Lectionary Readings for Sunday, December 30, 2007
First Sunday after Christmas Day
Isaiah 63:7-9 with Psalm 148
Hebrews 2:10-18
Matthew 2:13-23
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
In our church, the Christmas tree is still bejeweled with small white lights reminding me of the stars that somehow decided to rest in the fragrant boughs of a pine tree. For weeks it has blessed us, this evergreen that we brought in from the mountains, underlining once again that in Advent we are connecting with life over and over again: Angels speak, a baby is born, prophesy frames reality, the heavens play their part, we surrounded ourselves with evergreens that winter cannot vanquish.
And now a difficult scripture.
Its sheer violence almost stops us in our tracks. It becomes clear that there are indeed systems from which we must flee, there are safe havens we must find, there are times in our lives, in Mary's life, in Joseph's life, in Jesus' life, in which the powers of death seem to hold the upper hand. The peace that blessed us appears to be in short supply which the circumstances of power present themselves: opposition must be eliminated, Herod orders and, as I write these words, it happened in Pakistan too in yet another assassination.
We wonder, as we look at the still present Christmas trees in our churches just how far its symbolic power will reach, and how long its promise of new life will last. Once again we find ourselves threading the needle between the ideal and the real, thankful for the birth of a baby that caused such commotion and grimly aware of the families whose parents did not receive a warning that they too must flee to Egypt if their children were to survive.
Read the story for its thin line of life, knowing that deep and broad as our faith may we nevertheless walk a thin line as we travel through an all-too torn and troubled world. We too respond by “Getting up!” and by “taking” others as we flee towards safety. Read these words letting their power flood through you as “get up, take and flee” inform life in the midst of destroy, loud lamentation, weeping, fear, and yet more warnings. There is no room for pretend in any part of the story. Read it thankful for its reality and grateful that life found a way.
Word by word, slowly, read it.
Matthew 2:13-23
Now after they had left, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, ‘Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him.’ Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt, and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet, ‘Out of Egypt I have called my son.’
When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men. Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah:
'A voice was heard in Ramah,
wailing and loud lamentation,
Rachel weeping for her children;
she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.'
When Herod died, an angel of the Lord suddenly appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, ‘Get up, take the child and his mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child’s life are dead.’ Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel. But when he heard that Archelaus was ruling over Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go there. And after being warned in a dream, he went away to the district of Galilee. There he made his home in a town called Nazareth, so that what had been spoken through the prophets might be fulfilled, ‘He will be called a Nazorean.’
Several years ago it struck me that our readings of the Christmas story are remarkably selective. Christmas cards love to show a star, shepherds in the fields, a manger, the three magi, angels in the sky. They are almost inevitably an amalgamation of Matthew and Luke's rendition of Jesus' birth. And so, one year we decided that the Christmas pageant would tell Matthew's story. To prepare for it we brought dolls into the church and placed them in the pews. At first the congregation thought they were cute, and it was kind of fun to have a cabbage patch doll sitting beside you in church during the Christmas season. But then the story began.
Angels danced up the aisle to give Joseph his warnings. Herod issued his cruel order for the massacre of the innocents. At that point four or five kids, dressed as Roman soldiers, started making their way through the congregation.
“Give me your child,” they said as they began to collect the dolls. Suddenly the mood of the room changed. Without a cue, some of the parishioners said, “No!” “Give me your child.” “No! No!” It was a moment of anguish that threw us all off balance. Eventually the dolls were taken and placed in a pile at Herod's feet. One could have heard a pin drop. When it came time for Joseph to receive yet another message concerning his return we instinctively knew why he was afraid. And when he was told that Nazareth would be a safe haven, we were grateful. Sometimes there aren't many shelters in this world, and the discernment between which ones are truly safe and which are born of illusion does indeed require the guidance that only God can provide.
I share this with you to simply underscore the poignancy of this story we know about but so rarely actually take to heart. Suffice it to say, chances are that the good we have sought to do with our lives found itself in a thicket of violence which held the upper hand. There are times we have fled wondering if our fleeing was cowardice or if it was fulfillment. There are times we hoped life might do something for us, only to realize we would have to wake up, rise up, find friends and travel to a new place. And, inevitably, we have not done so without a sense of loss, and without a need for reconciliation. Soldiers often wonder why their friends died in battle while somehow they were spared. It is an inevitable question because it values life on all sides. We know that “my life” is “our life.”
We realize anew that Jesus came to save “us” and that this happens both in life and in death. Like the people in the pews that Christmas morning, we do not willingly hand over our children to the systems that would use them to prove a point. In the coming weeks, as we head toward the beginning of a new year, many there be many times we say, “No” as we say “Yes” to life and live in the blessing God gave to Abraham that then passed to Jesus and is now passed on to us once again.
Blessings to you.
Larry
I welcome your response to these columns. I may be reached at:
larry@leadingcausesoflife.org
Or
larrypray@gmail.com
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, December 23, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, December 23, 2007
Fourth Sunday of Advent
Isaiah 7:10-16
Psalm 80:1-7,17-19
Romans 1:1-7
Matthew 1:18-25
We have been waiting.
We who have heard about a lion befriending a lamb, who keep an eye on the wolves that stalk our cattle, we have been waiting.
We who have seen how quickly a crocus blossom fades have been waiting.
We whose ears strain to hear life speaking have been waiting.
We whose lives are like braided streams have been waiting for a river of life to announce itself.
We who notice how early night's shadow falls over the land on a December afternoon, we who know those shadows in our own lives too, we have been waiting.
Our waiting has been informed by hope, the God-given antidote to futility that allows us to wait as an act of responsibility instead of an exercise in denial.
In hope we have been waiting. Each Advent Sunday has reminded us what we are waiting for.
But now, on this fourth Sunday of Advent, the tense changes. Visions of the future give way to a past event that tells of a the inevitable clash between circumstance and a fulfillment of hope. Matthew will not begin his story with the easy tones of “Once upon a time,” nor will he begin his story with prophesy. Instead he writes of an event in history in which circumstance vied with purpose on a landscape given over to the night.
Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.’ All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet:
‘Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
and they shall name him Emmanuel’,
which means, ‘God is with us.’ When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.
Christmas may be “merry” but Matthew's story is conflicted. In his version:
Circumstance speaks of betrayal;
Circumstance speaks of ways to cover-up an untoward truth;
Circumstance speaks of a man surrendering the day's drama and wrapping himself in night's sleep with a heavy and troubled heart;
Circumstance speaks of fear;
To all of this the God, one of whose names in Hebrew is Life, has a response.
“I know this is not what you expected. Now, let me be God. I too have plans. Let's see them through.” We find ourselves in good company with Joseph. Is there an illness that is not in some ways a betrayal of the body? We too have had plans and expectations designed to bring order to our world just as Joseph and Mary had plans and expectations that were to have brought order to their world. And we too know how circumstance has the power to seemingly thwart it all.
As we give ourselves over to the story hope differentiates itself from expectation. As always it demands truth. Yesterday I was in touch with a woman who, like so many others is living the life whose factual diagnosis is “cancer.” But the fact of the matter is our brief conversation wasn't about cancer. It was about courage, patience, hope and connection. Had the angel not appeared fear might well have claimed the day. Had Joseph waited for Luke's heavenly host to appear in the sky singing “Angels we have heard on high” it might have been a long wait indeed. But hope's river is wide and God has many ways to connect with us. Angels can navigate the landscape of dreams just as surely as they can appear in the stars. Either God would have us set fear aside as we embrace life.
Like those who waited for Isaiah's vision to “come true,” like Joseph, like our friends in the midst of a long and difficult recovery, we have been waiting for circumstances to change. We learn in the Christmas story that they will not disappear but we can see our way through them. A surely conflicted relationship will heal, a message from God will prompt Joseph to obey, a name will be given, circumstance will not claim the day. We find ourselves in a virtual symphony of life occurring in the most unexpected of places. If life has five leading causes (and I hasten to add that if you believe it has six or seven that's wonderful!) they are all engaged.
God connects with humankind, and it happened “this way.” An angel connected with a man troubled by a fundamental disconnect in his life.
A name, “God is with us” establishes coherence as only a name that emphasizes the plural can do.
Plans are made; plans change; new plans are drawn as fear is set aside. Fear is the only static part of the story and it receives its divine checkmate.
At every turn hope authors the story we take as a blessing.
I think of my friend in the hospital waiting for cancer therapy to reconnect her with health and realize that as she does do she is full of life. I think of her diagnosis as an unchosen journey shared by millions. I think of the plans that were made only to be changed as one day led to the next. When I think how improbable it is to assert that God is with us when circumstance wants to rule the day I am newly grateful for Matthew's rendition of Christ's birth in the midst of a sea of difficulty.
I realize again how visceral, how gut-wrenching life is and how amazing it is that God travels with us throughout it all. Not long ago, in a conversation about rehabilitation, the comment was made that rehab is designed to improve or to better people's lives. I was taken aback for a moment. We can improve circumstances, but improving life is, to me at least, an odd thought. As we learn from this child born so long ago, our gratitude to have a chance to give God thanks for the gift of life knows no bounds.
In church this Sunday, we will hear Matthew tell us, “Life happened this way.” We will not care that Luke might way, “No, it actually happened this way,” or that John would ask us to turn our attention to the very beginning. In each case the often harsh voice of circumstance will meet its match as the One who has never left us returns once again.
Thanks be to God, and blessings unto you.
Larry
I welcome your response to these columns. I may be reached at:
Larry@Leadingcausesoflife.org
Or
Larrypray@gmail.com
Fourth Sunday of Advent
Isaiah 7:10-16
Psalm 80:1-7,17-19
Romans 1:1-7
Matthew 1:18-25
We have been waiting.
We who have heard about a lion befriending a lamb, who keep an eye on the wolves that stalk our cattle, we have been waiting.
We who have seen how quickly a crocus blossom fades have been waiting.
We whose ears strain to hear life speaking have been waiting.
We whose lives are like braided streams have been waiting for a river of life to announce itself.
We who notice how early night's shadow falls over the land on a December afternoon, we who know those shadows in our own lives too, we have been waiting.
Our waiting has been informed by hope, the God-given antidote to futility that allows us to wait as an act of responsibility instead of an exercise in denial.
In hope we have been waiting. Each Advent Sunday has reminded us what we are waiting for.
But now, on this fourth Sunday of Advent, the tense changes. Visions of the future give way to a past event that tells of a the inevitable clash between circumstance and a fulfillment of hope. Matthew will not begin his story with the easy tones of “Once upon a time,” nor will he begin his story with prophesy. Instead he writes of an event in history in which circumstance vied with purpose on a landscape given over to the night.
Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.’ All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet:
‘Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,
and they shall name him Emmanuel’,
which means, ‘God is with us.’ When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.
Christmas may be “merry” but Matthew's story is conflicted. In his version:
Circumstance speaks of betrayal;
Circumstance speaks of ways to cover-up an untoward truth;
Circumstance speaks of a man surrendering the day's drama and wrapping himself in night's sleep with a heavy and troubled heart;
Circumstance speaks of fear;
To all of this the God, one of whose names in Hebrew is Life, has a response.
“I know this is not what you expected. Now, let me be God. I too have plans. Let's see them through.” We find ourselves in good company with Joseph. Is there an illness that is not in some ways a betrayal of the body? We too have had plans and expectations designed to bring order to our world just as Joseph and Mary had plans and expectations that were to have brought order to their world. And we too know how circumstance has the power to seemingly thwart it all.
As we give ourselves over to the story hope differentiates itself from expectation. As always it demands truth. Yesterday I was in touch with a woman who, like so many others is living the life whose factual diagnosis is “cancer.” But the fact of the matter is our brief conversation wasn't about cancer. It was about courage, patience, hope and connection. Had the angel not appeared fear might well have claimed the day. Had Joseph waited for Luke's heavenly host to appear in the sky singing “Angels we have heard on high” it might have been a long wait indeed. But hope's river is wide and God has many ways to connect with us. Angels can navigate the landscape of dreams just as surely as they can appear in the stars. Either God would have us set fear aside as we embrace life.
Like those who waited for Isaiah's vision to “come true,” like Joseph, like our friends in the midst of a long and difficult recovery, we have been waiting for circumstances to change. We learn in the Christmas story that they will not disappear but we can see our way through them. A surely conflicted relationship will heal, a message from God will prompt Joseph to obey, a name will be given, circumstance will not claim the day. We find ourselves in a virtual symphony of life occurring in the most unexpected of places. If life has five leading causes (and I hasten to add that if you believe it has six or seven that's wonderful!) they are all engaged.
