Beloveds, it is good to be here. Will you pray with me?
Covenant-making God, we give thanks for this time together, for the gift of holy words, and holy truth. Make this preaching moment a sacred time, infusing it with your Spirit, that through your Word, we might remember the way you would have us go, and follow.
May the words of my mouth, and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our Rock and our Redeemer. Amen.
Several years ago, I was on sabbatical with my daughter, and we spent a few weeks exploring the sights of London together. One of the great joys of that time was the freedom to explore, to find our own way. Unlike many of the museums here in the United States, the great museums of that city were free; we could visit over and over again, without price. By virtue of proximity, we were able to stop into our favorites for an hour or two in the course of a day’s activity, without worrying about how much the visit would cost.
We got to know each other’s ways quite well. Our tastes in art do not generally coordinate. I could wander stained glass galleries for days. I enjoy old illuminated manuscripts, and textiles. It was mostly the Victoria and Albert Museum that had my heart. My daughter – nearly sixteen at the time – had a thing for the Tate Modern.
It’s hard to miss: this art gallery on the south bank of the river Thames, by Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, across the Millennium Bridge from St. Paul’s, a bustling location packed with people, day or evening. Housed in a redesigned power station, with an observation deck and a soaring tower, it’s been called an industrial cathedral. On top of the building, there’s a lighted sign that announces in capital letters: ART CHANGES WE CHANGE.
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Sunday, February 25, 2018
Sunday, March 08, 2015
Speechless: A Parable
A Sermon on the Parable of the Wedding Party
And each week, instead of hearing a straightforward comparison, a basic lesson in similes and metaphors, we have been unpacking a deeper story. Parables are not Aesop’s fables with a simple moral and life application that will make you a better person; parables mess with your head.
Instead of a direct comparison, they twist our thinking. They help us explore more complicated questions such as, “What are the boundaries of forgiveness?” and “What if our central organizing principle was hospitality?” Today, we receive another kingdom sketch that seems to tear both of these prior lessons to shreds.
Today’s parable comes from the 22nd chapter of the Gospel according to Matthew. In our Bible study this week, we discovered that a similar story is told in Luke and in the Gospel of Thomas. Matthew’s version gives George RR Martin a run for his money. If you’re familiar with his novels, or the HBO series Game of Thrones, the storyline might seem familiar.
Imagine an occasion spun out of control. A scene where the soundtrack grows dissonant, you know something awful is about to happen, and yet you are powerless to leave.
(I ask your forbearance if you have known difficult tables of your own. You already know the agony of which I speak, the terror in the pit of your stomach, the sense of being glued to your chair. Many of us have been seated at difficult tables where our presence seems to be mandatory. The question before us today is, “how do we wrangle a blessing to accompany us in times such as these?”)
Imagine a wedding feast in a kingdom far, far away. The invitations go out by priority courier, to those from all over the kingdom. Both friends and enemies to be present, but an occasion not to be missed. Imagine the complex seating charts, who it would be permissible to seat at table with whom. Imagine the preparations, boxes and bins of food brought in to a buzzing kitchen. The smell of an extravagant meal in the works. Streamers and banners billowing from a high ceiling. No expense spared to make this a memorable occasion.
And imagine that, when this feast was ready, those invited said, no. “No, we cannot come.”
Imagine such an insult to the king’s honor. Imagine the heralds returning, from east and west and north and south with variations on, “no.” Imagine that some of them did not return at all. Imagine that others came back, not hot and dusty from the road, but cold, across the saddle, their lifeless bodies all the answer the king needed to demonstrate his alleged esteem in the eyes of those who had refused him.
Imagine the king’s growing rage. And then, in your mind’s eye, picture fields and cities destroyed at the hand of the king’s soldiers, the skies filled with smoke and scavengers.
Imagine a parody of normalcy, a grim scene in which the banquet takes place after all, and survivors are marched in to eat of what has been prepared. Imagine their terror. Imagine the stark reality that this could be all there is, this kind of king, this kind of banquet among the smoking ruins.
Imagine, too, the stark reality that the food within this hall might be all that is available for some time, the fields now empty, storehouses burned, and winter coming on. Imagine eating this food out of necessity, the opulence of this hall at odds with everything you know is happening outside these doors – one foot in unearned privilege, the other in destruction and terror.
And in comes the king, sweeping up the aisle, when his eye falls on one of these secondary guests. Not you, thank God, not you. But a neighbor, perhaps. Someone across the room. Dressed in their everyday clothes, quaking in terror, failing to celebrate sufficiently the king’s generosity. And for the crime of being merely human, and catching the king’s eye, they are seized by guards, bound hand and foot and cast into the cold, cold night.
