Advent Two: While We Wait

Romans 12: 9-18

Luke 1: 5-17      

If you know one thing about Advent, you know it is a season of waiting. And waiting can be so hard. Last week we lit the Advent wreath in our home for the first time this year. Lena looked at all the candles and asked, “How many?” I said, “Just one.” And later she asked, “And tomorrow we get to light two?” and I said, “No. We wait a week before we light two candles.” And Lena made a little squeaky sound of angst. Because this is just one more thing she is required to wait for this season, and a week may as well be 10 years in her mind.

On this second Sunday of Advent, we still wait. And on this day of our journey toward Bethlehem we are in Jerusalem. It is one of the oldest cities in the world, with a population 60 percent Jewish and 40 percent Palestinian, home to the three largest monotheistic faiths – Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Think about that for a moment.

No one knows how old Jerusalem is, but there are references to it as far back as the time of Abraham and Sarah. In Genesis, Abraham has an encounter with Melchizedek, the priest of Salem – Salem was an early settlement of Jerusalem. Salem and Shalom share the same root word. Hence, Jerusalem is sometimes called the City of Peace.

It wasn’t until the time of David that the Jews controlled the city of Jerusalem. And it was David’s son, Solomon who built the first temple there. For many centuries, the temple was central to Israel’s relationship with God. It was a religion built on a system of sacrifices, which was common among the religions of the ancient world, and all sacrifices took place in the temple.

The temple was built as a series of layers, from the outermost, secular layer to the innermost, holy of holies where the ark of the covenant was kept. Just outside the holy of holies was another space called the holy place, which contained three things. There was the bread of presence, which was much like our communion bread, symbolizing God’s provision and desire to be present with God’s people. Opposite the bread was a menorah, with seven candles that were always burning, as a reminder that God was always with them. And in between was the altar of incense. A priest was required to enter the holy place daily to take care of these things.

The priests of Israel were the descendants of Aaron, the brother of Moses, and they were the only ones permitted to enter the holy place. Every able-bodied male descendant of Aaron was a member of the priestly order. It is estimated that there were twenty thousand priests in Israel in days of Zechariah, who rotated responsibility for these duties at the temple.

With so many priests, we can assume that this was a once in a lifetime experience for Zechariah. Most likely, he had never entered the holy place, and most likely he would never again.

The duties were simple and well-understood. They did not vary from week to week and so, even though Zechariah had never had this duty before he certainly understood what he needed to do and was quite capable of doing it. He would have entered the holy place at the designated time, bringing in the fresh loaves of bread. He would refill the candles in the menorah, and he would burn incense at the altar, while offering up the prayers of the people. While he was inside praying over the incense, the whole assembly of the people were outside praying along with him.

But something very unusual happened when Zechariah entered the holy place that day. The angel of the Lord showed up. And it knocked the poor man over in fear.

From one perspective, this event should not have been shocking. If we understand that this is God’s dwelling place, shouldn’t we expect God to, at least some of the time, be home when we come visit? Mightn’t we expect the Lord to show up in some way? Perhaps, but Zechariah was not expecting this. And I dare say none of us would expect it either.

I’m guessing you did not come in here today expecting God to show up. To change the world. To come bearing gifts of unlikely things – even impossible things. Yet, it is what we are asked to hope for…wait for.

Among the many things all of Israel hoped for, Zechariah and Elizabeth held a special hope of their own – for a child. But they grew old while they were waiting, and gradually they stopped hoping.

Just as Abraham and Sarah had hoped for, waited for a child hundreds of years before. But they grew old while they were waiting, and gradually stopped hoping.

Jerusalem, the City of Peace, has waited for peace to come – hoping…praying…waiting. But perhaps they, too, have gradually stopped hoping.

Have you ever stopped waiting for something that you longed for? Stopped expecting something good?

As Zechariah knelt before the altar of incense, the angel Gabriel appeared to him, to tell him that God had not forgotten or forsaken him. God had heard the prayers of Zechariah and Elizabeth – even if they had long abandoned those prayers. God would give them a child.

At this point Zechariah was not inclined to believe it. It had been too long. He and Elizabeth had closed that chapter. They knew enough about life to know this: It was not humanly possible for these two old folks to have a baby.

But, in the place where it is not humanly possible – that is precisely where God steps in. One of the hardest things about faith is waiting for that time when God will step in.

Last Sunday we were in Rome, which was, for Israel and for us, a place where we could see the vast gulf between what exists in the world and what we are longing for – real peace, real justice, real freedom. Rome helps us to see, by its absence, what we are longing for.

But these things we long for turn out to be beyond our human capacity to achieve, a hard truth for us to accept. No matter how hard we try, we cannot give ourselves these gifts. What we long for, what we hope for, these are the things we must wait for.

