if it’s not, as his own prayer would suggest, as universal as childhood. To be needful, trusting, and attentive to a loving higher power.

A Lesson for Us from Solomon

If Solomon’s prayer demonstrates the attitude by which a person receives God’s gift of wisdom, then it seems to me, tragically, that Solomon gradually forfeits this attitude and God’s wisdom over the remaining years of his life. Many readers have observed that, as King Solomon completes numerous impressive building projects and enlarges Israel’s wealth and reputation, he also begins to recreate the very same conditions of oppression under which Israel suffered in Egypt. Forced labor, heavy taxes, conscription.… Solomon effectively becomes a new Pharaoh. It is no surprise, then, that when he dies, “all the assembly of Israel” comes to his successor, Rehoboam, and says, “Your father made our yoke heavy. Now therefore lighten the hard service of your father and his heavy yoke that he placed on us” (1 Kgs 12:3-4).

If Solomon begins his reign as an example for us all, bearing a child’s heart that is needful, trusting, and open to a loving higher power, then he ends his reign demonstrating the antithesis of a child’s wisdom. He has come to resemble the self-reliant, controlling king about which Samuel had long ago warned the people of Israel  (cf. 1 Sam 8).

The apparent lesson in Solomon’s negative development is that wisdom is not a static quality. It is not something that is achieved or secured once and for all. It is, rather, a daily disposition. It is why Jesus prays to his father for his “daily bread.” Wisdom is the opposite of mastery. It is daily becoming only a beginner, “only a little child.” It is daily acknowledging our need, living in trust, and paying attention to the God who loves us.

My Prayer for You

Sometimes in scripture Paul shares with the church to whom he is writing his prayer for them. This morning, I would like to share my prayer for you—for us. This is very personal for me. We all have different prayer styles. I have always envied people who have the gift of extemporaneous prayer, who can pray on the spot with just the words that are called for. That is not my gift. Instead I usually pray words that have assembled themselves together over a period of time as I have listened to my heart and what it is trying to say. And so every morning, I pray roughly the same prayer for my loved ones, which includes you. I pray that God would open us up to his goodness and the goodness of his creation.

I’ve heard that prayer really boils down to three basic expressions: thanks, help, and wow! My humble addition to that catalogue would be: “Open me (us) up!”

As I read today’s scripture, I think I understand my own prayer a little more clearly. When I pray that God would open us up, I am really praying that God would make us like little children (again), knowing our need, living in trust, and paying attention.

This opening up—what we might call the wisdom of a little child—we see most clearly in Christ. Paul says that it is foolishness to the world. He says that the world looks at Christ’s opening up and sees weakness. The world's wisdom is self-reliance and control. It is to wall up. The wisdom of Christ, which is the wisdom of a little child, is to open up. And for followers of Christ, it is the power of God. It is our salvation (cf. 1 Cor 1).

In closing today, I would like to share a little more of my prayer with you.

Prayer

Loving God,
Bless this day
And be with my Trinity family and our loved ones.
Open us up to your goodness
And the goodness of your creation.

Open us up:
To trust in your love and to walk with courage in its way;
To receive Christ in every encounter;
And to give thanks in all things.
May your love nourish us, guide us, and give us the strength to live well.

And grant us the peace of being comfortable in our own skin,
That we might be a blessing to others
And that we might grow in love and wisdom.
In Christ, whom we follow: Amen.

The Trouble with Anger (2 Sam 18:5-9, 15, 31-33)

Payback

It was the first day of second grade. Keith found the desk with his nametag and sat down. Immediately he knew something was not right. As the boy next to him began to snigger and several heads in front of him turned around and stared, he could feel that his seat was wet. Terrified, he stood up and saw a puddle. The boy sitting next to him, whose name was Jack, must have put water on his seat before he arrived. He hadn’t seen it when he sat down.

His face red with embarrassment, Keith dried his seat and sat down again. But that was not the end. Jack was speaking to the teacher now, “I think the boy next to me has had an accident.”  All the class looked at Keith. The teacher came over and discreetly asked if he needed a change of clothes. No, he shook his head, the seat just had some water in it. He gave Jack a smoldering look.

Keith never forgot that first day. In time, he would make Jack pay. One day Jack got to lunch and discovered that everything in his lunchbox was soaked.  There was a hole in his juice pouch. Another day, Jack opened his pencil box and found all his pens and pencils and crayons stuck together, caked in glue. Before long, these petty pranks had escalated into an outright battle. Every offense was remembered. None was left unaccounted. Whenever one boy struck, the other struck back.

