Fathers and Sons

Luke 15:11-32      

There was a father who had two sons.  One son behaved respectfully, never disagreeing with his father, always deferential. When his father would say, “When you use the car, don’t leave an empty gas tank for the next person.  Fill it up, please,” this son would say, “Sure dad, I will.”  But he never did.  The other son was just plain rude.  He would say to his father, “That’s a stupid rule to have!  It’s a ridiculously petty thing to care about, and I don’t know why it matters to you.”  But he never left an empty tank.  He always filled it.  Which was the good son?  Which son was better?

There was a father who had two sons.  When they were grown, one son stayed at home with his father and cared for him in his old age, took care of the house so his father could remain there.  He possessed a sense of duty that served him and his father well.  But he never told his father he loved him - with words or any other way.  The other son left home and moved to another state where he started a career and a family.  He visited the father rarely and didn’t do the little odd jobs that needed doing when he did come back.  But he called his father every week and listened to his stories and at the end of every phone call he would say to his father “I love you.”  Which was the good son?  Which son was better?

There was a father with two sons.  One went to his father and made his demands.  He would say to his father, “You owe me.”  The other son never asked for a thing and never imagined that he was owed a thing in this life by his father. Or anyone. But he never gave him a thing either.  His philosophy of life was, “Everything I am I did myself.  Everything I have I got myself.  I look out for Number One, like everyone does, and I don’t owe anyone a single things.”  Which son was the good son?  Which son was better?

These are the kinds questions asked by such stories of fathers and sons.  They are either/or stories.  Which one is right, which one is wrong?  Who wins and who loses?  These are familiar questions, because we often do look at things in dichotomous terms:  either/or, wrong/right, in/out, black/white.  Many things in life are like that: you can either have this or that. You can do this or you can do that.  One is right and the other is wrong.  Make a choice, and wonder whether you chose well.  Sometimes you know right away, sometimes you never find out. 

I grew up in a family of four sisters and I can say I honestly never knew if either of my parents had a favorite.  I think my sisters would have to say the same.  But that never stopped us from thinking about it and making guesses.  There must have been one.  They must have had a favorite.

Kim and I have four children ourselves.  We don’t make a big deal about our wedding anniversary, but there was one year when three of the four of them gave us a card. The other one treated us to an anniversary dinner with champagne; and her friends said to her, “You are so favorite child right now.”

Scott Avett sings a beautiful song about family love,

I wonder which brother is better, which one our parents love the most.

I sure did get in lots of trouble; they seemed to let the other go.

A tear fell from my father’s eye; I wondered what my dad would say.

He said I love you and I’m proud of you both in so many different ways.

It’s not easy, though, to convince your children that your love for each of them is equally strong; that you love each of them with as much love as you have; that each one of your children gets all of your love.  Because how is that even possible?  How can you give everything away more than once?

There was a father with two sons.  One son fell in with a bad crowd and walked through life under a black cloud.  He abused alcohol and drugs, and when he hit the bottom, his father gathered him in and sent him to the best rehab he could afford.  And when he was strong again, his father helped him get back on his feet.  The other son sailed through the days steadily moving toward his goals with barely a hitch.  The father did very little for him other than to proudly watch him grow into a man.  Which son did the father love the most? 

That’s not the kind of question that can be answered, is it? 

There was a father who had two sons.  One day the younger son dropped the plow and walked in from the field.  He said to his father, “I can’t stay here on the farm, and I can’t wait until you die to get what’s coming to me.  Give me my inheritance now, old man, so I can go out and live my life.”  The father divided his estate, then, according to the custom, and gave this son one third of his wealth, and watched him walk away with it.

The older son also received his share of the estate; a double share, as was the custom.  And he said nothing.  He watched his younger brother walk away.  And he watched his father watch; he watched his father’s enormous grief.  And the following day, and the day after that, he worked.  And he said nothing. 

Time went by and life went on.  The younger son went out and had a ball.  He threw lots of parties and gathered around him a new group of super cool friends...until the money ran out.  Then no more parties and no more friends.  He found himself homeless and hungry and desperate.  The only work he could find was the most degrading kind of work imaginable.  This son had hit rock bottom.

When times are good we don’t think much about the ones who can help us, but when times are bad we do.  While he had probably not given him a thought all the while he was flying high, now this son thought about his father … and he missed him.  He wanted nothing more than to go home where he might be safe and provided for.  It was different now than it was before, of course.  He didn’t think about being owed anything from his father.  But he did think about - and hope for – a second chance.

So he went home with a prepared speech to make the best possible impression on his father and hopefully convince him that he would be worth offering a second chance. 

But his father saw him coming and ambushed him with love before he even had a chance to give his practiced speech.  His father called out to the servants:  bring the finest robe that we might clothe him in it; bring the signet ring that he might wear it on his finger, showing all the world who he is, where he belongs.  Make a feast, let’s celebrate for we have so much to be joyful about.

And now, at last, we hear from the older son, the one who had kept his nose to the grindstone and eyes to the ground.  “What’s this about a party?  Is there something we are celebrating?  Is there something I should be happy about?”  When he hears that it’s about the return of his long-lost brother – the one who took the money and ran – this older brother finally had an emotion. 

You know, during this season of penitence and preparation, did you ever have the thought: Maybe I could give up resentment for Lent.  I would really like to, but I’m not sure how one would go about doing that.  It’s not quite like giving up coffee or chocolate.  It’s a bit trickier, because it’s a feeling that surges up in you from out of nowhere, seemingly, and it overwhelms you.  It invades all your thoughts and colors all your feelings and probably your actions too.  Resentment can eat you up.  It’s like poison.