A traditional interpretation of this parable has it that God is the King, and Christ is the king’s son, whose wedding the feast celebrates. Those unwilling to recognize or celebrate the occasion are victims of the king’s wrath. And heaven help you if you make light of the occasion by forgetting your fancy clothes – you’ll be cast into the outer darkness where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Jesus says, “To what shall I compare the Kingdom of God?” And once again I say, “not this.” Not every parable draws a bright connecting line between the parable and the Kingdom. And while sometimes we do proclaim God as King and Lord – among other titles - not every king in a parable is a figure for the Holy One.
The traditional way of reading Jesus’ banquet story reveals more about humanity than it does about God. What does it say about us that we leap to the idea of a sadistic brutal God?* A ruler we cringe in terror of offending? A ruler whose operating style is at odds with previous teachings on forgiveness and hospitality and grace?
This king sounds more like King Herod, who committed genocide in the interest of maintaining his own power, murdering the children of Israel. This is not a kingdom parable or a kindom parable – it is an anti-king parable. It cuts down the power players, the kings and the elites of this world, who hold the power of life and death in their hands. We are constantly invited – mandated – to attend their banquet.
They know it is not an occasion for peace. I mentioned the series Game of Thrones earlier. There’s an event called The Red Wedding and it is even bloodier and more terrifying than this parable. In that tale, one of the people tricked into coming to the wedding notices, underneath a host’s wedding garment, a glimpse of chain mail. You would not wear armor to a festive occasion unless you knew violence was going to break out.
The way of violence always calls us to violent retribution. And yet, Christians, we are not called to return like for like. There is power in standing witness. On this weekend when our nation commemorates fifty years since the civil rights marches in Selma, on this Madison-area weekend when another community mourns the loss of another black teen, it is good to remember that we do not engage the brutal powers of this world with violence.
Especially on this weekend when we baptize a child in our midst and we say, “you are God’s beloved,” it is good to remember the other garment that we wear. It is not made of metal or lace; it is fit for neither fighting nor parading one’s material wealth. It is a simple garment, a servant’s garment. A baptismal garment.
We wear Christ. The Apostle Paul would say, we “put on Christ.” This is our armor against the violence that eats the soul. This is the finest robe that makes us fit to sit at any of the world’s tables. This is what warms and shields us when surrounded by weeping and gnashing of teeth.
This is a garment available to anyone who desires it and is bold to wear it. There is no shortage. It will not keep us away from bad news or guns or tear gas or grief. But it gives us strength to stand up to corrupt systems and power players who would burn the place down to preserve their privilege.
It is not an easy word we have from Matthew today, a parable of a king who is not God and a kingdom that is not heaven. But it is a piece of a story told by Jesus, and it is a gift that it has been passed on to us by a beloved community.
May we wrestle with it for generations to come. Amen?
Preached for the 3rd Sunday in Lent, for a series on parables. March 8, 2015 at McFarland United Church of Christ
Image copyright: 123RF Stock Photo.
*I am indebted to The Hardest Question for calling my attention to this line of thought.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Dinner with A Dead Man
It was a revolutionary dinner, if you believe John’s account of it. Six days before the Passover – shortly before Jesus entered the great city – there was a dinner. It couldn’t have been a quiet dinner if he had tried, because the whole region was buzzing about what Jesus had been up to.
The teaching and the healing was one thing. Breaking the Sabbath laws were another. But this rabbi had the chutzpah to raise the dead!
That was the problem. What was dead, was supposed to stay dead. And here Jesus was, upsetting the natural order of things.
Lazarus had been dead and in the tomb for four days when Jesus called him out, called him back to life. And it’s in the home of Lazarus, and his sisters Mary and Martha, that we find ourselves for today’s Gospel. With Lazarus – dead and buried and alive-all-over-again Lazarus, at table. The Gospel writer tells us that people came from miles around – not just to see Jesus, but to see Lazarus for themselves. Scandal, or Good News? Hard to tell. Difficult news, without a doubt. Revolutionary news, without question. A dead man, hosting a wanted man and his associates for dinner, at the eve of a great festival, not far from the holy city, just as the Roman governor was preparing his own arrival. Nope, sounds totally innocent to me. There can’t be any trouble brewing here. Move right along, there’s nothing to see.
Imagine the tension in the room. Imagine the nervous energy. There’s a dead man at the table, one overly grateful sister in the kitchen cooking up a storm, another overly grateful sister crying on Jesus’ feet and wiping them with her hair. (Awkward!!) There are hordes of people outside the door wanting to see this not-dead man for themselves. Pharisees and scribes somewhere in the neighborhood plastering up ‘Wanted’ posters.
And Judas picks this moment to start complaining about the expense account? You’ve got to be kidding me. “But Mary, who authorized the purchase of this ointment? Who said you could use it?,” Judas wanted to know. He badgered her over and over – surely this could have been used more efficiently, surely she could have waited and saved it for a rainy day. Mary, for her part, didn’t care, not even one tiny bit. Her brother, whom she had given up for dead, was alive. Her beloved teacher, Jesus, was on his way to Jerusalem in what was clearly a suicide mission, as far as she could see. Judas could stuff it. What better time was there to use that jar of precious ointment, than to celebrate death and resurrection, to celebrate love and learning and fellowship?