The Cycle of Anger

Anger has a way of keeping itself in circulation.

This is no less true in the world of second grade than in our homes and in our workplaces and in the tournament of nations. We see it everywhere. One person gets angry and then gets even. But rather than stopping the anger, getting even only spreads it. The other person gets angry and retaliates. Once the cycle starts, it is hard to stop. Anger has a way of keeping itself in circulation.

It is not an accident that King David looks out across the field one day and prepares to go to war with his own son, Absalom. This day has been about ten years in the making. It all began when Amnon, David’s son from another wife, raped Absalom’s sister, Tamar. Absalom channeled his anger into cold revenge. Saying nothing, he waited for two years. Then he threw a feast and invited his family, including his half-brother Amnon. When the heart of Amnon was merry with wine, Absalom gave the signal, and his servants killed him. The news deeply distresses his father David, filling him with a bitter mix of grief and anger. For five years, Absalom is not welcomed in his father’s house. Finally David receives him, and the two reconcile. Or at least they appear to. But anger has a way of keeping itself in circulation. Absalom has not forgotten the length of time that he was not welcome at home. In his smoldering resentment, Absalom conspires for the next four years to usurp his own father’s throne. Finally his plan comes to fruition. He takes his father’s throne, and David flees the city with the warriors that remain faithful to him.

Which brings us back to today—to David looking out across the field and preparing to go to war with his own son. Twelve years before, the scene would have been unimaginable. But that was before anger began its vicious cycle of vengeance.

Even so, David keeps perspective. Before the battle begins, he gives careful instruction to his army not to kill his son, Absalom. David wants out of the cycle. He keeps alive the hope of one day reconciling with his son.

But by this point in time, the anger has grown beyond his control. David’s wishes are too feeble in the face of anger’s outsized demand. When Absalom finds himself stuck in the trees, hanging helplessly above the ground, anger licks its chops. This is too good to be true. David’s commander, Joab, who heard very well David’s instruction, thrusts three spears into Absalom. Why?  He is the surrogate of anger, possessed by its demand, driven by the betrayal his king has suffered and the need for vengeance. Absalom must pay.

Anger as a Parasite

I’m fascinated by the way we talk about anger. We commonly refer to nurturing anger and satisfying our anger. I wonder if there’s more truth in these words than we realize. Our expressions suggest that anger is a reality and a power distinct from us. When we nurture anger, we are not nurtured. Anger is. When we satisfy anger, we are not satisfied. Anger is. In my mind, this paints the picture of anger as a parasite. It feeds off us. We might think that payback will make us feel good, but really it will make the parasite feel good even as it drains us of life.

That’s what happened rather literally in the story of King David. At each turn in the road, someone kept the anger alive. Seeking to get even, to settle the score, someone kept the anger in circulation. And each time the anger was satisfied, it left someone dissatisfied. It deprived its hosts of life. The anger grew and grew until one day it literally took life. Not only Absalom’s, but also a part of David’s.  Who can hear his anguished cry and not hear the death of part of his soul? “Would I have died instead of you, O Absalom, my son, my son!” (2 Sam 18:33).

Letting Go of Anger

The trouble with anger is what to do with it. If it’s hard enough to stop the cycle in second grade, what do we do when it comes to the tragic realities of our own world?  Because what we see in Absalom’s story, we see also in our own world. Sexual abuse. Rape. Murder. War.

In response to evils like these, it is tempting to jump ahead and look for an answer, a solution, a fix. But if we are not careful, the answer or solution will simply become a vehicle for anger, keeping it in circulation and draining us of life at the same time. In today’s epistle reading, Paul paraphrases Christ on the importance of starting where we are and acknowledging anger: “Be angry,” Paul says, “but do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger” (Eph 4:26; cf. Matt 5:21-26).

Words like these cannot even begin to address the horrors of something like rape or murder. They are not meant to. They are meant to address another horror, one that promises satisfaction but only deprives us further of life. Words like these would not have restored the honor of Absalom’s sister, Tamar. They wouldn’t have brought David’s son, Amnon, back to life. They cannot change what has happened. But they can stop the cycle.

“Do not let the sun go down on your anger” promises neither a restoration of what was lost, nor the offender’s repentance, nor a future reconciliation. The only thing it promises is a stop to the cycle.