Resentment was the poison in this older brother’s heart that day when his younger brother returned.  But, even worse, it was probably a poison that had been harboring there for years, largely unnoticed.  He had always done what he was supposed to do, while this younger son had abandoned his responsibilities and walked away.  Who was the better son?  He had never crossed his father or even asked for a single thing, while this younger son had demanded the father give away all that he had to his sons.  Day in and day out he had watched his father missing that younger son, feeling the empty place left by this younger son - all the while he was still there, working his fields, sharing his table.  Who was the better son?

What kind of a man was this father of his, anyway?  How stupid was he?  It’s not rocket science:  one son was good; one son was bad.  Why couldn’t his father see that?

Why couldn’t he see that?

This father, like many fathers, hopes that someday his children can understand that the parent’s love is not a win-lose, either-or commodity.  There is enough and still more.  You can give it all away - every bit of it - again and again and again. 

This father might say:  I can love you with my whole heart and I can also love you with my whole heart - this is not a mathematical problem.  Love is not like that.

Maybe, someday, all of this father’s children - every one of us - will get it.  God’s love is abundant and free.  Let it wash away the poisons that corrode your heart.  Abide in God’s love.  It’s where you belong.

Photo: By Gugatchitchinadze - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=49878879

The Season of Second Chances

Isaiah 55:1-9      

Luke 13:1-9       

I think that our problem, sometimes, is our wanting to find easy answers to our hard questions. We don’t care much for ambiguity, and neither did Jesus’ early followers. So when the news came to them about a disaster that befell some Galileans, they looked for answers in the wrong places.

In September 2001, Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell sat in front of a TV camera, musing together about why they thought the towers fell and nearly 3,000 people died. They seemed to like the theory that it was the feminists, pagans, and civil libertarians – in other words, people not like them – who were at fault, because they made God mad at America.

The temptation of being able to say those people had it coming is a strong one. Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell didn’t invent this; it’s an old, old way of thinking. Because it is so much easier to believe that those people met a bad fate because of their particular sins, which are not my particular sins. And if I look out at the world this way, I just might be able to avoid even thinking about my own particular sins.

But Jesus isn’t having any of that. “Do you think that this shows they were worse than you? Do you think those who were killed in that tower of Siloam disaster were somehow worse than you? Do you think that you can escape judgment as easily as you have managed to avoid examining your own sins?

This is a special kind of sin, in itself: this practice of always looking at someone else’s faults to be able to escape looking at your own faults. But it is a sin that we all share to some degree. Because it is just so much easier to see someone else’s flaws than it is to see our own.

If Jesus had done nothing more than say to them, “Oh, you think you’re better than them, do you?” then he may as well have said nothing at all. What good does it do? But, he is wise enough to offer them a parable.

There was a man who had a fig tree planted in his vineyard. He would go out and look at this tree as it grew, year after year, expecting to find fruit. After all, that’s what he had planted it for. He was very anxious to get fruit from this tree. But after three years, he lost patience. And he said to his gardener, “just cut it down and plant something else. This fig tree is no good to me, for it has borne no fruit.”

The problem, though – and it’s a problem his listeners would have understood – is that it’s still too soon. While three years seems like a long time to us, it isn’t enough time for the tree to bear fruit. Perhaps this man doesn’t know this. But perhaps he does know it; it’s just that he doesn’t like it. The gardener doesn’t try to figure that out; he just makes his appeal.

It would be wasteful, after all, to cut down this fig tree now. For three years he has tended it, nurtured it. There is still every reason to hope there will be fruit – in due time. Have patience, the gardener urges. Wait.

It is a little bit distressing to think that the man would destroy a perfectly healthy tree because he doesn’t agree that it should take more than three years for it to bear fruit. It is distressing to think of how such a man might treat other living creatures in his orbit – his wife and children, his servants. Would he toss them out, as well, if he loses patience with them? Anyone who plants a tree knows very well that it takes time to grow and produce. I don’t think he forgot that. Yet he seems to want to condemn the tree for failing to do what is impossible for it to do. A harsh man.

It is his tree, so he is within his rights to destroy it. But still – why?

Maybe this suspense of not knowing is just making him too uncomfortable; the suspense hangs in the air: Will this tree bear fruit? If so, when? He can’t handle this stress. He’s a decisive man and he just wants to know so he can decide if this is a good tree or a bad tree.

Just the same way, we want to know why certain things happen, because we can’t bear the ambiguity of it all. Did these Galileans die a horrible death because they were bad Galileans? Were those Judeans crushed by the tower of Siloam because they were bad Judeans? Did those Americans who were killed on 9/11 die because they were bad Americans?

And the answer is: No worse than you. No worse than you. No worse than you.

You might say those Galileans, those Judeans, they didn’t deserve to die. But you could just as easily say we all, every one of us, deserves to die. As we say on Ash Wednesday, “remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” We are reminded that we are here for a finite period of time, and what we do with that time matters.

Jesus, who is at that very moment on his way to Jerusalem, feels the urgency of this! We don’t actually have all the time in the world to get on with those things that really matter. Perhaps for us, during the season of Lent, we might become more mindful of this. There is, indeed, some urgency.

Yet, God’s patience is great; God’s forgiveness is great, and it is this tender patience and forgiveness that encourage us to open our hearts and turn our faces toward God. Just as the gardener’s wise and compassionate hands might coax the fig tree into producing fruit, if only given another year to do it.