The room was buzzing with excited voices, with the expectation of a new world to come. This was it – the moment had come, the moment they had all been waiting for. The energy had built up and built up, they knew it, they were on the threshold of something amazing. Finally, it was time, and past time. They were ready for the talk to be over; the acts of individual compassion, the healing and the hugging of children was all very nice, but wasn’t there a revolution to get rolling? Meanwhile, the doorbell kept ringing and people kept hopping up to peek in the windows, to get a glimpse of these infamous characters.
Chaos. Utter chaos. And Mary’s hair was wet with oil and with tears and her face streaked with road dust, and the whole place smelled like the perfume department in a fancy store, and the dishes just kept coming from the kitchen, Martha can you cut it out already, we have enough to feed an army! Judas, shut up! Enough about the bills. I don’t care about the reserves. Can’t we at least manage one simple meal without being at one another’s throats?
Except it was anything but simple. They were so ramped up with hope and exhaustion that everything seemed simultaneously possible and impossible. Too many options, too many futures to consider, too many things going down all at once; now that the ball had started rolling it couldn’t be stopped. Forward, through, was the only way – there was no backing out now, they all knew it. So caught up in their own hopes and dreams, in the promise of a Messiah, in the avalanche of promise, that they missed the simple truth in their midst: They were eating at a dead man’s dinner table.
They were eating dinner with a dead man. A dead-now-alive-man. There’s not much more revolutionary than that, breaking bread with a dead man. A dead-now-alive-man. A marked-for-death-man. Sure, you can march behind his banners, you can listen to his teachings, you can follow him all over the Godforsaken territory, and leave your fishing boats in dry dock. You can keep company with the outcasts and the turncoats and the tax collectors and the ne’er-do-wells. But until you sit down at a table with one of his miracles, a living, breathing, miracle right in your midst, and realize that is what you’re eating with – a miracle – then you don’t get it.
It’s all academic, it’s all theoretical, right up until the moment that you see the truth: Keeping company with Jesus is keeping company with death and resurrection.
Keeping company with Jesus is breaking bread, on a regular basis, with miracles. Multiplying loaves-and-fishes miracles. Lost-and-now-found miracles. Coming home miracles. Barren-and-now-fruitful miracles. Second chance miracles. Blind-but-now-I-see miracles. Terrifyingly transformative miracles. World-shaking miracles. Worth-getting-up-for miracles. Worth-living-for miracles.
Do you know, you who keep company with Jesus: do you know that you are sitting in the middle of a miracle? Do you know that you are about to sip coffee and eat cake with miracles? Do you know that you just declared your resurrection faith, with miracles? Do you know that you worship in community with a resurrection story? That every time you come to worship, you are sitting down with Lazarus? That the person sitting beside you, in front of you, behind you, is a resurrection miracle?
If you did not know it before, or if you had forgotten, know it now: To be a Christ-follower is to keep company with death-and-resurrection on a daily basis. And if we do not remember – from time to time – that we are in a death-and-resurrection story, then we are as guilty as the disciples, of missing what is under our very noses.
Sisters and brothers in Christ, whether you are weeping all over Jesus’ feet, or whether you are counting the money in the common purse; whether you are eating your dinner, stunned to be alive or whether you are just peeking in the windows to see what this is all about…. You inhabit a resurrection story. You are part of a resurrection revolution.
Claim your miracles! What was dead, is alive. What is dying, will have eternal life. What has come into being is life, and the life is light for all people. The light shines in the darkness – in the midst of imminent terror, in the midst of death and destruction and overwhelming injustice – the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it.
Nevertheless: what is alive, will die. Death always comes before resurrection. There is no shortcut.
But here, where the family gathers, on the eve of the festival, there are tears, there is food, there is hope, there is flagrant waste and generous gifting. There are songs to be sung and miracles to be witnessed and, yes, budgets to juggle. But there are living, breathing miracles among us and those – those miracles exist as a truth beyond words, a truth that fills the room more than if every window-peeker tried to cram their way through the door at once.
~~~
They were sitting at dinner with a dead man. A dead-now-alive man. A living, breathing miracle. They were sitting down at dinner with a wanted and a marked-for-death man. And it was almost time to head into the city.
Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest. Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord. Amen.
Preached Lent 5C at McFarland UCC. Text: John 12:1-11.
