Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Three Widows
It was in the fall of 2003. I was in my study reading the story of the widow of Zarephath and the story from Mark about a widow who gave her last two coins to the temple treasury, when National Public Radio announced that some rich widow in California who had died in October had left NPR $200 Million. $200 Million is about twice the annual operating budget for National Public Radio.The moment stuck with me because I found myself sitting in my study with three widows when the Holy Spirit showed up and said, “Thomas, which of the three would you like to have as a member of the church?”
It was one of those fairy god-mother moments where you can’t just say, “How about all three?” and get away with it.
“Honest now, preacher, which one? You’ll even get to choose the pew she’ll sit in every Sunday morning.”
There’s the widow of Zarephath. She and her son are only one meal away from certain starvation. She’s gathering sticks for the last fire, when a stranger shows up and asks her for a little water and a morsel of bread. With tears in her eyes she tells him that times are hard, recalls what little meal is left in the jar, and what little oil in the jug.
And the stranger says, “Do not be afraid. Make me a little cake of it and bring it to me, and afterwards make something for yourself and your son.”
Why would she be afraid, I wonder. Embarassed perhaps, ashamed that she can’t show proper hospitality to the stranger at the gate. Heart-broken, yes, knowing that there would be no food the next day, that all there is for her son and herself to anticipate is death.
“Do not be afraid,” says the stranger. “I have a word from the Lord God of Israel: The jar of meal will not be emptied and the jug of oil will not fail until the day that the Lord sends rain on the earth.”
What he is saying is, “Do not be afraid to trust the promise of God.”
And she goes and prepares three little cakes – and for as long as the drought continued in Israel, the story goes, the jar of meal was not emptied, neither did the jug of oil fail.
Would I like to see her sit in one of our pews on Sunday? O yes, I would ask her her name and then I would ask her to talk to my friends who are heart-broken because there is an abundance of food in the world, and yet, every day, over one billion women, men, and children go hungry and thousands die. “Stay with us, for God’s sake,” I would say to her, “and teach us how to find abundance in sharing.”
Then there is the widow in the temple. Jesus had just warned those who were listening to him to beware of religious leaders who devour widows’ houses while displaying their piety like peacocks spreading their tails. Now Jesus sits down opposite the treasury, and he watches what people put in the plate. Many rich people put in large sums. Then this poor widow comes and she puts in two small copper coins, worth a penny, less than 1% of the minimum wage for a day’s work. And Jesus points out that she has put in more than anyone else, and I wonder if he is praising her or condemning a religious institution that takes a widow’s last penny without blushing instead of helping her with her rent.
Would I like to see her sit in one of our pews on Sunday? O yes, I would ask her, “What is your name? What is it that compels you to give? And what are your thoughts about what Jesus said?”
“Stay with us,” I would say to her, “and teach us how to maintain our trust in God when our institutions are crumbling around us. For God’s sake, stay with us.”
Finally there’s Joan B. Kroc, the billionaire widow of Ray Kroc, founder of McDonald’s. She had become known as a major donor to organizations working to promote world peace. She founded and endowed the Joan B. Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies at Notre Dame and the Joan B. Kroc Institute for Peace and Justice at the University of San Diego. She was a major benefactor of the Carter Center at Emory University in Atlanta, and she gave more than $1 billion to the Salvation Army.
“So,” the Holy Spirit said to me, “which of the three widows would you rather see at church on Sunday morning?”
With a gift of twice our annual operating budget, we could hire additional staff, renovate the fellowship hall, and tell the architect to begin sketching out plans for our Ministry CoOp. We’d be happy to name it the Joan B. Kroc Center for Urban Mission, and we wouldn’t have to worry about giving for a while.
All the Holy Spirit had to do was echo my words, “…wouldn’t have to worry about giving for a while.”
All the Holy Spirit had to do was echo my words, and I knew that such a large gift wasn’t necessarily a good gift. A gift so large might actually keep you and me from becoming more giving ourselves, and becoming better stewards of God’s manifold gifts is one of the great transformative tasks all disciples face, possibly the greatest.
The widow of Zarephath, in a time of famine, opened her home to the man of God, and in a beautiful act of hospitality she broke bread with him. All she and her child had to live on, one last meal – and then the miracle of abundance, affirming the trustworthiness of God’s promise and presence.
“The church needs her,” I said to myself, “we need her simple courage in the face of economic hardship, we need her to teach us hospitality and trust in God’s faithfulness.”
The Holy Spirit said to me, “Take your time, there’s no reason to rush to an answer.”
And so I sat a little longer with Jesus in the temple, opposite the treasury. Sitting there I remembered how angry Jesus had been when he first entered the temple. He drove out those who were selling and buying, overturned the tables of the money changers, and yelled across the courtyard, “Is it not written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers.”
The temple, God’s holy temple, had become a place of commerce and corruption. But Jesus taught about a new way of being God’s holy temple. He talked about a community of people, faithful to one another, strong in prayer and forgiveness, a fruitful vineyard . A community where love of God and neighbor was practiced, taught and honored.
The new temple would not be a place for pompous men in long robes or fine suits, quick to identify the best seats in the house and eager to sit in them. The new temple would not be a place for pious showmanship expressed in long prayers, carefully crafted to impress those who happen to overhear them. The new temple would not be a place for stuffed shirts with no concern for matters of justice or compassion; not a place for pride and greed barely concealed behind facades of ostentatious piety.
Beware of the scribes, Jesus taught, beware of the preachers and televangelists who’ll gladly take every widow’s last penny to line the pockets of their long robes. Be attentive to the widow, the orphan, the stranger; be attentive to the most vulnerable among you who are always the first to suffer when your financial institutions crumble and your market mechanisms fail.
Jesus didn’t draw our attention to the poor widow because she gave all she had to live on to a den of robbers. He didn’t praise her for supporting with her last penny a corrupt religious institution that was destined to fall.
Putting in everything she had to live on, she entrusted her life in God’s hands, and her complete gift became a testimony against all who turn the whole world into a robber’s den, even the places that are to bring healing and reconciliation to our divided communities.
This was the final scene in the temple, and the poor widow’s gift foreshadowed the gift Jesus was about to make: his own life, given as a testimony against our sin and for God’s power to redeem.
The old temple leadership stood condemned, but the poor widow already belonged to the new temple, the one built on the foundation of Christ.
“So,” the Holy Spirit said to me, “which of the three widows is the one?”
Each one is an example of holy love, each in her own way. One embodies holy love by welcoming a stranger and remaining open to the promise of God when her life seemed to have come to a dead end. The second embodies it by remaining faithful to God even when corruption had turned the house of prayer for all the nations into a palace of vanity and robbery. And the third one embodied holy love by using her considerable wealth to support generously the hard work of peace-making and community-building in this country and around the world.
The truth is, I don’t have to choose one from among the three. I don’t have to make that choice because all three already belong to the new temple.
The choice I must make, though, every day, is how to live with such trust, humility, and generosity myself. And that’s a choice you must make as well.
How will you live in response to God’s gift of abundant life?
How will you give yourself away for the coming of God’s reign?
How will you in your lifetime embody this holy love?
We do want to hire additional staff here at Vine Street to coordinate ministry in our community; we do want to renovate the fellowship hall to offer a place where groups large and small can gather to play and work and celebrate; we do want to help create a Ministry CoOp where new mission initiatives find a home and cooperation between faith communities and non-profit agencies in our city is strengthened.
We have a vision – will you be a part of making that vision reality?
Every single person counts.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
To What End?
North Haven is a small town in Minnesota, just east of Lake Wobegon.
Michael Lindvall has written a couple of books about life in North Haven, tales about a Presbyterian minister and his flock. You read the stories and you quickly get a sense that you know these people; they are your neighbors and co-workers, people you run into at the grocery store.
James Crory is one of them; an overactive seven-year-old who talks a mile a minute and sleeps only sporadically. Calling him energetic would be an understatement. Were he a child from the suburbs, he would have been diagnosed and take a pill every morning.
James loves to hang out with Angus and Minnie, both in their 80’s, and they, for the most part anyway, enjoy his company as well. They smile at his enthusiasm, and his endless conversation is way more entertaining than anything on tv.
It was in the afternoon of Halloween when James burst into Angus and Minnie’s living room complaining that his mom had gotten him the wrong costume.
“Spiderman? No one cares about Spiderman anymore. How can she not know that? I can’t possibly wear that costume! It will be the end! Everyone will make fun of me. Why did she do that to me? What am I going to do?”
Minnie waited a couple of seconds to make sure that he was finished.
“Perhaps you could be a ghost?”
Her boys had been ghosts every year growing up, even used the same costumes year after year – it never seemed to be a problem. Those ghost costumes were probably still up in the attic.
And so Angus and James climbed up the attic stairs to look for the costumes – and there they were! The classic design: a sheet with a couple of holes for the eyes, and a belt to keep the whole thing from blowing away. Angus and Minnie insisted that James use a reflector belt because it had already snowed, and you can’t see a ghost in the snow.
The little boy could hardly stand still long enough to get the belt on.
“Trick or treat! Trick or treat!” he shouted, jumping up and down.
Angus said he’d trail along behind to make sure the boy was OK, but before he could get his coat on, James dashed out the door and ran smack-dab into their maple tree.
Angus was rushing out to be sure he was okay, when little James picked himself up and ran full speed ahead again. This time he ran into the neighbor’s Bradford Pear. And this time, he knocked himself out.
Angus quickly went over to the little boy. “James! James, are you all right?”
He looked down, and he realized that the holes in the sheet were not lined up with his little eyes – not even close. James couldn’t see a thing. Angus adjusted the costume, and when the little boy opened his eyes, he was surprised.
“I didn’t know I was supposed to be able to see!”
I give thanks today for people like Minnie and Angus, old couples who become friends with little boys and girls, who generously share with them their time, their love, and their wisdom.
I thought about baptism, of all things, when I read the story of James, Minnie and Angus from North Haven. In baptism we put on the white robe of new life. It’s not a costume that changes every year, nor is it a manufactured plastic dream that allows us to be a super hero or a princess for a day. The white robe of new life is much more like a treasure from the attic, something generations before us have worn with joy and great reward.
So you put on that robe, and you rush out the door to hurry toward the kingdom, only to run smack-dab into a tree. “Something just hit me,” you say to yourself, but you rub your head, get up and start over, and – bang! – you run into the next tree.
“Determination is everything,” you say to yourself, and you’re about to jump up and start over, when somebody kneels beside you, asking if you are all right, and adjusts your costume.
“Oh my, I didn’t know I was supposed to be able to see!”
We are not alone in the adventure of faith, and this Sunday gives us an opportunity to gratefully acknowledge that reality. We are surrounded by saints, by a great cloud of witnesses who have walked the road we are on. They are watching us, they are cheering us on, and they adjust our vision so we can see where we are going.
Saints, says Frederick Buechner, are not “plaster statues, men and women of such paralyzing virtue that they never thought a nasty thought or did an evil thing their whole life long. Saints are essentially life givers. To be with them is to become more alive.” (Wishful Thinking, p. 102)
Every Christian has them: those precious people who have helped shape us, role models in the art of the good life, people who inspire and encourage us. Some of them may still be around, others may have joined the church in heaven. Some of them you may have known in person, others you may have heard or read about. They are your saints, the people through whom God has made you who you are and continues to shape who you will be. They are not faith celebrities or super heroes of piety, but ordinary people whose lives reflect the glory of God’s grace. People like Angus and Minnie.
John is one of them, Saint John the Divine, a Christian leader, banned by order of Rome to the island of Patmos. Jerusalem was gone; the Romans, tired of the protests and revolts in the volatile province of Judaea, had destroyed the city and demolished the Temple – a pile of rubble was all that was left. With an iron fist they had brought peace to the troubled region, PAX ROMANA that is, the Roman variety of peace.
Christians were suspect because of their refusal to honor the gods of the empire. Violent persecution of the church wasn’t the norm, but many Christian leaders were executed or imprisoned, or, as in John’s case, banned. He found himself far from home, a prisoner on the small island of Patmos, off the coast of Turkey. The world around him was falling to pieces, and he knew that across the sea, in the cities of Asia Minor, where arrests and executions continued, his friends were suffering. They were losing hope.
They weren’t running into trees out of joyful exuberance, but because Rome had surrounded them with obstacles that turned just about every step toward the kingdom of God into an act of rebellion.
How could they possibly acclaim the emperor as Lord and Son of God when they had come to know Jesus as Lord?
How could they possibly praise the emperor as Savior of the World when in truth that title belonged to Jesus Christ?
How could they continue to live faithfully when all they could see was Rome’s might?
John saw the reality of persecution, but he looked beyond the horizon defined by Rome’s imperial reach. He saw the arrogance of power, but he looked beyond it, and he saw a holy city coming down out of heaven from God. He saw a city for all peoples, a city of peace.
To what end do we put on the white robe of baptism?
To what end do we follow Jesus on the way, and not other lords that vie for our allegiance?
To what end do we love and serve our God and our neighbor, and not our own ambitions?
Somebody needs to adjust our vision until we can see where we’re going, until our eyes are lined up with the reality and promises of God.
The end, Saint John reminds us, is not a handful of souls escaping to heaven; the end is the new Jerusalem coming down out of heaven to earth.
The end is not one tribe’s triumph over the others, or one nation’s victory over the others, ore one religion over the others – the end is a city for all peoples, and God is at home among them, dwelling with them, wiping every tear from their eyes.
The end is a city where death is no more, where mourning, crying, and pain are no more – the old order has been buried.
The end is a feast for all peoples, a feast of rich food and well-aged wines where Israel and the nations sing, “This is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation,” and the one seated on the throne says, “See, I am making all things new.”
We hunger and thirst for righteousness, and we can already see what is coming.
We long for redemption and we work with compassion, and in the company of God’s saints we can already see what is coming.
We follow Jesus on the way, and in the company of Isaiah and John, surrounded by the great cloud of witnesses, our eyes are lined up with the promises and purposes of God, and we can see what is coming: the blessed communion of humanity with God, the joy of heaven to earth come down, unhindered and unending and complete.
To what end do we put on the white robe of baptism? To be part of that transformation in this life and in the life to come.
To what end to we follow Jesus on the way, and not other lords that vie for our allegiance? To be part of that transformation in this life and in the life to come.
To what end do we love and serve our God and our neighbor, and not our own ambitions? To be part of that transformation in this life and in the life to come.
Michael Lindvall has written a couple of books about life in North Haven, tales about a Presbyterian minister and his flock. You read the stories and you quickly get a sense that you know these people; they are your neighbors and co-workers, people you run into at the grocery store.
James Crory is one of them; an overactive seven-year-old who talks a mile a minute and sleeps only sporadically. Calling him energetic would be an understatement. Were he a child from the suburbs, he would have been diagnosed and take a pill every morning.
James loves to hang out with Angus and Minnie, both in their 80’s, and they, for the most part anyway, enjoy his company as well. They smile at his enthusiasm, and his endless conversation is way more entertaining than anything on tv.