When is the right time for repentance, for turning away from sin and turning toward God? Now is the right time, but if not now then the next day or the next. In God’s time. In the Presbyterian Church we sometimes are asked about when is the right time for baptism. And the answer we like to give is that it should be done at the appropriate time, with neither undue haste nor undue delay. Of course, the harder part sometimes is figuring out if you are acting in haste or making excuses in order to delay.

The thing for us to remember is that God is always ready for us. With God, it is always the season of second chances. The history of Israel we read in the Bible tells us again and again that no matter how many times the people have turned away, God is still there, abundantly generous. Giving water to those who thirst, bread to those who hunger. You don’t need to buy it, you don’t have to earn it. Come, everyone, to the waters. Now is the time.

Now is the time to turn and come to the Lord. Always. Now is the time.

Chicks Like Us

Luke 13:31-35

Considering these last few verses of Luke’s 13^th chapter, I think it’s worthwhile looking back at the chapter as a whole. Not because these verses are connected. But because the whole chapter feels weirdly disconnected.

It reminds me of that picture book, If You Give a Mouse A Cookie. You know how it goes? If you give a mouse a cookie, he will probably ask for some milk to go with it. And when he finishes, he will look at himself in the mirror to see if he has a milk mustache, and when he looks in the mirror he will notice that he needs a haircut, so he will ask you for a nail scissors, and on it goes. Jesus is acting kind of like that mouse in this chapter. He’s just jumping from one thing to another thing to another thing – and there’s no apparent connection between them all.

At the beginning of the chapter, out of the blue, we hear about some Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. I am guessing that Luke knew who they were, these Galileans, but you and I don’t. At any rate, that was a bad fate for them. One they probably didn’t deserve, Jesus says. And this seems to remind him of a story he once heard about a fig tree. It goes like this:

A man walks through his vineyard and sees this fig tree. It’s been there at least three years and it’s not giving any fruit. It’s just taking up space. So he orders his gardener to get rid of it. Something more useful can be planted there. But the gardener suggests he give it one more year – see if anything happens then. If not, he’ll cut it down.

Jesus never finished the story, though, and we don’t know what ever happened to the fig tree.

It might be because he got distracted by the woman who walked into the synagogue at that moment. In verse 10. She was quite bent over, and the very sight of her seemed to move Jesus. So maybe he stopped talking in the middle of his story, walked over to her, laid his hands on her and said a few words. She stood upright, just like that.

And that was good.

But then the Synagogue leader got bent out of shape about this disruption – in verse 14. It wasn’t necessarily that he disliked this woman being healed, more the case that he was upset about things being disorderly. This was the sabbath day, which is not the day for works of healing. Jesus should have waited, the synagogue leader tells him. But the crowd there witnessing all this, most of them were on Jesus’ side. And the woman’s side. We know this from verse 17, which says they were all rejoicing at the things he was doing.

And that seemed to put him in mind of the kingdom of God, which is something he always liked to talk about. The kingdom of God; to what can it be compared?  Here he says it’s like a mustard seed, a tiny little thing that grows into a big bush. And it’s like yeast, the stuff that a woman mixes in with the flour for bread, and it mysteriously causes the bread to rise.

And so it goes; Jesus continued moving, going out of the synagogue and all through the towns and villages, one after another, making his way toward Jerusalem.

And all the while, he’s saying some crazy stuff! Who would say the kingdom of God is like a mustard bush? No one, that’s who. Now maybe a cedar of Lebanon, that’s a tree worth talking about. Fine wood, pleasant fragrance, suitable for a king’s palace. Why are you talking about a shrub, Jesus?

And yeast! That invasive, nasty stuff. It gets into places you don’t want it to be. It makes trouble and it’s hard to get rid of. Yeast is something to beware of! The kingdom of God is like yeast? Said no one ever. Come on, don’t be crazy, Jesus.

I think maybe people are getting worried now. In verse 23, someone approaches him and asks, “Lord, will only a few people be saved?” This guy wants to know: is there enough room in the kingdom for all of us? Because all the stuff he’s saying is turning their world upside down. Jesus doesn’t quite answer his question, but he kind of suggests that when this guy gets to the gates of the kingdom, ready to step through, it’s quite possible the Lord will stand in his way and say to him, “Hmm. Your name’s not on the list. Sorry.”

But then Jesus goes on – essentially saying, Hey, you just don’t know! All kinds of people will come, from north and south, from east and west, and sit at table in the kingdom of God. The ones who were last will be first, the first will be last. You just never know.

And somehow, I don’t think any of this is making the people more comfortable.

Just then, where we started today, a group of Pharisees approached him and told him, “We just want to warn you, Jesus. Herod is after you; he wants you dead. You’d best be on your way.”

Well, I don’t think Herod was actually talking to the Pharisees. I think they’re bluffing. I think when they say, “Herod doesn’t like you,” what they really mean is, “We don’t like you.”

The Pharisees don’t like what Jesus is doing and saying. It’s disruptive. It’s disturbing. It’s confusing. You see, they feel they have already figured it all out. They know what the kingdom is like (not mustard or yeast, for goodness sake) and they don’t appreciate Jesus’ analogies. They figure they already know what the rules of admission to the kingdom are, and they don’t appreciate Jesus’ suggestion that they might not really know.

Jesus is upsetting things, raising questions, disturbing the status quo and they feel it would really be for the best if he went way.

Actually, to be honest, they don’t want any part of this kingdom he’s talking about. So they say, “Jesus, you need to get away from here because Herod wants to kill you.” And Jesus doesn’t miss a beat when he says –

Listen, you tell that fox, Herod, I’m coming and there’s not a thing he can do about it. I’m casting out demons and performing cures, and I’m coming to Jerusalem. I’ll see you there.