Jerusalem is the place to go to wait – Never knowing how long we will be waiting – Never being quite sure what one does while waiting.

Something I have observed is that good church people have a hard time just waiting. If we have grown up in church, then we have been taught our whole life long what good church people do. We want more than anything to be doers of the word, not just hearers. And we are not wrong. We know with all that is in us that it is God’s desire for us to work for greater love in this world – for peace, for justice, for freedom for all God’s children.

We are made in God’s image, made to be partners in God’s dance of creation. This means we cannot do the work on our own, as we want, how we want, when we want. This partnership means we wait on the Lord. And as hard as that can be, we must never stop waiting on the Lord. We mustn’t grow weary and settle for something less, to look at the work of our own hands and say, “Well, that’ll have to do.” and forget what it was we were waiting for, hoping for, as Zechariah might have done.

Zechariah was literally struck mute by Gabriel, I guess for the insult of doubting the angel’s words. Maybe Zechariah was a guy who loved the sound of his voice, loved explaining stuff to everyone all day long, and Gabriel thought he’d heard enough from Zechariah. Maybe it was Gabriel’s gift to Elizabeth; maybe Elizabeth was grateful to have nine months of tranquility. I don’t know if any of this is true, but here is what I think: A time of forced silence for Zechariah was a good time for him to wait. To reflect on the words of the angel. To listen. To remember all that he had hoped for.

When Zechariah got his voice back – on the day of his son John’s circumcision – he opened his mouth and sang. The song of Zechariah is in the first chapter of Luke’s gospel, and it is a part of my morning prayers every day:

Blessed are you, Lord, the God of Israel;
You have come to your people and set them free.

You have raised up for us a mighty Savior,
born of the house of your servant David.

Through your holy prophets, you promised of old to save us from our enemies,
from the hands of all who hate us,

To show mercy to our forebears, and to remember your holy covenant.

This was the oath you swore to our father Abraham:
to set us free from the hands of our enemies,

Free to worship you without fear,
holy and righteous before you, all the days of our life.

And you, child, shall be called the prophet of the Most High,
for you will go before the Lord to prepare the way,

To give God’s people knowledge of salvation by the forgiveness of their sins.

In the tender compassion of our God the dawn from on high shall break upon us,

To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death,
and to guide our feet into the way of peace.

We are not different from Zechariah. Most of us could use a time of silence to listen, to wait. To remember what it is we hope for.

In this season we wait. We wait for God to do unlikely things – even impossible things. And so, people of faith, let us continue showing up, offering our prayers, listening, hoping, waiting.

Let us never forget what we are waiting for. 

NOTE: I am indebted to Rob Fuquay, whose book, On the Way to Bethlehem, has guided my thinking through this journey.

Picture: stock.adobe.com

Advent One: Longing and Hope

 

Romans 8: 18-25

Luke 2: 1-3

Of all the journeys I have taken in life, the one that stands out the most in my memory is the trip I took to Cuba with my seminary classmates. One reason it stands out was its general weirdness. First of all seminarians are weird. A bunch of people from different walks of life who all come together because they are a rare breed of individual who has heard and then responded to a call from God. All of us feeling kind of touchy and vulnerable because we don’t know where we are going physically, spiritually, intellectually. And then we are sent on this trip to a place that takes us out of whatever is left of our comfort zone. For three weeks. With zero calls or texts home.

So people tended to act strangely at times. One of my travel companions turned to me at one particularly crazy moment and said, “People on a trip? They’s a journey.”

The reality is, so much of the spiritual life for all of us is a journey. It is all about moving toward something … someplace … that we are longing for.

The special season of Advent is the most journey-like time of the year. We are moving toward Christmas, counting down the days – and if you ever need a reminder of how many days are left until Christmas I recommend asking a child. Children keep close tabs on matters of such importance.

So while we are moving toward Christmas, which is pretty normal, we are also in a weird way moving toward something that happened 2,000 years ago – the birth of Christ. Which makes Advent sort of a trippy journey.

But we are also moving toward something much bigger on the cosmic scale – Jesus’ return. And our belief that when he returns, he brings the reign of God with him in all its fullness. Something that we hear Jesus describe with longing in our hearts. Advent takes place on all these levels.

Along with all that, this year we are considering the actual physical journey of Mary and Joseph, as they traveled toward the moment, the place, where Jesus was born. This year we are thinking about the locations that were important centers of activity and influence in their lives. And today we begin the journey in Rome.