Its power is not in what it accomplishes but in what it makes possible. Like much of God’s power, it is a possibilizing power. It is the same power of the cross. Proclaiming forgiveness instead of vengeance, returning after death with a word of peace instead of retribution, Christ makes possible an entirely different way of life, one where violence is not kept in circulation, where life is no longer lost in the quest to get even, where anger is just a feeling and not a parasitic power that holds us in its crippling grip.

To let go of anger is perhaps the most powerless thing to do in the world. It accomplishes very little in itself. And yet—the life that it makes possible!  That, according to Jesus, is worth dying for.

Prayer

Tenderhearted Christ,
Instead of nurturing grudges,
You nurtured us—
Liberate us
From the ruinous grasp of anger;
Teach us your way
Of feeling anger
And letting it go;
Train us in that powerless power
That makes possible
The world of which you dream,
The kingdom of God. Amen.

"You're the One" (2 Sam 11:26-12:13a)

David in Denial

How clever is Nathan. If he just plainly declares to David, “I know what you did,” he risks ending up on the wrong side of a sharp blade, as many of David’s naysayers already have. Generally speaking, Israelite prophets who dare to criticize the king…they have a pretty poor track record.

By telling a story, Nathan approaches the matter indirectly. He does not immediately accuse David or even let on that he knows what David has done, so there’s no reason for David to become defensive. Nathan’s indirect approach also allows him to gauge the king’s moral compass. Can the king perceive the injustice suffered by the poor man who loses his lamb?

He most certainly can. David’s “anger [is] greatly kindled” on the poor man’s behalf (2 Sam 12:5). For the audience who knows the design of Nathan’s story, the irony of David’s indignation is painful, or delicious, or perhaps both. We know that whatever verdict David delivers against the rich man, he is really delivering against himself. He is tying his own noose, so to speak.

But as much credit as Nathan deserves for his clever ploy, the fact remains that if he hadn’t eventually spoken directly and told David the meaning of the story, David would have remained oblivious to the obvious parallels between Nathan’s story and his own. Which is really just to say: David is in denial. His moral compass is not out of whack. He knows what is right and wrong. That’s the thing about denial. It’s not a malfunction of our morality. It’s just a blind spot. The self is the hardest thing to see.

Fitting God’s Word to Our World

David is not unique in his denial. It has always been this way. I think of how Christians have used the Bible to sanction things like genocide and slavery. While it may be easier to vilify our ancestors who have done these things, to label them as somehow morally deficient, the truth is that many of them read their Bibles just like us and tried to live good lives. But they had blind spots. And when they read the Bible, they tailored its meaning to fit their own view of the world, including their blind spots.

This tendency toward confirmation bias, toward seeing in the Bible an endorsement of our own values and beliefs, explains how two opposing groups can use the same Bible in support of their cause. How priests in Russia can bless the aggression against Ukraine and priests in Ukraine can sanctify their resistance with the same Bible. Or how advocates of hierarchical gender roles can validate their claims and supporters of egalitarian gender roles can make their own case with the same Bible.

If it suddenly feels like we’re standing on shaky ground, like nothing can be known for certain when we’re all reading through the faulty lens of our own biases and blind spots…well, perhaps that’s not an unhelpful feeling. Perhaps this feeling is something akin to “the fear of God,” the awe and humility of recognizing that we are not God. The gospel of Luke indicates on more than one occasion that the final stumbling block to faith for some religious persons is that they want to justify themselves (Luke 10:29; 16:15). They assume and want to prove that God is on their side. They try to make God’s word fit their world rather than to make their world fit God’s word.

Judge or Judged?

Imagine with me for a moment two friends who go to the Museum of Modern Art to see Van Gogh’s classic painting, “Starry Night.” One friend is an art critic. He immediately identifies the style of the painting and the various techniques Van Gogh used. He talks about the location depicted in the painting and speculates on its significance for Van Gogh. He goes on and on. A true art critic, he clearly knows all about the painting. Meanwhile, his friend stands in silent awe before the painting. There are tears forming in his eyes. Oblivious to his friend going on and on, he is transfixed by the waves of light in the night sky. How much light there is in the night sky! He feels himself lifted up, buoyed by the waves of light. He begins to hear the melody of “O Holy Night” in his imagination. “The stars are brightly shining…” In a word, he feels hope. This painting hanging on a wall has changed his world.