Lazarus had been dead and in the tomb for four days when Jesus called him out, called him back to life. And it’s in the home of Lazarus, and his sisters Mary and Martha, that we find ourselves for today’s Gospel. With Lazarus – dead and buried and alive-all-over-again Lazarus, at table. The Gospel writer tells us that people came from miles around – not just to see Jesus, but to see Lazarus for themselves. Scandal, or Good News? Hard to tell. Difficult news, without a doubt. Revolutionary news, without question. A dead man, hosting a wanted man and his associates for dinner, at the eve of a great festival, not far from the holy city, just as the Roman governor was preparing his own arrival. Nope, sounds totally innocent to me. There can’t be any trouble brewing here. Move right along, there’s nothing to see.
Imagine the tension in the room. Imagine the nervous energy. There’s a dead man at the table, one overly grateful sister in the kitchen cooking up a storm, another overly grateful sister crying on Jesus’ feet and wiping them with her hair. (Awkward!!) There are hordes of people outside the door wanting to see this not-dead man for themselves. Pharisees and scribes somewhere in the neighborhood plastering up ‘Wanted’ posters.
And Judas picks this moment to start complaining about the expense account? You’ve got to be kidding me. “But Mary, who authorized the purchase of this ointment? Who said you could use it?,” Judas wanted to know. He badgered her over and over – surely this could have been used more efficiently, surely she could have waited and saved it for a rainy day. Mary, for her part, didn’t care, not even one tiny bit. Her brother, whom she had given up for dead, was alive. Her beloved teacher, Jesus, was on his way to Jerusalem in what was clearly a suicide mission, as far as she could see. Judas could stuff it. What better time was there to use that jar of precious ointment, than to celebrate death and resurrection, to celebrate love and learning and fellowship?
The room was buzzing with excited voices, with the expectation of a new world to come. This was it – the moment had come, the moment they had all been waiting for. The energy had built up and built up, they knew it, they were on the threshold of something amazing. Finally, it was time, and past time. They were ready for the talk to be over; the acts of individual compassion, the healing and the hugging of children was all very nice, but wasn’t there a revolution to get rolling? Meanwhile, the doorbell kept ringing and people kept hopping up to peek in the windows, to get a glimpse of these infamous characters.
Chaos. Utter chaos. And Mary’s hair was wet with oil and with tears and her face streaked with road dust, and the whole place smelled like the perfume department in a fancy store, and the dishes just kept coming from the kitchen, Martha can you cut it out already, we have enough to feed an army! Judas, shut up! Enough about the bills. I don’t care about the reserves. Can’t we at least manage one simple meal without being at one another’s throats?
Except it was anything but simple. They were so ramped up with hope and exhaustion that everything seemed simultaneously possible and impossible. Too many options, too many futures to consider, too many things going down all at once; now that the ball had started rolling it couldn’t be stopped. Forward, through, was the only way – there was no backing out now, they all knew it. So caught up in their own hopes and dreams, in the promise of a Messiah, in the avalanche of promise, that they missed the simple truth in their midst: They were eating at a dead man’s dinner table.
They were eating dinner with a dead man. A dead-now-alive-man. There’s not much more revolutionary than that, breaking bread with a dead man. A dead-now-alive-man. A marked-for-death-man. Sure, you can march behind his banners, you can listen to his teachings, you can follow him all over the Godforsaken territory, and leave your fishing boats in dry dock. You can keep company with the outcasts and the turncoats and the tax collectors and the ne’er-do-wells. But until you sit down at a table with one of his miracles, a living, breathing, miracle right in your midst, and realize that is what you’re eating with – a miracle – then you don’t get it.
It’s all academic, it’s all theoretical, right up until the moment that you see the truth: Keeping company with Jesus is keeping company with death and resurrection.
Keeping company with Jesus is breaking bread, on a regular basis, with miracles. Multiplying loaves-and-fishes miracles. Lost-and-now-found miracles. Coming home miracles. Barren-and-now-fruitful miracles. Second chance miracles. Blind-but-now-I-see miracles. Terrifyingly transformative miracles. World-shaking miracles. Worth-getting-up-for miracles. Worth-living-for miracles.
Do you know, you who keep company with Jesus: do you know that you are sitting in the middle of a miracle? Do you know that you are about to sip coffee and eat cake with miracles? Do you know that you just declared your resurrection faith, with miracles? Do you know that you worship in community with a resurrection story? That every time you come to worship, you are sitting down with Lazarus? That the person sitting beside you, in front of you, behind you, is a resurrection miracle?
If you did not know it before, or if you had forgotten, know it now: To be a Christ-follower is to keep company with death-and-resurrection on a daily basis. And if we do not remember – from time to time – that we are in a death-and-resurrection story, then we are as guilty as the disciples, of missing what is under our very noses.
Sisters and brothers in Christ, whether you are weeping all over Jesus’ feet, or whether you are counting the money in the common purse; whether you are eating your dinner, stunned to be alive or whether you are just peeking in the windows to see what this is all about…. You inhabit a resurrection story. You are part of a resurrection revolution.