You fox.

Then he changes his tone, suddenly. Again. As his thoughts turn to the vulnerable ones, the chicks that are such easy prey for the fox.

It’s not totally surprising that his thoughts and his words are jumping all over the place. He has a lot weighing on his mind right now. After all, he has turned his face toward Jerusalem and everything that awaits him there.

And he looks to Jerusalem with a range of feelings. He knows he must be on his way there, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside Jerusalem, as he says. It is clear what he means: He is the prophet and his death is inevitable. And that being the case, he has a few things he wants to say while he has the time.

All the disjointed topics and remarks in this chapter seem to say to us that we don’t really have it all figured out. That, as much as we want to impose order and reason on the world, it’s actually a much bigger subject than we can gain command over. It’s like he wants to say to you and me:

Who is worthy of the kingdom of heaven? All of you; none of you. Both are true. Don’t try to do the sorting, please. That’s God’s work.

I know this is hard for you. You have a weakness for easy answers and you like to think you’re the boss of things. You’ve always been that way. And I will tell you – you really test my patience sometimes. I wait and wait for you to bear good fruit. It would be easier to just clean the slate and start over again. But no. I wait.

I want so much to free you from all the ways you get yourselves tied up in knots! You can’t seem to remember how simple it really is – love one another. Period. You don’t have to make up some special criteria, make hurdles for people to jump over, boundary lines that are meant to separate the loved from the unloved, rules that mean to keep some away from me.

Don’t you know the kingdom of God is everywhere, in every living thing? In the mustard bushes, in the yeast, in you, in me.

The kingdom for God is for everyone. If only you could see that.

But I am afraid you get sidetracked by those who do not really have your best interests at heart. They don’t love you like I love you. I wish you would let me love you.

Yes, even you Pharisees. I wish you would let me love you. Why would you want to take the side of King Herod, or any other kings and would-be kings? they don’t love you.

Perhaps you just want to be on the side of power, the powerful ones. But when do they ever have your interests at heart? Why would you ever want to be like them?

Jerusalem is a hard city; the world is a hard place for prophets and for baby chicks. Like you. Like us.

Foxes like Herod, and sometimes even Pharisees, will see your weakness and prey on you. That’s how evil works. But I want to protect you like a mother hen protects her chicks. The chicks may not know enough to stay away from the foxes, but I will shelter them – if they will let me.

Just imagine Jesus saying all that to us.

“How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings.” More than anything, Jesus longs to gather us to himself. Maybe we could let him.

Maybe we could admit that we, too, have a strong desire for God, a desire that we have been looking to fill in all the wrong places. Maybe we could gather together, all us chicks, and just be in the joy of his presence.

Maybe we could do that.

May you let yourself be gathered and be transformed under his wing. And may you worship more mindfully, pray more fervently, serve more readily, live more lovingly, in his name.

PhotoCredit: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bantam_hens_and_chicks.jpg#/media/File:Bantam_hens_and_chicks.jpg

When You’re in the Wilderness

Deuteronomy 26:1-11    

Luke 4:1-13

In the early 1990’s a young man named Chris McCandless left his home and family and friends to travel the United States. He shed himself of all his money and most of his material possessions. He lost his car. He eventually found his way to the wilderness of Alaska. He lived there for a few months alone in an abandoned bus. He died there after apparently eating toxic plants. Chris McCandless set off with dreams of discovery in the wild. But he discovered the wilderness is harsh.

A few years later, a woman named Cheryl Strayed set off on a journey of self-discovery along the Pacific Crest Trail. She traveled alone, carrying only what she could fit in her backpack. She fared better than Chris did. She actually made out pretty well – aside from one or two encounters with unsavory characters, and a brush with the possibility of dying of thirst, Cheryl made out alright. But Cheryl, too, discovered the wilderness is harsh.

Now, you may already know that. You may feel no compelling need to set out and test the challenges of the wilderness for yourself. I don’t.

The people of Israel surely knew about the harshness of the wilderness. But they didn’t have a lot of choice in the decision. When it was time to leave Egypt, they had to go. Quickly. No time to let the bread rise, just throw everything in a wagon or on your back and go. I think they thought, as much as they had time to think, that it would be a quick jaunt through the wilderness to get to their final destination – the promised land.

Forty years later, still out in the wilderness, they’ve had plenty of time to think about it. One thing there is plenty of in the wilderness – time to think.

But in this passage of Deuteronomy they are finally reaching the end of their wilderness sojourn. And Moses, wanting to prepare them for the next stage of their journey, calls all the people together and he begins to speak. It is a very long speech, as he walks them back through the years. He reminds them of everything they have been through, of everything that God has done for them, of every gift that has been bestowed, every disaster that has been averted.

He gives them their salvation story. Moses is telling the people that when they come into the land that is their inheritance, they need to have their story down cold.

A wandering Aramean was my ancestor. This is how the story begins. They were a people without a home. This wandering soul went down to Egypt to make a home there, and he prospered. His people were fruitful and multiplied in this land – but this land was not theirs. It belonged to the Egyptians, who oppressed them, enslaved them, used them.

And, eventually, the people cried out to God, who heard their cry. The God of their ancestors reached down and, with a terrifying display of power, with signs and wonders, God brought them out of their oppression and into the land of promise – a land flowing with milk and honey.

That’s the story of their salvation. It’s important to know your salvation story, isn’t it? To remember how you were saved.

When you think of your salvation story, perhaps you think of the gospel.