It was in the afternoon of Halloween when James burst into Angus and Minnie’s living room complaining that his mom had gotten him the wrong costume.
“Spiderman? No one cares about Spiderman anymore. How can she not know that? I can’t possibly wear that costume! It will be the end! Everyone will make fun of me. Why did she do that to me? What am I going to do?”
Minnie waited a couple of seconds to make sure that he was finished.
“Perhaps you could be a ghost?”
Her boys had been ghosts every year growing up, even used the same costumes year after year – it never seemed to be a problem. Those ghost costumes were probably still up in the attic.
And so Angus and James climbed up the attic stairs to look for the costumes – and there they were! The classic design: a sheet with a couple of holes for the eyes, and a belt to keep the whole thing from blowing away. Angus and Minnie insisted that James use a reflector belt because it had already snowed, and you can’t see a ghost in the snow.
The little boy could hardly stand still long enough to get the belt on.
“Trick or treat! Trick or treat!” he shouted, jumping up and down.
Angus said he’d trail along behind to make sure the boy was OK, but before he could get his coat on, James dashed out the door and ran smack-dab into their maple tree.
Angus was rushing out to be sure he was okay, when little James picked himself up and ran full speed ahead again. This time he ran into the neighbor’s Bradford Pear. And this time, he knocked himself out.
Angus quickly went over to the little boy. “James! James, are you all right?”
He looked down, and he realized that the holes in the sheet were not lined up with his little eyes – not even close. James couldn’t see a thing. Angus adjusted the costume, and when the little boy opened his eyes, he was surprised.
“I didn’t know I was supposed to be able to see!”
I give thanks today for people like Minnie and Angus, old couples who become friends with little boys and girls, who generously share with them their time, their love, and their wisdom.
I thought about baptism, of all things, when I read the story of James, Minnie and Angus from North Haven. In baptism we put on the white robe of new life. It’s not a costume that changes every year, nor is it a manufactured plastic dream that allows us to be a super hero or a princess for a day. The white robe of new life is much more like a treasure from the attic, something generations before us have worn with joy and great reward.
So you put on that robe, and you rush out the door to hurry toward the kingdom, only to run smack-dab into a tree. “Something just hit me,” you say to yourself, but you rub your head, get up and start over, and – bang! – you run into the next tree.
“Determination is everything,” you say to yourself, and you’re about to jump up and start over, when somebody kneels beside you, asking if you are all right, and adjusts your costume.
“Oh my, I didn’t know I was supposed to be able to see!”
We are not alone in the adventure of faith, and this Sunday gives us an opportunity to gratefully acknowledge that reality. We are surrounded by saints, by a great cloud of witnesses who have walked the road we are on. They are watching us, they are cheering us on, and they adjust our vision so we can see where we are going.
Saints, says Frederick Buechner, are not “plaster statues, men and women of such paralyzing virtue that they never thought a nasty thought or did an evil thing their whole life long. Saints are essentially life givers. To be with them is to become more alive.” (Wishful Thinking, p. 102)
Every Christian has them: those precious people who have helped shape us, role models in the art of the good life, people who inspire and encourage us. Some of them may still be around, others may have joined the church in heaven. Some of them you may have known in person, others you may have heard or read about. They are your saints, the people through whom God has made you who you are and continues to shape who you will be. They are not faith celebrities or super heroes of piety, but ordinary people whose lives reflect the glory of God’s grace. People like Angus and Minnie.
John is one of them, Saint John the Divine, a Christian leader, banned by order of Rome to the island of Patmos. Jerusalem was gone; the Romans, tired of the protests and revolts in the volatile province of Judaea, had destroyed the city and demolished the Temple – a pile of rubble was all that was left. With an iron fist they had brought peace to the troubled region, PAX ROMANA that is, the Roman variety of peace.
Christians were suspect because of their refusal to honor the gods of the empire. Violent persecution of the church wasn’t the norm, but many Christian leaders were executed or imprisoned, or, as in John’s case, banned. He found himself far from home, a prisoner on the small island of Patmos, off the coast of Turkey. The world around him was falling to pieces, and he knew that across the sea, in the cities of Asia Minor, where arrests and executions continued, his friends were suffering. They were losing hope.
They weren’t running into trees out of joyful exuberance, but because Rome had surrounded them with obstacles that turned just about every step toward the kingdom of God into an act of rebellion.
How could they possibly acclaim the emperor as Lord and Son of God when they had come to know Jesus as Lord?
How could they possibly praise the emperor as Savior of the World when in truth that title belonged to Jesus Christ?
How could they continue to live faithfully when all they could see was Rome’s might?
John saw the reality of persecution, but he looked beyond the horizon defined by Rome’s imperial reach. He saw the arrogance of power, but he looked beyond it, and he saw a holy city coming down out of heaven from God. He saw a city for all peoples, a city of peace.
To what end do we put on the white robe of baptism?
To what end do we follow Jesus on the way, and not other lords that vie for our allegiance?
To what end do we love and serve our God and our neighbor, and not our own ambitions?
Somebody needs to adjust our vision until we can see where we’re going, until our eyes are lined up with the reality and promises of God.
The end, Saint John reminds us, is not a handful of souls escaping to heaven; the end is the new Jerusalem coming down out of heaven to earth.
The end is not one tribe’s triumph over the others, or one nation’s victory over the others, ore one religion over the others – the end is a city for all peoples, and God is at home among them, dwelling with them, wiping every tear from their eyes.
The end is a city where death is no more, where mourning, crying, and pain are no more – the old order has been buried.
The end is a feast for all peoples, a feast of rich food and well-aged wines where Israel and the nations sing, “This is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation,” and the one seated on the throne says, “See, I am making all things new.”
We hunger and thirst for righteousness, and we can already see what is coming.
We long for redemption and we work with compassion, and in the company of God’s saints we can already see what is coming.
We follow Jesus on the way, and in the company of Isaiah and John, surrounded by the great cloud of witnesses, our eyes are lined up with the promises and purposes of God, and we can see what is coming: the blessed communion of humanity with God, the joy of heaven to earth come down, unhindered and unending and complete.
To what end do we put on the white robe of baptism? To be part of that transformation in this life and in the life to come.
To what end to we follow Jesus on the way, and not other lords that vie for our allegiance? To be part of that transformation in this life and in the life to come.
To what end do we love and serve our God and our neighbor, and not our own ambitions? To be part of that transformation in this life and in the life to come.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Little Houses and the City of God
They were on the road, going up to Jerusalem, and Jesus was walking ahead of them, a solitary figure against the darkening horizon. All they could do was try and keep up with him.
On the road, Jesus had taught them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering and be killed and after three days rise again, and they couldn’t hear it. The first time it was Peter who rebuked him for saying such things. Another time, Jesus was teaching them again how the Son of Man would be betrayed into human hands and be killed, and after three days rise again. They didn’t understand what he was saying, and instead of asking him, they argued with each other about who was the greatest. Jesus was way ahead of them, and all they could do was try and keep up with him.
A third time he stopped to tell them what was going to happen to him, and the contrast couldn’t be any sharper. He saw with blinding clarity where he was headed; he spoke in great detail about the religious authorities who would reject and condemn him, about Rome’s representatives who would mock, abuse and torture him before killing him. And again he spoke about rising after three days.
James and John approached him, and perhaps they had actually listened to what he had said. Perhaps they had heard every detail about how he would run into the walls of religious certainty and political convenience, the arrogance of power and the fickleness of public opinion, and how these walls would become his grave.
“Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you,” they said.
Perhaps they weren’t as inattentive and insensitive as we might suspect. Perhaps their confidence in Jesus’ final triumph was so complete that they ignored the dark clouds gathering ahead of them and leapt straight from the dusty road to the golden throne. In their minds, the way of Christ was but a step from all that was wrong with the world to the reign of righteousness. In their minds, they were standing at the door, their toes touching the threshold, and they could see the Risen One seated on the throne of glory.
“What is it you want me to do for you?”
“Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory,” they replied.
They were dreaming about cabinet seats. Certainly the Messiah would need a Chief of Staff or a Vice President of Righteous Reign – and why not them, trusted friends who had been with him almost from day one?
Years ago, Dave Barry wrote about his experience as a summer intern in Washington.
James and John thought of God’s reign as Washington writ large, and they wanted to be near the top of the totem pole.
“Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory,” they said.
And Jesus said to them, “You do not know what you are asking.”
The way of the cross is not some new and improved way to power and glory; it is the way of the cross. It is a way that leads to rejection and suffering because it goes against the grain of human aspirations and the logic of human institutions.
Mark has no intention of singling out James and John as more naïvely ambitious than the other disciples. Peter, James and John, together with the others illustrate the gap between the mind of Jesus and the minds of those who follow him – and all we can do is try and keep up with him.
The way of Jesus is difficult because it requires that we surrender deep-rooted ideas of power and weakness, and follow. And that surrender is not a one-time laying down of arms, but a daily letting go of control.
“Not what I want, but what you want,” is the prayer of Jesus in Gethsemane as he prepares to drink the cup of suffering, and it is the prayer of those who follow him. Not what I want – not my aspirations, my ambitions, my pursuits, but what you want – your will, your desire, your purpose.
The kingdom is not Washington writ large – the same old world with a new set of rulers on the same old thrones. The kingdom comes into the world by subverting our notions of power. It enters by undermining our desire to go all the way to the top in order to transform the world and all that is wrong with it from the top down. The kingdom entered the world in Jesus who came not to be served but to serve, and gave his life for a new way of being human.
We accept too easily that to seek control, influence, and power is simply human nature. Jesus certainly didn’t approach life that way and he revealed our true nature. He didn’t manipulate people to get what he wanted. He didn’t lord it over those who recognized his authority. He didn’t use others in the pursuit of his own personal ambitions. He was in the world as one who served God and every human life that touched his.
Now he is walking ahead of us, and all we can do is try and keep up with him on the way to God’s reign. He invites us to join him in his mission of service to all people by looking at others not as means to boost our own status and make our name great, but as fellow human beings whose desire to flourish goes hand in hand with God’s purpose for creation. He invites us to pray with him, “Not what I want, but what you want.” He invites us to quiet our ego that is so ambitious to rule, and to trust the reign of God. “Not what I want, but what you want.”
We are about to launch a ministry project here at Vine Street, homelessness: 360
For about a month we will bring together our worship, our study, and our service around the reality of women, men, and children who lack adequate housing. The causes and consequences of homelessness are complex, and nobody I know or have heard about claims to fully grasp what is needed to address and transform that reality.
Next Sunday, during lunch after worship, we will have the opportunity to talk with Jeff Blum, a Disciples minister who for over twenty years has worked in the crimininal justice system. Jeff is the Mental Health Coordinator for the Davidson County Sheriff’s Office, and in that role he sees daily how mental health issues, homelessness, and delinquency interact in ways that prevent human life from flourishing. I hope you will join us for that conversation.
Two weeks later, on November 8, Councilmember Erik Cole will be give the 2009 Roger T. Nooe Lecture for World Peace. Erik is the son of Pat and Ed, and as Chair of the Metro Homelessness Commission he has worked with creativity and dedication to bring our community together to prevent and end homelessness in our city. I hope you will be here to hear his thoughts on coordinating government programs with efforts in the business community, the non-profit sector, and Nashville’s many faith communities in addressing homelessness. There is a host of events and programs over the next four weeks, and they are all listed in today’s special insert and online.
One is especially near and dear to me, though. When Jesus tells us to seek greatness through service, I believe he is pointing to Room in the Inn, where we come together to prepare meals, make beds, open doors, and welcome the stranger under our roof. We share a meal, we share stories, we pray, we laugh and cry. For one night, the world is changed. You may not get your picture in the paper, you may not even get your name in the newsletter, but for that one night, you are part of changing the world and welcoming the reign of God.
Changing the world and welcoming the reign of God are big words. What I want to talk about in conclusion, though, is this little house. It’s little more than paper, glue, and some paint – even though it was designed by one of Nashville’s finest architects. It’s not a mansion, no matter from what angle you look at it, but it’s a house with four walls and a roof, a door and x windows.
We want at least one of these in every Vine Street household. We started production last week, and about 100 kits are ready for delivery and assembly. Each comes with a set of questions, so that every day you and your family, or you by yourself, or you and your co-workers, neighbors, or friends can spend some time thinking, talking and praying about what it means to have a home or not. And every time you do that, you drop a little piece of paper through the slot in the roof, a tiny piece of paper with a word or a sentence written on it, or a picture drawn on it.
In every Vine Street household, over the course of four weeks, a little house will collect and hold our gratitude, our hopes and frustrations, our helplessness and our commitments. And four weeks from today, on November 15, we all bring our prayer houses back to God’s house to build a city where all are at home – right here around Christ’s table.
James and John thought that in the kingdom new and better rulers would sit on the old thrones. Jesus taught them that the change required was much more significant. He challenged them and every generation of disciples after them to imagine a world where our love of God and neighbor is stronger than our ego’s ambition to rule.
Spending just a little time every day talking about what it means for us to have a home or not, may not seem like much. Setting aside just a few minutes every day to reflect and meditate on the reality of homelessness, may not seem like much. Filling a little paper house with little paper prayers every day, may not seem like much.
But the change required for human life to flourish and God’s purpose for creation to be fulfilled is not just one of political will or economic priorities or cultural attitudes. The change required is spiritual in nature, and it aims at the conversion of our imagination.
At first we may see only lots of little houses. In the end we will see the city of God.
Audio of this post
On the road, Jesus had taught them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering and be killed and after three days rise again, and they couldn’t hear it. The first time it was Peter who rebuked him for saying such things. Another time, Jesus was teaching them again how the Son of Man would be betrayed into human hands and be killed, and after three days rise again. They didn’t understand what he was saying, and instead of asking him, they argued with each other about who was the greatest. Jesus was way ahead of them, and all they could do was try and keep up with him.
A third time he stopped to tell them what was going to happen to him, and the contrast couldn’t be any sharper. He saw with blinding clarity where he was headed; he spoke in great detail about the religious authorities who would reject and condemn him, about Rome’s representatives who would mock, abuse and torture him before killing him. And again he spoke about rising after three days.
James and John approached him, and perhaps they had actually listened to what he had said. Perhaps they had heard every detail about how he would run into the walls of religious certainty and political convenience, the arrogance of power and the fickleness of public opinion, and how these walls would become his grave.
“Teacher, we want you to do for us whatever we ask of you,” they said.
Perhaps they weren’t as inattentive and insensitive as we might suspect. Perhaps their confidence in Jesus’ final triumph was so complete that they ignored the dark clouds gathering ahead of them and leapt straight from the dusty road to the golden throne. In their minds, the way of Christ was but a step from all that was wrong with the world to the reign of righteousness. In their minds, they were standing at the door, their toes touching the threshold, and they could see the Risen One seated on the throne of glory.
“What is it you want me to do for you?”
“Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory,” they replied.
They were dreaming about cabinet seats. Certainly the Messiah would need a Chief of Staff or a Vice President of Righteous Reign – and why not them, trusted friends who had been with him almost from day one?