God connects with humankind, and it happened “this way.” An angel connected with a man troubled by a fundamental disconnect in his life.
A name, “God is with us” establishes coherence as only a name that emphasizes the plural can do.
Plans are made; plans change; new plans are drawn as fear is set aside. Fear is the only static part of the story and it receives its divine checkmate.
At every turn hope authors the story we take as a blessing.
I think of my friend in the hospital waiting for cancer therapy to reconnect her with health and realize that as she does do she is full of life. I think of her diagnosis as an unchosen journey shared by millions. I think of the plans that were made only to be changed as one day led to the next. When I think how improbable it is to assert that God is with us when circumstance wants to rule the day I am newly grateful for Matthew's rendition of Christ's birth in the midst of a sea of difficulty.
I realize again how visceral, how gut-wrenching life is and how amazing it is that God travels with us throughout it all. Not long ago, in a conversation about rehabilitation, the comment was made that rehab is designed to improve or to better people's lives. I was taken aback for a moment. We can improve circumstances, but improving life is, to me at least, an odd thought. As we learn from this child born so long ago, our gratitude to have a chance to give God thanks for the gift of life knows no bounds.
In church this Sunday, we will hear Matthew tell us, “Life happened this way.” We will not care that Luke might way, “No, it actually happened this way,” or that John would ask us to turn our attention to the very beginning. In each case the often harsh voice of circumstance will meet its match as the One who has never left us returns once again.
Thanks be to God, and blessings unto you.
Larry
I welcome your response to these columns. I may be reached at:
Larry@Leadingcausesoflife.org
Or
Larrypray@gmail.com
Friday, December 14, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, December 16, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, December 16, 2007
Third Sunday of Advent
Isaiah 35:1-10 and
Psalm 146:5-10 or
Luke 1:47-55
James 5:7-10
Matthew 11:2-11
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
Both lead us to connect with God's word and with each other, both are antidotes to isolation that so easily leads to despair; both are well aware of chaos that seeks to engulf us, but both speak of order that gives our lives a nurturing coherence. Both ask us to do something, and both let us know that although we might control our responses to adversity, we are often not in control of what happens to us. Both ask us to live in hope, and both ask us organize our lives around the blessings we are fortunate to give and privileged to receive.
The word that comes to us on this Third Sunday of Advent is remarkably compelling in many ways. Mother earth doesn't have much to say in Hebrew or Christian scripture. When we hear of rain it may well turn out to be a flood. When we read about a darkening sky we don't take it as an enthralling thunderstorm, but as a sign of the sky's anguish at the death of Jesus. We read of rocks that might weep, of seas that present a barrier that must be overcome if it is to be crossed. The theology of a desert people gives thanks for creation but then doesn't give it much of a voice. We learn from it, “Notice the flowers of the field,” Jesus says, but we don't tend to listen to their voice. Not often does the mother nature we grew up with and learned to love have a voice.
But that changes this week. And, if the truth be told, it changes throughout all of advent. Angels will sing not from a pulpit but from the sky. Stars will point the way. The animals 4H kids learn to love and care for will make their way into the birthing shed. Heaven and earth finally come to a congruity that speaks of life in a voice and vision that asks us to connect, asks us to listen, asks us to perceive the earth. In his remarks about John, Jesus decries those with soft robes whose luxury has somehow disconnected them from the discontinuity of their lives.
Isaiah, however, turns this around in this season of advent in which we are asked to reattach ourselves to the reality of a Word made flesh. I would ask that we move slowly through his prescient words.
Isaiah 35:1-10
The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,
the desert shall rejoice and blossom;
like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly,
and rejoice with joy and singing.
The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it,
the majesty of Carmel and Sharon.
They shall see the glory of the Lord,
the majesty of our God.
Notice that the little crocus, the first flower that pokes its purple and yellow blossoms through the snow, and tells us spring is on the way leads the way. Its brave example, its utter disregard for weather (it's too cold; there's too much snow; I haven't done a thing for almost a year, wonder if I have the strength to do it again), ignites rejoicing and blossoming in the desert, even brining joy to dry land and the wilderness which is often seen as a lonely and even dangerous place. When Jesus went into the desert we imagine it not to be inhabited by singing flowers, rejoicing land, and beautiful flowers. Quite the opposite. But now Isaiah lets us know that this loneliness, useful as it might be in forging ministry, is not the full expression of life. Life has a language, and the earth itself can speak.
He then moves from the wilderness and shows us how to rejoice, how to sing, how to connect with each other in our churches, our families, and even in the midst of our battles. The crocus led the way, and now it is our turn.
Strengthen the weak hands,
and make firm the feeble knees.
Say to those who are of a fearful heart,
'Be strong, do not fear!
Here is your God.
He will come with vengeance,
with terrible recompense.
He will come and save you.'
Twice we are told that we must checkmate fear. Now we have good reason to fear on many fronts. It is the nature of chronic disease to worsen, not get better over time. It is the nature of war to kill an enemy and destroy a chance for reconciliation. It is for good reason the poor fear for their future when what they need to survive is impossible to afford. It would be complete denial to say “None of this is true, so don't be afraid.”
But instead we have a helper. We are asked to connect with God and promises that God connects with us. We will find that we are not alone. Suddenly the scripture changes tense and moves into the future. The shift is not based on flimsy hope but on future assurance.
Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
and the ears of the deaf unstopped;
then the lame shall leap like a deer,
and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.
For waters shall break forth in the wilderness,
and streams in the desert;
the burning sand shall become a pool,
and the thirsty ground springs of water;
the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp,
the grass shall become reeds and rushes.
Once again we find ourselves as part of creation. What shall the blind see? Crocus flowers. What shall they hear? A singing desert. How many streams will cross a formerly dry desert? Many. The Jordan River suddenly has friends. And there are ways to travel towards it.
A highway shall be there,
and it shall be called the Holy Way;
the unclean shall not travel on it,
but it shall be for God’s people;
no traveller, not even fools, shall go astray.
No lion shall be there,
nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it;
they shall not be found there,
but the redeemed shall walk there.
And the ransomed of the Lord shall return,
and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
they shall obtain joy and gladness,
and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
Isaiah's penchant for lyrical expression whets our appetite. But then, in this latter stanza, the Word shifts once again. That is, of course, the wonderful things about scripture. Once you “get it” it moves and we realize our primary perception was simply a glimpse. The presence of paradox let us know we are in the presence of truth.
There is a highway that turns out to be a toll way. If we are unclean, if we do not have our ticket, we will not travel on that highway. I am reminded of the Woody Guthery gospel song,
This train is bound for glory,
this train don't pull no jokers,
this train don't ride nothing but the holy.
This train don't carry no liars.
This train don't carry no liars.
No hypocrites and no high flyers.
This train is bound for glory, this train.
But just as soon as we are glad there will finally be a train whose ticket required some degree of righteousness Isaiah lets us know that there are some fools on the highway known as Holy. The good news, of course, is that not even they will go astray because although errant judgment may have pointed them away from God they will not be forgotten, they will travel that highway too. The connections of advent, you see, are many, many, and still many more. Interestingly enough, we will walk, not run, on that road. It is sorrow and signing that will flee.
Slow down, Isaiah seems to say.
Watch for the crocus.
Listen to the parched earth sing.
Don't write off the faint hearted, help them write a new chapter in their lives.
See the many rivers.
Travel that road slowly, figuring out if perhaps you are one of the fools or one of the wise, knowing that either way this road is for you.
If fear has hemmed you in . . . find listen to creation itself.
It is singing, and you are part of the song.
When we find these words in winter, so much the better.
Larry
I welcome your response to these columns. I may be reached at:
Larry@Leadingcausesoflife.org
Or
Larrypray@gmail.com
Third Sunday of Advent
Isaiah 35:1-10 and
Psalm 146:5-10 or
Luke 1:47-55
James 5:7-10
Matthew 11:2-11
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
Both lead us to connect with God's word and with each other, both are antidotes to isolation that so easily leads to despair; both are well aware of chaos that seeks to engulf us, but both speak of order that gives our lives a nurturing coherence. Both ask us to do something, and both let us know that although we might control our responses to adversity, we are often not in control of what happens to us. Both ask us to live in hope, and both ask us organize our lives around the blessings we are fortunate to give and privileged to receive.
The word that comes to us on this Third Sunday of Advent is remarkably compelling in many ways. Mother earth doesn't have much to say in Hebrew or Christian scripture. When we hear of rain it may well turn out to be a flood. When we read about a darkening sky we don't take it as an enthralling thunderstorm, but as a sign of the sky's anguish at the death of Jesus. We read of rocks that might weep, of seas that present a barrier that must be overcome if it is to be crossed. The theology of a desert people gives thanks for creation but then doesn't give it much of a voice. We learn from it, “Notice the flowers of the field,” Jesus says, but we don't tend to listen to their voice. Not often does the mother nature we grew up with and learned to love have a voice.
But that changes this week. And, if the truth be told, it changes throughout all of advent. Angels will sing not from a pulpit but from the sky. Stars will point the way. The animals 4H kids learn to love and care for will make their way into the birthing shed. Heaven and earth finally come to a congruity that speaks of life in a voice and vision that asks us to connect, asks us to listen, asks us to perceive the earth. In his remarks about John, Jesus decries those with soft robes whose luxury has somehow disconnected them from the discontinuity of their lives.
Isaiah, however, turns this around in this season of advent in which we are asked to reattach ourselves to the reality of a Word made flesh. I would ask that we move slowly through his prescient words.
Isaiah 35:1-10
The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad,
the desert shall rejoice and blossom;
like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly,
and rejoice with joy and singing.
The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it,
the majesty of Carmel and Sharon.
They shall see the glory of the Lord,
the majesty of our God.
Notice that the little crocus, the first flower that pokes its purple and yellow blossoms through the snow, and tells us spring is on the way leads the way. Its brave example, its utter disregard for weather (it's too cold; there's too much snow; I haven't done a thing for almost a year, wonder if I have the strength to do it again), ignites rejoicing and blossoming in the desert, even brining joy to dry land and the wilderness which is often seen as a lonely and even dangerous place. When Jesus went into the desert we imagine it not to be inhabited by singing flowers, rejoicing land, and beautiful flowers. Quite the opposite. But now Isaiah lets us know that this loneliness, useful as it might be in forging ministry, is not the full expression of life. Life has a language, and the earth itself can speak.
He then moves from the wilderness and shows us how to rejoice, how to sing, how to connect with each other in our churches, our families, and even in the midst of our battles. The crocus led the way, and now it is our turn.
Strengthen the weak hands,
and make firm the feeble knees.
Say to those who are of a fearful heart,
'Be strong, do not fear!
Here is your God.
He will come with vengeance,
with terrible recompense.
He will come and save you.'
Twice we are told that we must checkmate fear. Now we have good reason to fear on many fronts. It is the nature of chronic disease to worsen, not get better over time. It is the nature of war to kill an enemy and destroy a chance for reconciliation. It is for good reason the poor fear for their future when what they need to survive is impossible to afford. It would be complete denial to say “None of this is true, so don't be afraid.”
But instead we have a helper. We are asked to connect with God and promises that God connects with us. We will find that we are not alone. Suddenly the scripture changes tense and moves into the future. The shift is not based on flimsy hope but on future assurance.
Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
and the ears of the deaf unstopped;
then the lame shall leap like a deer,
and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.
For waters shall break forth in the wilderness,
and streams in the desert;
the burning sand shall become a pool,
and the thirsty ground springs of water;
the haunt of jackals shall become a swamp,
the grass shall become reeds and rushes.
Once again we find ourselves as part of creation. What shall the blind see? Crocus flowers. What shall they hear? A singing desert. How many streams will cross a formerly dry desert? Many. The Jordan River suddenly has friends. And there are ways to travel towards it.
A highway shall be there,
and it shall be called the Holy Way;
the unclean shall not travel on it,
but it shall be for God’s people;
no traveller, not even fools, shall go astray.
No lion shall be there,
nor shall any ravenous beast come up on it;
they shall not be found there,
but the redeemed shall walk there.
And the ransomed of the Lord shall return,
and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
they shall obtain joy and gladness,
and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.