It is a story that is full of God’s saving love in Jesus Christ with lots of little stories, lots of details, things that draw us into it. Because, for us, that’s what needs to happen. We need to feel ourselves a part of this story.

So we get parables, the stories Jesus told his audiences to get them engaged in his message. Stories within the story, each one like a seed that’s dropped on the soil of our lives – there’s a parable, right there – each one a hook we might catch, a tidbit we might nibble at. We get Jesus’ stories.

And we get to be a fly on the wall when Jesus is having conversations with disciples and would-be followers; we get to be students in his virtual classroom.

We get the signs and wonders, terrifying displays of power, Jesus transfigured to flash the presence of the almighty God through him.

And we get the climax of the story – the arrest, crucifixion, and third day. Resurrection. Because he died, we live. That’s the end of the story, isn’t it? It’s enough, isn’t it?

It’s not the end. And it’s not enough. We hear the stories, we tell the stories, we claim the stories. But we need to live the stories. And that means we need to have our own journey in the wilderness.

It was in the wilderness that Israel became prepared to take possession of the land and live there as free people. They had to spend some time there. It was in the wilderness that Jesus became prepared to take on the fullness of his identity and begin his ministry. He had to spend some time there. The wilderness is the place where we become who we are.

You may choose to seek out your own wilderness experience, like hiking the Pacific Crest Trail or hitchhiking to Alaska or biking across the continent. But, in fact, you probably don’t have to. Our lives have plenty of wilderness experience in them already.

What matters is that we make them a part of our story.

This season of Lent, I want to encourage you to practice telling your own story – your salvation story. Tell of the times you have been in the wilderness and the ways God has come to your salvation.

The times you though your marriage was finished and you didn’t know how you would go on.

The times you had to move to a strange new place and felt utterly alone.

The times you sat with a loved one in the hospital and knew you were saying goodbye. Tell of the critical points, your cries – whether silent or aloud – and how God heard you and answered you. And how God led you into a land of promise.

The truth is that, no matter how charmed, our lives all spend some time in the wilderness. No matter how capable you are, there are times when you are lost. No matter how confident you are, there are times when you are frightened. No matter how faithful you are, there are times when you just don’t know if God is there. There are moments, stretches of wilderness in every life. They are terrible.

But these terrible wilderness stretches are some of the most important chapters of our salvation stories.

Because if we don’t know how we have been lost, we don’t know how we have been found.

If we don’t know all the ways we have failed, we don’t really know just how much we have been forgiven.

If we don’t feel ourselves dying in some way, we don’t know how much life Jesus is offering us.

When you are in the wilderness, you might know. The wilderness has surprising gifts.

May you find the wilderness this season of Lent. May you be present in it. And may God find you there.

One Thing

Exodus 34:29-35

2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2

We sometimes talk about “church business.” Which you might think is an oxymoron. I once heard a Presbyterian pastor describe the way we handle our business in church.  

This pastor said, “This is how we do church meetings.  We sit down at the meeting table and we say, ‘Good Evening, God. Welcome to our business meeting. We are so glad to have you here. Would you be so kind as to bless this gathering?’  There is an opening prayer…perhaps a brief devotion on a passage of scripture…then everyone says, ‘Amen.’  Then we say, ‘God, thank you so much for your assistance.  I am afraid we have to ask you to leave now because we have some important business to attend to, business that, frankly, we don’t think you would be interested in and most likely you don’t have anything to offer in this regard. So thanks again, and let me show you the door.  Oh, and God – if you would be so kind as to stay close by, in case we need you later to bless our work.’”

I think there is a lot of truth to that.  We act as though God only has certain interests and as if God doesn’t have something to say to every part of our lives.  We sort of compartmentalize – separating spiritual from practical.

Maybe we do it because it is easier to sort our lives out this way.  I am sure it is easier to manage certain things if we keep God separate from them – if we put up the veil, so to speak.

Sometimes we put a veil between ourselves and God, thinking God doesn’t really care about certain aspects of our lives, as though God has limited interests or, worse yet, a limited skill set.  When we put up the veil, we might think we are doing it to spare God the trouble. But let’s be honest; we are really only doing it to spare ourselves.

The story about Moses and the Israelites in the wilderness is a fantastic story full of strange and extraordinary things.  This episode about Moses’ glowing face behind the veil is not the strangest one, but it is close.

Moses would travel up to the top of the mountain to converse with God – far away from everyone else.  Moses was the only one given the privilege of seeing God. In another part of the story, we are told that God knows that Moses, although an exceptional human being, would not be able to stand looking at the face of God, because he is still a human being. No one could see the face of God and live, we are told. Arrangements were made to shield Moses from God’s face and only look upon the Lord indirectly – through a fog or in the periphery.  Chapter 33 tells us that Moses was only allowed to look on the backside of God – for his own safety, of course.

But even that indirect exposure was enough to change Moses’ appearance.  When he came down from the mountain he was shining.  Some have suggested that it might be a bad sunburn from all that time spent up in the high altitude.  Indeed, he might have been sunburnt; that’s entirely possible – but it’s not all there is going on. We are to understand that, somehow, there is something unearthly going on.  In some inexplicable way, when Moses came down from the mountain he was different. Radiant.  Whatever it was, it made the Israelites extremely uncomfortable. They were unable to hear his words because they were afraid.  

So Moses figured out that the best thing to do was to veil his face from the people. The story tells us that he would go back and forth, between God and the people, taking the veil off before God and putting it back on before the people. 

This story about the veil Moses wore is a way of telling us about the power of God’s presence.  It is a way of telling us that Moses was somehow different after he has spent time with God.  The Exodus saga has many ways of letting us know that the experience of the presence of God is absolutely unlike anything else in the world.  