Claim your miracles! What was dead, is alive. What is dying, will have eternal life. What has come into being is life, and the life is light for all people. The light shines in the darkness – in the midst of imminent terror, in the midst of death and destruction and overwhelming injustice – the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it.
Nevertheless: what is alive, will die. Death always comes before resurrection. There is no shortcut.
But here, where the family gathers, on the eve of the festival, there are tears, there is food, there is hope, there is flagrant waste and generous gifting. There are songs to be sung and miracles to be witnessed and, yes, budgets to juggle. But there are living, breathing miracles among us and those – those miracles exist as a truth beyond words, a truth that fills the room more than if every window-peeker tried to cram their way through the door at once.
~~~
They were sitting at dinner with a dead man. A dead-now-alive man. A living, breathing miracle. They were sitting down at dinner with a wanted and a marked-for-death man. And it was almost time to head into the city.
Hosanna! Hosanna in the highest. Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord. Amen.
Preached Lent 5C at McFarland UCC. Text: John 12:1-11.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
It is Written
We have been killing Jesus for a very long time.
His name has been: Trayvon Martin. James Craig Anderson. Tyler Clementi. Amadou Diallo. Matthew Shepard. James Byrd. Yusuf Hawkins. Emmett Till. And many others.
We have been killing Jesus for a very long time, because he dares to pull aside the veil, the shroud we wrap around ourselves, to see the living death within. We kill Jesus because he is strong enough to look, to see truly – and we are not. So he has to die. Because he is a troublemaker in a hoodie who shows up where you do not expect to see him, armed only with food and drink and words and his vulnerable body.
And so we say:
You are not welcome here. Go away.
You make me uncomfortable.
I do not want your mirror.
I do not want your words.
I would like to stay as I am.
LEAVE.
And when he will not listen, when he continues walking and will not simplify our world by absenting himself, we resolve to put an end to it. He will not be ignored, and so he must be removed, in the most expedient manner possible. So if what we have is a gun, a firebomb, cudgels or fists or a cross, that is what we use.
You may say, I didn’t do it. It was them, over there. That other one, over there. Those people, so many years ago. It is not still happening. And you would be right, partially. And wrong, mostly.
We have been killing Jesus for a very long time. Jesus is gay, straight, male, female, trans, bi, brown-skinned, white-skinned, mixed-race, out-of-place and altogether a profound threat to our safety. What shall we do? Ignore, avoid, destroy.
It has been written. There was a setting down of weapons once – do we not remember? “I have set my bow in the clouds,” a covenant with all living things. There was a promise to the generations – do we not remember? A covenant in human flesh, a cut, a bleeding, a birth. “I will bless her, and she shall give rise to nations; kings of peoples shall come from her.” There was instruction on how to live in community – do we not remember? “Love God with all your heart and all your soul, and all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.” Yet there is a multiplicity of gods, shaped by our fears and anxieties and thank-god-it’s-not-me’s.
And so the covenant comes even closer. Written on our hearts, it should be unmistakeable. “It is mine.” All life. All flesh. All relationship. All knowledge. All.
But it is a little too close. And so we arm ourselves with a shroud, a cross, a painful crown, to put Christ at a distance. “There,” we say. It is an unusual circumstance. Isn’t it terrible when these things happen? We put it at a distance. We forget. Until the next Jesus dies.
We are still learning. That promised day has not yet arrived, because the words are not yet written on our hearts. Jesus keeps showing up and we keep putting him off. He walks toward the cross, and rather than follow, we fall back, and fall away.
Do not turn away. God has made a holy promise, an everlasting covenant, written in flesh and as close as your own beating heart. Let the knowledge of the Lord fill you. Let it fill you with sorrow for the dying of Trayvon, and Tyler, and Amadou, and Matthew, and James, and Yusuf and Emmett.
Let it fill you with the knowledge of your part in this drama. By and large, we are the crucifiers. We are the ones who let other bodies go to the cross for us, over and over again, because we will not walk there ourselves. We are party to the corruption that lets an accused murderer avoid arrest because the victim’s skin was brown. We are party to a system in which pre-emptive violence is the preferred solution.
“Create in me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within me,” wrote the Psalmist. We have sinned in thought, word and deed; in what we have done, and what we have left undone. Our part in the new covenant still awaits us. God would have us live in community. To treat each one as a sister or brother. To not have to be re-taught the way of love.
We have claimed the privilege of forgetfulness, so that each occasion of cross-shaped violence seems to be new. So we can kill Jesus over and over again. Let the knowledge of the Lord be written on your heart, and fill you with remembering, so the next time we kill Jesus, you recognize what is happening.