Isaiah's penchant for lyrical expression whets our appetite. But then, in this latter stanza, the Word shifts once again. That is, of course, the wonderful things about scripture. Once you “get it” it moves and we realize our primary perception was simply a glimpse. The presence of paradox let us know we are in the presence of truth.
There is a highway that turns out to be a toll way. If we are unclean, if we do not have our ticket, we will not travel on that highway. I am reminded of the Woody Guthery gospel song,
This train is bound for glory,
this train don't pull no jokers,
this train don't ride nothing but the holy.
This train don't carry no liars.
This train don't carry no liars.
No hypocrites and no high flyers.
This train is bound for glory, this train.
But just as soon as we are glad there will finally be a train whose ticket required some degree of righteousness Isaiah lets us know that there are some fools on the highway known as Holy. The good news, of course, is that not even they will go astray because although errant judgment may have pointed them away from God they will not be forgotten, they will travel that highway too. The connections of advent, you see, are many, many, and still many more. Interestingly enough, we will walk, not run, on that road. It is sorrow and signing that will flee.
Slow down, Isaiah seems to say.
Watch for the crocus.
Listen to the parched earth sing.
Don't write off the faint hearted, help them write a new chapter in their lives.
See the many rivers.
Travel that road slowly, figuring out if perhaps you are one of the fools or one of the wise, knowing that either way this road is for you.
If fear has hemmed you in . . . find listen to creation itself.
It is singing, and you are part of the song.
When we find these words in winter, so much the better.
Larry
I welcome your response to these columns. I may be reached at:
Larry@Leadingcausesoflife.org
Or
Larrypray@gmail.com
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, December 2, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, December 2, 2007
First Sunday of Advent, Year A
Isaiah 2:1-5
Psalm 122
Romans 13:11-14 and
Matthew 24:36-44
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
Those two thoughts speak for themselves.
We can paint the story of our lives by glimpsing the connections that lovingly shaped us or the heartbreaking loss of relationship that pointed us another way. We can understand the story by asking what it means, or by remembering the times the floods chaos overwhelmed our lives before its waters revealed that all had not been swept away. Or, we can tell the story by recounting what we did, and what was done to us, by what happened and what failed to happen. But such a story wouldn't be complete without the voice of hope that transcends circumstance as it ebbs and flows, appears and disappears and then appears yet again. Taken together we will find the glimpses, the stories, the hopes, and the happenings to be a blessing. We know this because that is how life speaks.
From time to time both scripture and the church year ask us to rehearse, remember and emphasize life as our central calling. Advent is such a season and this first Sunday of Advent is such a Sunday. When we go to our churches we will find they are not the same as they were last week. The bulletin will have a perhaps worried announcement about upcoming rehearsals for the Christmas pageant. Small churches may wonder if their Wednesday night services during Advent will draw a crowd in such a busy season; mega churches are wondering how many services they will need to offer on Christmas eve. In many churches the altar candles now have companions in a wreath, one of which will be lit. Some will call it the candle of peace; others will call it the candle of hope; still others will say, “In our church when we light the first candle we call it 'Joy.'” Church choirs are wondering when it would be best to carol, and how they will be greeted. In the for what it's worth department our choir found their reception at the Big Timber Bar to be by far the warmest greeting on a cold afternoon.
Advent has returned.
In my heart, and in my imagination, the season's activities, liturgies and scripture readings are wrapped in connection. For Christians, the thought, prospect, and reality of Immanuel, God with us, is perhaps the ultimate connection. When we light advent candles we symbolize God's presence. We will be astonished to learn yet again that there is no room in the inn because the absence of connection is contrary everything we know and expect of life. Connection is one of life's “should be's” and something is wrong when it is refused. We like it when Matthew lets us know angels speak in dreams. We may not have seen them flying in the sky and singing in perfect harmony, but we too have perhaps encountered their voice in dreams and are thankful for the connection with the realm we trust but cannot see.
Now you may say, “I think advent is about hope.” I would say, “Yes, that will work. Or you may say, “There is nothing more proactive than God actually deciding to appear as the Word made flesh, it's all about agency.” I'd again say, “Yes, that's right. No doubt about it.” But each of us has a take on life, that's what coherence is all about. The goal, or sometimes the trick, is to not confuse the cause with life itself. As we do, scripture does indeed have a word for us.
The Lectionary invites us to take “the word that Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem” nearly 3,000 years ago to heart.
Isaiah 2:1-5
In days to come
the mountain of the Lord's house
shall be established as the highest of the mountains,
and shall be raised above the hills;
all the nations shall stream to it.
Many peoples shall come and say,
'Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,
to the house of the God of Jacob;
that he may teach us his ways
and that we may walk in his paths.'
For out of Zion shall go forth instruction,
and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
He shall judge between the nations,
and shall arbitrate for many peoples;
they shall beat their swords into ploughshares,
and their spears into pruning-hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more.
O house of Jacob,
come, let us walk
in the light of the Lord!
There is a poignant and remarkable presence of the plural in the pericope that has found its way into a sculpture that seeks to set a tone for the United Nations, and inspired the writing of the Leading Causes of Life with the hope we might turn our attention away from the study of death and pursue a study of life.
“In days to come,” we note that the word “day” is plural. In the gospel reading Jesus emphasizes what Isaiah saw: “You do not know on which day the Lord will come.” It could be any one of the days ahead of us. Some have pointed out how mistaken the disciples, the early Christians and even Jesus was when they expected it to be one day “soon.” No matter, its very plurality is reassuring. Like those who heard Jesus speak and took enough note of Isaiah's word to save it for future generations, we all await healing and often we want it to happen “now.” But we find it to be a slow dance, and learn it is better to share this dance throughout our lives than it is to fence healing with narrow expectation.
Continuing to work our way through the vision, we soon find that we arel not traveling alone. All nations will travel along with us, many peoples will be with us. Some of them we know, and the chances are that others we might have once preferred not to know. But the over-arching hospitality of God's house is unmistakable. It is utterly different from the world we once knew and conquered in the name of one cause or another. And so it is not surprising that once we arrive there is much to sort through as we receive a class in how to set aside that which has divided us. Having received an invitation we did not deserve, we are perhaps finally ready to receive life's instruction. There is much to learn, there is much to be done. Advent has its Christmas eve services, it has its rituals that shape us and inform our experience as churches and individuals. The assembly of humanity within God's house is not a “Look, Ma, no hands!” experience. Like us it is in need of judgment, in need of arbitration, in need of a faith deep enough and an arm strong enough to beat swords into ploughshares. How ironic that the weapons that once beat other people are beaten themselves into the implements that sustain life.
Not surprisingly, with connection as the lens through which we discern Isaiah's vision, time makes its appearance. First the assembly, then the instruction, then the judgment, then the arbitration, then the surrender of swords, then the smithy that allows for the transformation of weapons into the implements that bless life. Were we to dwell on any one segment, perhaps saying, “This vision is for me and my people,” we might miss that it is for all people. Were we to avoid a word of judgment and the wisdom of divine arbitration, we might be loathe to relinquish our weapons that so effortlessly separate us one from another. Were we to avoid instruction, we would be focused on our own way, our own sense of timing, our own endless set of justifications that make God “nice” but not necessary.
In such a time, and in such a case Advent has a word for us.
“I'm here.”
“I'm here with you.
For me it is a word of connection. Knowing it has never left I am glad for its return. And, I suspect, so are you. After all, this word is for us. Together, as God said to Isaiah, let us walk in the light together.
Larry
I welcome your response to these columns. I may be reached at:
Larry@Leadingcausesoflife.org
or
Larrypray@gmail.com
First Sunday of Advent, Year A
Isaiah 2:1-5
Psalm 122
Romans 13:11-14 and
Matthew 24:36-44
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
Those two thoughts speak for themselves.
We can paint the story of our lives by glimpsing the connections that lovingly shaped us or the heartbreaking loss of relationship that pointed us another way. We can understand the story by asking what it means, or by remembering the times the floods chaos overwhelmed our lives before its waters revealed that all had not been swept away. Or, we can tell the story by recounting what we did, and what was done to us, by what happened and what failed to happen. But such a story wouldn't be complete without the voice of hope that transcends circumstance as it ebbs and flows, appears and disappears and then appears yet again. Taken together we will find the glimpses, the stories, the hopes, and the happenings to be a blessing. We know this because that is how life speaks.
From time to time both scripture and the church year ask us to rehearse, remember and emphasize life as our central calling. Advent is such a season and this first Sunday of Advent is such a Sunday. When we go to our churches we will find they are not the same as they were last week. The bulletin will have a perhaps worried announcement about upcoming rehearsals for the Christmas pageant. Small churches may wonder if their Wednesday night services during Advent will draw a crowd in such a busy season; mega churches are wondering how many services they will need to offer on Christmas eve. In many churches the altar candles now have companions in a wreath, one of which will be lit. Some will call it the candle of peace; others will call it the candle of hope; still others will say, “In our church when we light the first candle we call it 'Joy.'” Church choirs are wondering when it would be best to carol, and how they will be greeted. In the for what it's worth department our choir found their reception at the Big Timber Bar to be by far the warmest greeting on a cold afternoon.
Advent has returned.
In my heart, and in my imagination, the season's activities, liturgies and scripture readings are wrapped in connection. For Christians, the thought, prospect, and reality of Immanuel, God with us, is perhaps the ultimate connection. When we light advent candles we symbolize God's presence. We will be astonished to learn yet again that there is no room in the inn because the absence of connection is contrary everything we know and expect of life. Connection is one of life's “should be's” and something is wrong when it is refused. We like it when Matthew lets us know angels speak in dreams. We may not have seen them flying in the sky and singing in perfect harmony, but we too have perhaps encountered their voice in dreams and are thankful for the connection with the realm we trust but cannot see.
Now you may say, “I think advent is about hope.” I would say, “Yes, that will work. Or you may say, “There is nothing more proactive than God actually deciding to appear as the Word made flesh, it's all about agency.” I'd again say, “Yes, that's right. No doubt about it.” But each of us has a take on life, that's what coherence is all about. The goal, or sometimes the trick, is to not confuse the cause with life itself. As we do, scripture does indeed have a word for us.
The Lectionary invites us to take “the word that Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem” nearly 3,000 years ago to heart.
Isaiah 2:1-5
In days to come
the mountain of the Lord's house
shall be established as the highest of the mountains,
and shall be raised above the hills;
all the nations shall stream to it.
Many peoples shall come and say,
'Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,
to the house of the God of Jacob;
that he may teach us his ways
and that we may walk in his paths.'
For out of Zion shall go forth instruction,
and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
He shall judge between the nations,
and shall arbitrate for many peoples;
they shall beat their swords into ploughshares,
and their spears into pruning-hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more.
O house of Jacob,
come, let us walk
in the light of the Lord!
There is a poignant and remarkable presence of the plural in the pericope that has found its way into a sculpture that seeks to set a tone for the United Nations, and inspired the writing of the Leading Causes of Life with the hope we might turn our attention away from the study of death and pursue a study of life.
“In days to come,” we note that the word “day” is plural. In the gospel reading Jesus emphasizes what Isaiah saw: “You do not know on which day the Lord will come.” It could be any one of the days ahead of us. Some have pointed out how mistaken the disciples, the early Christians and even Jesus was when they expected it to be one day “soon.” No matter, its very plurality is reassuring. Like those who heard Jesus speak and took enough note of Isaiah's word to save it for future generations, we all await healing and often we want it to happen “now.” But we find it to be a slow dance, and learn it is better to share this dance throughout our lives than it is to fence healing with narrow expectation.
Continuing to work our way through the vision, we soon find that we arel not traveling alone. All nations will travel along with us, many peoples will be with us. Some of them we know, and the chances are that others we might have once preferred not to know. But the over-arching hospitality of God's house is unmistakable. It is utterly different from the world we once knew and conquered in the name of one cause or another. And so it is not surprising that once we arrive there is much to sort through as we receive a class in how to set aside that which has divided us. Having received an invitation we did not deserve, we are perhaps finally ready to receive life's instruction. There is much to learn, there is much to be done. Advent has its Christmas eve services, it has its rituals that shape us and inform our experience as churches and individuals. The assembly of humanity within God's house is not a “Look, Ma, no hands!” experience. Like us it is in need of judgment, in need of arbitration, in need of a faith deep enough and an arm strong enough to beat swords into ploughshares. How ironic that the weapons that once beat other people are beaten themselves into the implements that sustain life.