Even though I am quite certain that neither Mary nor Joseph ever set foot in Rome. It was nowhere near Nazareth, where they lived. Nowhere near Bethlehem, Joseph’s ancestral home. And even with the famous network of roads that the Roman Empire had constructed, it still would have taken them a good 20 days to get to Rome. The players in this story have never been anywhere near Rome. But wherever they were, Rome was a place that was very much present.

Rome had begun their rule in Israel in the year 63 BC. They went there by force, which was the way Rome always took control. The Roman army would come in and stay. They would install local kings, for the sake of making it appear to be something like a partnership. But make no mistake, Rome was in charge.

The Pax Romana began under the rule of Caesar Augustus. And it was a good thing for Roman citizens. It gave them relative peace and prosperity. But the people of the occupied lands did not have the benefit of Roman citizenship, and they had a quite different experience of the Pax Romana.

Rome was uninterested in the welfare of these people. They allowed the local rulers a free hand, to be just as brutal as they pleased. Herod was among the worst. They cared nothing about Jewish cultural and religious values and made demands of the Jews which forced them to violate the laws of God. Rome cared nothing about the laws of God – only the laws of Rome.

For Israel, the Pax Romana meant that any act that was considered a violation of Roman law was punishable by death. They favored death on a cross in a very public place, for it was believed to be a strong deterrent. This was how Rome kept peace.

The people of Israel longed for something different. They longed for real freedom. They longed for real peace. They longed for real justice.

All these longings were in the air at the time Caesar Augustus decreed that a census would take place, and everyone must go to the right place to be registered. A census usually meant taxes. Taxes often meant that war was coming.

All these longings were in the air when the angel Gabriel visited Mary, who was engaged to be married to Joseph. The angel told Mary, you will bear a son who will be great; he will be called the Son of the Most High. He will reign over the house of Jacob forever, and of his kingdom there will be no end.

All these longings were in the air as Joseph and Mary journeyed to Bethlehem.

Rob Fuquay, a United Methodist Pastor, shared a story in his book called On the Way to Bethlehem, about a time he journeyed to Bethlehem. He wanted to be there on Christmas Eve, to have the experience on that night of being in the place where it all happened.

When he arrived in the city he was shocked and disappointed. The area was crowded with soldiers carrying machine guns. There was a barrier surrounding Nativity Square and visitors had to go through an invasive security check to get inside. The tension in the air was thick.

When he finally got past the barrier there was more surprise. You know the song, “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie” but here there was no stillness. Rob described it as being more like Mardi Gras than “silent night, holy night.” Loud, boisterous, tense. A scuffle broke out between two young Palestinians. Immediately, he said, Israeli soldiers surrounded them and beat them with the butts of their rifles until the two youths were motionless on the ground. The soldiers dragged them away, leaving a trail of blood.

Rob wondered if this was anything like what Joseph and Mary encountered. And the conclusion he came to was, probably yes.

Because 2,000 years ago when the Emperor of Rome decreed that there should be a census, which demanded that everyone make their way to their ancestral home, there surely would have been chaos. If all these frightened and weary people, who lived under the terror of the empire, were suddenly forced to uproot and take long and dangerous journeys just so the emperor could raise their taxes, there would have been bad feelings. O little town of Bethlehem was suddenly overcrowded with irritable people and armed soldiers.

The journey that brought all these elements together for the birth of the Messiah, everything precariously balanced on the knife edge that was called Pax Romana. The events that set the stage for something that would forever change the world. A moment in time that is forever and always the focus of a spiritual journey for millions of people. It all began with the decision of a politician in Rome.

God does work in mysterious ways.

But I think what this points to is the reality that even while we are spiritual beings, members of the household of God, we exist in a world where there is always some kind of Rome. Where there are always forces of brutality and greed and callous disinterest in how Rome’s decisions affect others. Sometimes Rome might even be us.

Yet, somehow, God works through all of it.

And so we are on this journey of faith. We begin in Rome, the seat of worldly power. We long for so much more, just as Israel did, just as humans always have done. As the Apostle Paul wrote, we groan inwardly, in our longing, while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies.

In longing and in hope, we journey on.

NOTE: I am indebted to Rob Fuquay, whose book, On the Way to Bethlehem, has guided my thinking through this journey.

Picture: stock.adobe.com

From Empty to Full, Part 2: The Lord Makes a Way

 

Ruth 3:1-5; 4:13-17

There is a little story that I tell sometimes on Christmas Eve. A woman lost her most valuable possession: a diamond ring. So upset, she called her sister, who came over right away to help her look for it. They got down on their hands and knees and began searching, inch by inch over the carpet in the living room. When her husband got home he saw the two women crawling around on the living room floor, intently looking at the carpet, serious as could be. He asked what they were doing. His wife said, “I lost my diamond ring and we’re looking for it.”

