Proper 10, Year A ... some random thoughts

How can you not love Isaiah 55? I don't care whether there were one, two, three, or seventeen Isaiahs. Whoever wrote Isaiah 55 was a great poet.

For you shall go out in joy,
and be led back in peace;
the mountains and the hills before you
shall burst into song,
and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.

Do you know the story of evangelist Dwight Moody and his friend Scottish New Testament scholar Henry Drummond? Moody was quite conservative and Drummond was fairly liberal, but they were close friends. Moody invited Drummond to speak at a conference, and Drummond responded by saying, "Are you sure you want me to speak? After all, I believe that there were three Isaiahs." Moody replied, "Henry, there are people here who don't know there was one Isaiah!"

I don't remember if composer Randall Thompson used this particular bit of Isaiah in his oratorio, The Peaceable Kingdom, but for some reason it's been running through my mind as I read these words. That made me think about the Bible and music. From beginning to end the Bible seems to beg to be set to music.

That inspired a somewhat heretical thought. You can almost judge the value of a text by how readily it can be set to music. The texts that have inspired the best music also seem to be the ones that take us most deeply into God's mysteries. Think of the texts that Handel chose for Messiah or Brahms set in his German Requiem.

But there are also some important texts that are not easily set to music. Much of Paul is either not easily sung or is so closely argued that one would have to set whole chapters to music. Also the parables of Jesus would be a real challenge for composers. (Although they might make terrific mini-operas. Benjamin Britten composed a setting of the Prodigal Son and even avowed atheist Sergei Prokofiev wrote a ballet based on the same parable.)

Isaiah 55 and Matthew 13 are an obvious pairing. They both speak of a God of extravagant generosity. One thing is certain: God did not go to Harvard Business School and would not do very well on The Apprentice! This God does not keep an eye on the bottom line. Rather, God offers "wine and milk" to "those without money".

In Matthew the sower seems to represent God. Again, God seems extravagant, even careless, in broadcasting the "word of the kingdom." God seems not to care if it falls on good soil or rocks or among thorns.

But in both Isaiah and Matthew God's word has a life of its own. Isaiah tells us that God's word "shall not return... empty" but will "accomplish [its] purpose." In Matthew the soil is the random factor; the seed will flourish if the the soil gives is half a chance.

The idea that God's word has a life of its own intrigues me. We think of words as insignificant. We say or write things carelessly. Deeds, not words, are the important thing. Do you remember what Eliza Doolittle sings in My Fair Lady?

Words! Words! Words!
I'm so sick of words!
I get words all day through;
First from him now from you!
Is that all you blighters can do?
Don't talk of stars, burning above;
If you're in love, show me!

But words are powerful and often take on a life of their own. I think of Thomas Jefferson's words in the Declaration of Independence: "We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal..." They were words that changed the world. Indeed, they changed the world in ways that Jefferson did not imagine they would and in ways he did not want the world to be changed. They brought about a revolution not just for white male property owners but eventually for African Americans and women, too.

The Bible's words have a remarkable power to change lives. When St. Augustine was struggling with whether or not to become a Christian, he heard a child singing the words, Tolle lege... tolle lege. ("Take and read... take and read.") and he picked up an open Bible and read the words, "Let us walk honestly, as in the day; not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying. But put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh, to fulfil the lusts thereof." And from that moment Augustine sought baptism and never looked back.

Encountering God's word changes us because to encounter the word is to encounter God. Each word that we speak carries just a bit of ourselves with it. How much more then do God's words represent God?

God's words change the world and change us. God scatters or broadcasts the divine word prodigally, liberally, extravagantly. God invites us to receive the word, but we should be aware that we do not know how it will change us.

Isaiah tells us what happens when we hear and heed God's word.

For you shall go out in joy,
and be led back in peace;
the mountains and the hills before you
shall burst into song,
and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.

A prayer for America (invocation for the U.S. Senate on Sept. 29, 1993)

Several years ago I had the privilege of serving as "chaplain of the day" for the United States Senate. It seems appropriate to post this to my weblog as Independence Day approaches.

Prayer for the U.S. Senate.

September 29, 1993.

God of our fathers and mothers, God of our children and grandchildren, yours alike are the Rockies' proud peaks and Shenandoah's green tranquillity; yours are the span of the Golden Gate and the slums of Watts and Harlem.

Hear us as we pray for this land between the shining seas, this home of the pilgrims' pride, these United States of America.

We praise you for America's diverse quilt; for pilgrims from Europe and Africa, from Asia and Latin America, for Creek and Choctaw and Sioux and all our native peoples. Bind our ethnic strands together in a pattern of harmony, peace, and understanding.

Grant the women and men of this great assembly keenness and openness of mind; where vision is bound to personal gain or partisan good, liberate it. Stay their minds upon justice and their hearts upon compassion; may their ears be open to the voices of the voiceless and their eyes to the problems of the present and the possibilities of the future.

Grant that all the people of the United States may employ their hands and hearts and minds and bodies in work that satisfies and delights.

May peace unfold in freedom and justice, and may conflict issue in creative reconciliation.

And grant that in all things we raise our hearts and voices in gratitude to you, O judge of nations and peoples, for in your wisdom you have set us upon a strong and high place, given us peace and prosperity, and called us to walk confidently into the future.

Amen.

Proper 9A: Wonder and secrets

I know I'm dating myself, but as a small child I loved the TV game show What’s My Line? Every week the celebrity panelists tried to guess the mystery guest’s secret. One week the guest would be an astronaut in training. Another week the guest would be the Sweet Potato Queen from Hickory, North Carolina.

Secrets seem anathema to the Christian faith. Jesus said, "I am the light of the world" and "You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free." And yet, he often cautioned those he had healed to tell no one about his miraculous powers. In today's gospel reading, Jesus claims that even God has secrets. "I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants..."There are some truths that seem more apparent to children. Hans Christian Andersen recognized this in his story, "The Emperor's New Clothes." The adults are all conditioned to believe that the emperor is wearing clothes so wondrously made that they are invisible or else they are afraid to tell the emperor the truth. But a little boy in the crowd spontaneously shouts out the truth that adults are too stupid or frightened to say: "The emperor has no clothes!"

It is commonplace in some churches to believe that the Christian faith may be more easily understood by the poorly educated than the well-educated, as though a lack of education confers some kind of special insight. John Wesley once received a letter from a man, who wrote, "Dear Mr. Wesley: God has no need of your fine learning." Wesley replied to him, saying, "Dear Sir: I am aware that God has no need of my learning. God has no need of your ignorance, either!" Jesus is not denouncing learning nor is he conferring a privileged status on ignorance or childishness. Rather, I think he is saying something like what Hans Christian Andersen was saying in "The Emperor's New Clothes." Sometimes it is children or others with little or nothing to lose who can see what others miss or at least what they are afraid to point out.

Author Robert Fulghum claimed that he learned everything he needed to know in kindergarten. Obviously, that's not quite true, but the lessons of childhood are perhaps the most important lessons of all. Share your toys and cookies; if someone is tired and discouraged a big hug is better than a martini; say your prayers every night. Compared to these lessons, a Ph.D. seems almost trivial.

So, what are the things that God has hidden "from the wise and the intelligent" and revealed to infants? Jesus has just finished denouncing the villagers of the Galilee. Matthew tells us that Jesus was going through the villages of Galilee, proclaiming the nearness of the kingdom of Heaven, healing the sick, and teaching. Then he sent out the Twelve to do what they had seen him do. And yet, his words and deeds of power seem to have had little effect. He denounced the villages of Galilee and compared them to Sodom. He seems to have meant that just as Sodom was grossly inhospitable to the angelic messengers who visited Lot, so the villages of Galilee had been inhospitable to Jesus and the Twelve.

Children possess the gift of wonder. When adults say that "Christmas is for children," they mean that a small child still believes and hopes and wishes with all her heart that reindeer fly and that Santa can squeeze down the chimney; she still sees the magic in a handful of tinsel and a few strands of twinkly lights on a scraggly spruce tree; and she still believes that the box of fancy soap she bought at Walmart for $5 is the best gift her mother will ever receive.

Adults too often have lost that sense of wonder. That's not entirely a bad thing. Adults have to pay taxes; go to work; and have the oil changed in the car. A sense of wonder can get in the way. But it's an expensive trade-off. The philosopher Paul Ricoeur wrote of the "second naiveté." The first naiveté is the wonder of childhood, which, in time, inevitably evaporates. Children grow up and become adults. Adult responsibilities drive out childish wonder. And if that were the end of the story, it would be sad indeed. But sometimes we recover a sense of wonder; that's the second naiveté. We know that reindeer do not fly but we may still be able to feel the magic and excitement in the story.

Perhaps the villagers of Galilee had lost their first naiveté but not yet arrived at their second naiveté. Miracle workers and itinerant teachers were no unusual sight in first century Palestine. When Jesus came to the Galilean villages and restored sight to the blind, cleansed lepers, and freed the oppressed from demonic power, did they yawn and say, "Very nice but last week we saw a rabbi make his assistant float in the air and then vanish. Do you know that one, Jesus?"

How is it with us? Have we lost our first naiveté but not yet acquired a second naiveté? What has happened to our sense of wonder? Do you still marvel at the works of God? Do you see God's hand at work when the clouds part and the sun shines through? When you look up at the starry sky, do you see God wind up his arm like a major league pitcher and scatter diamonds all across the deep blue of heaven? And above all do you marvel at the young prophet who embraced death on the cross to reconcile the world to God and who rose to new life on the third day? Does it strike you mute with wonder that God loves you and embraces you as a beloved child?

If wonder is missing from your life, if you no longer feel grateful beyond words for what God has done and is doing, try this: tell someone else the story. Tell a child, if possible, because their sense of wonder is contagious. Tell someone how God summoned worlds out of empty space; grabbed a lump of clay and fashioned humankind; called one people out of all the nations of the earth; and then in time's fullness came among us as one of us. Tell the story and you may feel again the wonder that you once knew. Because God hasn't really hidden anything. God's marvels are right in front of our eyes, if only we will open them.