Years ago, Dave Barry wrote about his experience as a summer intern in Washington.
The key thing was your position on the great Washington totem pole of status. Way up at the top of this pole is the president; way down at the bottom (…) is the public. In between is an extremely complex hierarchy of government officials, journalists, lobbyists, lawyers, and other power players, holding thousands of minutely graduated status rankings differentiated by extremely subtle nuances that only Washingtonians are capable of grasping. For example, Washingtonians know whether a person whose title is “Principal Assistant Deputy Undersecretary” is more or less important than a person whose title is “Associate Principal Deputy Assistant Secretary,” or “Principal Deputy to Deputy Assistant Secretary,” or “Deputy to the Deputy Secretary,” or “Principal Assistant Deputy Undersecretary,” or “Chief of Staff to the Assistant Assistant Secretary.” (All of these are real federal job titles.) Everybody in Washington always seems to know exactly how much status everybody else has.
James and John thought of God’s reign as Washington writ large, and they wanted to be near the top of the totem pole.
“Grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory,” they said.
And Jesus said to them, “You do not know what you are asking.”
The way of the cross is not some new and improved way to power and glory; it is the way of the cross. It is a way that leads to rejection and suffering because it goes against the grain of human aspirations and the logic of human institutions.
Mark has no intention of singling out James and John as more naïvely ambitious than the other disciples. Peter, James and John, together with the others illustrate the gap between the mind of Jesus and the minds of those who follow him – and all we can do is try and keep up with him.
The way of Jesus is difficult because it requires that we surrender deep-rooted ideas of power and weakness, and follow. And that surrender is not a one-time laying down of arms, but a daily letting go of control.
“Not what I want, but what you want,” is the prayer of Jesus in Gethsemane as he prepares to drink the cup of suffering, and it is the prayer of those who follow him. Not what I want – not my aspirations, my ambitions, my pursuits, but what you want – your will, your desire, your purpose.
The kingdom is not Washington writ large – the same old world with a new set of rulers on the same old thrones. The kingdom comes into the world by subverting our notions of power. It enters by undermining our desire to go all the way to the top in order to transform the world and all that is wrong with it from the top down. The kingdom entered the world in Jesus who came not to be served but to serve, and gave his life for a new way of being human.
We accept too easily that to seek control, influence, and power is simply human nature. Jesus certainly didn’t approach life that way and he revealed our true nature. He didn’t manipulate people to get what he wanted. He didn’t lord it over those who recognized his authority. He didn’t use others in the pursuit of his own personal ambitions. He was in the world as one who served God and every human life that touched his.
Now he is walking ahead of us, and all we can do is try and keep up with him on the way to God’s reign. He invites us to join him in his mission of service to all people by looking at others not as means to boost our own status and make our name great, but as fellow human beings whose desire to flourish goes hand in hand with God’s purpose for creation. He invites us to pray with him, “Not what I want, but what you want.” He invites us to quiet our ego that is so ambitious to rule, and to trust the reign of God. “Not what I want, but what you want.”
We are about to launch a ministry project here at Vine Street, homelessness: 360
For about a month we will bring together our worship, our study, and our service around the reality of women, men, and children who lack adequate housing. The causes and consequences of homelessness are complex, and nobody I know or have heard about claims to fully grasp what is needed to address and transform that reality.
Next Sunday, during lunch after worship, we will have the opportunity to talk with Jeff Blum, a Disciples minister who for over twenty years has worked in the crimininal justice system. Jeff is the Mental Health Coordinator for the Davidson County Sheriff’s Office, and in that role he sees daily how mental health issues, homelessness, and delinquency interact in ways that prevent human life from flourishing. I hope you will join us for that conversation.
Two weeks later, on November 8, Councilmember Erik Cole will be give the 2009 Roger T. Nooe Lecture for World Peace. Erik is the son of Pat and Ed, and as Chair of the Metro Homelessness Commission he has worked with creativity and dedication to bring our community together to prevent and end homelessness in our city. I hope you will be here to hear his thoughts on coordinating government programs with efforts in the business community, the non-profit sector, and Nashville’s many faith communities in addressing homelessness. There is a host of events and programs over the next four weeks, and they are all listed in today’s special insert and online.
One is especially near and dear to me, though. When Jesus tells us to seek greatness through service, I believe he is pointing to Room in the Inn, where we come together to prepare meals, make beds, open doors, and welcome the stranger under our roof. We share a meal, we share stories, we pray, we laugh and cry. For one night, the world is changed. You may not get your picture in the paper, you may not even get your name in the newsletter, but for that one night, you are part of changing the world and welcoming the reign of God.
Changing the world and welcoming the reign of God are big words. What I want to talk about in conclusion, though, is this little house. It’s little more than paper, glue, and some paint – even though it was designed by one of Nashville’s finest architects. It’s not a mansion, no matter from what angle you look at it, but it’s a house with four walls and a roof, a door and x windows.
We want at least one of these in every Vine Street household. We started production last week, and about 100 kits are ready for delivery and assembly. Each comes with a set of questions, so that every day you and your family, or you by yourself, or you and your co-workers, neighbors, or friends can spend some time thinking, talking and praying about what it means to have a home or not. And every time you do that, you drop a little piece of paper through the slot in the roof, a tiny piece of paper with a word or a sentence written on it, or a picture drawn on it.
In every Vine Street household, over the course of four weeks, a little house will collect and hold our gratitude, our hopes and frustrations, our helplessness and our commitments. And four weeks from today, on November 15, we all bring our prayer houses back to God’s house to build a city where all are at home – right here around Christ’s table.
James and John thought that in the kingdom new and better rulers would sit on the old thrones. Jesus taught them that the change required was much more significant. He challenged them and every generation of disciples after them to imagine a world where our love of God and neighbor is stronger than our ego’s ambition to rule.
Spending just a little time every day talking about what it means for us to have a home or not, may not seem like much. Setting aside just a few minutes every day to reflect and meditate on the reality of homelessness, may not seem like much. Filling a little paper house with little paper prayers every day, may not seem like much.
But the change required for human life to flourish and God’s purpose for creation to be fulfilled is not just one of political will or economic priorities or cultural attitudes. The change required is spiritual in nature, and it aims at the conversion of our imagination.
At first we may see only lots of little houses. In the end we will see the city of God.
Audio of this post
Friday, October 16, 2009
Terminator Friday
I love animals. Most of the ones I know, anyway. Most of the time.
Until yellow jackets moved into our composter.
They, or rather one of them, bit Miles. We thought it was just one of those things that can happen in your backyard. We didn't know we had a whole nest of them right there in our green, boxy friend.
Then came the day when I emptied a bucket of coffee grounds and tea leaves. I wacked it against the composter to get all the stuff that alwasy sticks to the bottom of the bucket. Well, hello, yellowjackets! They came out like something from a bad horror movie, and they were mad! Luckily, I got bitten only twice, but it hurt (I don't know what the dickens are, but it sure hurt like them).
How do I get rid of them without chemical warfare? Today I went to the garage and got my little blue friend, the shop vac and the biggest vacuum hose withe longest extension.
I set it all up, with the deadly end of the vacuum hose right by the "entrance." All I had to do was give the composter a couple of wacks, and out they came - only to be sucked into eternal darkness.
Terminator Friday.
Until yellow jackets moved into our composter.
They, or rather one of them, bit Miles. We thought it was just one of those things that can happen in your backyard. We didn't know we had a whole nest of them right there in our green, boxy friend.
Then came the day when I emptied a bucket of coffee grounds and tea leaves. I wacked it against the composter to get all the stuff that alwasy sticks to the bottom of the bucket. Well, hello, yellowjackets! They came out like something from a bad horror movie, and they were mad! Luckily, I got bitten only twice, but it hurt (I don't know what the dickens are, but it sure hurt like them).
How do I get rid of them without chemical warfare? Today I went to the garage and got my little blue friend, the shop vac and the biggest vacuum hose withe longest extension.
I set it all up, with the deadly end of the vacuum hose right by the "entrance." All I had to do was give the composter a couple of wacks, and out they came - only to be sucked into eternal darkness.
Terminator Friday.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Just a Slice or the Whole Circle?
homelessness : 360 is a ministry project that brings together what belongs together.
Too often we treat ministry like a pizza: a slice of worship, a slice of education, a slice of service in the community… But ministry is more like a circle where all points are defined by the common center.
Our worship, our study, our work, our fellowship, all share a common center in the God who meets us in Jesus Christ.
homelessness : 360 brings together all dimensions of our ministry around just one issue, homelessness. At Vine Street, over the course of approximately four weeks
- we pray every day, guided by a simple question like, “What do I look forward to when I go home at night?”
- we visit places like the Oasis Center and Campus for Human Development;
- we listen to speakers who have left behind easy answers a long time ago, but won’t stop pushing for better responses;
- we learn together how and why women, men, and children lose their homes;
- we build little houses for our hopes and our sorrows;
- we watch movies that help us imagine and understand the reality of not having a home;
- we bring the little houses we have built and filled with our prayers to worship and we build a city with them;
- we make beds, prepare meals, open the doors, and invite homeless men to spend the night and tell their stories.
Here's a list of all homelessness: 360 events with more information.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Stumbling into hell?
Demons and hell and self-mutilation, sprinkled with salt and unquenchable fire. Whoa!
Whatever happened to last Sunday’s Jesus? What happened to the gentle teacher who made it so easy to remember Mister Rogers? What happened to the nursery-painting-Jesus, the smiling man surrounded by the little children of the world, black and yellow, red and white?
This is no zero-calorie, honey-sweet Jesus who doesn’t offend anyone; this is holy fire and salt with a bite. This is Mark’s way of shaking us out of our unholy habit of making our own personal Jesus in the image of what we like to call our needs. This is Jesus pushing back against our desire to domesticate him to our own little world where we have prepared a place for him.
On the way to Jerusalem, on the way to the cross, the disciples had been arguing with one another who was the greatest. Jesus took a little child and put it among them, and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”
Without a doubt he surprised and confused them when he told them that the littlest ones, the ones without any power or status, are indeed the earthly embodiments of the great God of heaven who desires to be with us.
I wonder if Jesus was still holding the child in his arms when John responded, “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.”
Jesus was speaking about welcoming little ones, but his disciples were concerned about what others were doing in his name. Ironic, isn’t it? Jesus urges us to learn to see the presence of God in the ones we so easily overlook, like the very child in his arms, but our eyes are busy watching the competition instead.
“Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” Yes, you heard that right. Not ‘because he was not following you’ or ‘because he was not following with us.’ “We tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” Ironic, isn’t it? Jesus is teaching his followers to see the world through his eyes, but we are busy observing and judging the actions of others who don’t see things our way.
The greatest irony, however, may well be that only a few verses earlier in Mark, the disciples were unable to do anything when a father asked them to help his son who was being tormented by a demon. They couldn’t do anything, because they didn’t pray (Mark 9:14-29). But now, instead of celebrating that great works of healing and liberation in Jesus’ name were being done outside their circle, they intervened as if they had the exclusive copyright on Jesus’ name.
Lack of spiritual grounding, failure to bring about healing, lack of attention, obsession with status, and jealous protection of what we consider our turf – the emerging picture of Jesus’ followers is not very attractive. Jesus is on the way to Jerusalem, and we claim to be following him, but Mark holds up a mirror and for a moment we realize that we are suffering from serious ADD. Our eyes are not on the one who is going ahead of us; our feet are not pointed in the direction he is going; and our hands are busy doing many things. We stumble over our attitudes, our priorities, our distractions, ourselves.
Mark confirms that stumbling is quite common among disciples, and to the degree that it puts an occasional dent in our pride, tripping over ourselves is perhaps even to be welcomed. But our lack of attention and our misdirected desires have consequences not just for us but also for others.
Just like the disciples were not able to cast out the demon from the boy because they were not rooted in prayer, we will not be able to do our part in God’s mission of healing, liberation, and wholeness unless we are spiritually rooted in the presence and power of Christ. We need to be grounded not just for our own well-being and wholeness, but for the sake of others, for the sake of the gospel and the world.
Just like John overlooked the child in Jesus’ arms because his attention was elsewhere, we will be blind to the presence of God in the powerless unless we have our eyes opened by the living Christ. We need to have our vision adjusted not just for own sake, but for the healing of the nations.
As disciples of Jesus Christ, we are to be fully engaged in God’s mission: our hands the hands of healing, our feet the feet of messengers of peace, our eyes the eyes of compassion, our lips the lips of truth. We bear the name of Christ in order that we might be conduits of God’s grace and mercy, and anything that blocks their flow must go.
I hear these terrifying words, and I don’t know what to make of them; their brutality shocks me, their violence disturbs me. My immediate reaction is silence. My inclination is to joke, “Now if your other hand causes you to stumble, you’ll find it difficult to cut it off since you have only that one hand left.” I want to joke and laugh to release some of the tension, yet at the same time I know that these words are no laughing matter.
Throughout history, people have been scapegoated and cut off from their communities for allegedly causing others to stumble. Heretics were cut off and burnt at the stake lest they cause the body of Christ to stumble. Dissenters were cut off and disappeared lest they cause chaos in the body politic. No, these words are no laughing matter.
I wonder if they are meant to shock us; because so much is at stake, and we don’t get it when Jesus tells us to stop obsessing about status and start paying attention to each other. Perhaps he speaks of decisive, violent action, because nothing else gets our attention.
I am reminded of a wolf who stepped into a trap and it snapped shut. For an entire day, she tried unsuccessfully to free herself, pulling and biting the chain, trying to pry open the steel jaws with her snout. The next day she bit off her own leg, leaving her foot in the trap. She was limping, but she was free, she was alive.
You know it’s not your foot that’s causing you to walk off the trail, literally or metaphorically. It’s not somebody’s hand that’s causing them to lash out and hurt their spouse or a child. It’s not my eye that’s causing me to ignore the needs of others or to see only what I want to see.
It is my lack of attention to the reign of God that’s causing me to stumble. It is my being absorbed with myself, my status, and my needs that’s pulling me off the way of Christ. Jesus says that this path of self-centeredness can only end in hell, and I believe him. I don’t believe, though, that hell is a place of God’s making. Hell is what happens to life when we have it our way.
The path to life requires that I let myself be transformed by the grace and mercy of God. It requires that I attend to and trust the voice and word of God, that I keep my eyes on Jesus and my hands ready to serve others. It requires that I don’t try to domesticate Jesus by showing him the place I have prepared for him in the house of my life. It requires that I follow him on the way until we get to the city where all are at home.
As disciples of Jesus Christ, we are called to be fully engaged in God’s mission with all our heart, and soul, and might. We bear the name of Christ in order that we might be conduits of God’s grace and mercy, and anything that blocks their flow must go.