Well, he got right down on the floor with them to help in the search. The three of them were now crawling on the floor, inch by inch, searching for the lost ring. After what seemed like hours of fruitless searching the man looked at his wife and said, “Are you sure you lost it in here?” and she said, “No! Not at all. I probably lost it in the room across the hall.” He said, “So why aren’t we looking in that room?” and she answered, “The light is a lot better in here.”

This is one of the less appealing qualities of being human. We might be the most advanced of all God’s creatures, but when it comes to searching for what we need to fill us up, to make us complete, we are the worst. We seem to always look in the wrong places. And very often, for the wrong things.

Last week I said that the story of Ruth is a story of loss, of emptiness and longing to be full. Ruth, Orpah, and Naomi lost the men in their lives, thereby losing their social status and their economic security. In some ways they have lost their identity, their sense of who they are. Naomi even changed her name because she could no longer see herself as Naomi, which means pleasant.

Naomi and her family, Elimelech, Chilion, and Mahlon, all came to Moab as refugees; driven out of their homeland by a crisis of famine. They worked to make a home for themselves in this strange land, the sons even marrying local girls, in some ways becoming part of the community. But then the loss of the three men erased everything that might have been gained. Naomi is still a refugee – even more vulnerable now than she was before.

And so she is in a position of needing to find a new way to survive. She knows that the most logical place for her to look is back in Bethlehem, the place from which she came and where the famine which drove her away is now in the past.

And Ruth decides to go with her. This is not necessarily the logical, sensible thing for her to do. Indeed, Naomi urged both her daughters-in-law to go back to their parents’ house, that new husbands might be found for them. Orpah did the logical, sensible thing. Ruth did not.

Ruth looked at Naomi. She saw a woman growing old with nothing and no one in the world. She saw a journey ahead of her filled with dangers and hardships. And she saw that, at the end of the road Naomi still would have no one. Naomi would still be a widow, if she made this journey alone.

Ruth considered these things when she made the decision to go with her.

It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t logical. It promised her no security and little hope of finding a future. But it was the caring thing to do, and so she went to Bethlehem with Naomi to seek a life.

Naomi and Ruth left Moab empty and journeyed to Bethlehem. For Ruth and Naomi, what they were is no longer. In Bethlehem they will discover what and who they will become.

The first thing Ruth did was to go out to find a place where she could glean. Gleaning was something she, as a widow and a stranger in the land, was entitled to do. When the workers go out to harvest the fields, they walk with their scythes and their baskets row by row, cutting the grain from the stalk. But they won’t get every last bit. Some small amount will be left on the stalk. Some small amount will fall to the earth, and the gleaner is permitted to gather what she can.

This is decreed by the law of Israel, in fact. In the book of Leviticus we read, “When you reap the harvest you shall not reap to the edges of your field or gather what falls to the ground. Leave it for the poor and the stranger” Everyone, even the poor and the stranger, has a right to eat.

Ruth found a field where the reapers were at work and she found a place behind them to glean.

It happened that Ruth found herself in the field of Boaz, a kinsman of Naomi. And Boaz was a kind and righteous man, who took notice of Ruth.

It is possible that Boaz noticed Ruth because she was pretty. It is possible that Boaz made it a habit to notice the people who worked in his fields because it was good business. Possibly, it was a combination of these things. But the story tells us that Boaz was kind to Ruth because he knew of Ruth’s great kindness toward Naomi. And so it goes.

He instructed his workers regarding Ruth, that the women should welcome her, and the men should leave her alone. He insisted that Ruth drink from the water that his men had drawn and eat from the bread and wine that had been prepared for the workers. And at the end of the day, Boaz made sure that Ruth went home with plenty of grain, that her gleaning shawl was full.

It was a good day of gleaning for Ruth, with the promise of more good days to come. But no one is going to get rich or fat off of gleaning. It is a means of survival, at best, hand to mouth. While the harvest season lasted, Ruth was out every day, gleaning behind the women in Boaz’ fields, bringing home food every evening for Naomi to prepare a meal for the two of them. And while Ruth was working, Naomi was thinking.

At the end of the season, Naomi told Ruth to wash and anoint herself with perfume, to put on her best clothes, then go down and see Boaz. “He will tell you what to do,” Naomi says to Ruth. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.

We don’t know exactly what happened on the threshing room floor, although we can imagine. We do know that when Boaz awoke and found Ruth beside him, she said to him, “You are next of kin.” The term is laden with meaning that Boaz understood perfectly. To be the next of kin meant having the right to redeem. To be the redeemer meant taking Ruth as his wife, taking responsibility for her and Naomi and their family property – property that Elimelech had left behind years ago during the famine. It needs to be a man who will redeem Naomi and Ruth and make them whole again, and Boaz is that man.