Not surprisingly, with connection as the lens through which we discern Isaiah's vision, time makes its appearance. First the assembly, then the instruction, then the judgment, then the arbitration, then the surrender of swords, then the smithy that allows for the transformation of weapons into the implements that bless life. Were we to dwell on any one segment, perhaps saying, “This vision is for me and my people,” we might miss that it is for all people. Were we to avoid a word of judgment and the wisdom of divine arbitration, we might be loathe to relinquish our weapons that so effortlessly separate us one from another. Were we to avoid instruction, we would be focused on our own way, our own sense of timing, our own endless set of justifications that make God “nice” but not necessary.
In such a time, and in such a case Advent has a word for us.
“I'm here.”
“I'm here with you.
For me it is a word of connection. Knowing it has never left I am glad for its return. And, I suspect, so are you. After all, this word is for us. Together, as God said to Isaiah, let us walk in the light together.
Larry
I welcome your response to these columns. I may be reached at:
Larry@Leadingcausesoflife.org
or
Larrypray@gmail.com
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, November 11, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, November 11, 2007
Haggai 1:15b-2:9 with Psalm 145:1-5, 17-21 or Psalm 98 or
Job 19:23-27a with Psalm 17:1-9 and
2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17 and
Luke 20:27-38
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
It is a word of blessing.
It has the easy and assuring cadence of a benediction that sums up the sermon, the prayers, the liturgy, the music, the tears and the laughter of congregants before sending them forth to live their lives.
Like all blessings it is marked by connection, wrapped in hope and speaks of coherence, assuring us that there is a purpose in life, that meaning can be found, that chaos has met its match when we stand fast, give thanks, and trust in life.
Paul's words to the congregation in Thessalonia could not be more heart-felt:
But we must always give thanks to God for you, brothers and sisters beloved by the Lord, because God chose you as the first fruits for salvation through sanctification by the Spirit and through belief in the truth. For this purpose he called you through our proclamation of the good news, so that you may obtain the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ. So then, brothers and sisters, stand firm and hold fast to the traditions that you were taught by us, either by word of mouth or by our letter.
Now may our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and through grace gave us eternal comfort and good hope, comfort your hearts and strengthen them in every good work and word.
Note how beautifully life speaks.
We give thanks. The construction is plural. We, in our families, in our churches, in our networks of friends, we give thanks.
We give thanks to you, once again the construction is plural, addressed to brothers and sisters.
We are beloved by the Lord, God reaches out to us, once again the plural is embraced because God embraced us.
We have been called according to a purpose. There is order and meaning in nothing less than creation itself.
We have been asked to act by standing firm in the teachings that keep life alive in both what we say and in what we do.
Is there anything more beautiful than the opening of a church doors on a Sunday morning? I think not. The church is quiet, one person comes in, then two, then six, then soon the stillness of a quiet sanctuary fills with a wave of gentle conversation. We are gathered, we are met, we are waiting to renew our lives once again.
We know there are many who carry heavy burdens, and we know that we do not know what they all are.
I reflect on this week's accidental conversations as I rode the train across Montana and North Dakota before arriving at my destination here in Wisconsin. They were the conversations of life:
A man from Mississippi who works on an oilrig off the coast of Angola says he is not surprised at all that nooses have made an unwelcome appearance. "They've never gone away," he says. What "should be" is not, and what "should not be" is.
A mother whose daughter struggles through addiction and has yet to find a lasting serenity can't help but cry as she also knows what "should be" is "not yet."
A woman whose father has wondered if a radiation treatment is worth it as she wonders how to be a loving daughter from so very far away.
A kid, maybe 20 or so, who graduated from boot camp, not the army or the marines but the prison's boot camp and says he is "done with drugs" as he orders two beers at ten in the morning and downs them beside me as the train makes its way down the Mississippi River.
These are the conversations of your church. These are the conversations of people whose lives are emerging with awareness that there is no room for pretend. If there is to be a blessing it must meet the hard reality of two green bottles, a noose, cancer cells that have yet to take no for an answer, and addictions that speak of death rather than life.
A kind word is good.
But a blessing is better.
Now may our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and through grace gave us eternal comfort and good hope, comfort your hearts and strengthen them in every good work and word.
We rely not on an ethereal presence but on Jesus Christ (the one who helps, the name means) himself.
And if such a presence cannot be discerned, or has faded away or been eclipsed by circumstance, then God who took action and first loved us.
We rely on a blessing that gives strength (com . . . fort) to our hearts, the seat of discernment that gives us courage as we speak and as we act to begin our lives anew.
There is no pretend here.
There is no pretend in your congregation either as you speak or as you share a word of life. It is all a matter of blessing that can only come from others. We cannot bless ourselves, but we can bless each other and recognize that once, long ago, and perhaps again this very sabbath, we are blessed by the love of God, one of whose names in Hebrew is LIFE.
If I may I end with a personal note. It was November 11 that my first life came to an end as a stroke washed away the billions of cells that once said, "This is who you are." Those who remain have asked, "And who are you to be?" And so, Paul's words apply to the boot camp kid beside me, the mother across from me, the father weighing his life, and to me with a poignancy that can only be born from the crucible of experience.
Blessings to you and thanks be to God for the privilege of conversation that will surely arise in the life of your church and aboard tonight's train bound for Montana.
Larry
I welcome your response to these columns. I may be reached at:
Larry@Leadingcausesoflife.org
or
Larrypray@gmail.com
Haggai 1:15b-2:9 with Psalm 145:1-5, 17-21 or Psalm 98 or
Job 19:23-27a with Psalm 17:1-9 and
2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17 and
Luke 20:27-38
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
It is a word of blessing.
It has the easy and assuring cadence of a benediction that sums up the sermon, the prayers, the liturgy, the music, the tears and the laughter of congregants before sending them forth to live their lives.
Like all blessings it is marked by connection, wrapped in hope and speaks of coherence, assuring us that there is a purpose in life, that meaning can be found, that chaos has met its match when we stand fast, give thanks, and trust in life.
Paul's words to the congregation in Thessalonia could not be more heart-felt:
But we must always give thanks to God for you, brothers and sisters beloved by the Lord, because God chose you as the first fruits for salvation through sanctification by the Spirit and through belief in the truth. For this purpose he called you through our proclamation of the good news, so that you may obtain the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ. So then, brothers and sisters, stand firm and hold fast to the traditions that you were taught by us, either by word of mouth or by our letter.
Now may our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and through grace gave us eternal comfort and good hope, comfort your hearts and strengthen them in every good work and word.
Note how beautifully life speaks.
We give thanks. The construction is plural. We, in our families, in our churches, in our networks of friends, we give thanks.
We give thanks to you, once again the construction is plural, addressed to brothers and sisters.
We are beloved by the Lord, God reaches out to us, once again the plural is embraced because God embraced us.
We have been called according to a purpose. There is order and meaning in nothing less than creation itself.
We have been asked to act by standing firm in the teachings that keep life alive in both what we say and in what we do.
Is there anything more beautiful than the opening of a church doors on a Sunday morning? I think not. The church is quiet, one person comes in, then two, then six, then soon the stillness of a quiet sanctuary fills with a wave of gentle conversation. We are gathered, we are met, we are waiting to renew our lives once again.
We know there are many who carry heavy burdens, and we know that we do not know what they all are.
I reflect on this week's accidental conversations as I rode the train across Montana and North Dakota before arriving at my destination here in Wisconsin. They were the conversations of life:
A man from Mississippi who works on an oilrig off the coast of Angola says he is not surprised at all that nooses have made an unwelcome appearance. "They've never gone away," he says. What "should be" is not, and what "should not be" is.
A mother whose daughter struggles through addiction and has yet to find a lasting serenity can't help but cry as she also knows what "should be" is "not yet."
A woman whose father has wondered if a radiation treatment is worth it as she wonders how to be a loving daughter from so very far away.
A kid, maybe 20 or so, who graduated from boot camp, not the army or the marines but the prison's boot camp and says he is "done with drugs" as he orders two beers at ten in the morning and downs them beside me as the train makes its way down the Mississippi River.
These are the conversations of your church. These are the conversations of people whose lives are emerging with awareness that there is no room for pretend. If there is to be a blessing it must meet the hard reality of two green bottles, a noose, cancer cells that have yet to take no for an answer, and addictions that speak of death rather than life.
A kind word is good.
But a blessing is better.
Now may our Lord Jesus Christ himself and God our Father, who loved us and through grace gave us eternal comfort and good hope, comfort your hearts and strengthen them in every good work and word.
We rely not on an ethereal presence but on Jesus Christ (the one who helps, the name means) himself.
And if such a presence cannot be discerned, or has faded away or been eclipsed by circumstance, then God who took action and first loved us.
We rely on a blessing that gives strength (com . . . fort) to our hearts, the seat of discernment that gives us courage as we speak and as we act to begin our lives anew.
There is no pretend here.
There is no pretend in your congregation either as you speak or as you share a word of life. It is all a matter of blessing that can only come from others. We cannot bless ourselves, but we can bless each other and recognize that once, long ago, and perhaps again this very sabbath, we are blessed by the love of God, one of whose names in Hebrew is LIFE.
If I may I end with a personal note. It was November 11 that my first life came to an end as a stroke washed away the billions of cells that once said, "This is who you are." Those who remain have asked, "And who are you to be?" And so, Paul's words apply to the boot camp kid beside me, the mother across from me, the father weighing his life, and to me with a poignancy that can only be born from the crucible of experience.
Blessings to you and thanks be to God for the privilege of conversation that will surely arise in the life of your church and aboard tonight's train bound for Montana.
Larry
I welcome your response to these columns. I may be reached at:
Larry@Leadingcausesoflife.org
or
Larrypray@gmail.com
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, November 4, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, November 4, 2007
Proper 26, Thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time
Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4 with Psalm 119:137-144 or
Isaiah 1:10-18 with Psalm 32:1-7 and
2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12 and
Luke 19:1-10
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
This week it is a word of healing. If there is a common ground that connects all scripture it surely must be healing. We heal from slavery, we heal from rebellion, we heal from an exile that might well have destroyed our soul, and we seek healing when circumstance does its level best to break us. Over and over again we heal as individuals, as churches and temples, as a people.
The need for healing does not, and cannot, disguise itself.
“Look at the proud!” Writes Habakkuk in his unforgettable three chapters.
“Their spirit is not right in them,
but the righteous live by their faith.”
When the spirit is not right within us it is time for healing to happen. And how does healing happen? We move towards it, summoning the courage to act. We connect with others: sometimes a nurse, sometimes a neighbor, sometimes a physician, sometimes our conscience and sometimes, Jesus. So it was with Zacchaeus.
Luke 19:1-10
He entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax-collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, ‘Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.’ So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. All who saw it began to grumble and said, ‘He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.’ Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, ‘Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.’ Then Jesus said to him, ‘Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.’
Over the last month or so we have caught the cadences of Luke's ironic reversals. The publican turns out to show us the path to authentic prayer. The Samaritan leper shows us the exuberant joy of gratitude. Rich man Dives showed us what happens when we fail to notice what's happening around us. And today we find a curious Zacchaeus climbing the same kind of tree that the prophet Amos once dressed in order to see the Jesus he had undoubtedly heard so many rumors about. We find life speaking on all sides. A crowd and a chief tax-collector are all searching for “something.” Perhaps the crowd wanted deliverance from injustice. Perhaps a politically savvy Zacchaeus wanted to crowd to see he wasn't as bad as they thought he was, that he was interested in their interests. We do not know the motivations. But we do know setting the spirit right was the draw for Zacchaeus, the crowd and Jesus.
The spirit cannot be set right unless three things happen:
Zacchaeus must come down from the tree and dine with Jesus. In a very small church I once asked one of the elders, “What do you think is going to help this church grow?” She answered in one word. “Food.” It is no wonder churches often have not one, but two or three kitchens, that office buildings have a cafeteria, an arcade of food shops, and a coffee area complete with a refrigerator and well-stocked cupboards. And it is no wonder the sacrament involves the breaking and sharing of bread and wine. Connection has a way of giving life. Zacchaeus had to reconnect with the crowd, connect with Jesus and then connect with those he had fleeced over the years.
The second thing is just as clear. The crowd's murmuring needed to subside if they were to recognize the depth of Jesus' connection with all of the children of Abraham. Coherence is a tricky and somewhat elusive cause of life. By its very nature it unites us. But, by its very nature it can turn “our group” into a grumbler about “your group.” If the mumbling does not subside, the encounter with Zacchaeus, and the crowd's curiosity about Jesus will be no more than a momentary event.
