The Little Way (1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:11-16)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on May 28, 2017, Easter VII)

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Odd Advice

“Humble yourselves.” So suggests 1 Peter to a persecuted community of Christ-followers. It strikes me as rather odd advice. When we stand face to face with a bully or an enemy, humility is probably the last option that presents itself. Our instinct, instead, is fight or flight. With our ego pricked and our heart racing, we must decide between standing up for ourselves or saving ourselves: either fight then and there, or live to fight another day.

If 1 Peter were alone in recommending humility in the face of the enemy, then we might write his words off as the suggestion of a lofty visionary, someone living in the impractical world of ideals rather than in the knitty-gritty world of flesh and blood. But 1 Peter is not alone. The letter of James also recommends humility in very similar terms. Humility, according to them both, is how you resist evil (cf. James 4:6-7, 10).

The Enemy Is Within

And they weren’t alone. For many early Christ-followers, resisting evil meant neither self-defense nor self-preservation. It meant self-denial. We see this odd idea lived out in the lives of the desert fathers, a rather odd bunch themselves, a gaggle of early Christ-followers who went into the desert to practice their faith in monastic communities. Reading about the desert fathers always puts me on the edge of my seat. I approach them as you might a crazy uncle—expecting something both irreverent and eye-opening. I imagine them sometimes as a group of grumpy old men, both crotchety and wise.

Take, for instance, this story about Father Macarius. One day, a young man asks him, “How do I become a holy man?” Father Macarius responds, “Go to the cemetery. I want you to abuse the dead for all you’re worth. Throw sticks and stones at them, curse at them, call them names—anything you can think of.” The young man can hardly believe his ears, but he does as he’s told. When he returns, Father Macarius asks, “What did the dead people say?” The young man responds that they said nothing. They were dead. “Isn’t that interesting?” Father Macarius muses. “I want you to go back tomorrow, and this time spend the day saying everything nice about these people. Call them righteous men and women, compliment them, say everything wonderful you can imagine.” The young man again does as he’s told. When he returns, Father Macarius asks how the dead responded this time. The young man responds that, again, they did not say a word. “Ah, they must be holy people indeed,” says Father Macarius. “You insulted them, and they did not reply. You praised them, and they did not speak. Go and do likewise, my friend, taking no account of either the scorn of men and women or their praises. And you too will be a holy man.”[1]

In tradition and folklore, it is said that the desert fathers fought great spiritual battles against the devil and his host of demons. But as this story hints at, the demonic forces are not some concrete, external reality. The enemy is not without: the enemy is within. The only battle the young man must wage is with the self, the ego, this thing that we call “I” or “me” formed by the constellation of our desires and achievements and what others think of us. As Father Macarius suggests, resisting evil means making ourselves little, or losing ourselves.

We see this more clearly in a simple story about Father Antony, the founder of the desert fathers. Antony says, “I saw all the snares that the enemy spread over the world, and I said, groaning, ‘What can get me through such snares?’ Then I heard a voice saying to me, ‘Humility.’”[2]

Humility Is Resistance

Humility may be a virtue, but in our modern world it has become a rather distasteful idea—and with good reason. In our world, humility is often shorthand for passive submission. For many folks today, to be humble means to surrender yourself uncritically to the world around you. Humility is little more than a white flag. It’s equivalent to saying, “Do to me what you will, I won’t resist.” 

If the writer of 1 Peter were confronted with this idea of humility, though, I’m fairly certain that he would raise his eyebrows. A humility that just submits to the status quo? A humility that doesn’t resist? That’s entirely the opposite of what he and the early Christ-followers had in mind. For them, humility is the very root of resistance. In the same breath, the writer of 1 Peter tells his audience to “humble themselves” and to “resist” the devil. The two instructions are one and the same.

Humility is resistance because it addresses evil at its very birthplace: the heart. Whereas the world believes that evil is outside and change begins only when we fix what is outside us, faith proclaims that evil is within and real change only happens when we disarm our egos and welcome the spirit of God. According to our scripture today, humility is about a change of hands. Humility, 1 Peter says, places us in “the mighty hand of God,” who “will himself restore, support, strengthen and establish” us (1 Pet 5:6, 10). If we rely only on ourselves, we’ll only ever get what we’ve already got. We need something new, something from outside ourselves. Change comes not from us, but from God. The Protestant reformers called God’s righteousness an “alien righteousness” for good reason. It is not our own. It is alien: it comes from outside us.

Humility does not immobilize us, as the world fears. It does the opposite. It mobilizes us—in a fuller, richer, stronger way than we could ourselves. By making ourselves little, by losing ourselves, we open ourselves up. We become fertile soil for God. When we open our ears, we can listen to others—and perhaps we will hear God. When we open our hands, we can accept help from others—and perhaps from God. When we open our minds, we see beyond reality into possibilities—and perhaps possibilities from God. Humility, I think, is the truth of what Paul meant when he said, “It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me” (Gal 2:20).

In this sense, humility means getting out of our own way so that Christ can get in. Being humble is like dancing: only when we let the music enter inside us—and overtake us—can we dance in rhythm. Being humble is like playing jazz: only once the bass line has us on its leash can we improvise gracefully.

Little Zeros

In the last quarter of the 19th century, there lived and died in Lisieux, France a girl named Thérèse. Even when she lay on her deathbed as a twenty-four year-old, people were already calling her a saint. She, however, responded: “I am no saint….I am quite a little soul upon whom the good God has heaped graces.”[3] It was perhaps her favorite word: “Little.” She once explained, “To remain little means recognizing one’s nothingness, expecting everything from the good God, as a little child expects everything from his father.”[4] Or as she puts it more colorfully: “I of course can do very little, absolutely nothing, in fact, alone….Zero by itself has no value, but, put alongside one, it becomes potent.”[5] Thérèse saw that she alone had no claim to anything good; goodness came from God. She could only be its helper.