When David hears Nathan’s parable, he judges it. He stands before it as the master of its meaning, pointing out the injustice, issuing a verdict. He is like the art critic, who talks about the painting, but never stops to let the painting talk to him. But that’s what the painting wants to do. The friend who finds himself in tears stands before the painting not as a critic—not even as its audience. He finds himself standing before “Starry Night” as a disciple. The painting has told him the truth about the world, and he leaves changed.

When David pronounces judgment on the rich man in the story, Nathan finally intervenes. “You are the man!” he declares (2 Sam 12:7). Which is to say, “You are not the judge of this story; it is the judge of you!”

With Hunger

There’s plenty more that could be said about the tragic finale to the David and Bathsheba episode, but I’d like to conclude instead with some pondering on what it means to read the Bible (or indeed any sacred text or symbol or experience). It is only natural to approach the Bible with questions. Questions about its history, about gaps in the story, about the culture and the ideas from which the text drew its meaning. “Why did David stay in Jerusalem when his army went out to battle? Did Nathan know about David’s sin through divine revelation or because there’d been some loose chatter among David’s servants?” As children of the Enlightenment, we approach life with a relatively scientific mind, asking questions, testing hypotheses, securing knowledge. Much good fruit has been born of this approach. One need only think of the medical advances of the last few centuries.

But there’s a danger as well to this approach. You know the saying, “Knowledge is power”? Well, that’s the danger. The temptation of our rational, scientific approach to things is control of our environment, mastery over every problem that we confront. And so we are tempted to approach texts, including the Bible, as masters bent on determining the meaning. We are tempted to try to stay objective, to keep a safe distance.

But God’s word does not want us to keep a safe distance. “You are the one!” it declares. It’s talking not only about David and Nathan and Bathsheba and Uriah, it’s talking about us. It’s talking not only about Matthew and Peter and James and John, it’s talking about us. God’s word does not want to be determined by us, but to determine us, change us. And lest today’s scripture cast a dark or ominous shade on God’s word, as though it is only ever judgment, we would do well to remember that it is also and ultimately meant for liberating and building up and giving life. “You are the one!” echoes very differently in the case of the parable of the prodigal son. What good news to feel in our bones, to know in our gut, that we are that one! Embraced by the father without question, welcomed home with joy, celebrated for our unconditional worth in his eyes.

All of this to say, if it is only natural for us to begin as critics of the text, to come with questions and observations, then it is also imperative that we let our guard down and become not only the audience of God’s word but—like the friend tearing up in front of “Starry Night”—its disciples. In today’s gospel lectionary text, Jesus declares that he is the bread of life (John 6:35). It stands as a helpful reminder, perhaps, of how to approach the Bible. With hunger. With awareness of our needs, our limits, our failures. Or as David puts it in Psalm 51, after he has finally been convicted by God’s word, “A broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise” (Ps 51:17).

To hear God’s word is not to make its meaning, but for us ourselves to be made new.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Who is the bread of life,
We are hungry—
But sometimes we are like David,
Out of touch with our hunger.
…
Give us pause
Of body and mind
That we might know our heart,
Broken and needful.
May your word challenge and comfort,
According to our need,
That we might be filled with your love
And be made new.
Amen.

"Rooted and Grounded" (2 Sam 11:1-15)

Lost at Sea

It was 1988, and Lawrence Lemieux—Larry—was in Seoul, South Korea, for the Olympic Games. All his life had been preparation for this moment. Larry grew up in Edmonton, Alberta. His father had been a semi-professional hockey player and was a racquet sports enthusiast. There was a ping-pong table in the family basement. With seven siblings and a father who loved sports, Larry quickly learned a competitive spirit. His training partner for the Olympics, Brian, reported that practices with Larry were sometimes harder than the real event, because Larry didn’t want to lose.

On the morning of September 24, 1988, the waters in Busan were calm, nearly ideal for the sailing event in which Larry would later be competing. But shortly after the race began, the weather took a turn. The wind steadily rose to 35 knots, and the waves grew choppy and began to break. And Larry—Larry was thriving. He was no stranger to these conditions. As he navigated the waves, he established himself in second position out of thirty-two and had his eye on the leader. At that moment, he was scanning for the next marker, a buoy that signaled a turn; he was hoping to get the inside track. But instead of an orange buoy, he saw the white hull of a capsized boat and a man scrambling to stay atop. A little ways off bobbed the head of another man who was struggling in vain against the waves.