And so it came to be. There was still one more detail to work out, which you can read about at the beginning of Chapter 4 if you like. But once Boaz had that taken care of, he married Ruth. And Ruth bore a child, giving fullness of life back to Naomi. Naomi who was empty is once again full.

And so we have a happy ending. It is a wonder that things ended this way. At every turn of this story, things could have gone from bad to worse. Every move Ruth and Naomi made was a risk. Everything could have turned out differently.

This is also true: at every turn, Ruth had an option that might have been easier for her. She could have stayed in Moab. Once she was in Bethlehem, she could have chosen a young man for herself out there in the fields – apparently there was interest. As was clear from the beginning of this story, Ruth had options. But Naomi did not.

And Ruth, in her faithfulness, chose the way that would offer the best chance for Naomi as well as herself. Ruth married Boaz so that Naomi would also be cared for, and so that the line of Naomi and Elimelech would continue.

And just in case the reader doesn’t care all that much about the line of Elimelech and Naomi, we are told that Ruth’s son Obed became the father of Jesse, who became the father of David. King David.

Through the story of Ruth we see the hand of the Lord at work. We see these women crossing from risk to safety and eventually to fullness. And it all happens through Ruth, the Moabite woman.

It all comes down to something called hesed – a word that appears several times in this little story. Hesed is a Hebrew word that is often translated “lovingkindness.”  Most often it is used to describe the abundant goodness of God. But here in this story it is used to describe Ruth.

Ruth showed abundant kindness. She went beyond what anyone expected of her. She did the things that she could do for Naomi because she was the one who could do it.

And Orpah? We never hear of her again. Back in Moab, she made the self-interested choice. It was not necessarily a bad choice – it was the practical thing, the logical thing. But Ruth was different. Ruth did the faithful thing. The hesed thing.

From this little story of Ruth we see a human acting in the image of God. Ruth makes decisions based, not on what is in her interest, but on what is good and right. Ruth looks beyond herself, she sees the needs of another, and she does what she can.

But let us not close the book on Ruth and move on to the next thing. We can benefit from pausing for a while on this one small life. Hundreds of years before Jesus, we see Ruth living according to the teachings of Jesus, going beyond what anyone expected. We see a kindness, a goodness, a generosity that is Christlike.

This is the life we, the church, are called to live. It doesn’t always appeal to us. It doesn’t always seem to make sense to us, seem logical or practical to us. Yet, this kindness, this self-emptying love? This is what will give us fullness.

We have choices in life. Even when we feel like there are no choices, it turns out that there are. Just as Ruth made the choice for hesed, lovingkindness, we have that choice too. In a state that seemed utterly empty, Ruth took the choice that carried Naomi along with her and led them both to fullness. We always have that choice too.

So let us be mindful of this when we seek our fullness. Whatever feels like fullness to you – a big checking account balance, a hefty retirement account, luxurious vacations – whatever it is for you. We will never find fullness there. Seek the way of lovingkindness and you will be full.

Photo: ChurchArt.com 

From Empty to Full, Part 1: When There Is No Way

 

Ruth 1:1-18

Mark 12:38-44

Joan Chittister said life is made up of a series of defining moments. Some of the moments are shared experiences: the great depression, Pearl Harbor, 9/11 – these are a few of the big ones that come to mind. All of us experience them together and, not only do they contribute to the formation of who we are personally, they shape the culture we are all a part of.

But other experiences are personal: an illness you experienced, a conversation you had with someone, a marriage, a job, a child – things that become part of the story of who you are. And that is what it is – a story.

I think one of the defining features of being human is the search for meaning. It is important for our lives to have meaning, and so we look for it in our experiences, we make meaning out of the pieces of our lives. This is what we are doing when we tell our stories.

The book of Ruth in the Old Testament is such a story. It takes pieces from life experience, puts them together in a meaningful way, and tells something true. I don’t know that all the characters in Ruth really existed. I don’t know if the events actually happened just as they are written. What I do know is that the story of Ruth tells deep and meaningful truths about life, truths that connect with our own experiences of loss and hope, despair and fulfillment.

The story begins long, long ago – in the time when the judges ruled, a period of time early in Israel’s history. When the people settled in the land God had led them to, there was no king. There was, instead, a series of individuals anointed to serve as judge over the people on sort of an ad hoc basis. It was a time of erratic, inconsistent governance.