I have a hunch that the desert fathers and Jesus and the writer of 1 Peter would all agree. The way to God is the little way. The self—this thing we call “I”—is full of itself. Full of concerns, plans, hurts, achievements, failures. Sometimes there is too much noise to hear the music of God, to hear that buoyant bass line. But if we cast these anxieties onto God, as 1 Peter advises (1 Pet 5:7); if we make ourselves humble and small as the desert fathers and Thérèse both recommend; if we lose ourselves, as Jesus invites us to do—then we open ourselves to the alien spirit of God, the divine tune that draws us into the dance of reconciliation and restoration (cf. 1 Pet 5:10). We make ourselves zeros, powerless by the world’s math, but potent in the math of God’s love.

The Little Way to Greatness

Our scripture today concludes by dreaming of glory in the great by and by, when we will be restored and exalted (cf. 4:12, 5:10). My guess is that when most folks read this, they dream of themselves, only bigger and better. But I wonder if the point of humility is that it’s never just our glory or greatness. Perhaps glory and greatness will come only when we make ourselves little, small and light enough to be caught and lifted up in the gusts and winds of the Spirit. The glory and greatness will not be ours alone, but God’s and all creation’s.

Prayer

Humble Christ,

Whose little way

Of losing self

Turns heavy anxieties

Into graceful blessings,

And suffering

Into hope:

Teach us 

How to listen 

For the music of God

In our lives, 

And remind us to dance, too.

Amen.

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[1] Adapted from the paraphrase found in Belden Lane, “Antony and the Desert Fathers: Christian History Interview—Discovering the Desert Paradox,” http://www.christianitytoday.com/history/issues/issue-64/antony-and-desert-fathers-christian-history-interview.html, accessed on May 24, 2107. 

[2] Roberta C. Bondi, To Love as God Loves: Conversations with the Early Church (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 42. 

[3] Hans Urs von Balthasar, Two Sisters in the Spirit: Thérèse of Lisieux & Elizabeth of the Trinity (trans. Donald Nichols, Anne Englund Nash, and Dennis Martin; San Francisco: Ignatius, 1992), 49. 

[4] Balthasar, 297. 

[5] Balthasar, 296-297.

Longsuffering Love (1 Peter 3:13-22)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on May 21, 2017, Easter VI)

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Love “Suffereth Long”

“Love is patient, love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or rude….” (1 Cor 13:4-5). And so on and so on. This passage has become routine. We recite it everywhere. Often at weddings. Occasionally at funerals. Frequently at church.

The words roll off our tongues so quickly and easily that we risk forgetting what they actually mean. Just as a meal can become so routine that we no longer pause to savor the flavors and enjoy the company, so too these words can become so familiar that we no longer appreciate their full meaning. 

One way to guard against this overfamiliarity, is to read the words in a different translation. When we encounter something strange and different, we must take more time to look at it, to understand it. In the King James, love is not simply “patient.” Love “suffereth long” (1 Cor 13:4). This is actually closer to the Greek, which says that love is “long of mind or soul.” Patience here does not mean simply waiting for a pot to boil or someone to return your call. Patience means that the spirit is longer than any suffering or misfortune that comes its way. It will stay true to what matters, no matter how long it takes.

A Love Longer than Suffering or Shame

This reminds me of an ancient story. A man wandering in the wilderness stumbles upon a kind family. He falls in love with one of the daughters. Now in that time and place, the man was expected pay a dowry in order to marry. But the wanderer has no money to pay. So he sits down with the father of the family, and the two of them agree: he will give the father seven years of labor in order to marry his daughter.

Patience. Longsuffering. A spirit that is longer than any suffering that comes its way. A spirit that stays true to what matters, no matter how long it takes.

Well, seven years pass, and finally there is a wedding. Loads of folks, loads of food, loads of fun. Until the morning, that is. In the morning, the man wakes up. And there beside him…is the wrong daughter!

He confronts the father and demands an explanation. The father explains that in his culture the older daughter must get married first. But the father has a proposal: if the man agrees to work for another seven years, he can marry the younger daughter whom he loves.

Now on the one hand, it could be argued that the poor man has been unfairly treated. It would not be right for him to work another seven years.

But patience, or longsuffering, means a spirit that is longer than any suffering that comes its way, a spirit that stays true to what matters, no matter how long it takes. In the story of Jacob—this is the story of Jacob, after all—Jacob’s love for Rachel is longer than fourteen years of labor, longer even than the shame and injustice of trickery. If Jacob’s love were shorter, if he were ultimately more concerned with his own dignity than with Rachel, he would have fought back against Rachel’s father. But to fight for his honor would be to risk his love. In the end, Jacob stays true to his love no matter how many years of labor or how much shame he must suffer.

The Longsuffering God

Fast-forward a couple thousand years from the story of Jacob, and we get to the letter of 1 Peter. Our scripture today has a lot to say about suffering and patience. Five times the word “suffer” appears, and Christ in particular is held up as a model: as Christ suffered, our writer says, so you should be prepared to suffer (cf. 3:15-18). A little bit later, the writer talks about God demonstrating “patience” or “longsuffering” back in the day of Noah. Here 1 Peter is alluding to a Jewish tradition in the Mishnah that says, “There were ten generations from Adam to Noah to show how great was [God’s] longsuffering, for all the generations provoked him continually until God brought upon them the waters of the flood” (m. Avot 5:2). But I would argue that God’s longsuffering spans far beyond the first ten generations of creation. Is not the whole of human history a story of God’s longsuffering? If God were anything like us, creation would surely have been either jury-rigged or destroyed by now. 

We see God’s longsuffering most clearly in Christ. At the beginning of his ministry when he resists the quick-fix temptations in the wilderness and at the end of his ministry when he takes up the cross, Jesus would rather endure pain, suffering, and even death than to deviate from the way of love. He would rather turn his cheek and forgive his wrongdoers and pray for his persecutors, than compromise the way of love. Like Jacob, his love for the world is more important than power. Like Jacob, he stays true to this long love no matter how much suffering he must endure.

Love Is the Means

But what does this mean for us today, us who share very few of the sufferings that Jesus and the early Christ-followers endured? 