Later, reflecting back on this surreal moment, Larry would remark that his decision was not the result of thinking. He was not thinking about the downside of a rescue, how he would lose the race. He was not thinking about the upside, how he could become a hero. His decision was immediate, instinctive. He abandoned the race and went toward the flailing sailor, taking him aboard his own boat and then waiting with the capsized boat until an official rescue crew arrived. (In case you’re curious, the capsized boat was a part of a different competitive event.) In the end, Larry finished 23^rd in the race. He was awarded the Pierre de Coubertin medal for sportsmanship, the second competitor ever to receive what might be considered the rarest Olympic award.

As competitive as Larry is, this race revealed that his years of preparation had ingrained in him not only the value of competition but also an even deeper value of care. Larry knew what mattered most, not just in his head, but in his heart. So when the decisive moment came, there was no decision to make. He just did what he knew he had to do.

The irony is that, in the moment that Larry had lost sight of the marker, in the moment that he had become lost at sea, he knew exactly where to go. He knew what to do.

Settled: Sitting with No Rest

Today’s scripture opens with a quietly critical observation. It is springtime, “the time when kings go out to battle,” and where is King David? “David remained at Jerusalem” (2 Sam 11:1).

This word “remained” is the same word in Hebrew that was used in last week’s scripture, where we learned that David “was settled” in his new palace in Jerusalem (2 Sam 7:1).

Settled is a double-sided word. On the one hand, a person can be settled in the sense of being grounded, knowing their roots, secure in their identity and purpose. On the other hand, a person can be settled in the sense of being complacent, so comfortable and content with the way things are that they no longer live responsibly. Think of an office worker who has his routine down so pat, that he whiles away the day playing games on his phone, checking his email, buying things on Amazon, restlessly looking for something that will stimulate or interest him. The irony of this second sense of being “settled” is that it in fact reflects a profoundly unsettled spirit. There is no sense of purpose or necessity. It is living life on a whim, blown this way, then that. Think of a person sitting on a couch, not knowing what to do. Sitting with no rest.

That’s where David is, when late one afternoon he finally rises from his couch and walks to his roof to survey his kingdom. You know the story well enough from here. I’m not interested in rehashing it. Instead, I’m interested in exploring how David, a person “after God’s own heart,” finds himself rudderless, without a sense of identity and purpose.

Seeing and Taking

The first thing I notice is that David’s behavior actually follows a well-trodden biblical pattern. To put it in its simplest form, the pattern is this: see and take. It’s as old as the garden, where Eve sees that the fruit of this tree is good for food and takes it (Gen 3:6). More frequently, it happens that a person sees another person is beautiful and takes them, as Pharaoh does to Sarah (Gen 12:15) or as Shechem does with Jacob’s daughter, Dinah (Gen 34:2). Spoiler alert: this sequence of events rarely ends well. (As a side note, I don’t mean to suggest that the Bible is against beauty. There are other stories, where the sight of beauty breaks a person open with tears and renders them vulnerable to years of pursuit and growth, as in the case of Jacob and Rachel. The warning of biblical stories is not against beauty, but against the impulse that moves greedily, thoughtlessly from seeing to taking.)

In case the audience somehow neglects to observe David’s impulsivity, our storyteller expertly employs Uriah as a foil, a contrasting character that brings David’s behavior into light. When David summons Uriah back home, in the hope of covering up his misdeed with Bathsheba, Uriah plainly articulates his sense of duty and purpose. He will not rest in the comfort of his home when his companions are hard at work, when he himself stands ready to return to them. “As you live, and as your soul lives,” he says, “I will not do such a thing” (2 Sam 11:10). I wonder how David hears those words. I wonder if those words echo accusingly in David’s ear: “I will not do such a thing.” Where were those words earlier, when David looked out and saw Bathsheba? Why did he not think those words?

Covering Up

There is another curious detail in the story that illuminates David’s waywardness. As impulsive as his first act is, when he moves recklessly from seeing Bathsheba to taking her, his next action is carefully calculated. When he learns of Bathsheba’s pregnancy, he commences with a coverup. This is interesting to me because there is an easier solution. Later, when King Ahab desires the vineyard of Naboth and Naboth refuses, Ahab’s wife chides him, “Don’t you govern Israel?” (cf 1 Kgs 21:7). In other words, aren’t you the king? Can’t you have whatever you want? She then calls upon the elders and nobles of the city to kill Naboth, which they do accordingly.

David could just have Uriah killed at the outset. That he chooses not to, does not show us he is a good person. It shows us that he wants to be seen as a good person. His good character is a calculated façade. A good person simply does good. David does what he wants, and then tries to make himself look good. His goodness is a carefully crafted image rather than the actual cultivation of character.