The imagery of cutting limbs and gouging eyes is disturbing, but it reminds us that faith in Christ isn’t just a matter of the heart feeling strangely warmed by the touch of grace, and then seeking to repeat or prolong that feeling. The transformation of the self in the image of Christ includes the removal of all that hinders the flow of grace – walls of suspicion, boulders of pride, dams of greed – and removing those obstacles can be painful. Our spiritual formation as disciples of Jesus Christ is not just a matter of heart and mind, or of attitudes and opinions. Our hands and our actions must invite and proclaim the reign of God. Our feet must become familiar with the way of peace and the path of forgiveness. Our eyes must learn to completely follow the gaze of Christ, our ears to pay attention to the still, small voice, and our lips to be careful in what we say and sing.
When and how do we learn these things and develop these new familiarities? First and foremost in weekly worship, in the presence of the living Christ in the community of believers. Then in our daily attention to prayer and work.
In the end, it is not our willingness to go to violent extremes with ourselves or with others that allows us to enter life. It is God’s unwavering commitment to us and our redemption, and our willingness to allow God to do this work with us.
Audio of this post
Whatever happened to last Sunday’s Jesus? What happened to the gentle teacher who made it so easy to remember Mister Rogers? What happened to the nursery-painting-Jesus, the smiling man surrounded by the little children of the world, black and yellow, red and white?
This is no zero-calorie, honey-sweet Jesus who doesn’t offend anyone; this is holy fire and salt with a bite. This is Mark’s way of shaking us out of our unholy habit of making our own personal Jesus in the image of what we like to call our needs. This is Jesus pushing back against our desire to domesticate him to our own little world where we have prepared a place for him.
On the way to Jerusalem, on the way to the cross, the disciples had been arguing with one another who was the greatest. Jesus took a little child and put it among them, and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”
Without a doubt he surprised and confused them when he told them that the littlest ones, the ones without any power or status, are indeed the earthly embodiments of the great God of heaven who desires to be with us.
I wonder if Jesus was still holding the child in his arms when John responded, “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.”
Jesus was speaking about welcoming little ones, but his disciples were concerned about what others were doing in his name. Ironic, isn’t it? Jesus urges us to learn to see the presence of God in the ones we so easily overlook, like the very child in his arms, but our eyes are busy watching the competition instead.
“Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” Yes, you heard that right. Not ‘because he was not following you’ or ‘because he was not following with us.’ “We tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” Ironic, isn’t it? Jesus is teaching his followers to see the world through his eyes, but we are busy observing and judging the actions of others who don’t see things our way.
The greatest irony, however, may well be that only a few verses earlier in Mark, the disciples were unable to do anything when a father asked them to help his son who was being tormented by a demon. They couldn’t do anything, because they didn’t pray (Mark 9:14-29). But now, instead of celebrating that great works of healing and liberation in Jesus’ name were being done outside their circle, they intervened as if they had the exclusive copyright on Jesus’ name.
Lack of spiritual grounding, failure to bring about healing, lack of attention, obsession with status, and jealous protection of what we consider our turf – the emerging picture of Jesus’ followers is not very attractive. Jesus is on the way to Jerusalem, and we claim to be following him, but Mark holds up a mirror and for a moment we realize that we are suffering from serious ADD. Our eyes are not on the one who is going ahead of us; our feet are not pointed in the direction he is going; and our hands are busy doing many things. We stumble over our attitudes, our priorities, our distractions, ourselves.
Mark confirms that stumbling is quite common among disciples, and to the degree that it puts an occasional dent in our pride, tripping over ourselves is perhaps even to be welcomed. But our lack of attention and our misdirected desires have consequences not just for us but also for others.
Just like the disciples were not able to cast out the demon from the boy because they were not rooted in prayer, we will not be able to do our part in God’s mission of healing, liberation, and wholeness unless we are spiritually rooted in the presence and power of Christ. We need to be grounded not just for our own well-being and wholeness, but for the sake of others, for the sake of the gospel and the world.
Just like John overlooked the child in Jesus’ arms because his attention was elsewhere, we will be blind to the presence of God in the powerless unless we have our eyes opened by the living Christ. We need to have our vision adjusted not just for own sake, but for the healing of the nations.
As disciples of Jesus Christ, we are to be fully engaged in God’s mission: our hands the hands of healing, our feet the feet of messengers of peace, our eyes the eyes of compassion, our lips the lips of truth. We bear the name of Christ in order that we might be conduits of God’s grace and mercy, and anything that blocks their flow must go.
If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life maimed than to have two hands and go to hell, to the unquenchable fire.
And if your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life lame than to have two feet and to be thrown into hell.
And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out; it is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and to be thrown into hell.
I hear these terrifying words, and I don’t know what to make of them; their brutality shocks me, their violence disturbs me. My immediate reaction is silence. My inclination is to joke, “Now if your other hand causes you to stumble, you’ll find it difficult to cut it off since you have only that one hand left.” I want to joke and laugh to release some of the tension, yet at the same time I know that these words are no laughing matter.
Throughout history, people have been scapegoated and cut off from their communities for allegedly causing others to stumble. Heretics were cut off and burnt at the stake lest they cause the body of Christ to stumble. Dissenters were cut off and disappeared lest they cause chaos in the body politic. No, these words are no laughing matter.
I wonder if they are meant to shock us; because so much is at stake, and we don’t get it when Jesus tells us to stop obsessing about status and start paying attention to each other. Perhaps he speaks of decisive, violent action, because nothing else gets our attention.
I am reminded of a wolf who stepped into a trap and it snapped shut. For an entire day, she tried unsuccessfully to free herself, pulling and biting the chain, trying to pry open the steel jaws with her snout. The next day she bit off her own leg, leaving her foot in the trap. She was limping, but she was free, she was alive.
You know it’s not your foot that’s causing you to walk off the trail, literally or metaphorically. It’s not somebody’s hand that’s causing them to lash out and hurt their spouse or a child. It’s not my eye that’s causing me to ignore the needs of others or to see only what I want to see.
It is my lack of attention to the reign of God that’s causing me to stumble. It is my being absorbed with myself, my status, and my needs that’s pulling me off the way of Christ. Jesus says that this path of self-centeredness can only end in hell, and I believe him. I don’t believe, though, that hell is a place of God’s making. Hell is what happens to life when we have it our way.
The path to life requires that I let myself be transformed by the grace and mercy of God. It requires that I attend to and trust the voice and word of God, that I keep my eyes on Jesus and my hands ready to serve others. It requires that I don’t try to domesticate Jesus by showing him the place I have prepared for him in the house of my life. It requires that I follow him on the way until we get to the city where all are at home.
As disciples of Jesus Christ, we are called to be fully engaged in God’s mission with all our heart, and soul, and might. We bear the name of Christ in order that we might be conduits of God’s grace and mercy, and anything that blocks their flow must go.
The imagery of cutting limbs and gouging eyes is disturbing, but it reminds us that faith in Christ isn’t just a matter of the heart feeling strangely warmed by the touch of grace, and then seeking to repeat or prolong that feeling. The transformation of the self in the image of Christ includes the removal of all that hinders the flow of grace – walls of suspicion, boulders of pride, dams of greed – and removing those obstacles can be painful. Our spiritual formation as disciples of Jesus Christ is not just a matter of heart and mind, or of attitudes and opinions. Our hands and our actions must invite and proclaim the reign of God. Our feet must become familiar with the way of peace and the path of forgiveness. Our eyes must learn to completely follow the gaze of Christ, our ears to pay attention to the still, small voice, and our lips to be careful in what we say and sing.
When and how do we learn these things and develop these new familiarities? First and foremost in weekly worship, in the presence of the living Christ in the community of believers. Then in our daily attention to prayer and work.
In the end, it is not our willingness to go to violent extremes with ourselves or with others that allows us to enter life. It is God’s unwavering commitment to us and our redemption, and our willingness to allow God to do this work with us.
Audio of this post
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
World Communion Sunday 2009
World Communion Sunday is celebrated by congregations around the globe. The first Sunday of October has become a time when Christians in every culture break bread and pour the cup to remember and affirm Jesus Christ as the Head of the Church. On that day, Christians everywhere remember that we are part of the whole body of believers. With this unique focus on the Table and on Christian unity, it should not surprise us, that this day is one of the "High Holidays" of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). Whether the Table brings people together in a grand cathedral, a mud hut, outside on a hilltop, in a meetinghouse, or in a storefront, or whether the Table is made of wood or stone or represented by a blanket on the ground – God’s people around the globe gather in response to Christ’s invitation to give thanks for the gifts of God.
At Vine Street this year, we will celebrate World Communion Sunday with our friends from the Congo. Nouvelle Aliance has been worshiping on Fridays and Sundays in our chapel for several months now, and our worship committee and the leadership of Nouvelle Aliance decided to have our first joint worship service on this special day. We will sing familiar tunes with words in English, French, and Lingala. We will hear Scripture read in various languages as well, and our prayers will reflect the wonderful diversity of the body of Christ. All of us, no matter what journey has brought us to the table, no matter what language or culture has shaped us, all of us will come to the table with empty hands to receive the gifts of God for a hungry world, the gifts that make us whole.
It is no coincidence that in the afternoon of that day, we will have yet another celebration. In the fall of 1809, Thomas Campbell published a brief essay, Declaration and Address, a passionate call to Christian unity. That document became one of the key texts for the Stone-Campbell Movement and its vision of the church, and to this day it inspires the ministry of Christian Churches, Churches of Christ and the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).
In celebration of the bicentennial of Thomas Campbell’s Declaration and Address Christians, congregations with roots in that movement will come together to celebrate the Lord’s Supper on Sunday October 4, 2009. Here in Nashville, we will meet at 4PM at the West End Church of Christ; our own T.J. McLaughlin will direct a unity choir. There won’t be any preaching, only a brief statement about the historical importance of the occasion – both two-hundred years ago and today – and an invitation to what Campbell called “that great ordinance of Unity and Love.”
At Vine Street this year, we will celebrate World Communion Sunday with our friends from the Congo. Nouvelle Aliance has been worshiping on Fridays and Sundays in our chapel for several months now, and our worship committee and the leadership of Nouvelle Aliance decided to have our first joint worship service on this special day. We will sing familiar tunes with words in English, French, and Lingala. We will hear Scripture read in various languages as well, and our prayers will reflect the wonderful diversity of the body of Christ. All of us, no matter what journey has brought us to the table, no matter what language or culture has shaped us, all of us will come to the table with empty hands to receive the gifts of God for a hungry world, the gifts that make us whole.
It is no coincidence that in the afternoon of that day, we will have yet another celebration. In the fall of 1809, Thomas Campbell published a brief essay, Declaration and Address, a passionate call to Christian unity. That document became one of the key texts for the Stone-Campbell Movement and its vision of the church, and to this day it inspires the ministry of Christian Churches, Churches of Christ and the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).In celebration of the bicentennial of Thomas Campbell’s Declaration and Address Christians, congregations with roots in that movement will come together to celebrate the Lord’s Supper on Sunday October 4, 2009. Here in Nashville, we will meet at 4PM at the West End Church of Christ; our own T.J. McLaughlin will direct a unity choir. There won’t be any preaching, only a brief statement about the historical importance of the occasion – both two-hundred years ago and today – and an invitation to what Campbell called “that great ordinance of Unity and Love.”
Won't you be my neighbor?
I didn’t meet Mr. Rogers until I was well into my thirties – the Mister Rogers that is, the one with the cardigan and the warm smile and the song, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood…”
My colleague, Rochelle Stackhouse grew up with Mr. Rogers and his kind invitation to all children,
Rochelle remembers the first time she met Mr. Rogers in person ( see Lectionary Homiletics 20, No. 5, August/September 2009, p. 61). She was standing with a group of adults and several small children waiting for an elevator at Princeton Seminary. The doors opened, and to their great surprise, out stepped Fred Rogers. In case you’re wondering, “What on earth was he doing there?” – Mr. Rogers was a Presbyterian minister, and thus not completely out of place at Princeton. Anyway, he got off the elevator, and as the adults all spoke to him, he didn’t pay them any attention and instead stooped down to greet the children standing there first. Only after he had spoken to each one of them did he stand back up and speak to the taller people.
That was Mister Rogers. A tall man, he stooped to live, at least for a moment, in the world of the little ones. And with that small effort of attention he brought them in.
Do you remember having to climb up on the kitchen stool on which you simply sat down only a few years later? Do you remember being in a room with adults and they were all standing and chatting way up there while you were trying to find your way across the room through a forest of legs?
I remember sitting at the small table with the rest of the kids at every family gathering, and we would eat and talk and laugh and fight – and I remember how proud I was when I got to sit at the grown-up table for the first time. They had put one of the firm pillows on my chair to bring me up a couple of inches, so I could reach my glass and get a better view of my dinner plate. So there I sat, and I ate and I drank and I watched and I listened. At that table, I didn’t laugh much; the adults weren’t even half as hilarious as my cousins. I also didn’t say much, because my mom had been very clear that I was only to speak when spoken to, and who talks to a little boy when there’s a table full of grown-ups? I noticed that knocking over my glass of apple juice got everybody’s attention, but I also learned that the adults didn’t think peas in a puddle were nearly as funny as I thought.
We all have memories like that, memories of a world just beyond our reach, a world we can’t wait to belong to. Getting to the grown-up table is easy, all you have to do is get older. Getting to hang out with the cool people at high-school is a lot tougher, and getting a piece of the American Dream Pie even more so: you either have to figure out who’s doing the slicing and get yourself a seat at that table, or get a hold of the pie and a knife, or learn to bake.
From a very young age, we are encouraged to be ambitious and competitive, to set goals for ourselves and pursue them, to work hard and meet the right people.
The disciples had met Jesus. They had met the one who would set all things right. He had talked about going to Jerusalem, and they were ready for the challenge. They were still in Galilee, still preparing for the great journey south to the city of David. Jesus was still teaching them, talking again about being betrayed into human hands and being killed and after three days rising again.
They did not understand what he was saying, and they were afraid to ask him. Why do you think were they afraid to ask? Was it because they didn’t want to appear too slow for the race to the top? Was it because they had to make the others believe that they had it all together?
Instead of asking questions, they were jockeying for positions of influence and status. You know that at least two of them spoke with great conviction about sitting at Jesus’ right and left when he would come in glory. And one of them had to mention several times that he had been with Jesus the longest, and another that Jesus had already entrusted him with the office of treasurer. And while one touted his revolutionary zeal, another bragged about his connections in the business community.
When they got to the house, Jesus, never afraid to ask questions, said, “What were you arguing about on the way?” And suddenly they were silent, the whole chatty, ambitious bunch; no one said a word. Do you think they were embarrassed? I don’t know; had he asked them in private, individually, he may have heard statements like, “That Theophilus thinks he is the greatest” or “Bartholomew is dreaming about a seat on the supreme court.”
Three times in the gospel of Mark, Jesus talks about being rejected and betrayed, being handed over and condemned to death, being killed and rising again after three days. Three times, not just because this is disturbing news that doesn’t sink in easily, but because the meaning of discipleship is so tied up with that particular path. To follow this Messiah on his path is to let him turn our world, the world we and the generations before us have made of God’s creation, to let him turn that world upside down.