There is the pillar of fire that leads the people out of Egypt by night, and the pillar of cloud that leads them by day.  Once they reached Mount Sinai, the fire and cloud had other functions.  Fire and smoke covered the mountain and the mountain shook.  The cloud would descend from the mountaintop when the Lord was summoning Moses.  

Strange stuff.  Modern minds search for ways to explain it all with science. This is certainly true that much of it can be and has been explained by science.  But it is not the point.  Pre-modern minds used whatever language and images they could find to describe something that defies words.  What was true then and is still true today is that the presence of God is awesome and strange, wonderful and frightening. 

And here’s the news I want to share with you: this awesome, strange, wonderful, and frighteningly present God wants to be a part of every aspect of our lives. Now, if that isn’t scary, I don’t know what is.

The apostle Paul picks up this image of the veil in his letter to the Corinthian church and uses it to try to explain the way God expects to have an intimate relationship with us, to know us fully and be known by us.  We are invited to allow God into our lives, every aspect of our lives, and thus be transformed by the encounter just as Moses was transformed. We are not to be spared this experience.

Why is that? Are we somehow different from the people of Israel, that we don’t need the veil to protect us? Not at all. Paul says through Christ the veil is lifted and we are able to see God more fully than ever before.  Like Moses in the company of the Lord, we may stand in the presence of Christ with unveiled faces, being transformed by this encounter.  This is the work of the Spirit.

The Spirit that Jesus promised to his followers – to us; the Spirit that would guide us and allow us to continue to feel his presence; the Spirit that would gift us in ways that would enable us to do the work of his kingdom. This is the Spirit that is essential in our lives. To grow in the Spirit, to grow spiritually, this is our calling.

And so these are the words your session chose to begin our statement of purpose: We are a Christian community striving to grow spiritually. 

There are many ways to do this. It involves the work of our bodies, our minds, and our hearts. The purpose statement goes on to say a bit about how we express this spirituality outwardly – by caring and sharing with one another, with all of God’s children; and by opening our arms and our hearts to any and all who walk through our doors. But this growth also requires some inward work. 

I think the season of Lent, which begins this week, is the ideal time to focus on this inward work. It begins on Ash Wednesday, when we have a full encounter with our sin and mortality. We are then invited into a six-week period of contemplation and spiritual discipline as we prepare ourselves to remove the veil.

To remove the veil and look upon the glory of the Lord – and this is still indirectly; as Paul says, it is like looking at a reflection in a mirror – and be transformed by this glory.

Every one of us needs to do some of this inward work if we are to grow in the Spirit. Some find it easier than others do; some people seem to naturally gravitate toward the inward work. Others don’t. But everyone needs to do some of it. 

In this approaching season of Lent, I encourage you to take some steps in this direction. Take up a discipline of daily devotions – we have some Lenten Devotional books you may use for this purpose. Consider taking on a Lenten fast of some kind – giving up something that you will miss. This kind of practice is not just for the sake of suffering, which many people consider useless. But in giving something up, it somehow creates an opening whereby you may draw closer to God.

There are other possibilities as well. Just try taking up some kind of practice that makes you feel closer to God – it could be writing a note of gratitude to someone every day or doing some charitable act that challenges you to be more compassionate. The possibilities are endless; you find the one thing that is right for you.

The inward work that we do will help us grow spiritually. And as we grow spiritually, we will see the outward benefits. We will grow further in our ability to care for one another, share with one another. And this love and generosity of spirit that blossoms will show itself when we open our hearts and minds to any and all who approach us – needing to see God.

In this season of Lent, may you take the inward journey. May you find and commit to one thing that will help you grow in the Spirit. And may the Spirit shine through us with God’s unending love.

Photo: Labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral

To Be Blessed

Jeremiah 17:5-10        

Luke 6:17-26      

Rachel Naomi Remen is a doctor – she was, perhaps, genetically disposed to be a doctor. She comes from a family tree full of doctors and nurses. But in addition to all the medical persons in her orbit there was, she says, one mystic – her grandfather the rabbi. 

Her grandfather taught her about blessing. For her fourth birthday, her grandfather gave her a story. He said, Rachel, this is the story of the birthday of the world. In the beginning there was only holy darkness, the Ein Sof, the source of life. Then, in the course of history, at a moment in time, this world, the world of things, emerged from the heart of the holy darkness as a great ray of light. But then there was an accident, and the vessels containing the light of the world, the wholeness of the world, broke. And the wholeness in the world, the light of the world, was scattered into thousands of fragments of light. And they fell into all events and all people, where they remain deeply hidden until this very day.[1]

Naomi received this story as a birthday gift from her grandfather – it is a story about blessing. What blessing it is to have this fragment of light in you, this divine light of the world that God created, that shattered into countless shards and fragments and found its way into each human being, each event of our lives. The idea that there is a piece of this light in everybody and everything is an extraordinarily beautiful idea.

We are, indeed, blessed.

But then, you might notice, there is something about the story that stirs a tiny bit of discomfort in you, as well. It is this: the fragments of light that exist in each one of us and everything in life are only there because the world broke.

It broke – exploded, actually – into thousands and thousands of pieces; like a glass that falls to the ground and shatters and scatters so completely that you know right away that you will never put it together again. The wholeness that was there a minute ago is gone forever. It’s all broken. And in just this way the world was broken.

That is not the part we usually think of when we think of what it is to be blessed.