Proper 8A: Making room for God

Say the word "hospitality," and what comes to mind? Do you think of a relative -a grandmother or an aunt, perhaps - who had the gift of hospitality? Who made everyone feel welcome in her home? Whose dinner table always had an extra place and who never let anyone leave the table without an extra helping of peach cobbler?Hospitality is an important and often overlooked theme in the Bible. God instructs Israel in no uncertain terms to show hospitality to strangers. “You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Deut. 10.19) According to the Old Testament, hospitality is not optional. It's a mitzvah, a commandment, a matter of justice.

The New Testament, too, places a premium on hospitality. When the religious leadership accused Jesus of "welcoming sinners and eating with them," (Luke 15.2) they were saying that he had showed hospitality to the wrong people. When Paul criticized the Christians at Corinth for letting the poor go hungry when the celebrated the Lord's Supper, (1 Cor. 11.20-21) he was accusing them of a breach of hospitality. And the author of Hebrews says that hospitality is important because some have "entertained angels unawares." (Heb. 13.2)

In today's gospel reading, Jesus commends hospitality four times: Normally, a rabbi would argue "from the lesser to the greater," but Jesus reverses the usual order and argues from the greater to the lesser. "Whoever receives you, receives me; whoever receives a prophet, will receive a prophet's reward; whoever receives a righteous person, will receive the reward of the righteous, and whoever "gives even a cup of cold water" to a "little one" will be rewarded.

Just prior to today's gospel reading Jesus sent out the Twelve to do the works they had seen him do - proclaim the nearness of the kingdom, heal the sick, and cast out demons. He sent them out with only the essentials - no money, no bag, no change of clothes - In other words, they were entirely dependent on hospitality.

We need to hear the Bible's message of hospitality because we live in a remarkably inhospitable world, a world of gated communities and exclusive country clubs. Harvard sociologist Robert Putnam sounded the alarm in his book Bowling Alone. Putnam argues that since World War II social engagement between Americans of all kinds has fallen off drastically. We no longer join the PTA and the Rotary Club; church and synagogue attendance has fallen off; we less frequently entertain people in our homes. Instead, we live in a world in which people are "cocooning" - staying at home, watching DVDs instead of going to the movies and having pizza delivered to their door. In short, we live in a world that needs hospitality.

Hospitality has two dimensions: First and foremost, the Bible commands hospitality because of the vulnerability of the stranger. In the ancient world the stranger was just as vulnerable and marginalized as the widow or orphan. Indeed, when the Bible speaks of widows and orphans, it often speaks of the stranger, too. “Father and mother are treated with contempt in you; the alien residing within you suffers extortion; the orphan and the widow are wronged in you.” (Ezek. 22.7) Travelers who were miles away from their homes had no claim on the protection or hospitality of those among whom they traveled. There were no hotels and restaurants, no police forces, no means of easy communication in times of crisis. The Bible's command to show hospitality to strangers is of a piece with the imperative of justice. The imperative of justice is to care for those who have no right to claim our kindness and hospitality. In other words, we are to behave toward others as God has behaved toward us: compassionate toward those who have no claim on our compassion.

The second dimension of hospitality is how it affects those who show hospitality. Why do you suppose our world is so inhospitable? I think the answer is simple: fear. To be hospitable makes us vulnerable and we are afraid of vulnerability. To open our homes to others, especially strangers but even friends, opens us to criticism, the judgment of others; it could even open us to crime. So we wall out the world. We isolate ourselves behind the walls of our houses; behind fences and security systems; behind police forces and deadly weapons. We isolate ourselves in front of our televisions and computer terminals, not letting in anyone - the stranger on the corner, the friend down the street, not even God. In short, the failure to be hospitable is a failure of faith. We do not admit the stranger to our homes and lives because we are not sure that we can depend on the God who mandates hospitality.

What would happen if we heard and heeded the Bible's message of hospitality? It would certainly be good news for the hungry and homeless. The streets of our great cities are full of those who would be glad of a blanket, a warm place to sleep, and a bowl of soup. But it might be even better news for those of us who show hospitality to them, because it would bring us out of the cocoons of our own making into the light and fresh air. It would free us to show compassion and mercy. And most of all, it would open us to God. The outrageous promise that Jesus makes to those who show hospitality is that if they open themselves to those with no claim on their compassion and kindness, they will be opening themselves to God. "Whoever receives me, receives the one who sent me..." And after all, who really needs hospitality? Is it the bag lady rooting through the dumpster? The vet who stands at the end of the freeway offramp with his American flag and homemade sign? Of course, they need our hospitality, but not as much as every single one of us needs God's hospitality. God shows us what hospitality is all about by receiving those who have no claim on the divine love, by extending the circle of divine compassion to include the unlovely and unloveable, and by inviting every single one of us to sit down at the heavenly banquet.

Proper 7A: Family values

A recent PBS documentary set the cat among the pigeons by implying that Jesus might have been married to Mary Magdalene. Conservative Protestants and Roman Catholics, in particular, were scandalized at the thought. It is unlikely in the extreme that Jesus ever married, but there is something odd in the furor inspired by the PBS program. Does it strike you as strange that it is precisely the people who are most upset by the suggestion that Jesus might have been married are also the ones who are most vociferous about so-called "family values"?"Family values" has become the rallying cry of the religious right, and in many ways, I think they are on to something important. Drug abuse, crime, education, divorce, unwanted children, domestic abuse… Certainly better parenting and healthier families would do a lot to alleviate these and other social problems.So, of course, we would expect Jesus to be on the side of family values.

What did Jesus have to say about family values? Listen to these words from today's gospel reading:"Do not think that I have come to bring peace on earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and a man's foes will be those of his own household." (Matt. 10.34-35)Uh oh... I hope the Christian Coalition doesn't hear about this. They might try to have Jesus banned from the Internet or at least have the National Endowment for the Humanities cut off his funding.

I'm not trying to be facetious, but it's a little difficult to see Jesus waving the banner of family values as understood by many on the religious right. Jesus' relationship with his own family seems to have been very troubled, and the trouble started at the very beginning. When Joseph learned that his fiancée Mary was pregnant before the marriage, he seriously considered calling the whole thing off, and was only dissuaded from it by a direct message from God delivered in a dream. When he was 12 years old, the boy Jesus remained in the Temple rather than returning to Nazareth with Mary and Joseph. When they found the boy missing from their traveling party, they returned to the Temple and found him conversing with the learned men. Mary scolded Jesus rather sharply and said, "Son, why have you treated us so? Behold your father and I have been looking for you anxiously". And Jesus replied equally sharply, "Did you not know that I must be in my Father's house?"

By identifying the Temple as "his Father's house" rather than Joseph's house in Nazareth, the 12 year old Jesus was already declaring his independence from his family. Wouldn't that be an interesting Gospel reading for Father's Day?And when Jesus finally launched his ministry of teaching and miraculous cures, his family believed that he was possessed by a demon and tried to seize him and bring him home with them.

It was as though a family in our day and time were trying to abduct and "de-program" a child who had joined a cult. When Jesus learned what his family was trying to do, he looked around at his disciples and said, "Who are my mother and brothers? Whoever does the will of God is my brother, and sister and mother".(Mark 3.34) In effect, he disowned his earthly family and announced the creation of a new, spiritual family.Jesus and family values are an uneasy combination. Between the beginning of his ministry and his crucifixion his family consisted of a motley group of disciples that included both men and women. Many of them seem to have abandoned their own families. The gospels tell us that when Jesus called Peter and James and John that they dropped their fishing nets and followed him. In other words, they simply walked away from jobs and families to follow an itinerant prophet. This "family" that followed Jesus wandered from place to place. They seem to have supported themselves by asking for handouts. No wonder Jesus made the authorities nervous!

Now, don't misunderstand me: Jesus never endorsed disobedience to parents or encouraged husbands to leave their wives or vice versa. And Jesus was no advocate of irresponsibility. But the teachings of Jesus radically challenged the idea of family in the first century and perhaps in our world, too.In the first century, family was everything. One was a Jew because one's mother was Jewish. One didn't choose the Jewish faith; one was born into it. That was why Nicodemus found Jesus so puzzling. "You must be born again," Jesus said to Nicodemus, and the learned Nicodemus replied, "How can this be? Can one enter again into one's mother's womb?" Nicodemus saw no need for a second birth. He had been born a Jew and a Pharisee and no greater heritage was imaginable. We've become so accustomed to the phrase "born again" that we do not see what a revolutionary idea it was in first century Judaism. It implied a radical rejection of the whole structure of Judaism. One was to be born again not by blood but by the spirit. One was to be born not into an earthly family but into a spiritual one. One's earthly ancestors became completely irrelevant.It was not just first century Judaism that made the family central. It was true of the Roman Empire, as well. Family was everything. The family was the central institution in Rome. The father of a family was known as the paterfamilias, and he had almost absolute power over those in his household. But Jesus taught his disciples to call no one father except God. With a stroke, Jesus severed the ties that bound his disciples both to their earthly families and to the larger societies of which families were and are the basic units."I have not come to bring peace but a sword. I will set father against son and mother against daughter..." Jesus came to found an entirely new kind of family. And it didn't take long before first the Jewish authorities and later the Roman authorities realized just how dangerous his ideas were.

A tribe is just an extension of the family or a collection of families. It is odd at the beginning of the 21st century to find tribalism reasserting itself. The conflicts in Northern Ireland and the Middle East and the Indian subcontinent are tribal wars. In a sense, they are family warfare. Protestant families against Catholic families; Muslim families against Jewish families; Hindu families against Muslim families. People are hated and killed simply because of who their parents and grandparents were.