Recently I finished reading a fascinating book titled Jesus and John Wayne, which is, essentially, about how American Christians have sometimes confused the two. The book traces the evolution of a militant and patriotic Christianity, a Christianity that idolizes power and fantasizes about an aggressive, conquering Jesus who ends up looking much like its national icon, John Wayne. (It is a Christianity that looks very different from what I see in Christ, who in today’s gospel passage actually runs away from power; he withdraws from the people when sees that they plan to make him king [John 6:15].) What makes the book so compelling is that after it has introduced its cast of a characters, many religious leaders whose names you might recognize, in its final chapter, it ponders the fruit of their way of thinking and points out how many of these leaders have been caught in acts of sexual abuse or harassment. I cannot help but see a connection with David. The unconscious but operative imperative in these leaders’ conduct was something along the lines of, “I do what I want because I can,” and then they covered up their behavior with a thick weave of piety, perhaps hiding it even from themselves as much as from others.

Paul’s Prayer for the Ephesians

If today’s scripture serves as a negative example—here’s how not to live—then we might turn to our New Testament lectionary text for the other side of the coin. In Ephesians, we find Paul praying for his fellow Christ-followers in Ephesus, praying “that Christ may dwell in [their] hearts through faith, as [they] are being rooted and grounded in love” (Eph 3:17). “Rooted and grounded” is exactly what David is not. He may be settled in Jerusalem, sitting in his palace. But he is profoundly unsettled and restless, with no sense of his identity or purpose, living impulsively at the next impulse and reactively as he tries to cover his tracks. He is like a boat tossed by the waves.

In contrast, I think of Larry, who found himself lost at sea, amid steep waves, yet who knew exactly where to go and what to do. I think of what he said about how his decision was not the result of thinking. I grew up with the understanding that ethics, or good conduct, involved a hypothetical situation that required careful thinking and a torturous decision—you know, like learning that a train was bound to hit a group of ten people and having the choice to pull a lever and divert it, where it would only hit one person. The thing is, I have yet to find myself in any bizarre hypothetical situation like that.

The reality, I have learned, is that ethical conduct is less a decision and more the natural unfolding of character. When Larry saw the capsized boat, he simply knew what he had to do. The decision that he made was in fact already made for him by a lifetime of preparation. I don’t know the details, but as he grew up in a family with seven siblings and a father who cared for him, I gather that he was in some way “rooted and grounded in love.” That is, he grew up in an environment where love was regularly practiced. Not only had he learned that he was loved regardless of success or failure, but he had also practiced this love, probably in small ways—things like holding the door for others, listening and not interrupting when someone else was speaking, doing a chore when one of his siblings was sick and unable. I’m just speculating, of course, but on the basis of Jesus’ reminder that who is faithful in small things, is faithful in bigger things too. I’m guessing Larry had practiced love in a lot of small ways. So when the storm hit and the waves rolled, he was unmoved. He knew what he was doing.

Little Ways of Learning and Practicing Love

All of which leads me to ask myself, “Am I being rooted and grounded in love”? Is Christ dwelling in my heart? I am inspired to consider the little ways that we learn and practice love (which I think also happen to be the most important ways). Reading scripture, in which dwells the spirit of Christ. Prayer, in which we open up and listen for Christ. Gathering at the Lord’s Table, where we are reminded vividly of the strange way of Christ’s love. Confession, where we are honest with a trusted Christ-follower about our shortcomings and we receive Christ’s grace and encouragement. Meeting the need of another person, where we discover Christ in the sweet exchange of vulnerability. And of course there are countless other ways of learning and practicing love, such as all the “one another” commandments in the New Testament: “Be at peace with each other” (Mk 9:50), “be kind and compassionate to one another” (Eph 4:32), “encourage each other” (1 Thess 4:18), “do not slander one another” (Ja 4:11), “pray for one another” (Ja 5:16). The “one anothering” that is so prevalent in the early church is a healthy reminder for me that we are rooted and grounded in love not by solitary practice, but only by living in community and sharing life in common with others.

The murder that David commits at the end of today’s passage, and the life that Larry saves off the coasst of South Korea, can both feel very distant from our mundane lives. But the truth is, those spectacular actions were just the fruit of countless little, unspectacular deeds that either drew the man nearer to God or let him drift further away. It is those little deeds that are a part of all our lives, and they are what matter most. For they are, as Paul puts it, part of “the power at work within us [that] is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine” (Eph 3:20).