And that leads us to the third. There must be restorative justice. What will it take to set the spirit right within us? It requires the presence of the Son of Man. Without Jesus we have a treed tax collector who knows all is not well within his soul; and a grumbling crowd. Not much to build on there. With Jesus we have broken bread with a son of Abraham and rejoiced that one who was lost is found.
The implications for us are guaranteed.
To the parishioner who finds your sermon unpalatable, we say, “I must dine with you today.”
To ourselves, “What must I restore?”
To our congregation, “With whom must we connect if the spirit is to be right within us and well with the world.
Larry
Proper 26, Thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time
Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4 with Psalm 119:137-144 or
Isaiah 1:10-18 with Psalm 32:1-7 and
2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12 and
Luke 19:1-10
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
This week it is a word of healing. If there is a common ground that connects all scripture it surely must be healing. We heal from slavery, we heal from rebellion, we heal from an exile that might well have destroyed our soul, and we seek healing when circumstance does its level best to break us. Over and over again we heal as individuals, as churches and temples, as a people.
The need for healing does not, and cannot, disguise itself.
“Look at the proud!” Writes Habakkuk in his unforgettable three chapters.
“Their spirit is not right in them,
but the righteous live by their faith.”
When the spirit is not right within us it is time for healing to happen. And how does healing happen? We move towards it, summoning the courage to act. We connect with others: sometimes a nurse, sometimes a neighbor, sometimes a physician, sometimes our conscience and sometimes, Jesus. So it was with Zacchaeus.
Luke 19:1-10
He entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax-collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, ‘Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.’ So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. All who saw it began to grumble and said, ‘He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.’ Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, ‘Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.’ Then Jesus said to him, ‘Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.’
Over the last month or so we have caught the cadences of Luke's ironic reversals. The publican turns out to show us the path to authentic prayer. The Samaritan leper shows us the exuberant joy of gratitude. Rich man Dives showed us what happens when we fail to notice what's happening around us. And today we find a curious Zacchaeus climbing the same kind of tree that the prophet Amos once dressed in order to see the Jesus he had undoubtedly heard so many rumors about. We find life speaking on all sides. A crowd and a chief tax-collector are all searching for “something.” Perhaps the crowd wanted deliverance from injustice. Perhaps a politically savvy Zacchaeus wanted to crowd to see he wasn't as bad as they thought he was, that he was interested in their interests. We do not know the motivations. But we do know setting the spirit right was the draw for Zacchaeus, the crowd and Jesus.
The spirit cannot be set right unless three things happen:
Zacchaeus must come down from the tree and dine with Jesus. In a very small church I once asked one of the elders, “What do you think is going to help this church grow?” She answered in one word. “Food.” It is no wonder churches often have not one, but two or three kitchens, that office buildings have a cafeteria, an arcade of food shops, and a coffee area complete with a refrigerator and well-stocked cupboards. And it is no wonder the sacrament involves the breaking and sharing of bread and wine. Connection has a way of giving life. Zacchaeus had to reconnect with the crowd, connect with Jesus and then connect with those he had fleeced over the years.
The second thing is just as clear. The crowd's murmuring needed to subside if they were to recognize the depth of Jesus' connection with all of the children of Abraham. Coherence is a tricky and somewhat elusive cause of life. By its very nature it unites us. But, by its very nature it can turn “our group” into a grumbler about “your group.” If the mumbling does not subside, the encounter with Zacchaeus, and the crowd's curiosity about Jesus will be no more than a momentary event.
And that leads us to the third. There must be restorative justice. What will it take to set the spirit right within us? It requires the presence of the Son of Man. Without Jesus we have a treed tax collector who knows all is not well within his soul; and a grumbling crowd. Not much to build on there. With Jesus we have broken bread with a son of Abraham and rejoiced that one who was lost is found.
The implications for us are guaranteed.
To the parishioner who finds your sermon unpalatable, we say, “I must dine with you today.”
To ourselves, “What must I restore?”
To our congregation, “With whom must we connect if the spirit is to be right within us and well with the world.
Larry
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Readings for Sunday, October 28, 2007
Readings for Sunday, October 28, 2007
Proper 25, Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Joel 2:23-32 with Psalm 65 or
Sirach 35:12-17 or
Jeremiah 14:7-10, 19-22 with Psalm 84:1-7 and
2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18 and
Luke 18:9-14
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
As usual the words of Jesus capture the power of connection and the sadness of disconnects that plague the lives of a Pharisee and publican as deeply as they touch us. And, as usual, Jesus would have us look for life where we would least expect to find it. We learn again, perhaps because we need to learn it over and over again, that the pitcher of success often fails to hold the water of life. We learn that faith is not an accomplishment, that prayer is not an achievement, that role is secondary to what we do in our various roles. We learn that the boundaries that surround us must be porous rather than sharp, fluid rather than controlled. And we learn that although connection is a leading cause of life, circumstance most decidedly is not.
Although we might expect such a teaching to occupy a chapter or two, Jesus wraps the parable in a text with just five sentences:
He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: ‘Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax-collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax-collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” But the tax-collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.’
In a pastoral view of the Leading Causes of Life forgiveness opens the door to connection. We escape life, instead of living it, if we think that all connections will be pleasing, that all relationships will not have a tight spot or two, that everybody will comply with the same set of understandings. And so we must bring forgiveness to the forefront. If we do not the attitude of the Pharisee will separate us from each other just as surely as it isolated him. His world view, in a moment of prayer, disconnects him from “other people.” At every turn there is yet another layer of disconnection. Instead of eating he fasts; instead of spending he tithes the prescribed amount thus diminishing the gift. He wants to keep (who might steal his money) at a distance; and perhaps has too much experience with tax collectors who want a piece of his money to allow them safe space in a church that is trying to “stand for something.” Little did he know his string of disconnects would also sever him from God's justification. The boundaries of his life were drawn in the sharp lines of judgment rather than forgiveness. Such a life is both lonely and fragile.
It is telling that time is so often plays a central role in Jesus' teachings. At one moment Dives was sitting high; then he lost it all. At the beginning of his prayer the Pharisee is wrapped in success; but then he is humbled. The parable stretches over time, just as life in our churches stretches over time to reveal the necessity of forgiveness, the importance of connecting with “difficult” committee members or onerous committees. It takes time to realize how important it is to connect; it takes time to realize that without forgiveness we will soon cut ourselves off from the waters of life.
It is the publican who makes the point. He knew the depth of his disconnect has made him a sinner. There was only one solution, and that was a reconnection in a sacred place. Like us he may have wondered, “Am I welcome here?” And he summoned to courage to risk a confession. He asks God for mercy. And what is mercy? It is a gift. It is the receiving and bestowing of compassion. In Hebrew it is loving-kindness found in the womb, that living crucible of connective tissue that protects and yields life. The publican who we sense wishes to be reborn asks for such a connection.
It is tempting, as it always is in parables, to identify the “bad guys” and the “good guys.” But we must be careful before doing so. Last week Jesus told was that we were supposed to take the words of an unjust judge to heart. Only he could tell a moral story with such an unexpected twist. This week ever-so-different lives of Pharisee and the publican end up on the fertile ground of humility. “All who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.’
It may take a while . . . both connection and forgiveness always do, but in the end the rich soil of humility will gives to both. And, who knows . . . perhaps we too will share its blessing.
Larry
Graphic from Vie de Jesus Mafa, 24, rue Marechal Joffre, 78000, Versailles, France
Proper 25, Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Joel 2:23-32 with Psalm 65 or
Sirach 35:12-17 or
Jeremiah 14:7-10, 19-22 with Psalm 84:1-7 and
2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18 and
Luke 18:9-14
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
As usual the words of Jesus capture the power of connection and the sadness of disconnects that plague the lives of a Pharisee and publican as deeply as they touch us. And, as usual, Jesus would have us look for life where we would least expect to find it. We learn again, perhaps because we need to learn it over and over again, that the pitcher of success often fails to hold the water of life. We learn that faith is not an accomplishment, that prayer is not an achievement, that role is secondary to what we do in our various roles. We learn that the boundaries that surround us must be porous rather than sharp, fluid rather than controlled. And we learn that although connection is a leading cause of life, circumstance most decidedly is not.
Although we might expect such a teaching to occupy a chapter or two, Jesus wraps the parable in a text with just five sentences:
He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: ‘Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax-collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax-collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” But the tax-collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.’
In a pastoral view of the Leading Causes of Life forgiveness opens the door to connection. We escape life, instead of living it, if we think that all connections will be pleasing, that all relationships will not have a tight spot or two, that everybody will comply with the same set of understandings. And so we must bring forgiveness to the forefront. If we do not the attitude of the Pharisee will separate us from each other just as surely as it isolated him. His world view, in a moment of prayer, disconnects him from “other people.” At every turn there is yet another layer of disconnection. Instead of eating he fasts; instead of spending he tithes the prescribed amount thus diminishing the gift. He wants to keep (who might steal his money) at a distance; and perhaps has too much experience with tax collectors who want a piece of his money to allow them safe space in a church that is trying to “stand for something.” Little did he know his string of disconnects would also sever him from God's justification. The boundaries of his life were drawn in the sharp lines of judgment rather than forgiveness. Such a life is both lonely and fragile.
It is telling that time is so often plays a central role in Jesus' teachings. At one moment Dives was sitting high; then he lost it all. At the beginning of his prayer the Pharisee is wrapped in success; but then he is humbled. The parable stretches over time, just as life in our churches stretches over time to reveal the necessity of forgiveness, the importance of connecting with “difficult” committee members or onerous committees. It takes time to realize how important it is to connect; it takes time to realize that without forgiveness we will soon cut ourselves off from the waters of life.
It is the publican who makes the point. He knew the depth of his disconnect has made him a sinner. There was only one solution, and that was a reconnection in a sacred place. Like us he may have wondered, “Am I welcome here?” And he summoned to courage to risk a confession. He asks God for mercy. And what is mercy? It is a gift. It is the receiving and bestowing of compassion. In Hebrew it is loving-kindness found in the womb, that living crucible of connective tissue that protects and yields life. The publican who we sense wishes to be reborn asks for such a connection.
It is tempting, as it always is in parables, to identify the “bad guys” and the “good guys.” But we must be careful before doing so. Last week Jesus told was that we were supposed to take the words of an unjust judge to heart. Only he could tell a moral story with such an unexpected twist. This week ever-so-different lives of Pharisee and the publican end up on the fertile ground of humility. “All who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.’
It may take a while . . . both connection and forgiveness always do, but in the end the rich soil of humility will gives to both. And, who knows . . . perhaps we too will share its blessing.
Larry
Graphic from Vie de Jesus Mafa, 24, rue Marechal Joffre, 78000, Versailles, France
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Readings for Sunday, October 21, 2007
Readings for Sunday, October 21, 2007
Proper 24, Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Jeremiah 31:27-34 with Psalm 119:97-104 or
Genesis 32:22-31 wish Psalm 121 and
2 Timothy 3:14-4:5
Luke 18:1-8
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
The story Jesus tells is short, its inflections many, its message both an exhortation and an encouraging word.
Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. He said, ‘In a certain city there was a judge who neither fears God and respect for people. In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him and saying, “Grant me justice against my opponent.” For a while he refused; but later he said to himself, “Though I have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.” ‘And the Lord said, ‘Listen to what the unjust judge says. And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them. And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”
Once again we find life speaking on all sides.
It is tempting to choose just one of the five Leading Causes of Life—coherence, connection, agency, hope and blessing—to filter the text. It would be simpler that way, just as it would be simpler this Sunday to give short shrift to Jacob’s name-changing struggle or Jeremiah’s promise and prospect of a covenant that would change hearts just as surely as Jacob’s struggle changed his stride, or Timothy’s counsel that we are to take time for prayer not once or twice but over and over again in our course of our all-too fragile lives.
But even a brief reading of the Gospel, to say nothing of the other texts, reveals all five causes at work in a remarkable way.
Prayer is nothing more, and nothing less, than the gift of connection. In prayer we speak with God; in prayer we anticipate God speaking with us and to us; in prayer we find, renew, strengthen and nurture a relationship. This establishment of a divine connection, and recognition of such a connection is not a nice idea, it is a need. When the prayers “work,” we need to pray; when the prayers seemingly fail, we need to pray. When we grow weary of prayer, we need to pray yet again, when we are discouraged we must not lose heart.