Holy Week is approaching. There will be a triumphal parade and there will be stirring emotions. There will be a sense that the day has come. And then, we will see our Christ. He will do the things we do not expect. He will speak confusing words. He will invite us to share life and death with him, in the bread and the cup. He will invite us to be present with him, to watch and pray. He will command us to set aside violence. Pain and sorrow will be raised up before us and he will command us to be mother, father, brother, sister to one another.
Do we not remember? We have been killing Jesus for a very long time. He dares to look beyond our gates, beyond the shroud of secrecy and forgetting. His presence makes us uncomfortable. The knowledge of the Lord indicts us, and we pick up our weapons.
But Jesus continues to walk – not run. The gates will not stop him. This is where he belongs. He will enter the city; he will practice the way of love as far as it leads. He dares us to bear witness in the privileged courtyards and in the place of death. He dares us to look at the crown, the cross, the wounded body. He invites us to remember.
Let it be written on your heart.
Amen.
Text: Jeremiah 31:31-34
His name has been: Trayvon Martin. James Craig Anderson. Tyler Clementi. Amadou Diallo. Matthew Shepard. James Byrd. Yusuf Hawkins. Emmett Till. And many others.
We have been killing Jesus for a very long time, because he dares to pull aside the veil, the shroud we wrap around ourselves, to see the living death within. We kill Jesus because he is strong enough to look, to see truly – and we are not. So he has to die. Because he is a troublemaker in a hoodie who shows up where you do not expect to see him, armed only with food and drink and words and his vulnerable body.
And so we say:
You are not welcome here. Go away.
You make me uncomfortable.
I do not want your mirror.
I do not want your words.
I would like to stay as I am.
LEAVE.
And when he will not listen, when he continues walking and will not simplify our world by absenting himself, we resolve to put an end to it. He will not be ignored, and so he must be removed, in the most expedient manner possible. So if what we have is a gun, a firebomb, cudgels or fists or a cross, that is what we use.
You may say, I didn’t do it. It was them, over there. That other one, over there. Those people, so many years ago. It is not still happening. And you would be right, partially. And wrong, mostly.
We have been killing Jesus for a very long time. Jesus is gay, straight, male, female, trans, bi, brown-skinned, white-skinned, mixed-race, out-of-place and altogether a profound threat to our safety. What shall we do? Ignore, avoid, destroy.
It has been written. There was a setting down of weapons once – do we not remember? “I have set my bow in the clouds,” a covenant with all living things. There was a promise to the generations – do we not remember? A covenant in human flesh, a cut, a bleeding, a birth. “I will bless her, and she shall give rise to nations; kings of peoples shall come from her.” There was instruction on how to live in community – do we not remember? “Love God with all your heart and all your soul, and all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.” Yet there is a multiplicity of gods, shaped by our fears and anxieties and thank-god-it’s-not-me’s.
And so the covenant comes even closer. Written on our hearts, it should be unmistakeable. “It is mine.” All life. All flesh. All relationship. All knowledge. All.
But it is a little too close. And so we arm ourselves with a shroud, a cross, a painful crown, to put Christ at a distance. “There,” we say. It is an unusual circumstance. Isn’t it terrible when these things happen? We put it at a distance. We forget. Until the next Jesus dies.
We are still learning. That promised day has not yet arrived, because the words are not yet written on our hearts. Jesus keeps showing up and we keep putting him off. He walks toward the cross, and rather than follow, we fall back, and fall away.
Do not turn away. God has made a holy promise, an everlasting covenant, written in flesh and as close as your own beating heart. Let the knowledge of the Lord fill you. Let it fill you with sorrow for the dying of Trayvon, and Tyler, and Amadou, and Matthew, and James, and Yusuf and Emmett.
Let it fill you with the knowledge of your part in this drama. By and large, we are the crucifiers. We are the ones who let other bodies go to the cross for us, over and over again, because we will not walk there ourselves. We are party to the corruption that lets an accused murderer avoid arrest because the victim’s skin was brown. We are party to a system in which pre-emptive violence is the preferred solution.
“Create in me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within me,” wrote the Psalmist. We have sinned in thought, word and deed; in what we have done, and what we have left undone. Our part in the new covenant still awaits us. God would have us live in community. To treat each one as a sister or brother. To not have to be re-taught the way of love.
We have claimed the privilege of forgetfulness, so that each occasion of cross-shaped violence seems to be new. So we can kill Jesus over and over again. Let the knowledge of the Lord be written on your heart, and fill you with remembering, so the next time we kill Jesus, you recognize what is happening.
Holy Week is approaching. There will be a triumphal parade and there will be stirring emotions. There will be a sense that the day has come. And then, we will see our Christ. He will do the things we do not expect. He will speak confusing words. He will invite us to share life and death with him, in the bread and the cup. He will invite us to be present with him, to watch and pray. He will command us to set aside violence. Pain and sorrow will be raised up before us and he will command us to be mother, father, brother, sister to one another.