I think it means everything, because it means that love is not only the end but also the means. Whether we suffer or not, love is the way. Look, for instance, to what our scripture says about how we should respond to the world around us. “Always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an accounting for the hope that is in you; yet”—and here’s what interests me the most—“do it with gentleness and reverence” (3:15-16). In other words, how we respond to the world matters just as much as what we respond with. Love is not an argument we win, but how we talk with others. Love is not a triumph that we gain, but how we live amid difficult circumstances, even suffering. Love is not only what the kingdom looks like when it gets here. It is how the kingdom gets here. It is the means as well as the end. 

The Slow, Long Love of God

Earlier in 1 Peter, the writer warns us against the ways of the world that we have inherited (cf. 1:18). One of the ways that western Christianity has inherited, I think, is impatience. The church has too readily adopted the ways that predominate in the political and business worlds, where efficiency matters most, where practicality and convenience rule the day, where the ends really do justify the means. 

Although today’s scripture focuses a lot on something we experience relatively little—suffering—I believe its underlying message of patience speaks to us as much as ever. We are called to live out the love of Christ, a love that is long, a love that has all the time in the world for lengthy conversations and long-standing conflict and even loss. We are called to live in the kingdom of God, where love is not what a conversation achieves, but how a conversation happens; where love is not the resolution to a conflict, but how a conflict is gracefully outlasted; where love is not the absence of loss, but how loss is accepted—and transformed.

In the world of “quick and easy” that seeks first its own convenience, it is tempting to turn love into something that we achieve through a means, something that we buy with our money or accomplish with bigger buildings or better programs. But trying to fund God’s love through our pocket or to plot its triumph through programs is to renounce the way of love, the means of love.

The good news of 1 Peter is that God’s love is not a result that must be bought or a problem that must be solved. It is much simpler—and much more costly—than that. God’s love is itself the way. It is a long way, a slow way, and a sometimes-messy way. I catch glimpses of it here at Gayton Road, not in the big things but in the little things that are lived out lovingly. Like when Paul and Carol and others set aside an extra half-hour to give folks rides. Like when Emily dedicates her time and resources to our kids. Like when E.J. devotes the time to take our and the A.A.’s trash to the dump, when Cinda gives the time to change the paraments, when Judy consecrates her time to caring for a family of refugees. The list goes on and on…and would surely test your patience! 

To be sure, it’s a slow kingdom coming. But it’s coming. In all the little things that are lived out in the way of love—slowly, messily, longsufferingly—it’s coming.

Prayer

Longsuffering Christ,

Who does not deviate 

From the way of love

Even in the face of death:

As you embodied 

The long, slow love of God, 

So might we embody you

In our world.

Amen.

In the Hands of Another (1 Peter 2:2-10)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on May 14, 2017, Easter V)

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Jesus for President?

During the last election season, I often wondered: what would happen if Jesus ran for president? Of course, it is entirely the wrong question. Jesus, I believe, would never run for president. The power to make laws and move armies and modify the world by force, is not the way of Christ. Jesus does not seek the power of the world. He lives by the power of love, which is the only power that can really transform the heart.

Even so, I still wondered what would happen if Jesus ran for president. Imagine a platform built on turning the other cheek and loving the enemy. What would that mean for the defense budget? Imagine an agenda that privileged the nobodies and the nothings instead of big business. What would that mean for our economy? Imagine a policy that welcomed the strangers, wherever they came from. What would that mean for home security? Imagine “a politics of mercy and compassion, of lifting up the weakest and most defenseless people at home,…of welcoming the stranger and loving one’s enemies abroad.”[1] Oh, we love Jesus in the privacy of our devotions and maybe at church on Sunday, but let him loose into the real world and we see just how crazy he is! No matter if he sought the support of Republicans, Democrats, or independents, you can be sure this presidential Jesus would get nowhere near the ballot. He’d be a joke.

It’s worth noting, I think, why Jesus would really be rejected. It has nothing to do with what some of the world calls “Christian values.” His rejection would have little to do with his stance on sexuality or abortion or gun rights—though his stance on these things might frustrate people too. His rejection would have a lot more to do with the sheer madness of never-ending forgiveness and unconditional hospitality and a most inefficient generosity. We have domesticated acts like forgiveness and hospitality into tame, reciprocal gestures that we extend only to friends or people like us. But when such deeds are let loose into all the world, onto the risky playing field of strangers and enemies, they become as Paul once called them: foolishness and weakness. Who would possibly want to see their nation run by such policies?

Why Jesus Is Rejected

The funny thing about our history, of course, is that America has often proclaimed itself a Christian nation. The Puritans aspired to become the biblical “city on a hill,” a light to all the world. Not too long after the Revolution and the War of 1812, people were talking about “manifest destiny”—saying that God had chosen America to bring salvation to the world. Folks back then may have read today’s scripture with a triumphal, “Aha!” They may have found approval in verse 9, for instance: “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people.”

Fast-forward to today, and there remain echoes of this self-identification between nation and religion. In the recent “culture wars,” some Christians have postured themselves as the last stronghold of this nation’s Christian heritage. Only now, the tune has shifted from conquest to besiegement. The Christians that once trumpeted their triumph as a city on the hill, now broadcast their rejection as a sign of their righteousness. They might turn to today’s scripture with a proud, “Aha!” In verses 4 and 5, for example, Jesus is “a living stone…rejected by mortals yet chosen and precious in God’s sight,” and we are invited to be living stones like Jesus. In other words—some folks today might say, “Look, we are rejected just like Jesus was. We truly are ‘God’s own people,’ as 1 Peter says” (2:5, 9).

But unlike the Christians who claim rejection in today’s culture wars, Jesus and his early followers were not rejected on the battlefield of power, where competing parties fight to have their way. Jesus and his followers were rejected for refusing to play the game of power. Christ’s way of love—the weak and foolish way of forgiveness and hospitality and giving without return—was a threat to the game. Religious leaders and Roman leaders alike rejected him not because of his stance on the latest topics of debate, but because he overturned the world order, giving pride of place to the poor and the prostitutes, the blind and the lame, while not indulging the presumed authority and prestige of the men who wore long robes and liked to be greeted with respect (Mark 12:38). The powers that put Jesus on a cross were not misguided. If people actually lived the way that Jesus proclaimed, the way of selfless love, there would be no place left for the powers-that-be.