He sits down, calls the twelve, and says, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” In the kingdoms of the world, those at the top of the ladder lord it over those at the bottom. But in the kingdom of God, earth and heaven touch not at the top, in the clouds of power where one hand washes the other, but at the bottom where Jesus stoops to wash our feet. On this path, greatness is defined not in terms of superiority but service.
It is easy to imagine at this point a new round of arguments among the disciples, only now we try to outperform one another in lowliness, now we strive to stand out, head and shoulders above the rest, with our perfect humility. “Look at me, Jesus, I’m the humblest.” But that’s not the path.
We all start out little. We all start out needing to be noticed, needing to be held, needing to be talked to and fed. We all start out needing to be welcomed despite our lack of status, knowledge, accomplishments and any measure of greatness. We we need somebody to see us simply because we are here, and we become human only through the eyes and hands and words of others.
I wonder how much our desire for greatness has to do with that deep need to be seen, to be noticed and recognized, and finally, finally welcomed.
We are arguing about who is the greatest and worthy of recognition, and Jesus puts a child among us. We didn’t notice the child, did we? We were engaged in important conversations, making sure our voice would get through, our opinion would be heard, and our contribution recognized in its importance.
Jesus stoops and picks up a little child; not necessarily a precious, cuddly little sunshine, one of those fat-cheeked cherubs politicians like to pick up anytime cameras are around. Just a child, any child, and he says to us who want to follow him, “If you want to be great, notice the little ones and bring them in.” To be great is not to make yourself as big as possible just to be seen, but to shift your attention and notice the little ones. Welcome the one who has little or no status, who is not great by any measure, the one who is beyond the circle, who needs a welcome.
Welcome is woven through this teaching unlike any other verse of scripture. Welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, as steady as the holy, holy, holy sung in heaven. Welcoming the little ones, those who are so easily overlooked at the tables where the grown-up conversations take place, we welcome Christ himself, and welcoming him, we welcome the One who sent him.
Much of our theological tradition has taught us to wonder, “What must I do, who do I have to be in order to be worthy to be received and welcomed by the holy God?” In Jesus’ teaching the perspective is turned around, and our attention is turned away from ourselves and our anxious obsession with our status. The challenge for a disciple of Jesus is not to be seen, but to see.
The little ones, those made invisible by our arrangements of power and importance, our patterns of inclusion and exclusion, are truly the embodiment of the invisible God who comes to us. Welcoming one such child, says Jesus, we welcome the Holy One whose powerful word created the heavens and the earth.
Those are lines worth remembering and repeating.
Audio of this post
My colleague, Rochelle Stackhouse grew up with Mr. Rogers and his kind invitation to all children,
Since we’re together we might as well say:
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?
Rochelle remembers the first time she met Mr. Rogers in person ( see Lectionary Homiletics 20, No. 5, August/September 2009, p. 61). She was standing with a group of adults and several small children waiting for an elevator at Princeton Seminary. The doors opened, and to their great surprise, out stepped Fred Rogers. In case you’re wondering, “What on earth was he doing there?” – Mr. Rogers was a Presbyterian minister, and thus not completely out of place at Princeton. Anyway, he got off the elevator, and as the adults all spoke to him, he didn’t pay them any attention and instead stooped down to greet the children standing there first. Only after he had spoken to each one of them did he stand back up and speak to the taller people.
That was Mister Rogers. A tall man, he stooped to live, at least for a moment, in the world of the little ones. And with that small effort of attention he brought them in.
Do you remember having to climb up on the kitchen stool on which you simply sat down only a few years later? Do you remember being in a room with adults and they were all standing and chatting way up there while you were trying to find your way across the room through a forest of legs?
I remember sitting at the small table with the rest of the kids at every family gathering, and we would eat and talk and laugh and fight – and I remember how proud I was when I got to sit at the grown-up table for the first time. They had put one of the firm pillows on my chair to bring me up a couple of inches, so I could reach my glass and get a better view of my dinner plate. So there I sat, and I ate and I drank and I watched and I listened. At that table, I didn’t laugh much; the adults weren’t even half as hilarious as my cousins. I also didn’t say much, because my mom had been very clear that I was only to speak when spoken to, and who talks to a little boy when there’s a table full of grown-ups? I noticed that knocking over my glass of apple juice got everybody’s attention, but I also learned that the adults didn’t think peas in a puddle were nearly as funny as I thought.
We all have memories like that, memories of a world just beyond our reach, a world we can’t wait to belong to. Getting to the grown-up table is easy, all you have to do is get older. Getting to hang out with the cool people at high-school is a lot tougher, and getting a piece of the American Dream Pie even more so: you either have to figure out who’s doing the slicing and get yourself a seat at that table, or get a hold of the pie and a knife, or learn to bake.
From a very young age, we are encouraged to be ambitious and competitive, to set goals for ourselves and pursue them, to work hard and meet the right people.
The disciples had met Jesus. They had met the one who would set all things right. He had talked about going to Jerusalem, and they were ready for the challenge. They were still in Galilee, still preparing for the great journey south to the city of David. Jesus was still teaching them, talking again about being betrayed into human hands and being killed and after three days rising again.
They did not understand what he was saying, and they were afraid to ask him. Why do you think were they afraid to ask? Was it because they didn’t want to appear too slow for the race to the top? Was it because they had to make the others believe that they had it all together?
Instead of asking questions, they were jockeying for positions of influence and status. You know that at least two of them spoke with great conviction about sitting at Jesus’ right and left when he would come in glory. And one of them had to mention several times that he had been with Jesus the longest, and another that Jesus had already entrusted him with the office of treasurer. And while one touted his revolutionary zeal, another bragged about his connections in the business community.
When they got to the house, Jesus, never afraid to ask questions, said, “What were you arguing about on the way?” And suddenly they were silent, the whole chatty, ambitious bunch; no one said a word. Do you think they were embarrassed? I don’t know; had he asked them in private, individually, he may have heard statements like, “That Theophilus thinks he is the greatest” or “Bartholomew is dreaming about a seat on the supreme court.”
Three times in the gospel of Mark, Jesus talks about being rejected and betrayed, being handed over and condemned to death, being killed and rising again after three days. Three times, not just because this is disturbing news that doesn’t sink in easily, but because the meaning of discipleship is so tied up with that particular path. To follow this Messiah on his path is to let him turn our world, the world we and the generations before us have made of God’s creation, to let him turn that world upside down.
He sits down, calls the twelve, and says, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” In the kingdoms of the world, those at the top of the ladder lord it over those at the bottom. But in the kingdom of God, earth and heaven touch not at the top, in the clouds of power where one hand washes the other, but at the bottom where Jesus stoops to wash our feet. On this path, greatness is defined not in terms of superiority but service.
It is easy to imagine at this point a new round of arguments among the disciples, only now we try to outperform one another in lowliness, now we strive to stand out, head and shoulders above the rest, with our perfect humility. “Look at me, Jesus, I’m the humblest.” But that’s not the path.
We all start out little. We all start out needing to be noticed, needing to be held, needing to be talked to and fed. We all start out needing to be welcomed despite our lack of status, knowledge, accomplishments and any measure of greatness. We we need somebody to see us simply because we are here, and we become human only through the eyes and hands and words of others.
I wonder how much our desire for greatness has to do with that deep need to be seen, to be noticed and recognized, and finally, finally welcomed.
Jesus took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”
We are arguing about who is the greatest and worthy of recognition, and Jesus puts a child among us. We didn’t notice the child, did we? We were engaged in important conversations, making sure our voice would get through, our opinion would be heard, and our contribution recognized in its importance.
Jesus stoops and picks up a little child; not necessarily a precious, cuddly little sunshine, one of those fat-cheeked cherubs politicians like to pick up anytime cameras are around. Just a child, any child, and he says to us who want to follow him, “If you want to be great, notice the little ones and bring them in.” To be great is not to make yourself as big as possible just to be seen, but to shift your attention and notice the little ones. Welcome the one who has little or no status, who is not great by any measure, the one who is beyond the circle, who needs a welcome.“Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”
Welcome is woven through this teaching unlike any other verse of scripture. Welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, as steady as the holy, holy, holy sung in heaven. Welcoming the little ones, those who are so easily overlooked at the tables where the grown-up conversations take place, we welcome Christ himself, and welcoming him, we welcome the One who sent him.
Much of our theological tradition has taught us to wonder, “What must I do, who do I have to be in order to be worthy to be received and welcomed by the holy God?” In Jesus’ teaching the perspective is turned around, and our attention is turned away from ourselves and our anxious obsession with our status. The challenge for a disciple of Jesus is not to be seen, but to see.
The little ones, those made invisible by our arrangements of power and importance, our patterns of inclusion and exclusion, are truly the embodiment of the invisible God who comes to us. Welcoming one such child, says Jesus, we welcome the Holy One whose powerful word created the heavens and the earth.
Since we’re together we might as well say:
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?
Those are lines worth remembering and repeating.
Audio of this post
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
homelessness : 360
why 360?
At Vine Street, we want to integrate what we do in education, advocacy, service, and worship; 360 is the sum of all angles, and a circle is a beautiful thing (especially when no one’s left out).
why homelessness?
Lack of housing makes all other problems worse; poverty is a systemic issue (and a challenge to any spirituality), and housing is a good point of entry into the complexities of loving and serving the poor among our neighbors. In the future, we will use the 360 concept to address other issues like hunger or immigration as well as our local and global neighborhood.
how?
On October 20, Campus for Human Development commission their new volunteers in a worship service at Vine Street.
In the weeks to follow we address issues of homelessness through education events for adults, youth, and children – including tours, books, videos, and conversations.
Members of every Vine Street household engage in two weeks of prayer: every human being needs a home. Families and individuals have a little paper house – like a coin bank – to collect and offer some of their prayers in writing.
On November 8, Erik Cole gives the 2009 Roger T. Nooe Lecture on World Peace with a focus on homelessness in Nashville. Erik grew up at Vine Street, and he is known in the community for his work on the Metro Council, and specifically for his strong leadership on the Metro Homelessness Commission.
On November 15, individuals and families bring their “houses of prayer” to God’s house of prayer. The worship service celebrates God’s hospitality and challenges us to renewed commitment to participate in God’s mission of bringing all people home; part of that recommitment are our time&talent surveys. Our annual Thanksgiving luncheon adds to the festive character of the day; that night, Vine Street begins a week of hosting Room in the Inn.
Throughout the process, participants write about their experience at vinestreet.ning.com
Monday, September 14, 2009
One wild and precious life
Mark 8:27-38 provides the context for this post
All the school supplies have been purchased and the first ball games of the new season have been lost and won. You have moved your beach bum and pool clothes to a different corner of the closet, perhaps to a different closet altogether. The garden, after weeks of lush fecundity, is dreaming of cold sabbath days of rest. And on the Osage Orange tree the leaves are already turning and falling. Summer is on its way out and fall is in the air.
I invite you to linger a little, to hold on to one of those summer moments when you could hear the crickets chirping, and the whole world smelled like grass and, by some wondrous magic, time stood still.
I want to read for you The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver. I connect with this poem because I too have sat in the grass, lost in wonder, watching some little detail of creation. I too have strolled through the fields, idle and blessed all day long, simply allowing views, smells, sounds, and questions to rise.
In Mary Oliver’s poem, the questions change from childlike curiosity and wonder, “Who made the world?“ to very grown-up responsibility,
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Questions about life float easily into each other. Tell me, what will it profit you to gain the whole world and forfeit your one wild and precious life? Jesus teaches that the way to find life and save it is to give it away, to lose it for something. And nothing is more terrifying than the suspicion that you have given away your life, perhaps only one day of it, for too little or for the wrong currency.
I heard an interview with a New York stock broker on the radio last week. When the big brokerage houses went down fast last fall, he thought his job with a smaller firm was safe. He had a position on the trading floor, he had a function and he fulfilled it. And he fulfilled it with pride, because Frank – let’s call him Frank – was a certified member of the New York Stock Exchange like his father and grandfather before him, and they both had worked well beyond their 80th birthdays. Frank was looking forward to a few more good years before retirement.
In November he got the phone call, and the news hit him like a truck out of nowhere; somebody said something about streamlining and necessary adjustments to the overall cost structure. Frank hung up the phone and got on the subway back to New Jersey.
Frank is 52 years old, and his chances of ever working in the financial sector again are slim. He still gets up early in the morning, but instead of catching the subway to Wall Street at 6:30 AM, he now makes breakfast for his wife and youngest son. He’s noticed that the number of dads dropping off their kids at school in the morning has been going up, and at the end of the summer he went to his first parent-teacher-night in years. Frank lost a dream when he lost his job, but now he knows that in the pursuit of his dream he had given away his life for too little, and he is grateful that he noticed that before it was too late. Mercy comes in surprising ways.
In today’s Gospel lesson, the question, “What will it profit you to gain the whole world and forfeit your life?” is raised rather late. The first question of the dialogue is an easy one, the answer a simple matter of completing an informal poll and reporting the results.
“Who do people say that I am?” Jesus asks.
The disciples answer, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets. They look to you as a teacher and healer and a spiritual master.” It’s easy to talk about Jesus.
The second question is anything but easy.
“Who do you say that I am?”
They had been with him since the first days on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. They had followed him from town to town, village to village, farm to farm, and wherever he went, they had seen signs of God’s reign: he healed the sick, he drove out demons, and he gave bread to thousands. They had seen hope springing up among the poor; they had heard powerful words of forgiveness, and teachings that left the religious experts speechless.
“Who do you say that I am?”
Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” You are the Christ, you are God’s Anointed One, you are the One sent to save God’s people Israel. That’s a powerful response, but it is not as simple as it may seem.
The journey will go to Jerusalem, the City of David. They look down the path, and images of greatness rise in their minds: God’s Messiah waging war against the forces of evil and cleansing the land from all impurity; God’s Messiah driving out the foreign oppressors and establishing peace in Zion; God’s Messiah entering the city in glory and claiming his crown and throne and kingdom.
They look down the path and see it all very clearly: the words of the prophets – finally fulfilled; the glory of Zion – finally restored; the reign of God – finally established.
But Jesus doesn’t call for his horse and armor. He is not the answer to our questions. Jesus looks down the path and what he sees is very different from our expectations:
His suffering, his rejection and death are not unfortunate accidents, the regrettable but preventable results of particular political circumstances. Jesus must undergo great suffering and be killed because in faithfulness to God’s way he rejects our self-seeking, self-serving, power-building, and control-maintaining ways.
To say to Jesus, “You are the Messiah”is to let him break the mold of our expectations and follow him on the way. To say to Jesus, “You are the Christ”is to believe that the way to enter the reign of God is laid out not in our imagination, but in his way to the cross.
Peter took him aside and rebuked him. The glamour of following Jesus to the City of David was suddenly gone for him; he had a different map in mind, a different path and outcome. This wasn’t what he had planned to do with his one wild and precious life, so he quit following and became a voice of temptation until Jesus called him again.
At the center of Mark’s Gospel, the question is, Do we follow whom we need Jesus to be for us or Will we follow Jesus on his way?