And during this time, there was a famine in the land. Famines, even today, are periods of great migration, because people who have no food need to go in search of food. If they live in places where the systems of government are not functioning well, they are on their own to find a way. It so happened that during this famine, a man of Bethlehem took his wife and two sons and migrated to the land of Moab – a foreign land – because in Bethlehem there was no way for them to make a way.

The man’s name was Elimelech and his wife was Naomi. Their two sons, Mahlon and Chilion married Moabite wives, Orpah and Ruth.

Some of us have been given names that have special meaning, but in the book of Ruth, the names of the characters we have just been introduced to are surprisingly blunt in their meaning. Elimelech literally means “My God is king,” and by this we know Elimelech was a righteous man. Naomi means “pleasant,” so I guess she was pleasant.

But their sons’ names are a bit disturbing. Mahlon means sickly and Chilion means frail. Imagine: I’d like you to meet my son, sickly, and my other son, frail. Obviously, we don’t expect much of them. You might as well name your child He gonna die soon.

And they did – die soon. As did the patriarch, Elimelech. And we are left with three widows.

In ancient Israel a woman whose husband died was not necessarily called a widow. It was only if she had no living sons to care for her. In ancient Israel, to be a widow was to be utterly and completely vulnerable. Naomi, Ruth, and Orpah were widows.

Now on her own, Naomi decided that it was time for her to go back to Bethlehem. She had heard that the famine was over, so she knew it made the most sense for her to make the difficult journey back to her homeland. She told her daughters-in-law what she intended to do, but that she had no expectation that they would come with her. Ruth’s and Orpah’s families were in Moab. The thing that made sense for them was to go back home to their parents’ houses and hopefully be remarried.

Here is where names are important again. The name Orpah actually means “the back of the neck.” And the name Ruth is an allusion to the word friendship.

So, after some initial protestation, Miss Back-of-the-neck turns her back on Naomi. But Friendship stays. Then Pleasant and Friendship make their way to Bethlehem. Only, when they get there Naomi tells the people, “Call me no longer Naomi; call me Mara, for the Lord has dealt bitterly with me.” Mara means bitter.

The story of Ruth is a story of loss, of finding oneself empty. The place where this family began was Bethlehem, which literally means “house of bread.” But the house of bread became empty of bread, and so the family was forced to emigrate. Moab is a place where there is food, but in every other way may feel empty to them. The two sons marry, but they have no children, and then all three of the men die, leaving the women in complete emptiness. Naomi even speaks of the emptiness of her womb, her inability to provide husbands for Orpah and Ruth.

These women were in a state of emptiness because the world they lived in left them this way. Just like the widow in the Gospel of Mark who gives her two small copper coins to the temple treasury. Naomi had nothing. The widow in Mark’s gospel had nothing. But they were not poor because they were lazy, or because they had made bad choices in life. They were poor because the system they lived in was designed to deprive them of any good choices. The system they lived in was designed to keep all the power in some hands and out of the hands of others.

And somehow, this widow Jesus observes was expected to give all she had so the ones in power don’t have to feel the pinch in any way. How does that even happen? Who decides this is a system that makes sense?

You might feel that the story of Ruth and Naomi bears some similarities to your own story. If there is a part of your story where you had nowhere to turn, no one who would help you unless you handed over your dignity; if there is a part of your story when you begged for someone to understand what you needed, but they all just smiled sadly and shook their heads; if there is anything like this in your story, then you know.

And even if you don’t, all you need to do is think about the men, women, and children who come through the doors of H.O.P.E. every Tuesday and Thursday. All those who step up to our kitchen door Tuesdays and Thursdays for a wholesome meal, because they are hungry.

Sometimes I think of that saying, “give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” And it frustrates me that so much of what we do as a church is handing out fish, one fish at a time, one day at a time. And I wish we could, instead, hand people the power to fish for themselves, the freedom to provide for themselves.

But there are so many obstacles all along that way. Sometimes the change that the system needs is bigger than people are willing to risk. A kind of change we can’t imagine.

The system that left Naomi empty felt perfectly normal to them. The system that left the widow in the temple destitute felt righteous and just. And I wonder what we feel is normal, is just, and still leaves people with no way to make a way.

At times like this I feel we are far from the kingdom of God.

I don’t know for sure what it will take to bring us closer to the kingdom of God, closer to the love of neighbor that Jesus teaches. Until then it will be necessary to keep handing out fish, every day. Until then, the Naomis of the world, the ones who don’t have any good options, will continue to struggle in a world that beats hard against them.

But perhaps there is a word of hope coming from Ruth, when she says to Naomi, where you go I will go.

I will go with you.