Do we not remember? We have been killing Jesus for a very long time. He dares to look beyond our gates, beyond the shroud of secrecy and forgetting. His presence makes us uncomfortable. The knowledge of the Lord indicts us, and we pick up our weapons.
But Jesus continues to walk – not run. The gates will not stop him. This is where he belongs. He will enter the city; he will practice the way of love as far as it leads. He dares us to bear witness in the privileged courtyards and in the place of death. He dares us to look at the crown, the cross, the wounded body. He invites us to remember.
Let it be written on your heart.
Amen.
Text: Jeremiah 31:31-34
Wednesday, February 08, 2012
& (A Lenten Prayer)
One of my spiritual practices is writing poetry (most often free verse) that relates to the scripture passages knocking about my head. The following was inspired by miscellanea, and the various lectionary passages on the theme of covenant that are part of my planning for worship this Lent. Perhaps you will recognize something here...
&
Mama who whispers in my soul
who coaxes tangles out of my wild hair
and who spreads ointment on burned places
where the world has made me mixed up and raw
Papa who sets me upright again
and tells me to pedal, pedal, pedal
who shows me where the horizon is
and lets me know that it is ours to claim
Tiny bird who hops on my shoulder
moonbeam on my little girl’s face
lightning love and tender caress
Great One who makes intimate promises,
Let me remember always that
you are with me – and I with you
and that even when
the curtain rips
& the sky shatters
and your word
seems
seems
so
far
gone,
morning will come
&
Mama who whispers in my soul
who coaxes tangles out of my wild hair
and who spreads ointment on burned places
where the world has made me mixed up and raw
Papa who sets me upright again
and tells me to pedal, pedal, pedal
who shows me where the horizon is
and lets me know that it is ours to claim
Tiny bird who hops on my shoulder
moonbeam on my little girl’s face
lightning love and tender caress
Great One who makes intimate promises,
Let me remember always that
you are with me – and I with you
and that even when
the curtain rips
& the sky shatters
and your word
seems
seems
so
far
gone,
morning will come
Saturday, March 26, 2011
In their own words: The Adversary (Lent 1A)
During the season of Lent, the sermon series at McFarland UCC features characters from Jesus' story speaking for themselves. "In Their Own Words" will feature The Adversary, Nicodemus, The Woman at the Well, the Man who was Born Blind, Martha, the servant girl in the courtyard, and Peter.
---
The Adversary:
First of all, I need to set the record straight: I don’t do natural disasters. Not my gig. Don’t try to pin those on me. I might pop my head in after-the-fact, when things are all confusing, and stir the pot. But tornadoes, earthquakes, hurricanes: not my work.
That’s brute force. It’s beneath me. It’s inelegant. Give me more credit than that.
I’m more interested in letting you do the heavy lifting.
You have all the tools, you know. The raw materials.
All I do is offer some suggestions.
The plays are all yours.
Really. Let’s take a look:
Scene: A garden. A man and a woman are strolling around, not a care in the world. It’s an intimate little scene, just the two of them and some greenery, some birds singing in the background. It seemed like a nice time for a chat. Nothing pushy, I just asked some clarifying questions. “So, God said ‘no snacking on the produce?” Oh, no, she said…just this one tree is off limits. “And why would that be?,” I asked. Wasn’t God being a little possessive, not wanting them to know good and evil? Seems like a little knowledge would be a good thing.
A piece of fruit. It was a small thing. She wanted it, she really did. She just needed to justify it to herself. Let’s see…nutritious. Yep. Beautiful. Yep. Useful. Yep. They made the decision for themselves. Plucked that fruit right off the tree, because they decided it was time. She had some, and he had some, and boy, did they say it was good.
I just asked a few intelligent questions, at the right time. The consequences weren’t my problem. Everybody tries to blame it on me, as if I made them do it. Come on, now…you’ve heard about this little thing called “free will”, right? The two of them did the heavy lifting. Both of them. They made their own decisions. Nobody forced them.
Next thing you know, they were blaming one another, getting in that little spat with God, the one that got them thrown out of the garden, the one that folks have been talking about for centuries. That’s just how it played out. It was kind of fun to watch, because I got to see some of my favorite words in action. The D words: Division. Discord. Deconstruct. Demolish.
So, that’s the way I work. Those D words are my calling card. When you see and hear them happening, you know I’ve been around. When things are confusing, that’s a great time for me to drop in. Nobody really notices me at work. All I do is help people look at the world a little differently.
“You know, those Israelites, they’ll be trouble someday…”
“You know, that manager in the other office has been angling for a promotion, are you really sure you can trust them?”
“Lots of other pretty women out there…are you sure you don’t have any competition?”
“Do you think it might be a good idea to hang on to that stuff? You never know when you might need it.”
“What if that other kid wants your cookie?”
“Maybe you should take matters into your own hands.”