In the Hands of Our Mother

This vulnerable way of living—the way of welcome without question and forgiveness without end and giving without return—is what we celebrate today. At the heart of Mother’s Day is not biological motherhood, but selfless love. Some of us are blessed to have or to have had mothers who exhibited this spirit; others of us may have been blessed to find this spirit in another. In either case, today is a celebration of the precious individuals whose hands hold us as helpless infants, gently guide us as children, and build us up with love into the fullness of who we are.

And this celebration—this is the good news that our scripture proclaims today. Our writer addresses a persecuted community of Christ-followers, a community rejected by the world around it. But rather than saying, “God’s on your side—now gird up your loins, take matters into your own hands, and fight the heathen,” our writer says, “Be like newborn babies who thirst for milk,” and “Be like building blocks waiting to be built” (cf. 2:2, 5).

In other words, the writer is saying, “Let go.” Life is no longer in your hands. You are in the hands of another. You are the blocks in the hands of a builder, a baby in the hands of a loving mother. You are not called to triumph by the power of your own hand. You are called to grow by love in the hands of another. Thirst not for victory but for nourishment. Crave not control but to be built up. Rather than retaliate against the world’s rejection, remember that God, your Mother in heaven, loves you. Live according to that love, like your brother Jesus did. Remember that you grow not by victory or triumph over others, but by the love of God.

Growing by Love

When I was growing up, I nearly always had a soccer game on Saturday. Sometimes we won. Sometimes we lost. All the time, my mom was there. I remember her especially on the times when we lost. Those are the times when I grew the most. I grew then because my mom loved me just the same. I learned that winning and losing did not matter, that being faster or stronger or simply more skilled did not matter, that even the game itself did not matter. Only one thing mattered. Me.

I grew into salvation not by what I did. I grew into salvation by the love of another.

Prayer

Our Mother who art in heaven,
Our world thirsts for your love.
We have tasted its goodness,
And so we commit our spirits
Into your hands,
Becoming like children.
May we grow humbly and dependently
Into the salvation of Christ,
Who is the way and the truth and the life. Amen.

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[1] John D. Caputo, What Would Jesus Deconstruct: The Good News of Postmodernism for the Church (The Church and Postmodern Culture Series; Grand Rapids: Baker, 2007), ebook loc. 1386-1387.

Provoking One Another (1 Cor 14:26; Heb 10:24-25)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on May 7, 2017, Easter IV)

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Before There Were Christians…

Today we’re breaking with tradition. Normally at this point we read a scripture from the lectionary, the Christian calendar of scripture readings. Today’s lectionary scripture is in 1 Peter, where we were last week. A little bit like Columbus, who sailed west in order to go east, I’m going to read soon a couple of other scriptures in order to talk about the world of 1 Peter.

We don’t know too much about 1 Peter. It may have been written by Peter himself, or it may have been written by a personal friend or follower of Peter. In either case, it was written in the earliest of days, before Christianity had been systematized into a distinct religion. At this point in time, there were not card-carrying Christians so much as there were Christ-followers: people who had heard about Jesus and who decided that they wanted to follow him.

…There Were Christ-Followers

What were these Christ-followers like? How did people see them?

Imagine with me for a moment that we are just your typical, run-of-the-mill Roman citizens. And one of our friends, Marcus, has been acting a bit funny lately. In the past, we saw him a lot. If ever there were an execution, he’d be there to watch along with the rest of the town. On the festival days, when sacrifices were offered to the local gods and folks would gather around for a festive barbeque afterwards, Marcus would be there with everyone else. But now he’s nowhere to be seen at these events. He has been seen, however, going into the homes of people below his class, people he has no connection with—sometimes really early in the morning, before the sun has risen. Recently some of Marcus’ friends have started to spread vicious rumors about him. The remarkable thing is that Marcus hasn’t called them out or tried to avenge his honor as any self-respecting citizen would do. It’s really odd. It’s like he’s not one of us anymore.

A Most Curious Species

This imagined scenario affords us a brief glimpse into the world of 1 Peter. The earliest followers of Christ attracted suspicion and mistrust because they had stopped living like the rest of the world. They had thrown off their cultural inheritance and were starting to live differently. As the writer of 1 Peter says at one point, “[The rest of the world] are surprised that you no longer join them…and so they speak evil [about you]” (4:4).[1]

So we know a little bit now about what the Christ-followers are not doing. They’re not living like the rest of the world around them.

But the question remains: what are they doing? Of course, we have many letters in the Bible that tell us what they are doing. But before we go there, let’s remain a moment longer in the world, the Roman world.

Twenty or thirty years after the ink of 1 Peter had dried, there is a Roman governor, Pliny, who writes to the Roman emperor Trajan, asking how to deal with these Christ-followers. Pliny talks about the Christ-followers as though they’re exotic specimens, a newly discovered species around which there are plenty of rumors but few known facts. When I read his words, I imagine him speaking in the voice of a nature documentary narrator—you know, the kind who whispers in a sophisticated British accent, treating every detail like it’s the most curious thing in the world. Pliny remarks first upon the Christ-followers’ stubbornness and “mental instability,” for they did the unthinkable: they refused to sacrifice to the emperor. But beyond this, he sees little harm in them. “They insisted,” he says, “that this was the sum of their fault and error, that they were accustomed to convene of a given day before dawn and sing a hymn…to Christ as if to a god, and to bind themselves by oath not for the purpose of some crime, but so as not to commit theft, or [fraud], or adultery, or to betray an oath, or to withhold something held in trust. It was thereupon their custom to disperse and to join together again to breakfast, but on common and harmless food.”[2]

In other words, as far as Pliny can tell, these Christ-followers are guilty of nothing more than “mental instability” and a quaint habit of gathering, singing, promising to do good, and then eating breakfast together. A most curious species.

Gathering Because of Jesus Christ

What we find in the New Testament largely confirms this picture of the early Christ-followers. I’ve selected just a couple of texts as evidence.