Prayer does not happen automatically. It asks for a time and a place. It will not be restricted by time, or by place, but it requires both. Wherever we are, whatever the time, prayer emphasizes both the moment and the place saying, “Here . . . and now.” Sunday mornings, for me, have always been a bit of a miracle . . . look at all the people who wake up on a day off and take the time to come to church, take the time to bring their children to church no matter how disconcerting it may be. There is a staggering amount of energy expended in these Sabbath voyages to the house of prayer. Clearly the reading is about the “doing”, the agency, of prayer and its life-giving connection.
If prayer is a matter of connection the judge Jesus tells us about is a study in disconnection. We are to love God and neighbor; the judge has no regard for either. He is dead to the connections that constitute life. As soon as Jesus tells us about him we do not like him. He is the villain. It is easy to judge him, easy to say, “I’ve known people like that.”
But then the plot thickens. Life never stands still. It always moves; always changes. Something always happens. Harsh attitudes soften, judgment proves itself to be mistaken, judges who have no desire to entertain any thoughts but their own can’t help but hear a pesky knock on the door. Life refuses to let the judge remain as he was; and life insists on a widow prevailing against her opponent. The lives of both the widow and the judge are about to change.
The widow’s actions are born of hope rather than expectation. Widows were not expected to speak, and did so at some risk. The judge had a reputation and was not expected to care about anyone’s concerns, least of all the concerns of a widow. Expectations turn out to be fragile whereas hope has the capacity to transcend circumstances. It is no wonder don’t say to couples during a wedding, “Let’s be clear about our expectations; let’s be aware of the promises being made here.” Instead we use an entirely different vocabulary: It’s not a wedding promise, it is a wedding vow inspired by hope. Justice too is inevitably born of hope.
And what do you know? The judge relents. It turns out he had a place in his heart all along, even if the pathway that led to it seems selfish. But in the end Jesus will not let us judge him too harshly. Indeed, he notes that sometimes even God is a bit slow in responding. The God who remembers can sometimes forget to remember until he hears those who cry to him “day and night” just as he once remembered the anguish of the Hebrew people during their experience of slavery.
God is not the author of chaos.
God will establish justice. The widow’s plea will be heard; the judge’s heart will make space for her; lives will change; and two thousand years later we will be blessed by the parable that provided and continues to provide a teachable moment.
This Sabbath, there are those in your church struggling for a name change but not sure what their new name should be. This Sabbath there are those in your church who find themselves up against overwhelming forces, those who wonder if they have the necessary stamina to prevail. This Sabbath, in your church, those for whom prayer has been empty will again pray, again create spaces for words that just might reshape their lives.
This Sabbath, in your church, once again . . .
Life has a language and scripture has a word for us.
Larry
Proper 24, Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Jeremiah 31:27-34 with Psalm 119:97-104 or
Genesis 32:22-31 wish Psalm 121 and
2 Timothy 3:14-4:5
Luke 18:1-8
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
The story Jesus tells is short, its inflections many, its message both an exhortation and an encouraging word.
Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. He said, ‘In a certain city there was a judge who neither fears God and respect for people. In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him and saying, “Grant me justice against my opponent.” For a while he refused; but later he said to himself, “Though I have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.” ‘And the Lord said, ‘Listen to what the unjust judge says. And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them. And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”
Once again we find life speaking on all sides.
It is tempting to choose just one of the five Leading Causes of Life—coherence, connection, agency, hope and blessing—to filter the text. It would be simpler that way, just as it would be simpler this Sunday to give short shrift to Jacob’s name-changing struggle or Jeremiah’s promise and prospect of a covenant that would change hearts just as surely as Jacob’s struggle changed his stride, or Timothy’s counsel that we are to take time for prayer not once or twice but over and over again in our course of our all-too fragile lives.
But even a brief reading of the Gospel, to say nothing of the other texts, reveals all five causes at work in a remarkable way.
Prayer is nothing more, and nothing less, than the gift of connection. In prayer we speak with God; in prayer we anticipate God speaking with us and to us; in prayer we find, renew, strengthen and nurture a relationship. This establishment of a divine connection, and recognition of such a connection is not a nice idea, it is a need. When the prayers “work,” we need to pray; when the prayers seemingly fail, we need to pray. When we grow weary of prayer, we need to pray yet again, when we are discouraged we must not lose heart.
Prayer does not happen automatically. It asks for a time and a place. It will not be restricted by time, or by place, but it requires both. Wherever we are, whatever the time, prayer emphasizes both the moment and the place saying, “Here . . . and now.” Sunday mornings, for me, have always been a bit of a miracle . . . look at all the people who wake up on a day off and take the time to come to church, take the time to bring their children to church no matter how disconcerting it may be. There is a staggering amount of energy expended in these Sabbath voyages to the house of prayer. Clearly the reading is about the “doing”, the agency, of prayer and its life-giving connection.
If prayer is a matter of connection the judge Jesus tells us about is a study in disconnection. We are to love God and neighbor; the judge has no regard for either. He is dead to the connections that constitute life. As soon as Jesus tells us about him we do not like him. He is the villain. It is easy to judge him, easy to say, “I’ve known people like that.”
But then the plot thickens. Life never stands still. It always moves; always changes. Something always happens. Harsh attitudes soften, judgment proves itself to be mistaken, judges who have no desire to entertain any thoughts but their own can’t help but hear a pesky knock on the door. Life refuses to let the judge remain as he was; and life insists on a widow prevailing against her opponent. The lives of both the widow and the judge are about to change.
The widow’s actions are born of hope rather than expectation. Widows were not expected to speak, and did so at some risk. The judge had a reputation and was not expected to care about anyone’s concerns, least of all the concerns of a widow. Expectations turn out to be fragile whereas hope has the capacity to transcend circumstances. It is no wonder don’t say to couples during a wedding, “Let’s be clear about our expectations; let’s be aware of the promises being made here.” Instead we use an entirely different vocabulary: It’s not a wedding promise, it is a wedding vow inspired by hope. Justice too is inevitably born of hope.
And what do you know? The judge relents. It turns out he had a place in his heart all along, even if the pathway that led to it seems selfish. But in the end Jesus will not let us judge him too harshly. Indeed, he notes that sometimes even God is a bit slow in responding. The God who remembers can sometimes forget to remember until he hears those who cry to him “day and night” just as he once remembered the anguish of the Hebrew people during their experience of slavery.
God is not the author of chaos.
God will establish justice. The widow’s plea will be heard; the judge’s heart will make space for her; lives will change; and two thousand years later we will be blessed by the parable that provided and continues to provide a teachable moment.
This Sabbath, there are those in your church struggling for a name change but not sure what their new name should be. This Sabbath there are those in your church who find themselves up against overwhelming forces, those who wonder if they have the necessary stamina to prevail. This Sabbath, in your church, those for whom prayer has been empty will again pray, again create spaces for words that just might reshape their lives.
This Sabbath, in your church, once again . . .
Life has a language and scripture has a word for us.
Larry
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, October 14, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, October 14, 2007
Jeremiah 29:1, 4-7, with Psalm 66:1-12 or
2 Kings 5:1-3, 7-15c with Psalm 111
2 Timothy 2:8-15
Luke 179:11-19
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
With these two thoughts we turn to the familiar rhythms of the Lectionary which has been waiting three years to bless us with unexpected insights found in unexpected places.
We would not expect Jeremiah’s word to the captives in Babylon that instead of seeking revenge they are to “seek the welfare of the city.”
We would not expect a Hebrew prophet to take an interest in the healing of an Assyrian general.
We would not expect healings that have nothing to do with medicine.
We would not expect to find much life in a place beset with warnings: lepers must stay away, Samaritans and Hebrews must not engage in conversation; Galilean Greeks and Romans living in tension with the peoples they were there to subdue.
We would not expect, just two weeks after learning that Dives’ plea for mercy could not and would not be answered, that ten lepers would plea for mercy.
We would not expect to find scripture devoted to nothing less than the crossing of chasms that separated so many from life.
We would not expect to find not one but three communities working to re-establish connection: a band of lepers who stayed together when no others would receive them; the band of disciples who noticed that Jesus took notice if a plea for mercy; and the priests who lovingly reached out to the cured lepers and welcomed them back into fold with exquisite compassion.
And, most of all, we would not expect to find a word of healing that can guide the lives of both the millions of people who opt for life in a medical system that breaks their financial back and those very institutions.
If we are to look for life we must often go to unexpected places. Like Jesus, we must travel and “see what happens.”
On the way to Jerusalem Jesus was going through the region between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten lepers approached him. Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, ‘Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!’ When he saw them he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were made clean. Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. And he was a Samaritan. Then Jesus asked, “Were not ten made clean?” But the others, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then he said to him, “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”
The initial teachings are so clear we are tempted to bask in the cadence of a children’s sermon. It is useful, and necessary, to remind us to give thanks, to understand that gratitude is an essential part of healing, to realize again and again that the giving of thanks is far more important than racial, religious, or economic identities. It is useful to recognize that although he did not touch them Jesus took note of those who were accustomed to being ignored. The children’s sermon cannot be taught too many times.
But then we resume our search for meaning and begin to notice what we had initially not noticed. The healing happened as the lepers made their way to the temple. Perhaps there was a stunning moment when, like a stream of light breaking through an afternoon’s thundercloud, their faces were suddenly made as clean as Namaan’s when he arose from his bath in the Jordan. Both healings happened in an instant, but both were part of a process. The road leading to chronic disease is a long one; the road that leads from chronic disease to healing is even longer necessitating many cries for mercy and many layers of community.
Once the lepers arrived at the temple, how did the priests greet them? We turn to Leviticus 14 for an answer that an NRSV footnote qualifies by saying the text “has archaic elements that elude explanation.” Without meaning to the footnote speaks to the mystery of chronic disease that so often eludes a cure. But no matter . . . The priests see the cleansed lepers and ask that two birds be brought forward. One is sacrificed over fresh water; the other is “let go into the open field.” Thirty-one verses describe what the priests are to do as they receive the no-longer lepers back into the arms of the community. The 32nd verse concludes the passage with the words, “This is the ritual for one who has a leprous disease, who cannot afford the offerings for his cleansings.”
We realize the ancient ritual that speaks to those whose disabilities once sent them apart, to those who opt for life but are unable to foot the bill for medical care, and to the church that was essential to healing. Was it Jesus’ word that prompted the healing? Was it the faith of a Samaritan leper? Was it the return to the temple? Whatever the cause it came from the heart of the temple. We find ourselves in the presence of a healing community that has the courage to count both the cost of healing and the freedom it provides. One bird is sacrificed, and one is set free in an open field. Provisions are made when one cannot pay. Jesus, the lepers, and the priests all crossed the chasms that without devotion to life might have forever separated them.
I write these words and share these reflections with for children and children’s sermon in mind. I think of the children I met last summer at a cancer camp, whose lives are a blessing of such grace and power, and I think of the ways in which paying for their care is a virtual impossibility for their families. What is to be done? How can the disability of chronic disease not lead to shame? How can an acceptable sacrifice be found?
Is there a cost to healing? There is.
Is there a burden to be lifted? There is.
Ten lepers, the temple priests, and Jesus show a way for us to return to life.
Larry
Jeremiah 29:1, 4-7, with Psalm 66:1-12 or
2 Kings 5:1-3, 7-15c with Psalm 111
2 Timothy 2:8-15
Luke 179:11-19
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
With these two thoughts we turn to the familiar rhythms of the Lectionary which has been waiting three years to bless us with unexpected insights found in unexpected places.
We would not expect Jeremiah’s word to the captives in Babylon that instead of seeking revenge they are to “seek the welfare of the city.”
We would not expect a Hebrew prophet to take an interest in the healing of an Assyrian general.
We would not expect healings that have nothing to do with medicine.
We would not expect to find much life in a place beset with warnings: lepers must stay away, Samaritans and Hebrews must not engage in conversation; Galilean Greeks and Romans living in tension with the peoples they were there to subdue.
We would not expect, just two weeks after learning that Dives’ plea for mercy could not and would not be answered, that ten lepers would plea for mercy.
We would not expect to find scripture devoted to nothing less than the crossing of chasms that separated so many from life.