My prayer for us today is that –

until the day comes that this world looks like the kingdom of God, no matter how long that takes;

until the day when we can stop handing out sandwiches at our kitchen door and we can stop packing up bags of food for little children to take home for the weekend;

until the day when the Ruths and Naomis don’t have to walk that lonely road searching for a way when it feels like there is no way;

my prayer is that, every day until then, we make them the promise Ruth made: I will go with you. I will be there with you.

May it be so.

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Identity - Who We Are in Christ, Part 4: Citizens of Heaven

 

Mark12:28-34  

To what can I compare this scene in Mark 12?

I am remembering the experience I had about 20 years ago of being examined for ordination on the floor of presbytery. It is an experience one goes into with fear and trembling. Picture this.

As you, the examinee, stands in front of the gathering, they proceed to ask their questions:

Where do you stand on eschatology? Would you say you’re a premillennialist? Postmillennialist? Amillenialist?

Are you more a Zwinglian or a Calvinist on the matter of the eucharist? Or, heaven forbid, a Lutheran???

Do your views on God’s sovereignty and human free will conform more to a Reformed or an Arminian theology?

And then one person stands up and says, “Tell us something about God’s love.” This scribe who approaches Jesus in Mark 12 is that person.

This scribe knew the answer to his question before he asked Jesus, and he was appreciative of the answer Jesus gave. Love God and love your neighbor. This, he knew, is what it’s all about. And the truth of the matter is, they all knew that love is the most important thing. It’s just that it’s all too easy to forget the most important things.

As we finished Chapter 10 last week, I said we were right at the critical point in Jesus’ journey, where everything was about to change. They were about to enter Jerusalem, and now they are there.

And he has been assaulted with test questions, trip-you-up-and-haul-you-in-for-further-questioning questions. The authorities want to do their job and they think this is doing their job. But it seems like in their overwhelming concern for getting the details just right, they have lost sight of the “why” and even the “who.”

In the middle of all this, a certain scribe draws near to Jesus, and asks him a question that gets at the essence of everything. Among all God’s commandments, what is really the important thing? They actually have a conversation that really matters, just the two of them, while, presumably, argument continues all around them. Then Jesus leans in close to this scribe and says to him, “You are not far from the kingdom of God.”

And for each of us, in our heart of hearts, this is what we want to hear. “You are not far from the kingdom of God.” Because as followers of Jesus, this is what we call home. And we deeply long for it.

The apostle Paul wrote to the church at Philippi, “We are citizens of heaven, where the Lord Jesus Christ lives. He will transform the body of our humiliation, that it may be conformed to the body of his glory.”

For four weeks now we have been talking about our identity - the who of it all, who we are in Christ. Over this time, we have looked at a few qualities of the identity we take on as Christians: we are first of all, forgiven. And as those who are forgiven, we practice forgiveness toward others – the two are inseparable. Secondly, we are friends. Jesus said there is no greater love that to lay down your life for your friends. And when we open ourselves completely to one another, in solidarity and compassion, we are laying down our lives for our friends.

A third quality is this: Jesus calls us to be salt and light for the world; to have a transformational impact on all around us.

In all these things we have the opportunity to radically change the world for good. Simply by living into our identity. And today we come to the why. Because we are citizens of heaven.

If we have been given a glimpse of the realm of God, then we know some of the ways it is different from this world we live in. Rather than vengeance there would be forgiveness. Rather than hatred there would be friendship. Rather than each of us retreating to our caves and turning our backs on the needs of the world, each of us would be salt and light in the world. We know that this is God’s desire for all of us – wholeness, shalom.

And we know that our souls long to be there.

We are all seeking, longing, aching to be not far from the kingdom of God. And so we practice this great commandment of love – to love the Lord with all of our being, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. And so in doing this we draw near to the kingdom of God.

Today we observe All Saints’ Day. We remember those servants of the Lord who have gone before us, particularly those who have died in this past year. It is, at the same time, a day of sadness and a day of thankfulness. Because when we remember these saints, we recognize all the ways they brought more love to the world. We remember how they walked in Christ’s way and practiced living out the greatest commandments.

We are thankful that they served as models of faith for us. These are the ones who taught us how to be faithful disciples, how to practice compassion and mercy and forgiveness. How to be a true friend. Because they lived, the world is not the same as it was before.

But we know, as well, that these saints also had models of faith who came before them, ones who taught them to walk this way in their time. Because this is not something one does alone. We are all a part of the great communion of the saints, the whole family of God, living and dead.

Let us give thanks for the identity that was bestowed on us in our baptism.

Let us give thanks for all the saints who have walked before us, showing us the way.

Let us live our lives always remembering the most important thing. Love. Let your decisions be made according to love of neighbor.