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Who grounds us in the grace of God—
Sometimes we are lulled by the everydayness of life
Into thinking the little things don’t matter,
Perhaps even that we don’t matter.
May our deepest roots draw from your Spirit
And secure us in the faith
That we are loved unconditionally,
And that love can change everything;
Encourage us to be salt and light
In little ways,
That you might do “abundantly far more
Than all we can ask or imagine.”
Amen.

"I Will Make You a House" (2 Sam 7:1-14a)

From Pleasant to Problematic

For Katie, it began with book club. Every Thursday evening, she would gather with friends. Talking about a book seemed to open an exhaust valve for all of the emotions that had built up over the course of a week. The resentment toward her domineering boss. The frustration with her husband’s stonewalling. The worry about her aging parents. Book club was therapeutic. Talking about the travails and triumphs of characters helped her to accept and manage her own experiences.

One evening, the host opened up a couple bottles of wine. Katie noticed as she left that night how distant she felt from her usual concerns and worries. The next week when she hosted, she made sure to have wine for everyone. Soon, it was a ritual. It was enshrined as part of book club.

Once a week at book club was great, but Katie wanted even more of this cathartic experience. So she began to incorporate wine into a personal nightly ritual of reading and journaling. It felt therapeutic at first. But over time, things changed. She noticed that when there was no wine at book club, she became irritable and uninterested in sharing. She noticed that on her nights alone, there was less reading and more drinking. She noticed that she was becoming protective of her evenings, going out less with friends, even missing book club on occasion. It took a couple of years to become honest enough with herself to admit she had a problem.

Katie’s story is typical. No one chooses an addiction. No one sits down and seriously acknowledges the distant, potentially disastrous consequences of a decision (or a series of decisions) and says, “Even so, let me begin.”

The irony of addiction is that what becomes a problem, begins as a pleasant experience. “I should do that again,” a person might think. “I want more of the same.” And so the pleasant experience becomes enshrined in a repeated event. A ritual develops. A problem develops, too.

Finally Settled

Today’s scripture begins with King David finally “settled in his house” (2 Sam 7:1). Until recently, King David has lived much of his life on the move. Running away from a murderous king Saul. Hiding in the hills. Securing resources. Winning wives. Fighting battles. Now, for the first time since his youth perhaps, he is “settled.” He’s in a good moment. He has united the north and south of Israel and established a capital at Jerusalem (2 Sam 5:1-5). He has just comprehensively defeated Israel’s nemesis, the Philistines (2 Sam 5:17-25). He’s brought the ark of the covenant, the sacred symbol of God’s presence, to be by his side in Jerusalem (2 Sam 6). And he has built for himself a fine house of cedar, a royal palace, for him and his growing number of wives and concubines and children. Life, it would seem, is pleasant for David.

David decides that God needs a house too (2 Sam 7:1-2). As God will later point out, God has not asked for a house (2 Sam 7:7). This is coming entirely from David. So what, I wonder, is David’s reasoning? The English word that sometimes gets used to refer to a temple— “shrine”—hints at one possible motivation. David wants to enshrine the present moment. (Think of Peter at Jesus’ transfiguration, when he suggests building dwelling places for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah, so that they might stay as they are, so that the euphoric moment might be captured!) Perhaps as David has finally settled into a pleasant way of life, he would like to keep things just as they are. He would like for God to settle down beside him and bless things the way they are and preserve them.

And David is probably not alone. Hundreds of years later, after a temple—a “house”—for God has been built, Jeremiah will stand in its gate and proclaim to the people, “Do not trust in these deceptive words: ‘This is the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord’” (Jer 7:4). The implication is that the people of Israel who are in a pleasant moment, who are doing well (but at the expense of others, like the widow and the foreigner and the poor), have come to see the Temple as God’s guarantee of their way of life. They see the Temple as a sign of God’s blessing, a sign that God is on their side.

Part of me wonders if David’s desire for a temple, and the people’s later attachment to it, does not reflect the roots of addiction, or what in biblical language we might call idolatry. Could the temple maybe sometimes function as a shrine? That is, could it be the enshrinement of a pleasant experience that will in fact become a problem. As we will see next week, David’s downfall involves him reclining in his palace while his army are out at war. It seems that David is indeed trying to preserve the pleasant moment that he finds himself at in today’s passage. He is trying to maintain this way of life to which he would like to become accustomed. And it will become a big problem for him.