At their best, families are places of love and warmth and nurture. And I would venture to say that the healthiest families are those in which there is enough love not only for those who have a claim to it by their birth but also for those outside the circle of the family. God is constantly probing at us and our families to see if our love excludes or includes, if we will constrict the circle of our love or open our arms wide. Jesus challenges our idea of family values because he preached a gospel of love without limits. Nowhere does Jesus encourage neglect of family. Rather, he asks us to love the poor, the hungry, and the homeless alongside our own parents and children. Jesus preached a "both/and" love, not an "either/or" love.

Did Jesus preach an impossible ethic? Yes. Does that mean that the bar is set so high that we might as well not even try? Not at all. Instead, Jesus expects us to learn to love by loving those in our families and then extending that love to those outside, to those with no claim on our love, to those whom no one loves. God put us in families because families are schools of love. Our families are schools of love, because it's very difficult to love someone you share a bathroom with! We are put in families because it's usually easiest to love those who are similar to us, but unfortunately, that's where we stop all too often. Loving those whom we know, loving people who love us, is only love's most basic arithmetic, but Jesus challenges us to go on and learn love's advanced calculus. We must love our families, to be sure, but that is only the first step on love's journey, a journey whose ultimate destination is to learn to love those who are completely different from us and perhaps even repellent to us.

Love your spouse. Love your children. Love your parents. Love your sisters and brothers. Love yourself. But don't let your love stop at the front door. Instead, keep your hearts and your homes wide open, because Jesus is coming to knock on your door.

Proper 6A: The two movements of the Christian life

Have you ever seen a labyrinth or walked one? Whether or not you’ve seen or walked a labyrinth, you probably know what I’m talking about.

A few years ago, Grace Cathedral in San Francisco reintroduced the labyrinth as a spiritual discipline. A labyrinth is simple a large circular pattern which one walks as a means of mediation of prayer. The labyrinth at Grace Cathedral is a copy of a very ancient labyrinth at Chartres Cathedral in France.

In an article The Birmingham News did about labyrinths a few years ago, they noted that "Walkers sometimes find themselves near each other; sometimes not. They find themselves sometimes near the center/destination, then suddenly distant, then unexpectedly at the end of the journey."

I want to suggest that there are two fundamental movements in our spiritual lives that such a maze or labyrinth reveals to us: the movements are coming in and going out.

The gospels suggest much the same thing.

In last week's gospel Jesus summoned Matthew to follow him, "Follow me". It was, as I pointed out, a phrase Jesus used at critical points in his ministry. He summoned Peter and Andrew, the first disciples with the same words: "Follow me". And he invited his followers to "take up their cross" and follow him.

In today's gospel reading having already called the Twelve to follow him, having already invited them in, Jesus sends them out. "...he called to him his twelve disciples and gave them authority over unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to heal every disease and eveyr infirmity.... These twelve Jesus sent out..."

As it is in the great maze of Chartres Cathedral, so it is in our lives. We are both invited to move in toward the center and also sent out to the edge. Jesus invites us into his fellowship, saying, "Follow me", and he also sends us out in mission and ministry.

These are the two fundamental movements of the Christian life. We are invited to follow Jesus and learn from him. He pours his life into us. But then we are sent out.

The Christian life is much like the growth of a child into an adult. As infants we can do nothing for ourselves. We are carried about, our parents change our diapers, feed us, and in time educate us. But the time comes when we reach a certain age and can be given responsibility. At first, the responsibilities are simple; we are told to clean our rooms, to feed the dog, to take out the garbage. But eventually we are given more responsibility. We go to college, get a job, get married, and eventually have children of our own. But we never cease to need the loving care and concern of others.

And so it is with the Christian life. Imagine the Christian life as a spiral. It begins with baptism when we are baptized into Christ, put on Christ, are filled for the first time with the Spirit Christ pours out on all those who are baptized. This following Christ and being filled by him continue as we learn about the Christian life.

But as we grow and learn as Christians, we, too, are given responsibility. There comes the time when Christ says to us, as he said to the Twelve, "... heal the sick, raise the dead, cleanse lepers, cast out demons..." Sound scary? Good! It is. But it is not impossible.

Coming back home for rest and nourishment and going out in service -- these are the two parts of the Christian life. If either part of the Christian life is missing, then something is gravely wrong. We constantly need to be renewed in worship and the sacraments. And we also constantly need to take that life offered to us and give it away.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, "When Christ calls us, he bids us come and die." Bonhoeffer phrased that a little too dramatically. I think it would be more accurate to say, "When Christ calls us, he bids us come and give our lives." We can give our lives dramatically, as when a martyr dies for the faith, but we can also give our lives day by day, offering to the world the life that God is constantly pouring into us.

The gospel is founded on the concept that the death of Christ brings life to those who put their faith in the God who was in Christ. The classic statement of this is in today's epistle: "While we were yet sinners Christ died for us."

In other words, the death of Christ was sacrificial. The idea that Christ's death was sacrificial is troubling to many. Sacrifice seems such a primitive and unpleasant concept. But the idea behind sacrifice is simple and true. A sacrifice is simply the giving of life in order that life may be received.

In some mysterious way, the death of Christ upon the Cross opened a channel through which God was able to pour life and grace into the world. We are the recipients of that life and grace. In response, we are asked to make our lives sacrificial. We are asked to be channels through which that life and grace can flow to others. "Freely have ye received, freely give."

Coming in and going out... the two movements of the spiritual life. Of the two parts, I suppose the one more likely to be overemphasized is coming in. We are content to go to church, sing hymns, and listen to sermons (provided they are not too long), but when we are dismissed, "Go in peace to love and serve the Lord", do we hear those as anything more than the last words of the liturgy? Do we in fact go out "to love and serve the Lord?"

Worship mirrors life. The liturgy starts with the same words with which we are baptized: "Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit" and then they end with the words, “Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” I want to suggest that the words of dismissal are not the last words of the Sunday liturgy. They are the first words of the liturgy in which we are all engaged every day of our lives.

Update

I just want to let people know that I haven't abandoned my blog. I am working feverishly right now to finish up the first 100 pages or so of a book for the University of Alabama Press. The tentative title is Bishop, Bourbons, and Big Mules: The Episcopal Church in Alabama from 1830 to 2000. Several years ago I wrote a brief history of the Diocese of Alabama as the introduction to a collection of photographs of all the parish churches in the diocese. At that time I suggested to the Press that I expand the essay into a book, and they were interested. Then I got busy with other things and put it aside. Early this year they contacted me and (in effect) asked, "So, how's the book coming?" And I decided that I'd get back to work and finish it. I'm making a lot of progress and have nearly finished the section from 1830 to 1861 (1861 was the year that the first bishop died, the second bishop was elected, and the Civil War broke out).

Anyway, I will be updating this blog from time to time but not as frequently as I was. However, I am also taking on a short-term interim and so hope to have some fresh material to add to the blog.

Those of you who have linked to my website and blog, please don't give up on me! And if you read my website even casually, please let me hear from you.

In the meantime, have a look at some of my sermons and watch for new ones I'll be adding. I've reviewed at least one more book for "What I'm reading" but have to work on the website machinery so that you can see it, and that may take a while.

Blessings!

Trinity Sunday: "In the beginning..."

“In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth…” In my mind’s ear I always hear the opening words of the Bible set to music, sung by a chorus of thousands, and accompanied by an orchestra with offstage trumpets and trombones. Alternatively, I hear it read by James Earl Jones, who has a voice so deep and resonant that I’m sure even God is envious.

However, today the focus is not on creation but on the Creator. The first chapter of Genesis begs the question, “Who is this God who created and creates, who spoke and who speaks yet?” And the church throughout the ages answers by telling us that God is Trinity – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit… Eternal Majesty, Incarnate Word, and Paraclete.

But before we come to the doctrine of the Trinity, let’s consider another way of naming or knowing God. When you meet a stranger, after you have asked their name, the second question is likely to be, “What do you do?” And that more fully identifies or names that person. “I’m Barry, and I’m a priest.” Or “I’m David, and I’m a city planner.” So if we were to interview the God of Genesis and say, “Help us to know you better. What is it that you do? What is your job description?” On the basis of the first chapter of Genesis, God might say, “I speak, create, and rest.”

First, God speaks. “Let there be light, and there was light.” Cue the brass choir, timpani, and lasers. Cue the Big Bang. When God speaks, people listen, and things happen. When we speak, there are no trumpets, timpani, or lasers pouring light into the void. It would be as futile for us to try to materialize a cup of coffee by saying, “Let there be Starbucks,” as for us to say, “Let there be light.” But God speaks with power and authority; our words seem puny in comparison. Or are they?

On Trinity Sunday we hear God speak the heavens and the earth into being, but last week on Pentecost, we heard Jesus’ followers also speak a new world into being. And here we have a clue to the Trinity: God puts divine power into our speech, too. As I said last week, words are powerful. They create and they destroy. The doctrine of the Trinity arose out of the church’s experience of a God who was not only in heaven but also on earth. They found God beyond them and also among them, and yet they knew that God was one. So gradually they began to name this God among them as the Holy Spirit. As they told the new story of how God had come among them as Jesus of Nazareth, they discovered that their words had power.

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus gives a commission to his followers that is largely about using words: “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you.” And note that he commissioned them in the Name of the Trinity. Do not discount the power of words. The followers of Jesus converted the world not only by martyrdom but also by telling a new story, more persuasive than the old ones. The Star Wars’ movies thrive not only because of their special effects, but also because the story of the courageous Jedi battling the Dark Lords has captured out imagination. Go and tell the story, and watch how powerful your words can be. Watch new worlds spring into being.

Secondly, God creates. We are not only like God in being able to speak powerfully; we are also like God in being creators. Note that I did not say that we are like God in being creative (although I think everyone is creative, too). All of us create. Is your job routine, boring, and humdrum? Are you retired? Are you unable to work because of some handicap? It doesn’t matter. You are still a creator. The chief way that both God and humans create is through love. Love is the most powerful creative force in the universe.