Exhibit A is 1 Corinthians 14:26, in which Paul paints with one broad brush-stroke what Christ-followers do together: “When you come together, each one has a hymn, a lesson, a revelation, a tongue, or an interpretation. Let all things be done for building up.”

Exhibit B is Hebrews 10:24-25, in which the writer urges the Christ-followers to keep meeting together: “And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another, and all the more as you see the day approaching.”

As you may be guessing, there is no single blueprint in the Bible for how early Christ-followers should gather. What does not change, however, is this: from the first day, Christ-followers have gathered together. To sing, to pray, to read, to talk, to eat. But whatever they gather to do, they do it because of Jesus Christ. They gather in his memory, in his name, in his spirit, in his body, in the faith that Christ is risen and alive and reconciling all creation.

A Divine Twist on Provocation

I love the way that the writer of Hebrews puts it: “Let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds” (10:24). In the Greek, that word “provoke” has the same negative connotation as it does in English. To provoke is usually to make angry or upset or hostile. When we look at our world today, we see people provoking each other all over the place. We see it in the media, where what matters most is making your point in a loud voice—if you offend a few people, so much the better. We see it in the workplace, where what matters most is asserting yourself and making sure you’re not lost among the competition. We see it in our relationships, where—as silly as it sounds—what matters most sometimes is simply being right or winning an argument or looking better than others.

In our world today, there is much provoking. But according to the gospel, Christ is doing something different, something opposite. Christ is reconciling all of creation—twisting you and me and everything back into goodness and love. When the writer of Hebrews says, “Let’s consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds,” he’s putting a divine twist on that word “provoke.” Whereas the world provokes towards division, Christ-followers “provoke” towards reconciliation. Paul talks about things a bit more plainly in 1 Corinthians, where he says that Christ-followers gather together in order to “build up.” In a world that brings others and us down in so many ways, Christ-followers gather with God to “build up.”

Whereas the world gathers to get ahead, these curious Christ-followers gather with the left-behind. Whereas the world gathers in an us-against-them mentality, these strange Christ-followers gather in an us-for-them mentality. Whereas the world gathers to feel good, these mentally unstable Christ-followers gather even amid difficulty and disagreement in order to do good.[3]

These Christ-followers are a most curious species, indeed.

Christ in Small Groups

During Lent, a few small groups from our church met weekly in homes and at church. They did different things. Some read the Bible. Some studied a book and discussed it. Some shared their lives and prayed together. The common thread in all these things is that they met because of Jesus Christ; in a world that provokes division and hurt, they met to provoke the love and goodness and reconciliation of Christ.

We see it the earliest Christ-followers and we see it today. Christ becomes alive and real in our world not simply through the bedside prayers of a privatized faith, but through our flesh-and-blood provoking of one another. Christ becomes alive and real where two or three are gathered, where bread is broken, where the least is loved.[4] In our families, here at church on Sunday morning, and in our small gatherings with one another, we learn and practice and are transformed by the most curious of way of Christ.

Small Group Questionnaire

I heard wonderful reports from our Lenten small groups, and so I am eager that we continue to offer space for such meetings. Worship happens for one hour in the week. But the week is long, and we long to be drawn together in Christ more often than this once. For some of us, we already have many opportunities to gather in Christ in our families and in other groups outside this church. But for others of us, there are few opportunities for life together in Christ. I’m keen that we as a church are always offering these opportunities.

In the middle of your bulletin, you’ll find a questionnaire regarding your preferences for small groups. For the next few moments, you’re invited to fill this questionnaire out. If you’ll leave it on your seat when you leave worship today, it will be collected then. Soon there will be more information about the possibilities of another round of small group meetings.

Prayer

Risen Christ,
In whom we live and move and become,
Whose body gathers us
Into the provoking movements
Of love and goodness and reconciliation:
Open our eyes to redemption;
Inspire us
In the steady and sometimes difficult work
Of blessing your world.
In the name of him in whom we gather, Jesus Christ. Amen.

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[1] The imagined scenario attempts to draw out a common theme of 1 Peter: the spiritual experience of “exile” in the world. Cf. Scot McKnight, 1 Peter (NIV Application Commentary Series; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996), ebook locs. 373-486, in which McKnight remarks upon a certain “homelessness” of Christ-followers.

[2] Pliny, Epistles 10.96-97, tr. Richard Hooper.

[3] McKnight, ebook loc. 2841, locates the theme of “self-denial” in 1 Peter’s discourse on suffering. Self-denial helps to distinguish the way of Christ from the way of the world: one is giving, one is taking; one is oppositional, one is cooperative; one is self-concerned, the other is selfless.

[4] Cf. Tripp Fuller’s maxim as found in The Homebrewed Christianity Guide to Jesus: Lord, Liar, Lunatic, or Awesome (Minneapolies: Fortress, 2015), ebook loc. 2102-2103: “Christ explicitly promised to be in three places: in community, at the communion table, and among the oppressed.”

A Real-World Ransom (1 Peter 1:17-23)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on April 30, 2017, Easter III)

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Our Inheritance…

It’s a jungle out there, a dog-eat-dog world, a rat race. Every man for himself. Look out for number one.

If it isn’t making dollars, then it isn’t making sense. If you are not moving units, then you’re not worth the expense. Time is money. If you snooze, you lose. Get rich quick.

What’s the bottom line? Get to the point. Results speak the loudest. The ends justify the means. It’s not a crime unless you get caught.

If you believe in it, then fight for it. Don’t take no for an answer.

All of these are anonymous echoes in my head. Anonymous, because I don’t know where I heard them first. But I have heard them all so often that they have become a part of me. You might say that I’ve inherited them, just as a person inherits genes or traits from a parent. Which is to say, they are as much a part of me as my curly hair or my hazel eyes, whether I like that or not. If I didn’t like my curly hair, it’d still be there. Even if I disagree that it’s a dog-eat-dog world, or that the ends justify the means, there will still always be that voice in my head.

I would be surprised if you had not inherited similar voices. All of these voices are part of our cultural inheritance. These are dominant traits in our world. Independence. Competition. Efficiency. Results. Strength. Whether we look at our schools, our businesses, or our government, we see these same basic values. This is part of our inheritance.