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Identity - Who We Are in Christ, Part 3: Shaped by Grace

 

Colossians 4:2-6

Mark 10:46-52  

Sometimes in the movies, and sometimes even in real life, there are critical moments where time slows down. Moments when you notice every second of what you are experiencing, when it feels as though a message is being conveyed to you. The message is: in this moment, everything changes.

I have had that feeling about our journey these last few weeks in Chapter 10 of Mark’s gospel. Time slowed down. We have not rushed through it. We have not used the Cliff Notes version of this. We have absorbed every word.

Because there is an important message. And everything is about to change.

He is drawing near the end of his journey. He is taking his disciples from Galilee, which was home for most of them. It was the sticks, out at the margins of civilization. But now they were leaving Galilee and moving toward Jerusalem.

Jerusalem was the center of Judaism, but these Galileans were not strangers to it. Like all Jews, they had traveled up to Jerusalem to offer their sacrifices at the temple. But this journey to the city was unlike any they had taken before, because this sacrifice will be unlike any that has been made before. When they enter the gates of Jerusalem they are walking toward his crucifixion.

They are on the last leg of their journey today, passing Jericho and heading into Jerusalem, when the entourage passes by Bartimaeus, a blind beggar. Bartimaeus listens to the movement around him and hears that this is Jesus passing him by. He begins to shout out for all he is worth, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” People try to shut him up because, I guess, people who are in need shouldn’t draw attention to themselves and their needs. Because, I guess, making other people see their need is rude. Offensive.

But this is a very large crowd on the move, and large crowds make a lot of noise. Bartimaeus crying for mercy should not have been a problem because who would hear him anyway? Jesus hears him, as it turns out.

Jesus stops in the middle of the road when he hears Bartimaeus’ voice calling to him. He stops and causes everyone else to stop too. There is silence as they all look to see what has caused this interruption in their programming. Jesus, standing still, says, “Call him here.”

And the word makes its way to Bartimaeus on the side of the road. Suddenly they all want to be helpful. Bartimaeus leaps up and throws off his cloak, scattering the coins he has collected so far this day, and he runs to Jesus. Jesus asks him a simple question: “What do you want me to do for you?”

It is the same question that he asked James and John, the sons of Zebedee, just last week. But now, instead of asking for power and glory, Bartimaeus simply says, “My Teacher, let me see again.”

And Bartimaeus, his sight restored, is now on the way.

Jesus says to him, “Your faith has made you well,” but the word that is translated as being “made well,” is one that has another meaning. And we might just as easily read this as saying, “Your faith has saved you.”

Your faith has saved you, is the message to Bartimaeus, by giving you new vision. Your faith has freed you from the blinders that kept you from seeing the world as God sees it. Your faith has enabled you to see everything – absolutely everything – through Christ Jesus. And this makes all the difference in the world.

When we become followers of Jesus it is as though we are walking through a curtain – on one side of the curtain we can see things in one way, and on the other said of the curtain we can suddenly see what we could not see before. And this new vision leads to new values, new priorities, new desire to live in the kingdom of God, in mutual care and harmony with all of God’s creation.

It is not about putting on blinders that shut out the bad stuff or sticking our fingers in our ears to shut out the discordant noise. When we begin to see through Christ Jesus we see it all as God sees it all.

And we can see that this world God loves is not about transactional relationships – where the one question we always ask is, “What’s in it for me?” but instead we might ask, “What do you need? What do you want me to do for you?”

Kim and I went to the Civic Center last Thursday to cast our votes in this year’s election, and I have felt a lot of anxiety about it. Not anxiety about how I voted, because I am clear about my values and how they direct my decisions in this matter. But just anxiety about the state we are in and about what may come. These are not easy times.

Yet, I know that there are higher powers on the move; there is greater wisdom than yours or mine or anybody running for office. The universe does not turn on our votes. The world does not turn on Kamala Harris’s abilities or Donald Trump’s faculties.

Regardless of the outcome of these elections, we know there will be challenges ahead. There will be suffering that cries out to be alleviated, there will be need that cries out to be filled, there will be conflicts that require the efforts of peacemakers.

No matter who we choose to lead our nation, our nation will need us to see the world through Christ.

And know ourselves called to be salt and light in the world – this is who we are in Christ Jesus. We share this vision with others as we go on the way –

The way of Jerusalem…the way of the cross with Jesus.

But even as we walk through the darkness we can be confident. On this way, we are surrounded by love, we are filled with purpose, we are clothed with righteousness and shaped by God’s grace.

In this new life, with new vision through Christ, we are shaped by God’s grace so that our every action, every decision, every intention reflects it.

May you, like Bartimaeus, boldly ask Jesus for what you need.

May you embrace the gift of new vision through Christ.

May you be on the way with Jesus.