Most of the time when people speak of blessing we really are talking about good fortune. It’s what Christians tend to say instead of saying, “I’m lucky.” We say, “I’m blessed.” And we are not very different from the people who lived in the ancient world. They, too, tended to view blessing as fortune, as riches. Job was blessed when he had a sturdy home, a large family, good livestock and crops, and his health. He was cursed when all that was taken away, according to the story of Job in the Old Testament. There is no confusion in this story about the difference between blessing and curse.

Which is why it had to seem strange when Jesus came down and stood on a level with all his followers and spoke about blessing in this way:

Blessed are you who are poor. Blessed are you who are hungry. Blessed are you who weep. Job would not have agreed, I think.

Perhaps, if we are charitable, we might hear his words of blessing as compassionate, gentle words of encouragement to people who are struggling through hardships. It is likely that most or all the people Jesus was with were poor. They knew what it was to be hungry, they were familiar with sadness and loss and pain. We might hear Jesus’ words to them as sort of a consolation prize, and nothing more than that – if only he didn’t go on to talk about woes.

Woe to you who are rich. Woe to you who are full. Woe to you who are laughing.

Tell the truth: where would you rather be – among the blessed poor or the woeful rich? Would you rather be starving and crying or full and laughing? It had to have sounded puzzling, if not plain messed up, to hear Jesus speak these words. He turned everything upside down.

It’s a difficult concept to wrap our heads around, even for mature Christians who have some understanding of the nuances of blessing. The more life we have lived, the more we understand that disappointments and a certain amount of suffering is inevitable. We learn that delayed gratification is often better than instant gratification. We might even learn that our moments of suffering bring their own surprising rewards, such as cultivating gratitude or a new appreciation for what is really important and what is not. People develop a healthy tolerance for pain – not pain for its own sake, but for the sake of what it teaches us. Still, these words of blessing and woe suggest that it might be wrong to celebrate or be thankful for the good things in life. And that does not seem right.

There are occasions when the scriptures suggest that God plays favorites. Parents are not supposed to have favorites, but we see hints that God might favor the poorest and the weakest of God’s children. We see it in Mary’s song, when she praises God for bringing down the rich and lifting up the poor. And we see it again here when Jesus blesses the downtrodden and pokes at the well-off. In Catholic theology it is called God’s preferential option for the poor.

It doesn’t quite mean that God likes the poor better than the rich. It doesn’t really mean that God plays favorites in the way we understand that term. It simply means God recognizes that some of us need more care than others, and wants to give that care. It just means that God treats us according to our needs and expects from us according to our ability.

It means that when we are in need we are more able to receive what God wants to give – that is key. 

Knowing our own need is crucial in our relationship with God. At the same time, I realize, this is counter to most everything the world teaches us about what is good. We want to feel strong, self-reliant, invulnerable. There is no comfort in feeling need, and yet it is the key that opens us to a relationship with God.

Actually, recognizing our own vulnerability and weakness is a matter of honesty about the human condition in general. It is the beginning of understanding what it is to be human. And it is a piece of the stories of our faith – the stories of how we came to be as we are. From the fruit Eve plucked from the tree of knowledge to that tiny shard of light in Rachel’s grandfather’s story, that pierced through us, giving us ability to see our brokenness, our weakness, our need.

The story that Rachel Naomi Remen’s grandfather gave her about the birthday of the world has more to it. This is the rest of the story: 

Rachel’s grandfather told her the human race was created as a response to this accident of the world breaking apart. We are here because we have the capacity to find the hidden light in all events and all people; to lift it up and make it visible once again and, thereby, to restore the world to wholeness. It happens at a personal level. We do this work step by step, bit by bit. We heal this broken world one heart at a time. This task is called tikkun olamin Hebrew, “restoring the world.”

It's a hopeful story, built on a realistic foundation, as all true hope must be. The world is broken, this we know. All you have to do is open your eyes to see this. But this is a story about what we do with the brokenness.

Dr. Remen would say that we should pay attention to the ways we deal with our own brokenness. Our personal shortcomings, losses, wounds are actually the way we are connected to the rest of the world. These are things we all share. And if we try to pretend that we are not broken we are holding ourselves apart. When we try to protect ourselves from hurt, we distance ourselves from life.

The blessing that Jesus pronounces in this passage of the gospel contain a recognition that it is in our connectedness to one another and all of life that we find blessing. God has made us to be in relationship with God and with all of God’s creation. But if we are too concerned about our own brokenness showing, we risk letting pride put a wall around us. If we are too concerned about the material stuff of life, we allow greed to put a wall around us. If we are too concerned about being self-sufficient, we allow that very self-sufficiency to become a wall around us.

Judaism has a tradition of offering a blessing for everything that happens. Because everything comes from the hand of God, whether it be welcome or not, whether it has the appearance of blessing or woe, comfort or pain. To say a blessing in a time of celebration or a time of grief is to acknowledge that God is present in everything and to affirm your trust in the power and goodness of God. To see blessing in everything is to break down the walls of pride or greed or self-sufficiency that separate us from God and God’s love. To be blessed is to know the essential connection we all have with one another and with our creator God.

And so we all, each one of us, do our small part in repairing the brokenness of the world. Each small act of kindness, each gift of love, each time we express compassion instead of judgment, each time we extend grace and forgiveness we do a part of the work of repairing the world, tikkun olam. And each time, we become both blessing and blessed.