The answer to the old question, “Why is there something rather than nothing?” is simple. Because of love; specifically, because God loves. To be sure, God loved before the first whale swam in the Pacific or antelopes grazed on the Serengeti or before there was a single star in the Milky Way. God loved before all these things because God is Trinity. But God created because it is the nature of love to create and the nature of true creativity to love.

Love creates. When you fall in love with someone, doesn’t a whole new world come into being? When you vow to love someone until death do you part, you are vowing to create a world with that person, however slow and painstaking the process. Parenting is largely about loving a child into being, in other words, parenting is about creating a new world, or at least a new corner of an old world.

Finally, God rested. What are we to understand about this assertion that God rested on the seventh day? Does God get tired? Does God need to take naps? A rabbinic tale might help us to understand this. The rabbis say that the Holy One filled all immensity before the world was and there was no place where God was not. Neither was there any room for a world, for God was all and in all. So God drew back the robe of the Divine Glory to make room for a world. The rabbis explain that this means that God gives the world room to be itself. God is not merely the divine watchmaker, nor the world just a piece of wind-up machinery. Rather, God created the kind of world in which the world and all its inhabitants also have the power to create. God makes the world so that it makes itself, for only so can the world be itself.

What I understand by Genesis’ statement that God rested is that God drew back a little. God granted the world (and especially human beings) a degree of autonomy. We now have the responsibility to create as God created, to love as God loves. Where things are amiss, we are to set them right; where the world is broken, we are to mend it. Another helpful idea from the rabbis is tikkun olam, which literally means “repairing the world”. Tikkun olam, repairing the world is the task God has given us to do.

One of the early Church Fathers said that God became human so that humans could become gods. In other words, God became human so that humans could fully share the divine life. We already share the divine life to the extent that we tell God’s new story, love one another, and participate in mending the world. The God Who Is Three and One has placed the divine image in each heart. Our task is to live into that image and so share the divine life.

And so to God our Mothering Father, God the Incarnate Word, and God the Holy Spirit, ever three and ever one, be blessing and honor and glory and majesty, both now and unto the ages of ages. Amen.

Religion and Politics: A letter to The Atlanta Constitution

On May 2, Joel Bookman of The Atlanta Constitution published an editorial entitled "Faith should be personal, not political." I agreed with his overall conclusion but not with the route he took to get there. Here's a link to his article followed by my letter to Bookman about his editorial.

http://www.ajc.com/opinion/content/opinion/bookman/2005/050205.html

Dear Mr. Bookman:

Like you , I am outraged by the attempt to place far right jurists on the federal bench via an assault on the Senate’s filibuster rule, but I’m troubled by your reasoning. In your editorial of 5/2/05 (“Faith should be personal, not political”) I believe you reached the correct destination but took several wrong and potentially dangerous turns to get there.

You state that one of the “traditional values of the American people” is that “religion should never be “injected directly into politics” and that “…religion and politics, when mixed, inevitably corrupt each other.” Not so. Religion has been “injected directly into politics” a number of times in American history, mostly with beneficial results.

In spite of Jefferson’s celebrated “wall” between church and state (a good thing, in my opinion), religion has an important role to play in the public square. Jefferson himself wrote in the Declaration of Independence that one of the “self-evident” truths we hold is that “all men are created equal [and]… are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights,” he was injecting religion into politics. Or when Lincoln opined in his second inaugural address that the Civil War had been God’s “scourge” upon America for “the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil,” he was making an explicitly religious statement. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., was injecting religion directly into the political bloodstream when he began every one of his marches and demonstrations with prayer or when he received the Nobel Peace Prize and proclaimed that “I still believe that one day mankind will bow before the altars of God and be crowned triumphant over war and bloodshed and nonviolent redemptive good will will be proclaimed the rule of the land.”

The practice of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam cannot be merely private devotional exercises. These faiths lead their followers to take certain positions that have public implications. The abortion debate is a good example. Some Christians are persuaded by the Bible and the church’s teaching that human life begins at conception and deserves the protection that all human life enjoys. Other Christians are equally persuaded that human life does not begin at conception and that a woman’s right to exercise control over her body outweighs the rights (if any) of the fetus.

Religious ideas, like all other ideas, have the right to be considered in the intellectual and political marketplace. The public square should neither privilege religion nor exclude it. However, the public square is a religiously-neutral location and once there religious ideas are on an equal footing with all other ideas. In the church (or synagogue or mosque) it may be enough to say, “Thus says the Lord…” but that does not work in the public square. In the free marketplace of ideas, reason and pragmatism hold sway. Abolitionism and equal rights for African Americans were conceived in prayer and Bible study, but they prevailed in public because their advocates argued and won their debate through passion, reason, and the willingness to put their livelihoods and sometimes their lives on the line.

The wall between church (or synagogue or mosque or temple) and state exists to prevent the imposition of a state-endorsed religion upon the American people. It should not prevent the faithful from fighting for their convictions using the time-honored tools of persuasion. We cannot and should not (and it would be dangerous if we could) exclude religion from the public square. Religion speaks with many voices and these voices have as much right (no more but no less) to speak out on issues that confront us as any other voice. To make religion purely personal and private (as you call for in your article) would impoverish our public conversation. Furthermore, it would require a drastic revision of American history beginning with “We hold these truths…” and ending with “I have a dream…”

Yours sincerely,

The Rev. J. Barry Vaughn, Ph.D.

Easter 6A: "If... then..."

Way back in 1978 someone told me that computers were going to be important some day and I should take a computer class, and I believed them. Silly me! I was silly not because they were wrong. Obviously, they were right. In the 27 years since graduation, computers have become far more important than either my friend or I could have imagined. I was silly because what I learned in that class was probably obsolete even before the end of the semester. However, if I’d taken another class on Shakespeare or Plato, I would have benefited from that for the rest of my life. That’s the sermon I preach to my students at the University of Alabama, but it’s not the sermon I want to preach to you today.

There was one thing I learned in that computer class that has stuck with me and seems applicable to today’s gospel reading. One of the fundamentals of computer language is the “if/then” statement. In the code, that is, the language in which software is written, one of the most common commands is “if/then”/ For example, when you are using a word processing program and try to exit the program without saving the document, the program will stop you and say, “Do you want to save this document before exiting the program?” Obviously, one of Bill Gates’ employees in Redmond, WA, wrote an ‘if/then” command which goes something like this, “IF Barry Vaughn is absent-minded enough to exit Word without saving his sermon, THEN stop him before he loses everything he has typed and remind him to save it.”

If/then commands aren’t just part of computer software, they are a part of life. Sometimes life seems to be mostly about “if/then” commands. If you want a paycheck at the end of the month, then you need to get up and go to work five days a week. If you don’t want to sleep on the sofa, then you need to remember to send your wife some flowers for Mother’s Day. If you want your car to keep on running, then you have to put gas in the tank and change the oil. And on and on it goes…

Most of the “if/thens” we encounter in life are either neutral or beneficial, such as the three I mentioned. However, some “if/thens” are toxic. Sometimes families expect certain behaviors in exchange for love. “No son or daughter of mine is going to marry outside our race or religion, so If you want to continue to be a part of our family, THEN you will marry someone we approve of.” Or sometimes the conversation goes like this, “You must be crazy to want to study Shakespeare instead of computer science. If you want us to help you pay for college, THEN you better study something that we think is practical.”

Do you see what’s wrong with those “if/then” statements? Our families should be places of unconditional love, but in dysfunctional families, there are certain expectations that must be met in order to receive love. Of course, family members can and should hold each other accountable, but it’s wrong to make love conditional on a family member’s “performance” or willingness to toe the family line.

The Christian faith is about unconditional love from beginning to end, but in today’s gospel reading it sounds as though Jesus is putting conditions on his love. “If you love me,” Jesus says, “you will keep my commandments.”

Jesus seems to be saying that his love is conditional: “If you love me, then I will love you” and I believe that that is the way that most Christians understand the gospel. In spite of the great principle of the Reformation that God’s love is a free gift, the majority of us act as though we have to earn God’s love. One Sunday when the gospel reading was the parable of the prodigal son, one of my older parishioners said, “I always thought the father let that boy off way too easy!” And probably at times, most of us have felt the same way. God seems to let some people get off way too easy. However, the truth is God lets all of us off easy.

The Christian life involves discipline and is demanding, but that doesn’t mean that God’s love toward us is conditional on our ability to meet certain requirements. But the grace, mercy, and love of God are poured out on us in abundance in spite (not because) of our behavior. This was Paul’s stunning insight in Romans 5.8: “But God shows his love for us in that while we were YET sinners, Christ died for us.”

This is also what Jesus is saying in John 14.15: “If you love me, you will keep my commandments.” The “if” misleads us. We read this as though Jesus said, “If you keep my commandments, then I will love you.” But keeping the commandments does not persuade God to love us; rather, loving God motivates us to keep the commandments. It is the same insight that Augustine had when he said, “Love God, and do as you please.”

Jesus tells us about a God whose love contains no “if/thens.” Even as I say that I feel uneasy, and maybe some of you do, too. It sounds far too simple. What about the commandments, the rules, the obligations that go along with being a Christian? No question about it: there are plenty of “thou shalts” and “thou shalt nots” in the Bible. But if we believe that the Bible is one big “if/then” statement, then we’ve misunderstood it. In today’s gospel reading Jesus does NOT say, IF you keep my commandments, THEN I will love you.” Rather, he says, “If you love me, then you will keep my commandments.” Obedience is our response to God’s love; not a condition for receiving it.