Midway between Galilee and Jerusalem, Jesus calls us again to follow him, only this time we know what lies ahead:
He calls us to let ourselves be marked as Christ’s own and to follow him on the way where life is not measured in what we gain and pile up and secure, but in how we give ourselves away. We cannot possess this one wild and precious life, we can only live it in love with God and with each other. All our attempts to secure life by gaining control over the world and over others will only exhaust our souls in the effort; we will lose what we meant to save. He calls us to follow him on the way where we no longer try and save ourselves with all our formidable means of power, but let him be our Savior. He frees us from the incessant tyranny of doing more and walks us to a life of losing our petty obsessions and mistaken priorities for the love of God and neighbor.
Summer is almost over and our schedules are filling up fast. New routines quickly become old ones, and you already know that soon you will forget that summer day when you remembered,
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
This question is a good one when it asks for more ways to live fully in relationship with God, and with loved ones, friends, neighbors, and strangers, and with this beautiful earth. This same question is a sad one when it is asked too late and with regret, because so many summer days, fall, winter, and spring days have come and gone with too little wonder, too little attention, and too little love.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
For us the answer has everything to do with how we respond to Jesus’ question, Who do you say that I am?
Audio of this post
All the school supplies have been purchased and the first ball games of the new season have been lost and won. You have moved your beach bum and pool clothes to a different corner of the closet, perhaps to a different closet altogether. The garden, after weeks of lush fecundity, is dreaming of cold sabbath days of rest. And on the Osage Orange tree the leaves are already turning and falling. Summer is on its way out and fall is in the air.
I invite you to linger a little, to hold on to one of those summer moments when you could hear the crickets chirping, and the whole world smelled like grass and, by some wondrous magic, time stood still.
I want to read for you The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver. I connect with this poem because I too have sat in the grass, lost in wonder, watching some little detail of creation. I too have strolled through the fields, idle and blessed all day long, simply allowing views, smells, sounds, and questions to rise.
In Mary Oliver’s poem, the questions change from childlike curiosity and wonder, “Who made the world?“ to very grown-up responsibility,
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Questions about life float easily into each other. Tell me, what will it profit you to gain the whole world and forfeit your one wild and precious life? Jesus teaches that the way to find life and save it is to give it away, to lose it for something. And nothing is more terrifying than the suspicion that you have given away your life, perhaps only one day of it, for too little or for the wrong currency.
I heard an interview with a New York stock broker on the radio last week. When the big brokerage houses went down fast last fall, he thought his job with a smaller firm was safe. He had a position on the trading floor, he had a function and he fulfilled it. And he fulfilled it with pride, because Frank – let’s call him Frank – was a certified member of the New York Stock Exchange like his father and grandfather before him, and they both had worked well beyond their 80th birthdays. Frank was looking forward to a few more good years before retirement.
In November he got the phone call, and the news hit him like a truck out of nowhere; somebody said something about streamlining and necessary adjustments to the overall cost structure. Frank hung up the phone and got on the subway back to New Jersey.
Frank is 52 years old, and his chances of ever working in the financial sector again are slim. He still gets up early in the morning, but instead of catching the subway to Wall Street at 6:30 AM, he now makes breakfast for his wife and youngest son. He’s noticed that the number of dads dropping off their kids at school in the morning has been going up, and at the end of the summer he went to his first parent-teacher-night in years. Frank lost a dream when he lost his job, but now he knows that in the pursuit of his dream he had given away his life for too little, and he is grateful that he noticed that before it was too late. Mercy comes in surprising ways.
In today’s Gospel lesson, the question, “What will it profit you to gain the whole world and forfeit your life?” is raised rather late. The first question of the dialogue is an easy one, the answer a simple matter of completing an informal poll and reporting the results.
“Who do people say that I am?” Jesus asks.
The disciples answer, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets. They look to you as a teacher and healer and a spiritual master.” It’s easy to talk about Jesus.
The second question is anything but easy.
“Who do you say that I am?”
They had been with him since the first days on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. They had followed him from town to town, village to village, farm to farm, and wherever he went, they had seen signs of God’s reign: he healed the sick, he drove out demons, and he gave bread to thousands. They had seen hope springing up among the poor; they had heard powerful words of forgiveness, and teachings that left the religious experts speechless.
“Who do you say that I am?”
Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” You are the Christ, you are God’s Anointed One, you are the One sent to save God’s people Israel. That’s a powerful response, but it is not as simple as it may seem.
The journey will go to Jerusalem, the City of David. They look down the path, and images of greatness rise in their minds: God’s Messiah waging war against the forces of evil and cleansing the land from all impurity; God’s Messiah driving out the foreign oppressors and establishing peace in Zion; God’s Messiah entering the city in glory and claiming his crown and throne and kingdom.
They look down the path and see it all very clearly: the words of the prophets – finally fulfilled; the glory of Zion – finally restored; the reign of God – finally established.
But Jesus doesn’t call for his horse and armor. He is not the answer to our questions. Jesus looks down the path and what he sees is very different from our expectations:
The Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again.
His suffering, his rejection and death are not unfortunate accidents, the regrettable but preventable results of particular political circumstances. Jesus must undergo great suffering and be killed because in faithfulness to God’s way he rejects our self-seeking, self-serving, power-building, and control-maintaining ways.
To say to Jesus, “You are the Messiah”is to let him break the mold of our expectations and follow him on the way. To say to Jesus, “You are the Christ”is to believe that the way to enter the reign of God is laid out not in our imagination, but in his way to the cross.
Peter took him aside and rebuked him. The glamour of following Jesus to the City of David was suddenly gone for him; he had a different map in mind, a different path and outcome. This wasn’t what he had planned to do with his one wild and precious life, so he quit following and became a voice of temptation until Jesus called him again.
At the center of Mark’s Gospel, the question is, Do we follow whom we need Jesus to be for us or Will we follow Jesus on his way?
Midway between Galilee and Jerusalem, Jesus calls us again to follow him, only this time we know what lies ahead:
If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.
He calls us to let ourselves be marked as Christ’s own and to follow him on the way where life is not measured in what we gain and pile up and secure, but in how we give ourselves away. We cannot possess this one wild and precious life, we can only live it in love with God and with each other. All our attempts to secure life by gaining control over the world and over others will only exhaust our souls in the effort; we will lose what we meant to save. He calls us to follow him on the way where we no longer try and save ourselves with all our formidable means of power, but let him be our Savior. He frees us from the incessant tyranny of doing more and walks us to a life of losing our petty obsessions and mistaken priorities for the love of God and neighbor.
Summer is almost over and our schedules are filling up fast. New routines quickly become old ones, and you already know that soon you will forget that summer day when you remembered,
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
This question is a good one when it asks for more ways to live fully in relationship with God, and with loved ones, friends, neighbors, and strangers, and with this beautiful earth. This same question is a sad one when it is asked too late and with regret, because so many summer days, fall, winter, and spring days have come and gone with too little wonder, too little attention, and too little love.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
For us the answer has everything to do with how we respond to Jesus’ question, Who do you say that I am?
Audio of this post
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
A Tale of Two Houses
Jesus went away, far away from home; he went north to the region of Tyre, a city on the Mediterranean in what’s today southern Lebanon. Going there, he crossed the border in more than one sense, leaving behind the familiar Jewish and rural culture of Galilee for a port city infamous for its pagan ways. He went from where almost everybody was “one of us” to where almost everybody was “one of them” – Greek-speaking people who worshiped strange gods, ate strange foods, wore strange clothes, and observed strange customs.
This wasn’t the first time Jesus went away to be alone, but it was the first time he went so far. “He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there,” Mark writes, “yet he could not escape notice.” Word about him had travelled faster than he did, and a Gentile from the area, a mother whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately had heard about him. All by herself, she entered the house and bowed down at his feet, begging him to cast the demon out of her child.
It wasn’t proper for a woman to enter a house in order to approach a man who didn’t belong to her family for help. It was unthinkable for a Gentile woman to approach a Jewish man for help for a little girl, let alone a girl possessed by a demon.
She did it anyway. So much was wrong with that little scene, but she ignored every rule to get close to Jesus and beg for her child’s well-being. We may continue to wonder why Jesus crossed the border, but we know in our bones why she did. The walls of custom, language, gender, religion and ethnicity were high between her and the man from Nazareth, insurmountable, some might say, but her love for her child gave her wings. She left the house where her child lay bound by a demon, and she went to the house where Jesus was, a house built with walls of otherness and difference, but also one in which the promise of healing was hiding. She got through to Jesus, bowed down at his feet in a posture of complete surrender, and begged him to free her daughter.
It would be so easy to imagine how he took her by the hand and told her to get up and go home, saying that the demon had left her daughter and that all was well. But he didn’t. Instead he said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”
If you were to write the script for a Jesus movie, that’s a scene you’d likely want to skip, unless you want to portray Jesus as a ranting radio talkshow host. This line about children and dogs just doesn’t sound like the kind of Jesus you’d want to introduce, does it? It’s like he’s sitting in this little house of exclusive concern for his own people, telling the rest of the world that we’ll just have to live with our demons. The kingdom of God has come near, but nearer to some than to others. “Let the children be fed first,” he said to her, telling her in no uncertain terms that at the table where the bread of life was broken and shared her little girl didn’t qualify as a child.
Galilean peasants were not fond of city folk like this woman. Small farms produced most of the food for the urban populations, but the latter controlled the markets. People in the cities bought up and stored so much of the harvest for themselves each season that the country folk did not have enough, especially in times when supplies went down and prices went up. In the ears of poor Galilean farmers, Jesus told this rich lady to get in line and wait her turn. In God’s reign, the last would be first, and those rich, sophisticated, urban Gentiles who always managed to be first, those dogs would be last.
The little scene is explosive because this encounter in the border region brings to light powerful prejudices that have a real basis in the social, economic, and political relationships between two neighboring peoples. When Jesus refers to the woman and her daughter as dogs, he does not evoke an endearing image of happy puppies who sleep in their owners bed and eat better than half the world’s children; he insults her and her child with a familiar pejorative.
In Jesus’ time and culture, dogs were semi-wild animals that roamed the streets scavenging for food; they were not allowed inside the house. Jesus told the woman that the door was closed for her and her child. The time would come when those outside of the covenant would be welcome inside, but not yet, not now, not her. “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”
But this unnamed mother was already in the house. If you want to call her a dog, call her a bulldog, for she won’t let go.
“In my house, Sir,” she says, “even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”
She takes the insult and reflects it back, and now the picture looks very different. In my house, she tells him, dogs don’t wait until the children are finished; dogs and children both eat at the same time. The dogs position themselves strategically around and under the table, their eyes focussed with undivided attention, their tails wagging in joyful expectation of a bit of bread dropped either by accident or by a child’s secret design.
In my house, she tells him, the children eat their fill and the dogs still get to feast on the crumbs. You can send me away, but not until you have tossed me a crumb-sized blessing. I’m not asking for a seat at the table; even a morsel of mercy will suffice to free my daughter from the chains of the demon that is holding her captive. There is no reason why the reign of God should be enclosed by the walls of this house; break the bread, feed the children, and let the dogs have a feast.
Jesus said to her, “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.”
Seven short verses that can make your head spin. Did this woman, with her dogged persistence and her quick wit, driven by her love for her child, did she remind Jesus of the wideness of God’s mercy? Did she convince him that the time to open up the covenant was not sometime but now?
She left the house where he had hoped to remain invisible, and she left it with a blessing she had wrestled from him – or rather with a promise: “You may go, the demon has left your daughter.”
She still had to go from the house of promise to the house where her child was now free. She wouldn’t know with certainty that God’s reign was indeed open to all until she had returned. All she could do was to take Jesus at his word and leave for the long journey home. She had begged with desperate intensity, she had argued with wit and unbending resolve, but now she had to walk with trust. And she did; she stepped across the threshold and went home – with a morsel of a promise that meant more than the world to her.
In this scene of only seven verses, an unnamed Gentile mother dwells at the margins; she bumps up against walls of custom, language, gender, religion and ethnicity, walls that have the power to hide Jesus and the promise of God’s reign, walls that can exclude people from the abundance of God’s mercy.
In this scene she dwells at the margins, but in the gospel of Jesus Christ, this unnamed Gentile mother dwells at the center together with others who show us the meaning and power of faith. The word faith is never mentioned, but her actions embody it beautifully: her dogged determination fuelled by her love, her courage and perseverance in wrestling with the very Son of God, and her trust in the promise that the reign of God was indeed open for all.
She went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone. And more than one demon was gone. The equally threatening demon of prejudice, and of relationships destroyed by injustice, had been driven out as well. The miracle of Jesus’ power and a woman’s faith consisted not only in healing a child far away; the miracle also became manifest in the bridging of the divisive distance between nations and cultures, in the overcoming of the realities that separate us by the reality that brings us together. We sing a song about that miracle:
The miracle continues wherever the power of God in Jesus Christ and the tenacity of our faith come together. The house of prejudice becomes the house of promise, and the house of bondage becomes the house of laughter. May God bless us with faith that won’t let go.
Audio of this post
This wasn’t the first time Jesus went away to be alone, but it was the first time he went so far. “He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there,” Mark writes, “yet he could not escape notice.” Word about him had travelled faster than he did, and a Gentile from the area, a mother whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately had heard about him. All by herself, she entered the house and bowed down at his feet, begging him to cast the demon out of her child.
It wasn’t proper for a woman to enter a house in order to approach a man who didn’t belong to her family for help. It was unthinkable for a Gentile woman to approach a Jewish man for help for a little girl, let alone a girl possessed by a demon.
She did it anyway. So much was wrong with that little scene, but she ignored every rule to get close to Jesus and beg for her child’s well-being. We may continue to wonder why Jesus crossed the border, but we know in our bones why she did. The walls of custom, language, gender, religion and ethnicity were high between her and the man from Nazareth, insurmountable, some might say, but her love for her child gave her wings. She left the house where her child lay bound by a demon, and she went to the house where Jesus was, a house built with walls of otherness and difference, but also one in which the promise of healing was hiding. She got through to Jesus, bowed down at his feet in a posture of complete surrender, and begged him to free her daughter.
It would be so easy to imagine how he took her by the hand and told her to get up and go home, saying that the demon had left her daughter and that all was well. But he didn’t. Instead he said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”
If you were to write the script for a Jesus movie, that’s a scene you’d likely want to skip, unless you want to portray Jesus as a ranting radio talkshow host. This line about children and dogs just doesn’t sound like the kind of Jesus you’d want to introduce, does it? It’s like he’s sitting in this little house of exclusive concern for his own people, telling the rest of the world that we’ll just have to live with our demons. The kingdom of God has come near, but nearer to some than to others. “Let the children be fed first,” he said to her, telling her in no uncertain terms that at the table where the bread of life was broken and shared her little girl didn’t qualify as a child.
Galilean peasants were not fond of city folk like this woman. Small farms produced most of the food for the urban populations, but the latter controlled the markets. People in the cities bought up and stored so much of the harvest for themselves each season that the country folk did not have enough, especially in times when supplies went down and prices went up. In the ears of poor Galilean farmers, Jesus told this rich lady to get in line and wait her turn. In God’s reign, the last would be first, and those rich, sophisticated, urban Gentiles who always managed to be first, those dogs would be last.