---

[1]As told to Krista Tippett in an interview aired on the program On Being, 8.11.05

Taking the Call

Isaiah 6:1-13            

Luke 5:1-11  

There’s a funny film called Galaxy Quest about some actors who used to star together in a science fiction TV show. The basis for the show was this seemingly endless journey through the galaxy. The actors played the members of the crew. The show was eventually cancelled, but not forgotten, and the cast members made a profitable living attending Galaxy Quest conventions. They would dress up as their characters and, for the benefit of fans, relive the glory days, sign autographs, do promotional stunts, and such.

One day they are approached at one of these events by a group of people who call themselves Thermians. They are dressed strangely, but that’s not unusual for Galaxy Quest fans. They ask the cast members for help, which the cast assumes to mean that they want to hire them for some event. No problem. They agree to meet them the next day. But when they do, they discover that these Thermians are not just really intense fans – they are real aliens. From another planet. They have a real spaceship and they are fighting real enemies. 

The Thermians have picked up episodes by satellite of the old TV show, which they assume are historical documentaries – they don’t know from scripted TV shows. The Thermians have seen the Galaxy Quest cast foil enemy after enemy, and they have complete confidence that they can help them against their enemies. 

The members of the cast, of course, think their confidence is misplaced. Why in the world would anyone think these actors could actually fight a galactic battle? Yet, somehow, that’s what is asked of them. So, you know what? they do it.

It’s a funny story about being called to something that you would never in a million years think you were equipped to do. They could play at it, they were good at that; they did it week after week. But when confronted with an authentic call to serve, the real thing, they were overwhelmed, brought to their knees, by their own inadequacy.

Much like Isaiah, when the Seraphim appeared before him with their six wings, flying about and singing, “holy, holy, holy.” The Lord also was there, on his throne; the hem of his robe filled the temple, so enormous did he appear. The room shook, the house filled with smoke. And Isaiah was terrified.

“Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips.” He knew himself to be unworthy of whatever would be asked of him. This is the story of the call of the prophet Isaiah, a young man who wasn’t expecting to be asked anything extraordinary that day, but found himself called to be the prophet to Judah in a time of dire circumstances. 

Perhaps Isaiah had a moment, as he stood in the magnificent temple, surrounded by flying, screaming, inhuman creatures, of thinking this was a case of mistaken identity. Perhaps the thought crossed his mind that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Surely, these Seraphim and the Lord almighty were expecting someone else. Not Isaiah.

Call stories often have that quality. In Luke’s gospel, we see the same reaction from Peter as Jesus approaches him in his boat. He is tired. He has just come in after a long and fruitless night of fishing when he is approached by Jesus. No Seraphim or smoke, no throne of God in the picture. Just this strange man telling him he should push out into the deep again. For some reason Peter doesn’t tell him to take a hike. Weary as he is, he does as he is asked. 

When they are out in deep water, Jesus tells Peter to cast his nets. Again, Peter feels this is a waste of time and he says so. But, strangely, he does just as he has been asked to do. 

No winged creatures, no heavenly song – just nets full to bursting; just a catch so big it sinks the boats. In its own way, this very earthy event is otherworldly. Who has ever seen such a thing? And why has Peter, this poor fisherman, been chosen for it?

Why does God call the people God calls? Why does God choose the ones God chooses? Not because they are worthy.

“Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” This is what Peter says in response to the wonderful catch of fish. Here is a catch valuable enough that he wouldn’t have to work for the rest of the month, at least, but what he feels is neither joy nor gratitude. What he feels is fear. And an acute awareness of his own unworthiness.

How is it possible that he, Peter, could be in the company of such greatness? Not possible! Go away from me, he says. 

It makes me wonder about all the call stories we have in the scriptures – Abraham, Moses, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Peter, Paul, and so on. I wonder if it’s possible that for every one of these there are a dozen more stories in which some poor guy is called and he runs away terrified. I wonder of there were ten other guys who saw the Seraphim with their two wings covering their faces, two wings covering their feet, then covered their ears with their hands and shouted, “Uh-uh, not me. I can’t hear you!”

What do you think you would do?

You wouldn’t be alone if you felt unworthy of being called by God. You would be in the company of saints and prophets, because it actually takes wisdom to recognize your own unworthiness. A fellow preacher once told me she doesn’t worry about the people who feel unworthy of the call; but she does worry about the ones who feel worthy. Because who on earth is worthy of being called to God’s work?

That is the good news for today. You are not worthy. You are no more worthy than Isaiah was worthy or Peter was worthy. Yet you are chosen, just as they were chosen. 

This brings us to the obvious question – chosen for what? What were you and I chosen to do? Let’s take another look at the story of Peter.

When Jesus called Peter, his reaction was this: what you are asking me to do is unreasonable. What you are asking me to do is unnecessary. It is tiresome, it is futile. But he did it anyway.

When Peter did as Jesus asked him to do, what happened was this: his nets overflowed. Where Peter assumed nothing good would happen because nothing good had happened before, he discovered that when he followed the command of the Lord, good things beyond his imagination would happen.

This is what it is to be the church. We are nothing more than ordinary people who have just happened to stumble into the presence of the holy – not by our own wits; we did not find God, God found us. We have been confronted with our own unworthiness, which may not be fun, but is good for the soul. We have been called to serve God in serving the world God loves, and when we do as we have been called to do, we find that good things can happen beyond our imaginations.

The scriptures show us time and again that the glorious things of life do not come from human initiative, but they come from the imagination of God, who calls, forgives, blesses and equips us to be the painters of God’s glorious vision.

So, I urge you, take the call. Balk, if you must, but take the call. Know your own unworthiness, but stick around for the forgiveness which will come as surely as day follows night. Trust in the power of God to make glorious things happen through us, you and I, the church of Jesus Christ – because, quite simply, this is what it is to be the church.