It is only human to believe that God’s love is something we must earn. Observing the numerous temples and altars on Athens’ Areopagus, Paul said, “I see that you are very religious in every way.” And so they were. Greek and Roman religion (and nature religions of every kind) operate on the belief that there are powers or gods that are by their nature indifferent or hostile to us. The purpose of religion is to win their favor by performing rituals and offering sacrifices. The great insight of Judaism and Christianity is that God loves us and longs to have a relationship with us. Make no mistake: like any relationship we go through bad patches. We often make each other angry. But the Bible assures us that (like the father in the parable of the prodigal son) God’s arms are always wide-open.

The gospel is good news, not bad news. It is not about a set of conditions we have to fulfill in order to be loved. The Bible is a love story or better yet a love letter with your name and my name on the envelope. It is an invitation to fall in love with the God who loves us first, last, and in between.

The way, the truth, and the life

Today’s readings present us with an uneasy mixture of comfort and challenge. On one hand, we have the stirring words of 1 Peter 2: “But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God's own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light. Once you were not a people, but now you are God's people; once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy.” And then we have the words from John 17 that are so familiar to us from funerals and have brought hope to many at the time of death: “"Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.”

On the other hand we have the terrible story of the stoning of Stephen. Even Psalm 31 begs the question, “If God ‘inclines’ his ear to us, then why did Stephen’s enemies take his life in such a barbarous way?”

But the hardest words in today’s readings are Jesus’ reply to Thomas, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” They’re hard and difficult because they offend our modern sensibilities. We want to believe that there are many paths, many ways, many truths. That what is true for you may be different from what is true for me. The essence of post-modernism is the idea that truth is a social construction; there is no absolute truth or objectivity.

To a large extent, this is correct, and we can credit the physicist Werner Heisenberg with this insight. Heisenberg’s “uncertainty principle” states that one can know either the location of an electron or its speed but one cannot know both at the same time. The process of determining the speed changes the location and knowing the location changes the speed. It’s a very commonsense position to take. Observation always changes, however subtly, both the observer and the thing observed.

But that is not the same thing as saying that the electron is not there at all or that speed is not a thing that can be measured. Gertrude Stein famously remarked about her hometown of Oakland, CA, “There’s no there there.” But in the case of the electron (or anything else we observe), “There IS a there there.” What we have to keep in mind is that our knowledge is always partial, finite, and influenced by our self-interest. It’s an insight that St. Paul had long ago: “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood.” (1 Cor. 13.12)

But the person in the pew wants to know, “Is Jesus the only way to God? Will my Muslim or Jewish or Buddhist neighbor be ‘saved’?” The answer is both simple and complex. We have to take Jesus at his word. He claims to be THE way, and we are not authorized to proclaim any other way. Karl Rahner suggested that there may be “anonymous Christians,” i.e., those who know Christ without knowing him by name. That is a helpful idea but it simply moves the difficulty back one step. Not many Jews or Muslims would like to be told, “It’s OK. You’re really Christians without knowing it.”

I think what we can say is that Jesus is the way we know. We can and should acknowledge that goodness, wisdom, and even holiness are often found in other faiths (and often missing in the Christian faith) But we must maintain a reverent agnosticism about how God will deal with those of other faiths.

Now, here’s the hard part: We also need to maintain a degree of uncertainty about how God will deal with us. This is not to undermine Christian hope and assurance but simply to recognize the fact that not only is our knowledge of God impaired by our finitude and self-interest but even our knowledge of ourselves is impaired. But if our hope were that we are redeemed because we know and love God so well, then we would be (to quote Paul again), “of all men and women most to be pitied” (1 Cor. 15.19). Our hope is that God knows and love us. We have hope for ourselves and our neighbors of other faiths because there IS a way, a truth, and a life. Our knowledge of that way is inevitably partial and biased and we often go astray but we are confident not because we know the Way but because the Way knows us.

Easter 3A: "But we had hoped..."

“That very day two of them were going to a village named Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing together, Jesus himself drew near and went with them.” (Luke 24.13‑15)

Cleopas and his friend were indistinguishable from the other pilgrims returning to their homes after that Passover. Observant Jews, they had “gone up to Jerusalem” for Passover, one of three feasts designated by the Torah as “feasts of pilgrimage”, occasions when Jews were directed to go, if at all possible, to the holy city of Jerusalem.

Yet, if one looked more closely at them, one might discern a heaviness of step, a downcast look, an occasional tear falling from their eyes. And if one had overheard their conversation, one would have been very surprised indeed.

Here and there on the narrow dirt track that sloped gently down from the Judean highlands toward the coastal plain small groups of pilgrims walked. Then, as the sun dipped into the Mediterranean and the shadows began to stretch from the hills toward the sea, a solitary figure joined the two engaged in intense conversation.

“Shalom aleichem”, he said. The ancient Hebrew greeting meant, “Peace be with you.” “Shalom”, they replied.

“What are you talking about?”

And Cleopas began to tell him the story that had already gone over and over again and that they would be repeating for the rest of their lives.

“His name was Jesus and he came from Nazareth. That’s where we met him—in Galilee, for we, too, are Galileans. He came to our synagogue one Sabbath and the president of the synagogue asked him to read from the prophet Isaiah. Jesus came to the bema, the platform on which the lectern holding the scrolls stood, and he read, ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me ...he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor’. But he didn’t just read the words; he lived out their meaning. Wherever he went the blind saw, the lame walked, lepers were cleansed. We rejoiced and wondered, for it seemed as if he was the one God had sent to redeem Israel. And then he set out for Jerusalem. We followed, ecstatic with anticipation. At last, we thought, Roman tyranny will be overthrown and God will restore the throne of David. But we were wrong, oh, how wrong! One of our own company betrayed him; Jesus was given a mock trial, and the Roman procurator sent him to the cross.
He died on the cross, that we know, but three days later, some foolish women went to the tomb and came back with an unbelievable tale. They said that his tomb was empty. They even said that angels had appeared to them saying that he had risen. But how can we believe that? It’s just too good to be true.”

The stranger listened intently to all that Cleopas said, and then replied, “What is unbelievable about the tale of the women? Is it more unbelievable than the story of our father Abraham who was already old when God promised that he would become the father of nations? Is it more unbelievable than the story of a handful of defeated slaves in Egypt whom God redeemed with signs and wonders? Is it more unbelievable than the story of Judah’s exiles who wept by the rivers of Babylon and then returned and rebuilt the Temple that stands in Jerusalem to this day? Yes, God has promised that Messiah will come but God’s Messiah may come in humility, not grandeur. He may come to share in our suffering before he brings us God’s victory.”

And so they continued until they come to Emmaus. Cleopas implored the stranger to stay with them and not go on to his destination. After they had rinsed the dust from their hands, Cleopas set a simple supper of bread and wine on the table. And as each of them took bread and said the ancient Hebrew blessing, the eyes of Cleopas and his companion were drawn to the stranger as he lifted the bread from the table and blessed and broke and gave it to them. And then... he was gone.

We may not go again to walk with Cleopas and his companion from Jerusalem to Emmaus. But we may find a stranger walking with us as we go down the roads of our lives. For surely, the experience of Jesus’ disciples will be our experience, too. We, like them, may find our hopes shattered. What Cleopas said to the mysterious stranger was deeply poignant, “But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”

How often have we said, “But we had hoped...”?

“But we had hoped... that we would be successful in getting work... but we had hoped... that this relationship would last and bring love and contentment to our lives... but we had hoped ... that the doctors would find a cure...”

And perhaps as we wondered if we had hoped in vain, did someone draw near and speak a word of comfort and hope to us? Did someone remind us that God has entered into human life in all its joy and sorrow? Did someone remind you that on the Cross God took and blessed and broke God’s own life and offered it to us in the midst of suffering so that all human sadness and pain might become vehicles of God’s presence?

Are you saying even now, “But we had hoped...”? Then draw near to this table, where Jesus invites us to take again the bread that he blessed and broke and gave. And open your eyes and your hearts and be hopeful. The women who went to the tomb were right: he is risen. Alleluia! He is risen, indeed!

Easter 2A: Breaking out and breaking in

“When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you’.” (John 20.19-31)

A few years ago the action/adventure hit of the summer was the Nicholas Cage movie The Rock It is set in San Francisco, and the plot concerns a terrorist takeover of the abandoned prison on Alcatraz Island. To defeat them the U.S. government must break into the prison. Who better to break into the prison than someone who had previously escaped from Alcatraz? But Alcatraz had been so secure that only one man had ever escaped from it, and that is the man to whom the government turned in desperation.

And what, you might well ask, does The Rock have to do with the Gospel of Jesus Christ?
The gospel of Easter Day is great, good news, indeed: Jesus rose from the dead. If you will, he escaped from the prison of death that awaits each of us. The great hymns of Easter celebrate this aspect of the Feast of the Resurrection: “He is risen, he is risen! Tell it out with joyful voice: he has burst his three days’ prison; let the whole wide earth rejoice.”

But the gospel reading for the second Sunday of Easter is even better news: No sooner had Christ broken out of the prison of death than he broke into the prison of fear in which his followers were still trapped.

Nothing illustrates this better than the story in John 20.19-31: “When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’” Jesus’ followers had not yet grasped the reality of the resurrection; they had not yet begun to live into the meaning of Easter.

Easter is about Christ’s escape from the tomb, but it is not about his escape from his humanity. The miracle of Easter is not so much that Christ rose from the dead; if he was the Son of God, that is what one would expect. The miracle is that he remains bound by love to his followers, and comes to be with us in the trials, hardships, and fears of human life.

The Rock is a misleading movie. Its makers would have us believe that Alcatraz was the most secure prison in the world. However, the thickest prison walls are those of the prison of fear in which so many live. And yet fear is a prison locked from the inside; the key is always in our hands.

The taste of fear is all too familiar to us: the disciples feared the Jewish authorities, the child fears the dark. and all of us fear death. But the Christ who “burst his three days prison” specializes in breaking into the prisons of fear that we build for ourselves.