House as Building and House as Dynasty

Today’s scripture is a little bit like a house of mirrors. The word “house” appears many times and takes on multiple meanings, so that at each turn—each time it is mentioned—we might wonder which house we’re looking at, what kind of “house” we’re talking about. The first meaning is clear enough. David wants to build a literal “house,” a building, for God, and God says no. God does not need a house.

But then God turns around and promises to David, “The Lord will make you a house” (2 Sam 7:11). Clearly God does not mean a building, for David has already built himself a house, a royal  palace. Instead, it seems that “house” here means dynasty. God explains, “I will raise up your offspring after you, who shall come forth from your body, and I will establish his kingdom. He shall build a house for my name, and I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever” (2 Sam 7:12-13). On the surface, it would appear that God refers here to Solomon, David’s son, and that Solomon will build a “house”—that is, a temple—for God. The only problem with this interpretation is that the end of God’s prophecy does not come true. God does not establish the throne of Solomon’s kingdom forever, not in a literal sense. When the Babylonians conquer Judah and destroy the Temple, they effectively terminate the Davidic dynasty. There will never again be a king sitting on the throne of an independent Israel.

House as Family

The rabbis recognized this problem early on and interpreted that God’s promise here must refer not only to Solomon, but more importantly to a distant messiah who would establish (or rather, re-establish) the kingdom of Israel. This interpretation almost suits our own faith in Jesus as the messiah. I say “almost” because Jesus does not re-establish the kingdom of Israel in its original sense.

But there is a third meaning for the Hebrew and Greek words for “house.” Not building, not dynasty…but family. Could it be that God’s promise to “make…a house” for David has to do with a new family? In today’s New Testament scripture, Paul tells the gentiles in Ephesus: “You are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God” (Eph 2:19). The gist of Paul’s message is that Jesus, at the cost of his life, has welcomed everyone into God’s family. In Paul’s metaphor, this “household” is not characterized by a building—indeed, he envisions Jesus in the work of demolition not construction, of “[breaking] down the dividing wall[s]” (Eph 2:14). In doing so, Jesus creates a “new humanity.” Where before there were many walls, and many different kinds of people—Jews, gentiles, men, women, free, slave (Eph 2:15)—now there is one family of God.

A “New Humanity”

I was fascinated to learn this past week that in the second century, Christians were occasionally referred to as a “new race” or a “third race.” In other words, followers of Christ were so different from everyone around them, both Romans and Jews, that they really were (as Paul puts it) “a new humanity.”  To put this another way: Jesus did not come to make you (singular) into a new person. He came to make us (plural) into a new people, a new “house,” a new family. That people were calling Christians “a new race” suggests that they recognized the risen Christ not in a single person, but in a group of people. They noticed a “new humanity.” This new humanity had a peculiar way of eating together, where there were no seats of privilege, where they called one another “brother” and “sister” and considered one another equally important parts of the same body. This new humanity had a peculiar way of living together, as they shared their money and resources in common. This new humanity had a peculiar and unsettling way of resolving conflict, in which instead of “settling” things through payment or retribution they forgave one another.

Historian Alan Kreider has suggested that one additional way the early followers of Christ really distinguished themselves in Greco-Roman culture was through their freedom from the common compulsions of their society—namely compulsions toward money, sex, and power. In other words, they were liberated from that common tendency to idolize a pleasant thing, to enshrine it and try to preserve it. As a result, they were free to care for each other as part of the same family.

At this point, we are a long way from today’s scripture. King David wanted to build a temple…perhaps to preserve what were for him very pleasant circumstances. But in Christ, the walls of our shrines, the walls of our temples, our idols meant for keeping things the way they are—they all come crashing down. God does not want the kind of house that David wants. God wants not a palace but a people. Not walls but a reconciled family.

In Christ, we see just what God wants. A new humanity, not preoccupied with preserving a pleasant moment, not compelled to construct walls to keep people in their place and things the way they are—but instead a new humanity free to care for each other.

Prayer

Merciful God,
Whose love is like the sun and the rain,
Falling on us all,
Inviting us all into our true family—
May Christ lead us from closed buildings and dividing walls
To open circles and get-together tables;
May Christ liberate us from idols and attachments
To love and care for others
…
So that you might dwell more fully in us,
And we and others might share
The salvation of a new humanity,
In Christ, who is our peace: Amen.