…Is What We Need Salvation from

Our scripture today has a most curious way of talking about salvation. The author of this letter is writing to a persecuted community of Christ-followers in the first century. This is a community that needed a pep talk, a spark. And the author gives them one, but with strange words. He talks about salvation, but not salvation from sin or death or evil. What we really need salvation from, he says, is our own inheritance.

You—he says, speaking to his audience—when you were born, you inherited a way of life. But it was hollow. You did what everyone around you was doing, what the whole world was doing, but it left you feeling empty. What was the point? It was almost like you were a slave to a meaningless cycle, to the same empty things day after day

But then something happened. Something so world-shattering that you were let loose from what you knew, what you had inherited.

We All Need to Be Unlocked

Something happened to Dan Hamann in Seattle, Washington. Something world-shattering. Dan was born into a family with a father, a mother, and a brother. His brother had Down Syndrome.

I’ll let him tell the story from here:

We were the perfect family with the suburban home, two cars, a picket fence [and] money, and then there was Paul. I didn’t really know how to relate to that. All my friends were very affluent, even more affluent than we were. Paul was a complication.

[All the way] through junior high I [struggled] with trying to make Paul a part of my life…. I was trying to fit in. I was trying to be one of the guys…. I just wanted to be accepted. I just wanted to be normal.[1]

As Dan tells the story, things just changed inexplicably one night at a football game. There he forgot about what his friends thought or expected, and he cared only for his brother Paul. “I sat next to him,” he says. “I…held his hand, then I walked him around…and I introduced all my friends to him. From that moment on I was changed.”[2]

I take Paul out a lot. He and I do things now. I take him to church. I take him to get ice cream cones. We go to basketball games. He doesn’t know what the heck is going on at those games, but he likes being with me. I like being with him.[3]

Paul is like the rest of us. He likes to be touched. He is warm. He’ll reach out and he’ll hold and he’ll hug. He always wants to hold your hand. I don’t know if that is typical of Down Syndrome people or if it is just Paul.[4]

Paul has opened up a world, a new world for me….[5]

He is gentle. He’s got nothing but good things in his heart….There is no deceit….There is no struggle, no ambition to step on anybody to get to the top. These are all things that are produced in our society. Paul doesn’t have any of those things….[From our world’s perspective] he is…ugly and…deformed and…inarticulate, and here he is opening up the whole world to me….[6]

I myself cannot help but observe how different Paul is from our world. Whereas most people inherit the values of independence and a competitive spirit, Paul lives dependently on others and treats strangers as friends. Whereas most of us have inherited the values of efficiency and results and strength, Paul lives slowly and patiently and without regard for social success or triumph. Paul teaches Dan and his family a strange, new way of life. They learn patience and compassion. They learn that time is not money but a precious gift to be shared. They learn that love is not an objective, something that they can buy for Paul at an institution, or something that they can achieve through other means. Love is the means. It is the way. And the truth and the life.

In Dan’s words:

[Paul] is an ambassador sent from the heavenly family to change us forever so that we won’t be what we would have otherwise been.[7]

There is a need to be unlocked. We all need to be unlocked. It is a question of who has the key. Paul had the key.[8]

An Inheritance at Odds with Love

Whoever wrote 1 Peter couldn’t have put it better himself. We all need to be unlocked. We all need to be ransomed, unchained, unbolted, unfastened, set free from the empty ways that we’ve inherited. Because the good news of God’s love stands in stark opposition to much of our world today.

“Love is patient,” but our world is not. Our world of fast cars, fast food, fast computers, the “fast track,” instant messaging, instant replays, instant access, is rather impatient. If it’s not now, it’s not worth it. The gospel of love begs us to slow down. To be inefficient. To enter into the difficulties and sufferings of others. To put people before profit or productivity.

“Love is kind.” But in our world of business and politics, competition and achievement, kind people often finish last.

“Love does not insist on its own way.” But our world proclaims the opposite. Have it your way. Make your own way. Compassion is, at best, an extracurricular activity, a distinction of community service that can be stamped onto your certificate.

We all need to be unlocked.

A Real-Life Exodus

How? According to our scripture, it is Christ who unlocks us. Our author compares Jesus to the Passover lamb, whose blood spared the lives of the ancient Israelites before they were set free from their slavery in Egypt. To be clear, he is not saying that Jesus is a one-time sacrifice that supernaturally cleans us of our sins. He’s saying that Jesus spares us from the death of our empty ways and invites us into the journey of freedom, which is also a journey into the wilderness, where we must learn new ways of living.

Such an event is catastrophic. It is, in our author’s words, “the end of the ages,” which is to say, Jesus Christ marks the end of one story and the beginning of another. Or in the words of Dan Hamann, he “opens up a world, a new world.”

As I consider the state of our world and the church in it, what concerns me these days is not so much that we get our theology right, that we know all the right words to say about Jesus. What concerns me is that we encounter the living Christ, who actually sets us free from the empty ways that we’ve inherited. The reason I love Dan’s story is that it shows in flesh and blood what a real-world ransom looks like. It is a real-life exodus from the world of independence and competition, results and efficiency, speed and strength; and it is a journey into the wilderness of love and compassion, patience and kindness, selflessness and wonder.[9] A journey into a new life where what matters most is touch and ice cream cones, sharing time together and church.

The living Christ who ransoms us from the empty ways of the world, will look different for each of us. For Dan, it looked like his brother Paul. (And Dan’s not alone. We have several paintings from the 16th century that depict angels as having Down Syndrome, suggesting that persons with Down Syndrome have been ransoming us from our empty inheritance for hundreds of years. One such picture sits on the narthex table, and I invite you to take a look on your way out.)

What does your ransom look like? Chances are, we haven’t translated all of our own experience into story. But it’s worth stopping and thinking about every once in a while. If our faith is real, then what does our ransom really look like? Where have we encountered the living Christ? How are we being ransomed, even right now, from the dominant and empty traits of our world? Who, or what, are the Pauls in our life?