Charles Wesley put it well in his hymn “And can it be”:

Long my imprisoned spirit lay
Fast bound in sin and nature’s night;
Thine eye diffused a quickening ray—
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light;
My chains fell off, my heart was free.
I rose, went forth, and followed Thee.

When we live into the promise of the resurrection, we can let go of fear, and take hold of the promise of the Risen Christ: “Peace be with you”. Even in the midst of fear, the Risen Christ comes to speak peace. But he gives us more than a word; he gives us himself. Just as the Risen Christ stretched out his wounded hands to Thomas, he stretches them out to us.

The Bad News of Easter

A few years ago I participated in a seminar with clergy of several different denominations. In a discussion of the passion narratives of the four gospels, the pastor of a large Presbyterian church said, “I think we are embarrassed by the crucifixion.” After a moment of thought, I challenged him. “I don’t think the crucifixion embarrasses us as much as the resurrection. After all, we’ve all seen what the world does to brave people who speak out – they become martyrs. But what we haven’t seen is anyone rise from the dead.” We haven’t seen it; we don’t expect it; and maybe we would not only be embarrassed by it, we might even prefer that it didn’t happen.

Why would that be? Why might we wish the dead to stay dead? Well, for one thing, it’s much safer for all of us if the dead stay safely in their graves. We all admire Dr. King for raising his brave voice against discrimination and prejudice and leading the fight for civil rights. Does anyone not get teary-eyed when they hear his “I have a dream” speech? The nation mourned when he was assassinated in Memphis, and we designated a national holiday in his honor. But could there be just a tiny corner in most hearts that is relieved that he is silent? What might Dr. King have to say to us today? Would he speak out against the terrible disparity between rich and poor? Would he challenge our policies in the Middle East? Our indifference to the AIDS crisis in the developing world? We are familiar with martyrdom; we mourn when the good and the brave are cut down and silenced – the Dietrich Bonhoeffers, the Martin Luther Kings – but would we really want them to come back to challenge our complacency and indifference?

Could it be that Jesus’ disciples felt that way? The gospels tell us that on the morning of the resurrection, the women took spices and other embalming supplies with them to the place where Jesus had been buried. Of course, they were performing the last kindness that one friend can do for another – to prepare his body for its eternal rest. Of course, they were grief-stricken because their friend and teacher had been given a mock trial, tortured by the police, and put to death on the cross. But could they also have been a tiny bit relieved? Could they have thought, “We will miss his stories of good Samaritans and prodigal sons, wise maidens and unjust judges, lilies of the field and seed sown among the rocks and thorns. Who will restore sight to the blind and cleanse lepers, free the possessed from demonic power and .... but neither will he again challenge us to take up the cross, to lose our lives for the sake of the kingdom, to be glad when we are reviled and persecuted. Life is hard enough without that.”

But when they arrived at the tomb, they found it empty. How did they react? Did their hearts leap? Did they dance a jig or burst out in laughter or song because he had risen? The gospels tell us that their reaction was fear. What did they fear? They may have feared the challenges that Jesus had set before them and sets before us -- the challenge to be poor in spirit, to embrace mourning, to hunger and thirst after righteousness, to seek service rather than self-aggrandizement. Life is so much easier without these things. We want comfort, not challenge; ease, not adventure.

By and large, we want life to be stable and predictable. However, we worship a God of surprises. We worship a God who brings down the mighty and lifts up the lowly; who feeds the hungry and sends the rich away empty; who promises us that life abundant and everlasting is to be found not in safety but in risking our lives for the sake of the gospel.

Life is so much easier when we have three meals a day; when we know that General Hospital is always on at one o’clock in the afternoon; when school is out at three and mom or dad comes home from work at five-thirty; when there are drinks at six and dinner at seven. But when a stranger barges into our lives and commands us to drop our nets and follow him; to put down our knitting needles or hammers or turn off our computers and plunge into the great adventure that is God’s plan for the universe –no, that’s a little too much for us. We want to know who will pay for our medical insurance, who will feed the dog or cat, how we will pay the Visa bill, who will pick the kids up after school. Thanks for the parables and miracles; they’re lovely and we’d like to keep them, but we can do without the resurrection.

But surprise, disruption, and resurrection has been God’s plan from the beginning. To be sure, the Israelites were slaves in Egypt; they moaned, they complained, they cried out and God heard them and raised up Moses to lead them out of bondage. But what happened as soon as they were free? “Why have you brought us out of Egypt only to let us die of hunger and thirst in this wilderness?”

Have you heard of Stockholm syndrome? Stockholm syndrome is the tendency of the captive to identify with the captor. It’s the reason that Patty Hearst assisted her captors in robbing banks and other terrorist activities. We saw a shocking example of it recently in the case of Elizabeth Smart, the 14 year old Utah girl who was kidnapped a few months ago. When the police finally found her and arrested her kidnappers, she seems to have denied that she was the missing girl, not once but several times.

Captives identify with their captors because it is safer. We naturally assume that we are less likely to be harmed if we blend in, fade into the background of our environment, mouth the ideology of those with power over us. Perhaps this partly explains the reason that many in Russia say that the murderous Stalin was a wise and effective leader or why many Iraqis preferred life under Saddam to their new-found freedom.

We want life to be predictable, and the older we get, the more predictable we want it to be. But God finds ways to surprise, upset, and disrupt us. We prefer the sofa, the television, the internet; in short, we prefer the tomb of our own safety and comfort. But we worship a God of the living, not of the dead, a God who calls us out of the tombs of our own making. We worship a God of resurrection.

I hope you will not misunderstand me if I say that St. Peter’s has been more dead than alive for some time. There are many reasons for that, and this is not the time or place to go into them. But God has never allowed St. Peter’s to die. You have continued to pray, to work for justice, to offer hospitality to strangers. I believe that God’s will for St. Peter’s is resurrection. But resurrection may not happen in a moment, a day, a week, or a year. Jesus’ followers waited three days for him to rise again; the resurrection of St. Peter’s may take much longer. But I believe it will happen and I believe that the signs of resurrection are all around us – new members, people assuming new responsibilities, Elyse’s youth program, Servant Year, people in the neighborhood once again noticing us and seeking us out.

Much scholarly ink has been spilled over the ending of Mark’s gospel. There are at least three possible endings for Mark’s gospel, and all of them are well-supported by ancient manuscripts. However, the most likely ending of Mark is also the strangest. More than likely, the last four words of Mark’s original ending were: “and they were afraid”. What an odd, even bizarre ending! Why would the women who went to the tomb, saw an angel sitting there, and heard the outrageously good news of the resurrection flee in terror?

I think we know why. Resurrection seems too good to be true. We do not want to be hurt or disappointed. We want our lives to be safe, predictable, , boring, dead. I know I do!! But God has other plans for us. God’s plan for us is resurrection, surprise, amazement, joy incomprehensible and full of wonder. So lose your fear, forget about comfort, embrace God’s adventure, drop your net and make a mad dash after the mysterious stranger who invites you to participate in God’s magnificent, surprising, and unpredictable plan for your life. Sing aloud, shout the Easter alleluia, dance a jig, for Christ is risen. Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

"The day the Lord has made": A meditation

"This is the day that the Lord has made; we will be glad and rejoice in it."

Psalm 118 is one of the psalms of ascent, a psalm which pilgrims sang as they made their way up toward Jerusalem and eventually up the steps of the Temple platform into the sacred precincts. It is also one of those verses that we have heard so much that we have ceased to hear its real meaning. It has become a kind of ritual noise that is often made at the beginning of the liturgy: the bell rings, the organ plays, the pastor says, “This is the day that the Lord has made” and we lapse into autopilot.

Stop for just a moment and think about the first half of this verse. The Psalmist affirms something remarkable. God has made this day. These twenty-four hours of light and dark are an artifact, a creature, a gift. They are something that Someone has made and given to us. At the beginning of all things, Genesis tells us God made day and night: “and the evening and the morning were the first day… and God saw that it was good…”

Just think: time itself is a creature, no less than you and I and blue whales and amoebae and Mt Rainier are creatures. Time is like the air we breathe or the ocean we bathe in. It is a medium in which we live, but it, too, had a beginning and will have an end. God created time and gave it to us.

However, there is more to this familiar phrase. The Psalmist had in mind a particular time-- the Sabbath. After God had created day and night, the creatures that swim in the sea and those that walk on the land and fly in the air and after God had created humans in the divine image, then God created a special day, the Sabbath. The Psalmist was referring first and foremost to the Sabbath. God gave us one day out of seven on which we may step back into Eden (or at least poke our big toe through a crack in the wall). On the Sabbath Jews refrain from work as a sign that the curse that made work a burden will one day disappear. God and humankind have been estranged from the moment that Adam and Eve felt the apple’s juice run down their chins, but in the Sabbath prayers that estrangement is overcome.

What does God invite us to do with this day that he has made? Does he invite us to work? Not at all. In fact, God explicitly forbids Israel to work on the Sabbath. Does God invite us to mourn our sins and shortcomings and repent? We may need to do those things on the Sabbath as on any other day, but that is not what God bids us do on the day he has made. Rather, the Psalmist reminds us that the Lord’s day is a day when we are to “rejoice and be glad”.

Another thing to note about this familiar verse is that its second half acknowledges only one way to employ our time on the Lord’s day, namely, to rejoice and be glad. Someone has said that praise is the proper employment of our hearts and voices. On the Lord’s day, we are commanded to be joyful. Long before contemporary psychology came to this insight, the Psalmist realized that we have a choice about our emotional lives. We can dwell in misery and sadness, or we can rejoice and be glad.