The little scene is explosive because this encounter in the border region brings to light powerful prejudices that have a real basis in the social, economic, and political relationships between two neighboring peoples. When Jesus refers to the woman and her daughter as dogs, he does not evoke an endearing image of happy puppies who sleep in their owners bed and eat better than half the world’s children; he insults her and her child with a familiar pejorative.
In Jesus’ time and culture, dogs were semi-wild animals that roamed the streets scavenging for food; they were not allowed inside the house. Jesus told the woman that the door was closed for her and her child. The time would come when those outside of the covenant would be welcome inside, but not yet, not now, not her. “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”
But this unnamed mother was already in the house. If you want to call her a dog, call her a bulldog, for she won’t let go.
“In my house, Sir,” she says, “even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”
She takes the insult and reflects it back, and now the picture looks very different. In my house, she tells him, dogs don’t wait until the children are finished; dogs and children both eat at the same time. The dogs position themselves strategically around and under the table, their eyes focussed with undivided attention, their tails wagging in joyful expectation of a bit of bread dropped either by accident or by a child’s secret design.
In my house, she tells him, the children eat their fill and the dogs still get to feast on the crumbs. You can send me away, but not until you have tossed me a crumb-sized blessing. I’m not asking for a seat at the table; even a morsel of mercy will suffice to free my daughter from the chains of the demon that is holding her captive. There is no reason why the reign of God should be enclosed by the walls of this house; break the bread, feed the children, and let the dogs have a feast.
Jesus said to her, “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.”
Seven short verses that can make your head spin. Did this woman, with her dogged persistence and her quick wit, driven by her love for her child, did she remind Jesus of the wideness of God’s mercy? Did she convince him that the time to open up the covenant was not sometime but now?
She left the house where he had hoped to remain invisible, and she left it with a blessing she had wrestled from him – or rather with a promise: “You may go, the demon has left your daughter.”
She still had to go from the house of promise to the house where her child was now free. She wouldn’t know with certainty that God’s reign was indeed open to all until she had returned. All she could do was to take Jesus at his word and leave for the long journey home. She had begged with desperate intensity, she had argued with wit and unbending resolve, but now she had to walk with trust. And she did; she stepped across the threshold and went home – with a morsel of a promise that meant more than the world to her.
In this scene of only seven verses, an unnamed Gentile mother dwells at the margins; she bumps up against walls of custom, language, gender, religion and ethnicity, walls that have the power to hide Jesus and the promise of God’s reign, walls that can exclude people from the abundance of God’s mercy.
In this scene she dwells at the margins, but in the gospel of Jesus Christ, this unnamed Gentile mother dwells at the center together with others who show us the meaning and power of faith. The word faith is never mentioned, but her actions embody it beautifully: her dogged determination fuelled by her love, her courage and perseverance in wrestling with the very Son of God, and her trust in the promise that the reign of God was indeed open for all.
She went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone. And more than one demon was gone. The equally threatening demon of prejudice, and of relationships destroyed by injustice, had been driven out as well. The miracle of Jesus’ power and a woman’s faith consisted not only in healing a child far away; the miracle also became manifest in the bridging of the divisive distance between nations and cultures, in the overcoming of the realities that separate us by the reality that brings us together. We sing a song about that miracle:
As Christ breaks bread and bids us share,
Each proud division ends.
The love that made us, makes us one,
And strangers now are friends.
The miracle continues wherever the power of God in Jesus Christ and the tenacity of our faith come together. The house of prejudice becomes the house of promise, and the house of bondage becomes the house of laughter. May God bless us with faith that won’t let go.
Audio of this post
Monday, August 31, 2009
Outside In and Inside Out
Wherever Jesus went during his ministry in Galilee, people gathered. Wherever he went, into villages or cities or farms, they brought the sick and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed (see Mark 6:56). People wanted to get close to him because his presence was healing.
Others gathered, because Jesus’ presence was confusing, even disturbing. The Pharisees and some of the scribes from Jerusalem closely watched him, kept an eye on his followers and what they did, and what they saw didn’t mesh with their high expectations for proper piety:
To them every meal was a sacred ritual, every action an occasion for blessing the Lord. They opened their eyes in the morning praising God for the gift of light; they went about their daily work praising God for the gifts of their skills and strength; they opened a scroll of scripture blessing God for the gift of Torah; they broke bread giving thanks to God for the gifts of the earth and of human labor; they tucked in their sons and daughters at night praising God for the gift of children – a beautiful practice.
Yet Pharisees also stayed away from all things and all people that might have rendered them unclean. They did not eat with known sinners. They avoided interacting with strangers. And around the sick, they were careful not to touch or be touched.
Wherever Jesus went, people gathered.
Their concern was not personal hygiene, but piety and ritual purity. Ritual washing would remove any accidental impurity they might have acquired unknowingly while interacting with all kinds of people. A simple act like pouring a little water over one’s hands before a meal, recommended by wise teachers of the past, helped maintain the boundary between holiness and the common world.
Some of Jesus’ disciples did not observe that tradition, others apparently did; so the clash wasn’t just between Jesus and the Pharisees, but perhaps also between groups of Jesus’ own followers. In Mark’s account, however, perhaps for the sake of clarity, the lines are clearly drawn. He even adds an editorial comment saying, “all the Jews do not eat unless they wash their hands,” which is incorrect historically, but makes for great drama.
“Why do your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders?” the Pharisees and the scribes from Jerusalem ask. Jesus calls them hypocrites who honor God outwardly, but whose hearts are far from God. He accuses them of teaching human precepts as doctrines while abandoning the commandment of God and holding on to human tradition.
If anyone asked you and me whether we will live by God’s word and commandment or by human tradition, we would obviously choose God’s word. But then it wouldn’t take us long to realize that God’s word is available to us only through human mediation, be it written or spoken or embodied. The word and command of God is not a voice from heaven or a book that fell from the sky, but a voice that speaks to us in the voice of Moses and the prophets, in the life of Jesus, in his death and resurrection, in the teachings of the apostles and the stories of the gospels. Before we can understand and obey, we must interpret the written and spoken words – and our interpretations will always differ.
The Pharisees heard the commandment of God, “You shall be holy to me; for I the Lord am holy, and I have separated you from the other peoples to be mine” (Leviticus 20:26). Who can blame them for wanting to maintain that separation in every dimension of daily life? Who can blame them for striving for holiness in all things? Who can blame them for sometimes losing sight of God’s mercy in their persistent attention on the line between the sacred and the profane and on not allowing it to get blurry?
In the conflict of interpretations, of course we identify our own traditions with the word of God and denigrate the viewpoints of our opponents as merely human tradition. Things will only get better when we learn to listen together to the many streams of our tradition. Things will only get better when we have men and women who teach us not only to understand and obey the word of God in our own tradition, but also to look at our own certainties from the perspective of those who question them.
The Pharisees gathered around Jesus when he ate with sinners; they saw that he crossed a line; what they didn’t see was that he crossed it to bring reconciliation.
The Pharisees gathered around Jesus when he cured a man on the sabbath; they saw that he crossed a line; what they didn’t see was that he crossed it to include the man in the peace and promise of sabbath by healing him.
The Pharisees gathered around Jesus when five-thousand had been fed with bread and fish and the baskets were overflowing – and all they could see was that some disciples hadn’t washed their hands.
Their passion was deep, their knowledge broad, but they could only see what their tradition allowed them to see. Like them, we will only see what our tradition allows us to see – unless we at least consider that sometimes the living word of God will say and do something unheard of.
I want to scribble in the margins, “Not so fast. There is plenty outside a person that by going in can defile. We are not born with our prejudices. We are not immune to the subtle messages that tell us that we are unworthy of love.” Like I said, if I had an inch or two of white margins in my Bible, I would have started listing the many ways in which words, ideas, attitudes, and reactions can defile a person’s innate sacredness and even snuff the light of hope in their heart.
But Jesus is speaking in the context of a tense debate over boundaries and how to maintain holiness, and he flips the Pharisees’ view on its head.
Their focus on ritual purity leads to a desire for islands of holiness in the threatening sea of unholy chaos that is the world. In their view, the danger comes from outside, from others, from those whose only place in the sacred order of things is that of outsiders.
And Jesus says, “Evil things come from within. Evil intentions come from the human heart.” He draws my attention away from me as the possible victim of exposure to unholy and polluting influences. And he draws my attention back to me as the possible source of the very things that I’m afraid might touch me.
As long as I expect the threat to holy living only to come from outside, I’m more likely to develop patterns of avoidance, critical observation, and accusation of others. But as soon as I begin to look honestly at myself, I will learn patterns of self-knowledge, repentance, and humility. And the better I know my own heart, the deeper my compassion for others will be.
The God we serve is holy and calls us to be holy. The God we serve is in our midst not to erect new boundaries but to gather us into relationships and draw us into the holiness of Christ. And in his presence we realize that, yes, sin is strong, but forgiveness prevails. The world is not what it could and should be, but Christ is risen from the dead and a new world has begun. Our calling in that new world is to find windows in the walls, to reach across barriers of language and culture, and to push aside barricades of prejudice and fear.
Jesus was not afraid to touch the sick, the poor, the crazed, he wasn’t afraid to brush against those fallen from the public’s grace, he touched and healed and held and fed, and wherever he went, the people gathered. Because of him we know that God’s holiness is not the static quality of a distant deity, but a movement to the world, a loving fearlessness that leaps over walls to get to every single one of us, until all are one.
You know better than I where you can participate in that movement. You know better than I who might be waiting for a phone call from you. You know better than I where you can reach across the fences that still divide our community into insiders and outsiders.
Others gathered, because Jesus’ presence was confusing, even disturbing. The Pharisees and some of the scribes from Jerusalem closely watched him, kept an eye on his followers and what they did, and what they saw didn’t mesh with their high expectations for proper piety:
- Tax collectors and sinners sat at table with him and his disciples.
- The disciples of John the Baptist and the disciples of the Pharisees fasted regularly, but his didn’t.
- On the sabbath, they plucked heads of grain while walking through the fields, and their master even cured a man with a withered hand in the synagogue on that holy day.
To them every meal was a sacred ritual, every action an occasion for blessing the Lord. They opened their eyes in the morning praising God for the gift of light; they went about their daily work praising God for the gifts of their skills and strength; they opened a scroll of scripture blessing God for the gift of Torah; they broke bread giving thanks to God for the gifts of the earth and of human labor; they tucked in their sons and daughters at night praising God for the gift of children – a beautiful practice.
Yet Pharisees also stayed away from all things and all people that might have rendered them unclean. They did not eat with known sinners. They avoided interacting with strangers. And around the sick, they were careful not to touch or be touched.
Wherever Jesus went, people gathered.
Now when the Pharisees and some of the scribes who had come from Jerusalem gathered around him, they noticed that some of his disciples were eating with defiled hands, that is, without washing them (Mark 7:1-2).
Their concern was not personal hygiene, but piety and ritual purity. Ritual washing would remove any accidental impurity they might have acquired unknowingly while interacting with all kinds of people. A simple act like pouring a little water over one’s hands before a meal, recommended by wise teachers of the past, helped maintain the boundary between holiness and the common world.
Some of Jesus’ disciples did not observe that tradition, others apparently did; so the clash wasn’t just between Jesus and the Pharisees, but perhaps also between groups of Jesus’ own followers. In Mark’s account, however, perhaps for the sake of clarity, the lines are clearly drawn. He even adds an editorial comment saying, “all the Jews do not eat unless they wash their hands,” which is incorrect historically, but makes for great drama.
“Why do your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders?” the Pharisees and the scribes from Jerusalem ask. Jesus calls them hypocrites who honor God outwardly, but whose hearts are far from God. He accuses them of teaching human precepts as doctrines while abandoning the commandment of God and holding on to human tradition.
If anyone asked you and me whether we will live by God’s word and commandment or by human tradition, we would obviously choose God’s word. But then it wouldn’t take us long to realize that God’s word is available to us only through human mediation, be it written or spoken or embodied. The word and command of God is not a voice from heaven or a book that fell from the sky, but a voice that speaks to us in the voice of Moses and the prophets, in the life of Jesus, in his death and resurrection, in the teachings of the apostles and the stories of the gospels. Before we can understand and obey, we must interpret the written and spoken words – and our interpretations will always differ.
The Pharisees heard the commandment of God, “You shall be holy to me; for I the Lord am holy, and I have separated you from the other peoples to be mine” (Leviticus 20:26). Who can blame them for wanting to maintain that separation in every dimension of daily life? Who can blame them for striving for holiness in all things? Who can blame them for sometimes losing sight of God’s mercy in their persistent attention on the line between the sacred and the profane and on not allowing it to get blurry?
In the conflict of interpretations, of course we identify our own traditions with the word of God and denigrate the viewpoints of our opponents as merely human tradition. Things will only get better when we learn to listen together to the many streams of our tradition. Things will only get better when we have men and women who teach us not only to understand and obey the word of God in our own tradition, but also to look at our own certainties from the perspective of those who question them.
The Pharisees gathered around Jesus when he ate with sinners; they saw that he crossed a line; what they didn’t see was that he crossed it to bring reconciliation.
The Pharisees gathered around Jesus when he cured a man on the sabbath; they saw that he crossed a line; what they didn’t see was that he crossed it to include the man in the peace and promise of sabbath by healing him.
The Pharisees gathered around Jesus when five-thousand had been fed with bread and fish and the baskets were overflowing – and all they could see was that some disciples hadn’t washed their hands.
Their passion was deep, their knowledge broad, but they could only see what their tradition allowed them to see. Like them, we will only see what our tradition allows us to see – unless we at least consider that sometimes the living word of God will say and do something unheard of.
“Listen to me,” says Jesus, “all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile. For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come.”
I want to scribble in the margins, “Not so fast. There is plenty outside a person that by going in can defile. We are not born with our prejudices. We are not immune to the subtle messages that tell us that we are unworthy of love.” Like I said, if I had an inch or two of white margins in my Bible, I would have started listing the many ways in which words, ideas, attitudes, and reactions can defile a person’s innate sacredness and even snuff the light of hope in their heart.
But Jesus is speaking in the context of a tense debate over boundaries and how to maintain holiness, and he flips the Pharisees’ view on its head.
Their focus on ritual purity leads to a desire for islands of holiness in the threatening sea of unholy chaos that is the world. In their view, the danger comes from outside, from others, from those whose only place in the sacred order of things is that of outsiders.
And Jesus says, “Evil things come from within. Evil intentions come from the human heart.” He draws my attention away from me as the possible victim of exposure to unholy and polluting influences. And he draws my attention back to me as the possible source of the very things that I’m afraid might touch me.
As long as I expect the threat to holy living only to come from outside, I’m more likely to develop patterns of avoidance, critical observation, and accusation of others. But as soon as I begin to look honestly at myself, I will learn patterns of self-knowledge, repentance, and humility. And the better I know my own heart, the deeper my compassion for others will be.