Prayer

Living Christ,
Who sets us free
From our empty inheritance
And shares with us
God’s inheritance of love;
Bless all the little and unexpected ways
Through which we are ransomed,
And lead us onward
From the last page of our world’s story
Into the new chapter of your kingdom. Amen.

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[1] Christoper de Vinck, The Power of the Powerless (New York: Doubleday, 1988), 127.
[2] De Vinck, 127.
[3] De Vinck, 129.
[4] De Vinck, 127-128.
[5] De Vinck, 122.
[6] De Vinck, 131.
[7] De Vinck, 131. Dan’s reference to Paul as “an ambassador sent from the heavenly family” finds an intriguing parallel in several works of Renaissance art, which depict angels and possibly even the Christ-child as having Down Syndrome. See “Down Syndrome Depicted in Renaissance Art, http://www.confessionsofthechromosomallyenhanced.com/2013/05/down-syndrome-depicted-in-renaissance.html?m=1, visited April 29, 2017.
[8] De Vinck, 123.
[9] It also shows us what our scripture calls “reverent fear” (1:17) which sounds rather ominous but in reality is rather life-giving: for in the case of Dan, it is an eternal earnestness and commitment and curiosity where everything matters, not just what we do on Sunday morning or in our private devotions, but what we do in the real world.

A Pregnant World (1 Peter 1:3-9)

(Homily with the Help of Children for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on April 23, 2017, Easter II)

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Different Than Usual

It was a normal day at school. No assemblies, no special events, no early dismissals. But Jason was different than he normally was. It was almost like he was living in a different world. When one of his friends teased him in the hallway about his new haircut, he didn’t even seem to hear the joke. He just smiled and kept walking. When the class had a little free time at the end of the day, and the teacher allowed the students to have silent time to read or write or draw, he wasn’t tempted to talk to his friends. Instead he was busy with his pencil and his eraser. He drew pictures of himself and someone else. He wrote out a list of games. All the while, he was smiling. When the bell rang, he was first out of the door.

Why do you think Jason was different than usual?

It’s a lovely day out on the farm. The sun is out, there’s hardly a cloud in the sky, and there’s just the occasional breeze. But the animals are acting strangely. Down by the pond, the frogs are croaking louder than they usually do. Across the sky, the birds are flying unusually low. In the fields, the cows are agitated and anxious, swatting flies with their tails, and the sheep are all huddled together. The garden by the house, where the bees and the butterflies usually buzz about, is oddly quiet. On the ground, the ant mounds are bigger than they normally are.

Why do you think the animals are acting strangely?

Karen has had a really busy day. She had a doctor’s appointment in the morning. Then she went to the supermarket and stocked up on groceries; she’s been really hungry lately. After the grocery store, she had to go shopping for clothes. From one thing to the next, she has hardly had time to catch her breath. Normally after a day like this, she would drop on her bed and fall right to sleep. But tonight, she does not. Instead, she lies on her bed and rests one hand gently on her belly. A smile grows on her face. Her eyes are aglow. She hums a favorite song from her childhood.

Karen knows things that no one else knows. What does she know?

Living in a Different World

Jason, the farm animals, and Karen all remind us that there is more to life than what we can see. They all know something that the rest of the world does not know. And this changes them. It’s almost like they’re living in a different world because they know something that they cannot see.

Think back for a moment about Karen, the pregnant woman. How do you think she knows that she is pregnant? She feels the baby kicking within her. She feels extra hungry now, because she has to eat food for both her and the baby. How do you think she will prepare for the baby’s arrival? Maybe she will prepare a crib, paint a room, sew some clothes.

It’s almost like she’s living in a different world than everyone else. She’s living in a world that she cannot see. She cannot see the baby, but she loves the baby. She cannot hold the baby in her arms, but she lives like the baby is alive and with her already.

The World Is Pregnant

It’s a bit funny to think about…but the early followers of Christ thought that the world is pregnant (cf. Rom 8:22; 1 Pet 1:3). They said that there is much more to life than we can see. And for them, it all has to do with Easter. When they think about Easter and Jesus coming back to life, they begin to feel a little bit like a pregnant woman: they can feel a kick inside them, and they get really hungry. God’s love is alive! Life is on the way!

Listen to the way that our scripture describes Jesus. It sounds a lot like a baby to me: “Although you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy” (1:8).

Easter: 

A Kick in the Womb, a Deep Growl of Hunger

I can’t speak from experience here, but I’ve heard that pregnancy is sometimes a difficult and painful process. Your body changes shape, it needs a lot of nutrients, there’s something new and not-you inside you! But I also know that it can fill the future mother with love and with an indescribable and glorious joy. She begins to live in a different world—loving what she does not see, smiling at what she cannot hold, laughing and singing songs into thin air.

When Jesus came back to life on Easter, the world trembled a little bit. Like a kick in the womb. Like a deep growl of hunger. Because of Easter, we Christ-followers know that the world is pregnant, that it is filled with God’s love, that life is on the way—even to the saddest and most difficult places. And so we love what we cannot see, smile at what is not there, laugh and sing songs into thin air. We take special care of the world and ourselves because something special is on the way. All creation will be made new. We can feel it kicking inside us! We are hungry for it!

Prayer

God of new birth,
Whose love makes our world
Tremble with hope:
Bless us with hearts
That can feel
The gentle kick of life
In all creation.
May we cherish
The unseen goodness
That fills all people and things.
In the name of the risen Christ: Amen.

"...But She Did Not Recognize Him" (John 20:1-18)

(Homily for Gayton Road Christian Church's Worship on April 16, 2017, Easter Sunday)

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Recognition: A Life-and-Death Matter 

“She turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus.” She did not recognize him.

Recognition can be a matter of life and death. The ancients knew this well.[1] Their stories dramatize the moment of recognition as the moment that life returns. A face is not just a face; it becomes the doorway from death to life.

We see this in the ancient Hebrew story of Joseph and his brothers. When Joseph finally reveals himself to his troubled brothers, when they finally recognize him, the tension in the story lifts. There are tears. There are embraces. There is life once more.