For Christians, however, the meaning of the “day that the Lord has made” is different. Like Jews, Christians affirm that time is God’s good gift, and that it, too, is a creature. Just as setting aside a portion of our finances for God’s work is a sign that all that we have belongs to God, so setting aside one day in seven for God’s service bears witness to the fact that all of our time belongs to God, as well. However, the day that Christians acknowledge God has made, the day on which we are invited to “rejoice and be glad,” is not the seventh day but the first day. Christians affirm that the first day is the Lord’s because it is the day of resurrection.

The resurrection imparts new meaning to Psalm 118. This psalm is the psalm we traditionally read during the principal service on Easter Day, and that is no accident. Like every other creature, the time that God created will come to an end. But Easter is God’s great promise that all of creation will be redeemed and restored, even time. I once heard theologian and physicist John Polkinghorne say that the new heaven and earth that God promises in the Book of Revelation rather than being timeless must in some sense incorporate time redeemed. It is an intriguing thought that is simply beyond my comprehension, but it seems intuitively correct. If the purpose of creation is to be redeemed by Christ’s death and resurrection, then surely the new heaven and earth must include time redeemed.

Had we nothing more of the Bible than this one verse, it would be almost enough. It reminds us of the essential facts of the Bible. God made the world and everything in it; time, no less than human life, is finite. In fact, it may be the very finitude of life that makes rejoicing imperative.

Perhaps I have gone a bit too far afield. We live beyond Eden and before the general resurrection. But when we rejoice and are glad in the day that the Lord has made, then we begin to live, however tentatively, in that day which is yet to come, when all our thoughts and words will be praise, and sorrow will be swallowed up in joy everlasting.

Lent 5A: Jesus wept

The Fourth Gospel, the one we commonly refer to as the Gospel according to St. John, is the only gospel that specifies an author. John, chapter 21, verse 20 reads: "Peter turned and saw the disciple whom Jesus loved following them; he was the one who had reclined next to Jesus at the supper..." And verse 24 of that chapter reads: "This is the disciple who is testifying to these things and has written them..." So, the Fourth Gospel was written by the Beloved Disciple, but that begs the question, Who was the Beloved Disciple?

In his book Lazarus and the Fourth Gospel Community (Edwin Mellen Press, 1996), Frederick Baltz argues convincingly that the author was not John but Lazarus. However, Baltz is not the first to argue this; William Hull made a case for this in his commentary on John in the Broadman Bible Commentary series (Broadman Press, 1973.

The text of the Fourth Gospel drops numerous hints about the identity of the author. Verse 3 of chapter 11 reads: "Lord, he whom you love is ill"; verse 5 reads: "Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus"; and verse 35 tells us that when Jesus wept, the bystanders observed, "See how he loved him". And twice, in verses 33 and 38, the text tells us that Jesus was deeply moved by Lazarus's death.

The case for Lazarus' authorship is so strong, one wonders why anyone ever thought that John wrote the Fourth Gospel! Surely Lazarus, whom Jesus had raised from the dead, would have been supremely capable of testifying convincingly of the love and power of Jesus. It would make sense that he would want to tell the story of Jesus as it is related in the Fourth Gospel.

But whether or not Lazarus was the Beloved Disciple is beside the point. What I want to emphasize is that Jesus is a person who had friends, who loved them deeply, and that the death of a friend moved him to tears.

I find that a comforting thought. Jesus was no stoic philosopher; he was not a stained glass saint or a plaster deity on a pedestal; he was a man who wept before the tomb of a friend.

Jesus had a wide circle of friends. He shared meals with them and told them stories. And with him as with us, the bonds of friendship deepened and grew strong. And when a person dear to his heart grew ill and died, Jesus grieved and wept.

When the vast stone of mortality rolls across the tomb of those we love, Jesus stands there weeping with us.

The surprising part of this story is not that Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead; that is what we would expect. The surprise is that Jesus wept.

If Jesus was the divine Son of God, if he was the one in whom the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, then it would be a snap for him to turn water into wine, it would be routine for him to heal the blind, and he would surely be able to raise the dead with ease. What one would not expect him to do is weep. The story of Lazarus tells us what we already knew, namely that God in Christ has the power to raise the dead. But it also tells us what we could not have dreamed in our wildest imaginations -- that the heart of God is touched by human grief, that in the very heart of God are human tears.

I find deep comfort in the image of Jesus weeping outside the tomb of his friend, but the story, thank God, does not end with that image.

The story does not end with Jesus weeping outside a Judean tomb, for if it did, we would be, as Paul said, "The most miserable of human beings". The last word is not "Jesus wept"; it is "Lazarus, come forth".

Christ, and God in Christ, weeps with us in our suffering, but more, much more than that, he is there when we die to say to us as he said to Lazarus: "Come forth".

Lent 4A: The vision thing

Obviously, this week’s readings from 1 Samuel and John are connected by the theme of vision. In the first reading, Samuel is seeking a king for Israel. What one generally seeks in a king is strength, but God dismissed Jesse’s tall, strapping sons one by one. Instead, God had Samuel anoint the runt of the litter-- young David.

In the reading from John, the vision in question is that of a man “blind from birth”. When his vision is restored he is able to see something that the Pharisees remained blind to, namely, that Jesus is the light of the world.. The irony, of course, is that the formerly blind man can see more clearly than the Pharisees with their 20/20 vision.

At this point it would be tempting for a preacher to talk to her congregation about how we are often blind to the world around us – to both its needs and its blessings --or to remind us that we are often blind to spiritual realities – our need to forgive and be forgiven, for example. But I don’t think that is where these readings are leading us.

The author of 1 Samuel is not concerned with our blindness to the flowers that bloom in the spring or even our blindness to spiritual things. What this writer wants us to see is that God is in charge of the world. God first selected then rejected Saul as Israel’s king. The Spirit that comes upon David when Samuel anoints him is the same Spirit that departs from Saul in 16:14, namely, “the Spirit of the Lord”. To be sure, the writer wants to correct our vision, but not so that we can see the beauty of the world, but so that we can see the illusion of human power and autonomy. It is God who rules the world; kings, presidents, and prime ministers are merely God’s instruments.

Similarly, John’s gospel is not concerned with a vaguely spiritual form of visual impairment or improvement. Jesus restores vision to the man blind from birth not so that he can enjoy the “lilies of the field” but so that he can bear witness to the “light that shines in the darkness” (John 1.5). When this nameless man receives his vision, he does not have a sudden improvement in his quality of life; rather, he is ostracized and shunned. The story shows us just how costly the gift of God’s grace can be.

God cautions Samuel not to “look on the outward appearance” but to “look with the heart.” Most of us who preach on these readings will be tempted to make our real text this wonderful sentence from Antoine de Saint- Exupéry’s The Little Prince. “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” It’s a good text and might be appropriate for a talk to the Rotary Club, but it’s not what the Bible is telling us. God longs to give us the vision he gave to both Samuel and the man blind from birth, but are we ready to receive it? Samuel was quite clear about the consequences of seeing with God’s eyes: “If Saul hears it, he will kill me.” (1 Sam. 16.2) If God opens our eyes the way Jesus opened the eyes of the man in John 9, then we will see that the powers of this world can maintain the status quo only by declaring themselves to be the real arbiters of the truth and by turning a blind eye to God’s new work in Jesus. We will see the spiritual bankruptcy of our self-aggrandizement and that the Cross is God’s judgment on human pretensions. To paraphrase Bonhoeffer, real vision is costly; it is free but not cheap.

Lent 4: God is in the details

The story of Jesus' encounter with the Samaritan woman in John 4 is a tiny literary masterpiece. It reminds me of an elegant miniature such as one might see in an illustrated manuscript such as the Hours of the Duc de Berry. Every detail is pregnant with meaning. But the first detail to note is not the text itself but the context. In John 3 Jesus had a long and involved theological discussion with Nicodemus, an articulate, learned leader of the Pharisees. In chapter 4, Jesus has another long and involved theological discussion, but this time it is with a Samaritan woman. Nicodemus was a person of high standing in his community, but this woman (as we shall see) had absolutely no standing. And yet Jesus treats her with the same respect and consideration he showed for Nicodemus.

Second, note the time of day. John tells us that it was "about noon" when Jesus stopped to rest and the woman came out to the well. This is strange, because women did not come to the well in the hottest part of the day. Rather, they came out at dawn or dusk because it was easier to carry home the heavy jars of water when it was cool out. Apparently, this woman does not want to associate with other women, or they do not want to associate with her.

Thirdly, Jesus speaks to her: "Give me a drink." In the first century Jewish men did not even speak to their wives in public, much less would they speak to women outside their own family. Here Jesus addresses a women to whom he is not related, a Samaritan, and (as emerges in their conversation) a woman of dubious reputation. More than anything else, this little story of the Samaritan woman illustrates Jesus' willingness to transgress social boundaries.

But the most telling and poignant detail for me is this: "the woman left her water jar." Of course, this could just be accidental. In her excitement she could have forgotten the heavy jar. But I believe that the author is telling us something. This nameless Samaritan woman had asked Jesus for living water. How appealing that must have sounded to a woman who day after day had to go to the well at a time when she could avoid the company of others. I believe that she left the heavy jar behind because she did not need it any longer; she had received the gift Jesus promised -- living water.

Lent 2: Born again? What was wrong with the first time?

One of the things about Christians that puzzled the Romans is that Christians were not an ethnos, a people. Jews were a people; Persians were a people; but Christians could be from any ethnic background.

In the first century, one worshiped the gods of one's family. Christianity involved a deliberate choice to worship the God revealed in Jesus of Nazareth, rather than the gods of one's family. In the case of Jews who became followers of Jesus, it involved a decision to recognize that the God revealed in the Torah was now fully and completely revealed in Jesus. In either case, one's ties to one's family were at least attenuated or (more often) completely severed.

These things hover in the background to Jesus' conversation with Nicodemus. "No one can see the Kingdom of God without being born from above." Jesus' words astonished Nicodemus because it was precisely through his birth, his connection to his family, that he hoped to see God's kingdom, and he had a firm Biblical basis for believing this. That was exactly what God had promised to Abram long, long ago. God's promise to Abram was not that the earth would be blessed through him or even that all human beings would be blessed but that the families of the earth would be blessed through him.