“Do you think you can really count on God?”
People arrive at their own conclusions. And, well, from that you get inequality. Jealousy. Mistrust. Division and discord. Sin. People using power, in an attempt to make themselves feel safe, or in control.
My favorite thing to do, is to get people to act under their own power. Like I said, brute force isn’t my gig. Free will is a wonderful thing. I ask the questions, sit back, and let it all play out.
It usually works out great. I’ve started a lot of wars that way. Blown up a lot of peace treaties. Turned protests into riots. Ended marriages. Unraveled countries and nations. Fascinating to watch. And I didn’t have to lift a finger. You all did it for me.
***
There was this one time, though, that things didn’t go smooth as silk.
Prophets in the wilderness are usually an easy target. They’re hungry. They’re lonely. They’re scared. They’re tired. Usually running from the world, running away from reality. Persecuted. They’re fun to play with.
So I show up, and wouldn’t you know it, none of my usual tactics work! Forty days and forty nights he was in the wilderness. The book even says it, right here: “he was famished”! I mean, really. I’m an expert in this wilderness stuff. Perfected it, with the Israelites, in that 40 years between Egypt and their Promised Land. Where’d you think the Golden Calf idea came from? “It’s been an awfully long while. Do you think Moses is ever going to come back down? Maybe the people need something to keep them occupied,” I said to Aaron. Used it again, on Elijah, got him whining and yelling at God. Managed to get John the Baptist, Mr. Locusts and Wild Honey himself, acting so loopy he lost his head.
Prophets in the wilderness – I’ve got that market cornered. A little hungry, thirsty, a little doubtful.
He was all alone out there.
It wouldn’t hurt anything if he did a little miracle or two, just for his own benefit, right?
I knew he had it in him.
“So, you’re the Son of God. You’ve got the power to turn stones into bread. Seems like now would be a good time to test that theory. What’s the point of power if you’re not going to exercise it? What’s the point of power if you die of hunger here in the wilderness?”
Not a thing. He spouts scripture back at me. “You can’t live by bread alone.”
So I had to paint a bigger picture. I took him to the temple.
“So, you’re the Son of God. Look at this. The temple, the center of the world, and here you are, above it all. Show how much God loves you…seize the moment. Jump off. That scripture you love so much promises that the angels will catch you.”
“Do not put God to the test,” he said. Argh. He knew my game. I had been testing, pushing at his defenses. Making him worry about his basic needs was the first approach. And my stones to bread maneuver struck out. Psychological needs were usually a sure-fire winner. “Just a little test, something simple, something to make him prove he loves you, that he’s never going to leave you, never going to give up on you.” And apparently, that wasn’t going to work either.
It was time to get serious. This guy was in a position to change the world, he had so much potential. So I pulled out the big one. “C’mere. Up on this mountain. Take a look. Everything you see, all these cities, and kingdoms, everything spread out before you. Think about all that power you have. Think about how much you could change, how much you could fix, how much you could make right, if all these things were in your hands.“
Did I mention that I like power plays? If he cared so little for his own welfare, then surely, this angle would work. Of course, he would be motivated by what he could do for others.
In the end, all of you, no matter how altruistic, how community-minded you think you are – are like this. Even do-gooders worship at the altar of power. Trust me. I have been watching humanity for thousands of years. You’ve been feeding me great material. Don’t think that I haven’t been paying attention. You all, secretly, want power. Admit it. You fill up the space around you, with stuff, with activity, with commitments, trying to create buffers, trying to control your world. Trying to use whatever power you can gain to shape things according to your will, your hopes, your view of the way things should be. If it’s not power to meet your own needs, it’s power for the sake of your family, or power to fix the world. It’s all about the power.
So of course, this one would be no different. He just had a lot more power to start with. That just made it more fun. So there we were on the mountaintop, and I was saying, “Just worship at the altar of power. Exercise your influence. Shape things the way you want them to turn out. That’s all. Then all this can be yours. You can fix the world. Call it, ‘the world according to Jesus.’ You can solve all the problems, make it just the way you want things to turn out. ”
What would you do, if you had that ability? Think about it for a minute. The world according to you. What would you make right? What would you change? What things would you un-do, and remake in your own image?
Go ahead. Think about it. I’ll give you a bit.
Gotcha.
You came up with something, didn’t you?
Told you so.
Every human being I’ve ever met – except one - falls for that trick. Sin with a capital S. And the only one I’ve ever met, the only one who refused to reshape the world in their own image, was Jesus.
He turned me down in a heartbeat. Sent me away, defeated. I came back, again and again, with my offers, and he turned me down, every time. Even at the very end, he refused.
“Worship the Lord your God, and only God,” he said. Not self-sufficiency. Not happiness. Not your ability to change the world.
“Worship God, and only God,” Jesus said.
I don’t have anything that can trump that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)