The God we serve is holy and calls us to be holy. The God we serve is in our midst not to erect new boundaries but to gather us into relationships and draw us into the holiness of Christ. And in his presence we realize that, yes, sin is strong, but forgiveness prevails. The world is not what it could and should be, but Christ is risen from the dead and a new world has begun. Our calling in that new world is to find windows in the walls, to reach across barriers of language and culture, and to push aside barricades of prejudice and fear.
Jesus was not afraid to touch the sick, the poor, the crazed, he wasn’t afraid to brush against those fallen from the public’s grace, he touched and healed and held and fed, and wherever he went, the people gathered. Because of him we know that God’s holiness is not the static quality of a distant deity, but a movement to the world, a loving fearlessness that leaps over walls to get to every single one of us, until all are one.
You know better than I where you can participate in that movement. You know better than I who might be waiting for a phone call from you. You know better than I where you can reach across the fences that still divide our community into insiders and outsiders.
- In the law of Moses, God commands God’s people, “Be holy, for I am holy” (Leviticus 11:45).
- In the gospel of Luke, Jesus commands, “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful” (Luke 6:36).
- In the gospel of Matthew, Jesus commands, “Be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect”(Matthew 5:48).
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
God Moments
There’s a brand-new feature on vinestreet.ning.com; it’s a microblog called God Moments.
It works very much like a community bulletin board. Members write brief paragraphs to share those unexpected moments in the course of a day when God becomes more real than anything or everything else around. They write about beautiful encounters that inspired them, or situations that shocked them into noticing the previously ignored. God Moments is about all kinds of daily encounters with the Divine.
Vine Street members and friends are familiar with a beautiful night ritual to lift up a day of work, play, and fellowship: one person asks, “Where did you see God today?”, and some or all members of the group respond by sharing their stories.
The microblog God Moments is very similar. The one thing that’s different is that the focus isn’t so much on seeing, but on being found. The opening question is, “How did God find you today?”
The God moments members share will appear at vinestreet.ning.com, Vine Street’s social network for members, as well as at Vine Street’s new website (will go live in early September). There, they will give online visitors an opportunity to see faces and hear voices that introduce them to the people of Vine Street (and not just to the staff and/or webmaster).
It works very much like a community bulletin board. Members write brief paragraphs to share those unexpected moments in the course of a day when God becomes more real than anything or everything else around. They write about beautiful encounters that inspired them, or situations that shocked them into noticing the previously ignored. God Moments is about all kinds of daily encounters with the Divine.
Vine Street members and friends are familiar with a beautiful night ritual to lift up a day of work, play, and fellowship: one person asks, “Where did you see God today?”, and some or all members of the group respond by sharing their stories.
The microblog God Moments is very similar. The one thing that’s different is that the focus isn’t so much on seeing, but on being found. The opening question is, “How did God find you today?”
The God moments members share will appear at vinestreet.ning.com, Vine Street’s social network for members, as well as at Vine Street’s new website (will go live in early September). There, they will give online visitors an opportunity to see faces and hear voices that introduce them to the people of Vine Street (and not just to the staff and/or webmaster).
Monday, August 17, 2009
Give Me Jesus (Flesh and Blood)
One day, tired out by his journey, Jesus was sitting by a well around noon. When a woman came to draw water, he asked her for a drink. She thought that was strange, since he was a Jew and she was a Samaritan, and Jews didn’t share things in common with Samaritans.
He said to her, “If you knew who it is that asked you for a drink, you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”
The woman pointed out that the well was deep and that he didn’t have a bucket. “Where do you get that living water?”
And he said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.”
What else could she have said in reply but, “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty”? -- John 4:5-15
We drink to replenish our bodies with water, lest we faint and shrivel up like raisins and die. We drink, and we get thirsty again. We eat, and we get hungry again. The fullness doesn’t last.
One day, Jesus was sitting by the lakeshore. When he looked up and saw the large crowd gathered around him, he gave thanks for a little boy’s lunch, broke the loaves and distributed them to all. They ate as much as they wanted, all five-thousand of them, and the left-over pieces of bread filled twelve baskets.
No wonder they came back the next day, looking for him, and he said to them, “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life. The bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.”
What else could they have said in reply but, “Sir, give us this bread always”? --John 6:1-34
We eat in order to grow and to fuel our bodies for work and play, lest we faint and die. We eat, and we get hungry again. We drink, and we get thirsty again. Hunger and thirst are familiar rhythms of our life like waking and sleeping, work and rest, going out and coming in, breathing in and breathing out. The fullness doesn’t last.
When Martin Luther wrote his Small Catechism, he wanted to give children and their parents a resource to study the basics of the faith. In the chapter on the Lord’s Prayer, reflecting on the line, Give us this day our daily bread, he asks, "What, then, is meant by daily bread?”
And the answer follows,
Our prayer for bread is indeed our prayer for everything that we need for our bodily welfare. We say bread, because we don’t know a more beautiful word for the dailiness of our needs, the fragile nature of our lives, and our dependence on God, the earth, and one another.
Jesus offers us bread that stills our hunger not just for a while, but for good. He offers us water that quenches our thirst not just for a while, but for good. Some of you hear this, and you can’t help but think about one of those late-night infomercials where a salesman praises the benefits of this or that product that will change your life not just for a while, but for good: the pill that will make you both smart and sexy; the crème that will take twenty years of wrinkles off your face; the tonic that will give you your hair back and bring about world peace.
We’re on our guard because we think that somebody’s always trying to sell us something. Jesus isn’t selling anything.
Living water and living bread – this is no two-for-one with a free crystal cross thrown in for good measure, a $69 value for only $9.95 plus shipping and handling. No, Jesus isn’t selling anything. The world sells, but Jesus gives.
The merchants and the marketeers know every dimension of our hunger and our thirst, in ever more sophisticated consumer profiles and with offers tailored to our credit ratings, but the fulfillment never lasts. We drink, and we get thirsty again, and we drink more. We eat, and we get hungry again, and we eat more. We labor for that which does not satisfy, and spend our money for that which is not bread (Isaiah 55:2). And when the bubble bursts, we act surprised.
Jesus isn’t selling anything, he gives – living water, living bread. He gives what only God can give – life, and he gives it abundantly.
When the crowd came to him, he said to them, “You are looking for me, not because you know who I am, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.” In the presence of Jesus, bread was miraculously abundant. He gave them bread to eat, because he never taught people with empty stomachs that man and woman don’t live by bread alone. He gave them bread to eat until even the hungriest among the twelve-year olds said, ‘I’m kinda full’ – and he waited until the next day to teach them that fullness of life is not the same as a full stomach.
What do you eat when the desire behind your hunger is a gnawing hunger for life itself? What do you drink when the desire beneath your thirst is a craving for fullness that will last? We eat our daily bread knowing that we cannot live without it – and sometimes sensing that we cannot live by it alone.
To know and live life in fullness, we need the Word of God, and we need that Word in the flesh – visible, tangible, vulnerable, audible, and edible. We need the bread of life. We need the bread that comes down from heaven for the life of the world. We need the living bread: whoever eats of it will live forever. Fullness that will last.
Jesus points us away from the bakery and the vineyard, from the fields and the stores and the malls and the banks and the credit card bills and yes, from all labor and every broken promise, and he points to himself: I am the bread of life. I give what the world cannot give. I give you what no one on earth can grow or make or sell or buy. I myself am the food that gives life, not the loaves miraculously multiplied.
We’re not sure what to make of the associations this sets off in our imagination – surely, he doesn’t mean…?
Eating, drinking, and breathing refer to the most basic level of our being, the most fundamental necessities of food, water, and air. Jesus invites us, urges us to relate to him, and through him to God, at that most basic level of our need: Eat me. Drink me. Breathe me. Sleep in my arms. I want you to know me with your intellect and will, but also with your skin and bones. I want you to know me completely, the Word of God in flesh and blood. I want to be your first thought at dawn and your last thought before you go to sleep. And I want to be your daily bread, the light in your eyes, and the fire in your belly. Let me be your life, for I am the life of the world.
The fullness you seek is not more of what you have or what you work for; fullness is what I give – and I give myself. Eat me. Drink me. Know me completely, the Word of God in flesh and blood.
And what do you say in response to this offer of life-giving, life-restoring, life-fulfilling relationship? What can you say?
Give me Jesus; this one is all I need.
When I wake up in the morning – give me Jesus.
When I close my eyes at the end of the day – give me Jesus.
When I am alone – give me Jesus.
When my heart aches and I have no more tears left – give me Jesus.
When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh – give me Jesus.
When I listen to the news and and I can feel my soul drain through the bottom of my feet – give me Jesus.
When my courage shrinks in the freezing grip of fear – give me Jesus.
When I no longer know what a human being looks like for all the wolves in my life – give me Jesus.
When the face of God is nothing to me but a faded photograph from my childhood – give me Jesus.
Give me Jesus; this one is all I need. Good as bread. One loaf for the life of the world. The Word of God in flesh and blood.
Audio of this post
He said to her, “If you knew who it is that asked you for a drink, you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”
The woman pointed out that the well was deep and that he didn’t have a bucket. “Where do you get that living water?”
And he said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.”
What else could she have said in reply but, “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty”? -- John 4:5-15
We drink to replenish our bodies with water, lest we faint and shrivel up like raisins and die. We drink, and we get thirsty again. We eat, and we get hungry again. The fullness doesn’t last.
One day, Jesus was sitting by the lakeshore. When he looked up and saw the large crowd gathered around him, he gave thanks for a little boy’s lunch, broke the loaves and distributed them to all. They ate as much as they wanted, all five-thousand of them, and the left-over pieces of bread filled twelve baskets.
No wonder they came back the next day, looking for him, and he said to them, “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life. The bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.”
What else could they have said in reply but, “Sir, give us this bread always”? --John 6:1-34
We eat in order to grow and to fuel our bodies for work and play, lest we faint and die. We eat, and we get hungry again. We drink, and we get thirsty again. Hunger and thirst are familiar rhythms of our life like waking and sleeping, work and rest, going out and coming in, breathing in and breathing out. The fullness doesn’t last.
When Martin Luther wrote his Small Catechism, he wanted to give children and their parents a resource to study the basics of the faith. In the chapter on the Lord’s Prayer, reflecting on the line, Give us this day our daily bread, he asks, "What, then, is meant by daily bread?”
And the answer follows,
Daily bread includes everything that we need for our bodily welfare, such as food and drink, clothing and shoes, house and home, land and cattle, money and goods, a godly spouse, godly children, godly workers, godly and faithful leaders, good government, good weather, peace and order, health, a good name, good friends, faithful neighbors, and the like.
Our prayer for bread is indeed our prayer for everything that we need for our bodily welfare. We say bread, because we don’t know a more beautiful word for the dailiness of our needs, the fragile nature of our lives, and our dependence on God, the earth, and one another.
Jesus offers us bread that stills our hunger not just for a while, but for good. He offers us water that quenches our thirst not just for a while, but for good. Some of you hear this, and you can’t help but think about one of those late-night infomercials where a salesman praises the benefits of this or that product that will change your life not just for a while, but for good: the pill that will make you both smart and sexy; the crème that will take twenty years of wrinkles off your face; the tonic that will give you your hair back and bring about world peace.
We’re on our guard because we think that somebody’s always trying to sell us something. Jesus isn’t selling anything.
Living water and living bread – this is no two-for-one with a free crystal cross thrown in for good measure, a $69 value for only $9.95 plus shipping and handling. No, Jesus isn’t selling anything. The world sells, but Jesus gives.
The merchants and the marketeers know every dimension of our hunger and our thirst, in ever more sophisticated consumer profiles and with offers tailored to our credit ratings, but the fulfillment never lasts. We drink, and we get thirsty again, and we drink more. We eat, and we get hungry again, and we eat more. We labor for that which does not satisfy, and spend our money for that which is not bread (Isaiah 55:2). And when the bubble bursts, we act surprised.
Jesus isn’t selling anything, he gives – living water, living bread. He gives what only God can give – life, and he gives it abundantly.
When the crowd came to him, he said to them, “You are looking for me, not because you know who I am, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.” In the presence of Jesus, bread was miraculously abundant. He gave them bread to eat, because he never taught people with empty stomachs that man and woman don’t live by bread alone. He gave them bread to eat until even the hungriest among the twelve-year olds said, ‘I’m kinda full’ – and he waited until the next day to teach them that fullness of life is not the same as a full stomach.
What do you eat when the desire behind your hunger is a gnawing hunger for life itself? What do you drink when the desire beneath your thirst is a craving for fullness that will last? We eat our daily bread knowing that we cannot live without it – and sometimes sensing that we cannot live by it alone.
To know and live life in fullness, we need the Word of God, and we need that Word in the flesh – visible, tangible, vulnerable, audible, and edible. We need the bread of life. We need the bread that comes down from heaven for the life of the world. We need the living bread: whoever eats of it will live forever. Fullness that will last.
Jesus points us away from the bakery and the vineyard, from the fields and the stores and the malls and the banks and the credit card bills and yes, from all labor and every broken promise, and he points to himself: I am the bread of life. I give what the world cannot give. I give you what no one on earth can grow or make or sell or buy. I myself am the food that gives life, not the loaves miraculously multiplied.
And the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.Suddenly he’s done talking about bread and water, and now he talks about flesh and blood. We can handle talk of flesh and blood; we sometimes speak of our children as our flesh and blood. Jesus is done talking about bread and water, but he continues to talk about eating and drinking:
Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.
We’re not sure what to make of the associations this sets off in our imagination – surely, he doesn’t mean…?
Eating, drinking, and breathing refer to the most basic level of our being, the most fundamental necessities of food, water, and air. Jesus invites us, urges us to relate to him, and through him to God, at that most basic level of our need: Eat me. Drink me. Breathe me. Sleep in my arms. I want you to know me with your intellect and will, but also with your skin and bones. I want you to know me completely, the Word of God in flesh and blood. I want to be your first thought at dawn and your last thought before you go to sleep. And I want to be your daily bread, the light in your eyes, and the fire in your belly. Let me be your life, for I am the life of the world.
The fullness you seek is not more of what you have or what you work for; fullness is what I give – and I give myself. Eat me. Drink me. Know me completely, the Word of God in flesh and blood.
And what do you say in response to this offer of life-giving, life-restoring, life-fulfilling relationship? What can you say?
Give me Jesus; this one is all I need.
When I wake up in the morning – give me Jesus.
When I close my eyes at the end of the day – give me Jesus.
When I am alone – give me Jesus.
When my heart aches and I have no more tears left – give me Jesus.
When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh – give me Jesus.
When I listen to the news and and I can feel my soul drain through the bottom of my feet – give me Jesus.
When my courage shrinks in the freezing grip of fear – give me Jesus.
When I no longer know what a human being looks like for all the wolves in my life – give me Jesus.
When the face of God is nothing to me but a faded photograph from my childhood – give me Jesus.
Give me Jesus; this one is all I need. Good as bread. One loaf for the life of the world. The Word of God in flesh and blood.
Audio of this post
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