Paul was confused about this, too. In writing to the Christians at Rome, he argued that what God meant was not that the blessing would fall upon the physical descendants of Abraham but to those who shared his faith, in other words, his spiritual children. But that is not really what Genesis says.

Jesus' words to Nicodemus are still startling. "You must be born from above (or in the more familiar version, "born again")". They tell us that like Abram we, too, have to strike out into the unknown and if necessary, to leave family behind. But they may be especially good news in an age of alienation and estrangement. Jesus invites us into a new family. He tells us that there is a place for us, a community where we will be at home.

The Apostles' Creed is the basic baptismal statement. In the early church, the bishop would ask the shivering catechumen standing in the cold, running water, "Do you believe in God?" And she would reply, "I believe in God the Father" as the bishop poured water over her head. Three times the bishop would ask and three times the catechumen replied, "I believe." However, when the church decided to include the Nicene Creed in the liturgy, the faithful stated their faith not as "I believe" but as "WE believe". We enter the waters of baptism as individuals but we emerge from them as a new people, God's own people. We go into the font an I; we emerge a WE.

Lent 1: Temptations

Today's reading from Genesis is the account of the so-called "fall". I say "so-called" because the word "fall" never appears in it. For that matter, neither does the word "sin". According to Genesis, the cause for the breach in the divine/human relationship is disobedience. Another key category in this story is "knowing." The forbidden tree is the tree of "knowledge"; the serpent says that if they eat of the tree God "knows" that their "eyes will be opened"; "knowing good and evil" makes one "like God"; and finally, the human couple "know" that they are naked.

It might be more interesting if the lectionary included verses 18 through 25 of chapter 2. Three things happen in those verses. First, God acknowledges the human being's need for companionship. Up until this point God has declared everything to be good, but for the first time, God declares something to be NOT good: "It is not good for adam to be alone." (NB: The NRSV translates adam as "the man", but this is a little misleading. The Hebrew word adam does not specify gender. The human being is not differentiated as male and female until Eve is created.)

Second, God brings the animals before adam one by one. This is one of the most humorous episodes in the Bible. The text implies that God wants to see if adam will pick one of the other animals to be his partner, but alas, none of them is suitable.

Finally, God creates a partner for adam. Now, humankind is differentiated into male (ish) and female (ishah).

It would be good to include these omitted verses because the irony of the story of the fall is that no sooner has God given adam a helper than the helper becomes the catalyst for disaster. Presumably, the serpent was one of the animals God offered to adam as a helper. So the helper especially created for adam and an animal who was a potential helper instigate the event that brings about exile from Eden.

If we include the omitted verses, then it becomes plainer than ever that Augustine was right about evil. According to Augustine, evil is privative. Rather than being the opposite of good, evil is good that has been twisted. Eve sees that the fruit is "good for food" and a "delight" and a source of wisdom. The crime is not inherent in the fruit; the crime is the misuse of the good. Furthermore, neither Eve nor the serpent is bad. Eve is the partner God created to remedy the problem of human loneliness, and the serpent is also God's good creation.

Similarly, the Tempter does not offer Jesus anything that we would regard as a sin or a crime. He offers him bread, world rule, and popularity. Does anyone doubt that Jesus would have used the bread to feed the hungry or that he would have ruled wisely and well? And surely he would have used his status as a celebrity to promote his teaching. But in each case there was a catch; Jesus could only acquire the good ends (bread, power, and fame) by using questionable means. Sometimes the end justifies the means; more often it does not. An idealistic politician influences legislation on behalf of a generous contributor, thinking that she is on the side of the angels on most issues. A police officer uses a little muscle to get a criminal to confess. Once we set out on the wrong path toward good ends, the path tends to diverge more and more from our goal.

The Reformers spoke of the Christian life as being simul justus et peccator ("simultaneously justified and sinful"). Calvinism is notorious for claiming that human nature is "totally depraved". The phrase is unfortunate, but the idea behind it is worth rehabilitating. Calvin's idea was that even at our best we are still estranged from God, and that is a good thing to keep in mind.

The meaning I take away from this is that our greatest temptations come not from the shadows but from the light. A friend of mine is fond of saying that an excess of virtue is worse than an excess of vice because there are no restraints on virtue. The greatest evils are not done by those notorious criminals but by the "brightest and best" who have convinced themselves and a few others that they know what is best.

At every moment we are confronted with the situation that Adam and Eve faced. The greatest temptations are not grotesquely evil. They are things that may be in and of themselves just as the fruit appeared to Eve: wise, good, and "a delight to the eyes". But take care: one choice leads to paradise and the other to exile.

A New Light: The Last Sunday in Epiphany

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth... and God said, ‘Let there be light’ and there was light”. Have you ever thought about the fact that God created light before God created the stars, the givers of light?

A thread of light connects all three texts this meditation is based on: There was the mysterious light shining from Moses’ face that frightened the Israelites. In 2 Peter the author speaks of the “prophetic message” he delivers as a “light shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts”.

And finally, there is the story of the Transfiguration, the story of Jesus’ journey to the top of a high mountain, accompanied by Peter, James, and John. While there the disciples saw Jesus transformed into a being of light: “While he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white”. And they saw Jesus talking with the long-dead prophets Moses and Elijah.

I am inclined to think that the transfiguration of which we speak today was not so much in Jesus as it was in Peter, James, and John. The light that they saw pouring from Jesus had always been there; they just had not seen it before.

The life of Jesus had already shed a radically new light on the world. The poor had been regarded as unloved and unwanted by God, but in the light that Jesus brought they came to be seen as special objects of God’s favor. “Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven”. Tax collectors and prostitutes were shunned, but Jesus cast an entirely new light on their status when he shared meals with them. “He receives sinners and eats with them”. (Luke 15.2)

To the learned Pharisee Nicodemus, who came to him “by night”, Jesus brought light. “Very truly, I tell you, Nicodemus, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above” (John 3.3). “This is the judgment, that the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light...” (John 3.19) Jesus saw that Nicodemus’ real need was not a theological discussion but a radically new way of seeing. And Nicodemus, who arrived in the dark, left amidst God’s blazing light.

And then there was the “man blind from birth” (John 9.1) that Jesus and his disciples encountered in Jerusalem. But even the disciples were in darkness, for they saw this sightless man as nothing more than a theological dilemma: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” (John 9.2)

However, Jesus saw the man and his blindness as an opportunity to do the work God has been doing ever since the first chapter of Genesis: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him”. (John 9.3) And taking the dust from which God had made Adam and the water with which he makes the new Adam, Jesus gave that man blind from birth God’s first creation and gift to the world—light.

Today’s gospel retells the story of a moment when Peter, James, and John suddenly saw Jesus for who he was—a man filled with God’s light, the light that God created even before he hurled stars and moons and planets into the inky void.

The New Testament speaks of a world hovering between light and darkness. According to 2 Peter we are in that dim moment just before “the day dawns and the morning star rises” (2 Peter 1.19).

According to John’s Gospel Jesus is “the light of the world” (John 9.5). The darkness has not overcome the Light, but neither has the Light quite overcome the darkness. There are still those who, like Nicodemus, prefer to do their business by night. There are still those who saw not a great and wondrous miracle when the blind man was healed, but merely a sinner violating the Sabbath code.

The light of which the New Testament speaks is not so much about heavenly bodies or luminous filaments; it is about opening our eyes and stepping out of the shadows. It is about taking the risk of adopting a new perspective.

There is darkness in every life. There is an unwillingness to see in each one of us.
A child who awakens from a nightmare may see the face of a monster on her wall, but when Mother switches on the light, it becomes the laughing face of a clown in a picture.

The Bible tells us of Saul who became Paul, blinded on the road to Damascus, who had seen the followers of Jesus as enemies, but suddenly came to see them as brothers and sisters.

We hear the gospel story of the Transfiguration twice every year: Once on the the last Sunday in Epiphany and the second time on the Feast of the Transfiguration. By eerie and unsettling coincidence the Feast of the Transfiguration, August 6, is also the anniversary of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima. The overwhelming light generated by that nuclear explosion was quite different from the light that shone from Moses’ face or the light of Peter’s message, much less the light that frightened Jesus’ disciples atop the Mount of Transfiguration.

My father served in the Pacific, and I am deeply grateful that the destruction of Hiroshima prevented an invasion of Japan in which he would have fought. But even though the bombing of Hiroshima brought a terrible war to a quick end and probably saved the lives of thousands of troops, both Japanese and American, nevertheless it took the lives of thousands of men, women, and children.

For over forty years men and women saw the world in the light of nuclear destruction. The light that Jesus brought invites us to see the world in a radically different perspective.

Years after hostilities between the U.S. and Japan and its allies ended American veterans of World War II returned to the sites of mighty battles and so did their German and Japanese counterparts. Men who once saw each other as enemies, now see each other as neighbors.

A little over a hundred years ago here many in this country saw black people as slaves. But now we have learned and are still learning that black and white people alike are “created equal and endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights...”

According to the Talmud, a Jew must pray at dawn. But that begs the question, when is dawn?
It is said that a young student came to his teacher and asked, “Rabbi, when is dawn? Is dawn the moment when the last star fades from the sky, or is it when the sun creeps above the horizon?”

The wise old teacher replied, “No, my son. Dawn is the moment when you can look at the face of another and see not an enemy but a friend.”

In the light of Hiroshima we came to see half the world as our enemies, dedicated to our destruction. And we saw ourselves as their enemies, and dedicated ourselves to their destruction.But in the light of the Transfiguration God invites us to see the poor as heirs of heaven; to see sickness not as divine punishment but as an opportunity to do God’s work; and to see each other as sons and daughters of God.