We would not expect to find not one but three communities working to re-establish connection: a band of lepers who stayed together when no others would receive them; the band of disciples who noticed that Jesus took notice if a plea for mercy; and the priests who lovingly reached out to the cured lepers and welcomed them back into fold with exquisite compassion.
And, most of all, we would not expect to find a word of healing that can guide the lives of both the millions of people who opt for life in a medical system that breaks their financial back and those very institutions.
If we are to look for life we must often go to unexpected places. Like Jesus, we must travel and “see what happens.”
On the way to Jerusalem Jesus was going through the region between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten lepers approached him. Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, ‘Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!’ When he saw them he said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” And as they went, they were made clean. Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. And he was a Samaritan. Then Jesus asked, “Were not ten made clean?” But the others, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?” Then he said to him, “Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.”
The initial teachings are so clear we are tempted to bask in the cadence of a children’s sermon. It is useful, and necessary, to remind us to give thanks, to understand that gratitude is an essential part of healing, to realize again and again that the giving of thanks is far more important than racial, religious, or economic identities. It is useful to recognize that although he did not touch them Jesus took note of those who were accustomed to being ignored. The children’s sermon cannot be taught too many times.
But then we resume our search for meaning and begin to notice what we had initially not noticed. The healing happened as the lepers made their way to the temple. Perhaps there was a stunning moment when, like a stream of light breaking through an afternoon’s thundercloud, their faces were suddenly made as clean as Namaan’s when he arose from his bath in the Jordan. Both healings happened in an instant, but both were part of a process. The road leading to chronic disease is a long one; the road that leads from chronic disease to healing is even longer necessitating many cries for mercy and many layers of community.
Once the lepers arrived at the temple, how did the priests greet them? We turn to Leviticus 14 for an answer that an NRSV footnote qualifies by saying the text “has archaic elements that elude explanation.” Without meaning to the footnote speaks to the mystery of chronic disease that so often eludes a cure. But no matter . . . The priests see the cleansed lepers and ask that two birds be brought forward. One is sacrificed over fresh water; the other is “let go into the open field.” Thirty-one verses describe what the priests are to do as they receive the no-longer lepers back into the arms of the community. The 32nd verse concludes the passage with the words, “This is the ritual for one who has a leprous disease, who cannot afford the offerings for his cleansings.”
We realize the ancient ritual that speaks to those whose disabilities once sent them apart, to those who opt for life but are unable to foot the bill for medical care, and to the church that was essential to healing. Was it Jesus’ word that prompted the healing? Was it the faith of a Samaritan leper? Was it the return to the temple? Whatever the cause it came from the heart of the temple. We find ourselves in the presence of a healing community that has the courage to count both the cost of healing and the freedom it provides. One bird is sacrificed, and one is set free in an open field. Provisions are made when one cannot pay. Jesus, the lepers, and the priests all crossed the chasms that without devotion to life might have forever separated them.
I write these words and share these reflections with for children and children’s sermon in mind. I think of the children I met last summer at a cancer camp, whose lives are a blessing of such grace and power, and I think of the ways in which paying for their care is a virtual impossibility for their families. What is to be done? How can the disability of chronic disease not lead to shame? How can an acceptable sacrifice be found?
Is there a cost to healing? There is.
Is there a burden to be lifted? There is.
Ten lepers, the temple priests, and Jesus show a way for us to return to life.
Larry
Monday, September 24, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, September 30, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, September 30, 2007
Proper 21, Twenty-sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15 with Psalm 91:1-6,14-16 or
Amos 6:1a, 4-7 with Psalm 146 and
1 Timothy 6:6-19 and
Luke 16:19-31
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
Luke 16:19-31
There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man's table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, "Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames." But Abraham said, "Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us." He said, "Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father's house— for I have five brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment." Abraham replied, "They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them." He said, "No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent." He said to him, "If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead."
A single thing happens to two men and two stories ensue. One man dies and is carried away by angles. The other dies and is buried. One ascends, the other descends. The one carried away has no words in Jesus' ancient tale. The one who descended has many. Life has a language, but it is death that catches our ear and directs our attention. Death's language is wrapped in complaint without the prospect of resolution. It is fraught with fear. “I am in agony,” rich man, who lacks the dignity of name in the story but tradition calls him Dives, drawing on the Latin word for wealthy or rich. “I beg you,” he says to God. One begs with the assumption if one does not beg God would pay no attention to the plight of his brothers. A single line from a single hymn, “How Firm a Foundation” sums up the Jesus' response: “What more can be said, than to you has been said?” It is the language born of separation. On every side there is a broken connection. Dives lives in a separate world from Lazarus, even though they both sit at the same table. Abraham is separated from Dives and cannot bridge the chasm. Lazarus is as far away from Dives in death as he was in life. And the brothers are separated from a life-giving word and occupied with the distractions that make God's presence “nice” but not “necessary” are living in an isolation they have yet to see.
In a few words, death has a lot to say. Its disconnected presence has short circuited nothing less life. The Good Samaritan saw a man in need of medical attention and provided it thus showing himself to be a good neighbor. Dives saw a poor man at his table who needed medical attention and did not give it. Dives saw hunger and did not allay it. Dives' experienced success, and perhaps gave God thanks for his success but success has the capacity to eclipse truth. The lack of connection infects coherence and prompts it to build walls. I will dine sumptuously, and you will not. I will heal with physicians' balms and you might be healed by the licks of hungry dogs. I succeeded and you have not. Birds of a feather flock together. The “isms” of all ages, classism, racism, sexism, imperialism, nationalism all present themselves.
It is just a story but we find ourselves in it. We too know the language of complaint. We too know how to raise the neighbor's kids while failing to connect with them. We too can be beguiled by success. We too are tempted to beg in prayer without trusting that God's eye is on the sparrow. And we too find that we cannot avoid the one event that happened to both Lazarus and Dives. Death struck them both, and the consequences of life took each one in a different direction.
The message is clear.
If there is to be life, but now and in the hereafter, connection and a coherence deeper and more compelling than walls must speak.
Dives must connect with Lazarus. A message must be sent to five brothers who will hopefully connect with a God who remembered slaves and delivered them from anguish. The sick and hungry man at the end of the table must be seen. If there is to be life we must seek each other out by name and not by status. How telling it is that Lazarus' name, which means “God has helped,” reveals the Creator whereas Dives' name reveals economic success on a day the markets could not imagine a fall.
Break connection and you break life.
Define coherence to narrowly and life is locked out.
But what about that chasm? Is it not God who created the chasm? Could there be a remorse more poignant that the realization that the hands of the clock cannot be turned back? “No one can cross from there to us,” says Abraham. We realize his words are true. But we also recognize that we can cross from “there” to “here” as we engage in the ministry and mission of life.
“I set before you the ways of life and death,” as the Deuteronomist records God's fundamental teaching, “Choose life.”
When the day risks a divide, don't go there.
When the day replaces names with status, be careful. There may be someone at the end of the table who is part of the family.
In the epistle reading Timothy's exhortation could not be more clear:
But [as for you] pursue righteousness,
devotion, faith, love, patience, and gentleness.
Lay hold of eternal life, to which you were called
when you made the noble confession in the presence of many witnesses.
I charge you before God, who gives life to all things,
and before Christ Jesus . . .
This week, may we all turn away from the chasm as the God of life speaks to us yet again.
When the sun set last night, the clouds were deep blue, cool gray, a few white billows capping the long bands of clouds. It was getting dark as the Little Herder football team of Big Timber took on the Cowboys from Billings. For most it was their first football game. Suddenly, the entire eastern sky began to glow. One by one bands of luminescent pink, orange and crimson set fire to the gray clouds. We took our eyes off the kids and watched the sky spread its gentle and unexpected light.
Why do I end here?
When we open our eyes we see Lazarus at the table. We see God who gives life to all things, herders, cowboys, neighbors and sky. All we have to do, and all that must be done, is receive this gift and organize our lives knowing that life has a language, and scripture has a word for us.
Larry
Proper 21, Twenty-sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15 with Psalm 91:1-6,14-16 or
Amos 6:1a, 4-7 with Psalm 146 and
1 Timothy 6:6-19 and
Luke 16:19-31
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
Luke 16:19-31
There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man's table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, "Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames." But Abraham said, "Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us." He said, "Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father's house— for I have five brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment." Abraham replied, "They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them." He said, "No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent." He said to him, "If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead."
A single thing happens to two men and two stories ensue. One man dies and is carried away by angles. The other dies and is buried. One ascends, the other descends. The one carried away has no words in Jesus' ancient tale. The one who descended has many. Life has a language, but it is death that catches our ear and directs our attention. Death's language is wrapped in complaint without the prospect of resolution. It is fraught with fear. “I am in agony,” rich man, who lacks the dignity of name in the story but tradition calls him Dives, drawing on the Latin word for wealthy or rich. “I beg you,” he says to God. One begs with the assumption if one does not beg God would pay no attention to the plight of his brothers. A single line from a single hymn, “How Firm a Foundation” sums up the Jesus' response: “What more can be said, than to you has been said?” It is the language born of separation. On every side there is a broken connection. Dives lives in a separate world from Lazarus, even though they both sit at the same table. Abraham is separated from Dives and cannot bridge the chasm. Lazarus is as far away from Dives in death as he was in life. And the brothers are separated from a life-giving word and occupied with the distractions that make God's presence “nice” but not “necessary” are living in an isolation they have yet to see.
In a few words, death has a lot to say. Its disconnected presence has short circuited nothing less life. The Good Samaritan saw a man in need of medical attention and provided it thus showing himself to be a good neighbor. Dives saw a poor man at his table who needed medical attention and did not give it. Dives saw hunger and did not allay it. Dives' experienced success, and perhaps gave God thanks for his success but success has the capacity to eclipse truth. The lack of connection infects coherence and prompts it to build walls. I will dine sumptuously, and you will not. I will heal with physicians' balms and you might be healed by the licks of hungry dogs. I succeeded and you have not. Birds of a feather flock together. The “isms” of all ages, classism, racism, sexism, imperialism, nationalism all present themselves.
It is just a story but we find ourselves in it. We too know the language of complaint. We too know how to raise the neighbor's kids while failing to connect with them. We too can be beguiled by success. We too are tempted to beg in prayer without trusting that God's eye is on the sparrow. And we too find that we cannot avoid the one event that happened to both Lazarus and Dives. Death struck them both, and the consequences of life took each one in a different direction.
The message is clear.
If there is to be life, but now and in the hereafter, connection and a coherence deeper and more compelling than walls must speak.
Dives must connect with Lazarus. A message must be sent to five brothers who will hopefully connect with a God who remembered slaves and delivered them from anguish. The sick and hungry man at the end of the table must be seen. If there is to be life we must seek each other out by name and not by status. How telling it is that Lazarus' name, which means “God has helped,” reveals the Creator whereas Dives' name reveals economic success on a day the markets could not imagine a fall.
Break connection and you break life.
Define coherence to narrowly and life is locked out.
But what about that chasm? Is it not God who created the chasm? Could there be a remorse more poignant that the realization that the hands of the clock cannot be turned back? “No one can cross from there to us,” says Abraham. We realize his words are true. But we also recognize that we can cross from “there” to “here” as we engage in the ministry and mission of life.
“I set before you the ways of life and death,” as the Deuteronomist records God's fundamental teaching, “Choose life.”
When the day risks a divide, don't go there.
When the day replaces names with status, be careful. There may be someone at the end of the table who is part of the family.
In the epistle reading Timothy's exhortation could not be more clear:
But [as for you] pursue righteousness,
devotion, faith, love, patience, and gentleness.
Lay hold of eternal life, to which you were called
when you made the noble confession in the presence of many witnesses.
I charge you before God, who gives life to all things,
and before Christ Jesus . . .
This week, may we all turn away from the chasm as the God of life speaks to us yet again.
When the sun set last night, the clouds were deep blue, cool gray, a few white billows capping the long bands of clouds. It was getting dark as the Little Herder football team of Big Timber took on the Cowboys from Billings. For most it was their first football game. Suddenly, the entire eastern sky began to glow. One by one bands of luminescent pink, orange and crimson set fire to the gray clouds. We took our eyes off the kids and watched the sky spread its gentle and unexpected light.
Why do I end here?
When we open our eyes we see Lazarus at the table. We see God who gives life to all things, herders, cowboys, neighbors and sky. All we have to do, and all that must be done, is receive this gift and organize our lives knowing that life has a language, and scripture has a word for us.