We see this in the ancient Greek tale of Odysseus. Odysseus leaves his home to fight in the Trojan War, and a number of adventures delay him on his way back. By the time he actually returns, much has changed. His wife Penelope, who has just about given up hope on him, has many admirers trying to win her affection. Only when Odysseus finally reveals himself, only when Penelope recognizes him, can life be made right. Only then, can he and his wife return to their life together.

Just as recognition brings life in these stories, non-recognition often proves tragically fatal. Years after Odysseus has returned to his home life with Penelope, he confronts a stranger who is killing his sheep. The confrontation escalates into a fight, and the stranger kills Odysseus. How tragic: for this stranger is none other than one of his sons, Telegonus, whom Odysseus had not seen since birth. Telegonus had made a long journey to reunite with his father. But he had been hungry, so he had killed some sheep for food.

Of course, the famous tragedy of non-recognition is the tale of Oedipus. Separated from his father since birth, Oedipus encounters him one day on a road, but neither recognizes the other. All that they see is a stranger, an enemy. And so it is that Oedipus kills his father.

According to the ancients, recognition is the difference between life and death.

Recognition Instead of Resurrection 

Our gospels, I think, would agree.

Today we celebrate resurrection. But have you noticed? Not one gospel presents us with a story of Jesus’ resurrection. We never see Jesus himself come back to life. Instead, we hear the personal stories of others who encounter a stranger and then come to life themselves. And they come to life precisely at that crucial moment of recognition: Mary hears her name and recognizes the gardener and cries out, “Rabbouni!” (John 20:16); Thomas touches the wounds of Christ and exclaims, “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:27-28); Cleopas and his friend encounter a stranger on the way to Emmaus and don’t recognize him until he has blessed bread and broken it and gave it to them, so that afterward they say, “Were not our hearts burning within us?” (Luke 24:13-35).

The gospels do not show us Jesus’ resurrection. They show us others’ recognition. No resurrection. Only recognition.

Without Recognition, There Is No Resurrection 

But what if Mary had not recognized Jesus? What if she had just mistaken him for some eccentric gardener? What if Thomas had dismissed the man with the wounds as a meticulous imposter? What if Cleopas and his friend had simply identified their traveling companion as a wise rabbi?

What if no one had recognized Jesus?

According to the ancients, non-recognition is a tragedy. It is potentially fatal. The gospels, I think, would probably agree. Without the stories of Mary and Thomas and Cleopas and the disciples, without their stories of recognition, there would be no resurrection to speak of. For a resurrection to mean anything, it must be shared. It must catch on, spreading like wildfire through moments of recognition, moments that become indistinguishable from resurrection, so that really one must begin to wonder if recognition is not itself part of the resurrection.

The gospels do not show us Jesus’ resurrection. The new life that they show us in their final scenes is not the breath miraculously coming back into Jesus’ lungs. The new life that they show us is the wonder and joy that miraculously seize his followers in that moment of recognition. A moment of burning hearts and embrace and wondrous exclamation. According to the gospels, this is the meaning of resurrection. It is not a meaning of physics or biology, but the spiritual meaning of coming back to life, coming into new life.

Recognizing Resurrection: 

Looking Beyond the Way Things Were, Looking for Love 

When I was younger and surer of myself and the world, I would roll my eyes whenever I heard stories of grief like the kind you read in Reader’s Digest, where someone loses a loved one but then somehow senses the loved one’s spirit in the appearance of a butterfly or the music of a bird’s song. Nowadays, I roll my eyes at that younger self. For now, I myself have had such experiences.

What else are those butterflies or those singing birds, but sacred moments of recognition, a recognition that is somehow part of a resurrection—because it undeniably brings new life.

In today’s scripture, Mary does not recognize Jesus straight away. We don’t know why. I have my own suspicions though. Jesus asks her, “Whom are you looking for?” (20:15). My guess is that Mary was looking for a dead body. She did not recognize Jesus because she was looking for the way things were, not the way things could be. Moments later, when she does recognize Jesus, Jesus says to her, “Do not hold on to me” (20:17). Which is, I think, his way of saying, “For resurrection to happen, to continue to happen, one must not hold on so tightly to things as they were; resurrection means new life.”

Our own experiences of recognition—butterflies, singing birds, or whatever else—affirm this truth. If we were looking so hard for simply the physical things as they were, the body as we held it, as it held us, we would never recognize the loved one elsewhere.

What are we really looking for? We are looking for the loved one’s love.

“I Have Seen the Lord!” 

“She turned around and saw Jesus standing there,” but she did not recognize him (20:14). At that moment in Mary’s experience, Jesus is still dead. It was Easter morning, but she did not know it yet.

We are all Mary, this morning and every morning. We hear a voice, “Whom are you looking for?” If we’re fixated only on what happened nearly two thousand years ago, I’m afraid we’ll actually miss out on the resurrection, which is to say, the coming back to life that catches on and spreads like wildfire whenever we look love in the face and recognize it. Resurrection without end.

“Whom are you looking for?” I’m looking for Jesus. I’m looking for him whose loving words and touch have haunted me with longing and inflamed my heart’s desire. I’m looking for his love: a love that is uncalculated, a love that forgives, a love that believes and hopes for the best while it bears and endures the worst, a love that looks for redemption in every single created thing, a love that never ends. And I’ve seen it! I’ve caught glimpses of it! In the face of my parents, who even on days when I had been quite a pain tucked me in and said “good night.” In the face of my brother, who has this silly, unquestioning belief in me whenever I doubt myself. In the face of this church, whenever we serve and give without return. Even among the faces of my “heathen” friends, who sometimes have a keener sense than the faithful for the sanctity of life in the downtrodden, the poor, the helpless. I know that this love lives—I have seen it!

Have you? Can we together with Mary say, “I have seen the Lord”? Come, then, let us go announce these things to the world!

Prayer 

Beloved Christ,
Whose love knows no end,
Who calls us tenderly by name:
Open our eyes to your risen body in our world;
Awaken us to new life with you;
Whip up the wildfire
Of your resurrection
Until all live by your love. Amen.

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[1] This is most famously discussed by Aristotle in his Poetics, particularly chapter 11.