Larry
Friday, September 21, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, September 23, 2007
Lectionary Readings for Sunday, September 23, 2007
Proper 20, Twenty-fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Jeremiah 8:18-9:1 with Psalm 79:1-9 or
Amos 8:4-7 with Psalm 113 and
1 Timothy 2:1-7 and
Luke 16:1-13
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
As they do each week, these thoughts inform the reflections shared on these pages. There is an inevitable winnowing that takes place when we first see the readings that will frame Sunday's service. We troll through their words wondering what the Spirit will have our imaginations net.
In so doing we connect with the word;
We are drawn to meaning;
We receive the word and “work” the text;
We do so knowing that the purpose of our Sabbath gathering is an affirmation of hope that we are not alone, that creation is born from chaos, that we can indeed make a choice for life, and that each of us in need of blessings can also give them.
In short, we find life in this rhythmic preparation for the Sabbath.
Scripture asks us to find life in unlikely places. Amos is often referred to as the prophet of doom. The ninth chapter of his short book speaks a word of hope that scholars are quick to attribute to a who redactor just couldn't bear the full import of Amos' words. Jesus tells the story of the unjust steward, and asks us to be “shrewd” as we go about life. In both texts we must shrewdly engage the word if we are to heed its life-giving message. In both texts we find life at work in an unlikely place and in unlikely ways.
Let us hear the words spoken 2,700 years ago that have miraculously survived the ages and come down to us.
Amos 8:4-7
Hear this, you that trample on the needy,
and bring to ruin the poor of the land,
saying, 'When will the new moon be over
so that we may sell grain;
and the sabbath,
so that we may offer wheat for sale?
We will make the ephah small and the shekel great,
and practice deceit with false balances,
buying the poor for silver
and the needy for a pair of sandals,
and selling the sweepings of the wheat.'
The Lord has sworn by the pride of Jacob:
Surely I will never forget any of their deeds
It is almost by instinct that the headlines of the day come roaring into sight. The litany of social ills is sharp and many pronged. A poor family needed a mortgage, obtained one only to be devoured by its impossible terms and then blamed for a world-wide economic crisis. The proclivity of box stores to stay open 24/7. The astonishing rise of slavery in the traffic of women and children throughout the world after we had mistakenly assumed that slavery had ended years ago.
But are such thoughts a litany of life? Or is it a recounting of death? It is always easier to pin what is “wrong” than it is to organize around life. How can both scripture and headlines prompt us to be shrewd about life in presence of death? We read the words and realize the last verse, “Surely I will never forget any of their deeds,” is a verse of sacred connection.
We have a God who remembers. God remembered the plight of the slaves, heard their anguished cry and acted to release them from slavery. In like manner God will never forget the deeds against the poor because God has not forgotten the poor. Their lives count. Their lives, caught in systems that have been overtaken by greed, matter. And therein we find life speaking not “about them” but “to us.” It is all about connection.
I have recently been intrigued by the plight of families whose lives have been first broken by illness and then imprisoned by the costs of healing. How odd it is that institutional healing speaks the language of money. And yet each of these people has gifts of the spirit that could by harnessed by a clinic as a way to affirm life even if all financial resources have been swept away. Churches know they are to accept the disabled, but can they learn from them? Here we must seek a far deeper connection.
Would we forget the life of the poor because they are poor?
Jesus did not forget the life of the unjust steward even though he was unjust. Yes, Jesus seemed to say, he cheated his boss. But I'll tell you what, look at him closely and you'll learn something about life. Let us be shrewd as we more fully learn to speak the language of life.
I once knew a pastor who was in trouble with his church for emphasizing the social gospel. He was told in no uncertain terms to be more “biblical” in his preaching. He agreed and suggested that they focus only on one book in the bible for several months. They thought that was a good idea.
“Let's do Amos,” my friend said.
“Okay,” said the board. They all left the meeting with a smile. For one the smile lingered several months. For others . . .
Let us be shrewd.
If you want to be surrounded by life it is often useful to go to the places where death seems to prevail. Surround yourself for a day with cancer patients. Surround yourself for a day with patients looking for God's presence after a traumatic accident. Visit an open AA meeting and listen to the stories of connection. You hear an astonishing affirmation:
Yes, death came our way.
But we are not forgotten.
Let us be about life.
Larry
Proper 20, Twenty-fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Jeremiah 8:18-9:1 with Psalm 79:1-9 or
Amos 8:4-7 with Psalm 113 and
1 Timothy 2:1-7 and
Luke 16:1-13
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
As they do each week, these thoughts inform the reflections shared on these pages. There is an inevitable winnowing that takes place when we first see the readings that will frame Sunday's service. We troll through their words wondering what the Spirit will have our imaginations net.
In so doing we connect with the word;
We are drawn to meaning;
We receive the word and “work” the text;
We do so knowing that the purpose of our Sabbath gathering is an affirmation of hope that we are not alone, that creation is born from chaos, that we can indeed make a choice for life, and that each of us in need of blessings can also give them.
In short, we find life in this rhythmic preparation for the Sabbath.
Scripture asks us to find life in unlikely places. Amos is often referred to as the prophet of doom. The ninth chapter of his short book speaks a word of hope that scholars are quick to attribute to a who redactor just couldn't bear the full import of Amos' words. Jesus tells the story of the unjust steward, and asks us to be “shrewd” as we go about life. In both texts we must shrewdly engage the word if we are to heed its life-giving message. In both texts we find life at work in an unlikely place and in unlikely ways.
Let us hear the words spoken 2,700 years ago that have miraculously survived the ages and come down to us.
Amos 8:4-7
Hear this, you that trample on the needy,
and bring to ruin the poor of the land,
saying, 'When will the new moon be over
so that we may sell grain;
and the sabbath,
so that we may offer wheat for sale?
We will make the ephah small and the shekel great,
and practice deceit with false balances,
buying the poor for silver
and the needy for a pair of sandals,
and selling the sweepings of the wheat.'
The Lord has sworn by the pride of Jacob:
Surely I will never forget any of their deeds
It is almost by instinct that the headlines of the day come roaring into sight. The litany of social ills is sharp and many pronged. A poor family needed a mortgage, obtained one only to be devoured by its impossible terms and then blamed for a world-wide economic crisis. The proclivity of box stores to stay open 24/7. The astonishing rise of slavery in the traffic of women and children throughout the world after we had mistakenly assumed that slavery had ended years ago.
But are such thoughts a litany of life? Or is it a recounting of death? It is always easier to pin what is “wrong” than it is to organize around life. How can both scripture and headlines prompt us to be shrewd about life in presence of death? We read the words and realize the last verse, “Surely I will never forget any of their deeds,” is a verse of sacred connection.
We have a God who remembers. God remembered the plight of the slaves, heard their anguished cry and acted to release them from slavery. In like manner God will never forget the deeds against the poor because God has not forgotten the poor. Their lives count. Their lives, caught in systems that have been overtaken by greed, matter. And therein we find life speaking not “about them” but “to us.” It is all about connection.
I have recently been intrigued by the plight of families whose lives have been first broken by illness and then imprisoned by the costs of healing. How odd it is that institutional healing speaks the language of money. And yet each of these people has gifts of the spirit that could by harnessed by a clinic as a way to affirm life even if all financial resources have been swept away. Churches know they are to accept the disabled, but can they learn from them? Here we must seek a far deeper connection.
Would we forget the life of the poor because they are poor?
Jesus did not forget the life of the unjust steward even though he was unjust. Yes, Jesus seemed to say, he cheated his boss. But I'll tell you what, look at him closely and you'll learn something about life. Let us be shrewd as we more fully learn to speak the language of life.
I once knew a pastor who was in trouble with his church for emphasizing the social gospel. He was told in no uncertain terms to be more “biblical” in his preaching. He agreed and suggested that they focus only on one book in the bible for several months. They thought that was a good idea.
“Let's do Amos,” my friend said.
“Okay,” said the board. They all left the meeting with a smile. For one the smile lingered several months. For others . . .
Let us be shrewd.
If you want to be surrounded by life it is often useful to go to the places where death seems to prevail. Surround yourself for a day with cancer patients. Surround yourself for a day with patients looking for God's presence after a traumatic accident. Visit an open AA meeting and listen to the stories of connection. You hear an astonishing affirmation:
Yes, death came our way.
But we are not forgotten.
Let us be about life.
Larry
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Lectionary readings for September 16, 2007
Lectionary readings for September 16, 2007
Twenty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Jeremiah 4:11-12, 22-28 with Psalm 14 or
Exodus 32:7-14 with Psalm 51:1-10 and
1 Timothy 1:12-17 and
Luke 15:1-10
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
As they do each week these two thoughts guide our reflections.
What is life saying when the lost coin is found? It takes but a second to view a two thousand year-old teaching through the LCL lens. Surely the story is about connection that restores coherence as the coin returns to its rightful owner. Surely the search is full of hope. Surely the coin didn't just appear, she needed to look once, twice, three times under the table, beside the vase, in the kitchen drawer, beside her bed. And surely the story is a enough of a blessing to vividly implant itself in the life of churches and believers around the planet.
But then the questions begin.
Shouldn't she have been better organized?
Shouldn't the Shepard have repaired the hole in the fence? I realize full well they did not have barbed wire in Jesus' day, and I am aware that I live in a part of the country where fence repair is a constant obligation.
But still . . . if the band of sheep had been a bit more coherence, if the church had a clearer understanding of right and wrong, a tighter mode of enforcement, wouldn't it be unnecessary to celebrate the return of a sheep that shouldn't have been lost in the first place?
And so . . . connection regrets the lack of coherence, and coherence gives thanks for connection. Each takes a turn, each prompts a question, each sheds light on the church that claims defining identity (don't get lost!) and, at the same time, recognizes that sheep, coins, people, and even churches are prone to get lost.
There is a rhythm in life. Not surprisingly, there is a rhythm in this Sabbath's Lectionary selections. Listen to Jeremiah's vision of a world lost, a world swept away, and a world saved from desolation.
Jeremiah 4:11-12, 22-28
At that time it will be said to this people and to Jerusalem: A hot wind comes from me out of the bare heights in the desert toward my poor people, not to winnow or cleanse— wind too strong for that. Now it is I who speak in judgment against them.
'For my people are foolish,
they do not know me;
they are stupid children,
they have no understanding.
They are skilled in doing evil,
but do not know how to do good.'
I looked on the earth, and lo, it was waste and void;
and to the heavens, and they had no light.
I looked on the mountains, and lo, they were quaking,
and all the hills moved to and fro.
I looked, and lo, there was no one at all,
and all the birds of the air had fled.
I looked, and lo, the fruitful land was a desert,
and all its cities were laid in ruins
before the Lord, before his fierce anger.
For thus says the Lord: The whole land shall be a desolation; yet I will not make a full end.
Because of this the earth shall mourn,
and the heavens above grow black;
for I have spoken, I have purposed;
I have not relented nor will I turn back.
You lost that coin!
You lost that ewe!
You are beyond reproach.
You are incorrigible!
And so . . .
Creation itself deconstructs.
The language of life gives way to a vision of death.
Chaos appears.
Light disappears.
The center cannot hold.
Waste replaces form.
Even “waste” receives an adjective of despair: void.
Empty.
Sites of revelation tremble, turning into hills whose reach cannot touch the heavens.
People have disappeared.
Only the hills travel in the chaos.
The birds have fled.
Cities are no more than fallen walls.
And yet . . . life will not be silence.
And yet . . . life speaks.
And yet . . . beneath our propensity to judge things as “good” or “bad” life continues.
And yet . . . the end will not be full.
And then . . . beautifully . . . and surprisingly . . . we receive the gift of mourning. In the depth of its sorrow, in its profound sense of loss, we find a path to healing. As Shakespeare had King Richard say, “You may my glories and my state depose, but not my griefs. Still I am king of those. (Richard II)
And how do we speak this mourning?
We give it time.
We connect with its hope.
We trust that order will one day return.
We sense that life is bigger than us.
There it is . . . the coin.
There it is . . . the lamb.
There it is . . . the morning.
Perhaps we can take better care of the fence as we preach, teach, and heal. Perhaps life can be our guide.
Larry
Twenty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Jeremiah 4:11-12, 22-28 with Psalm 14 or
Exodus 32:7-14 with Psalm 51:1-10 and
1 Timothy 1:12-17 and
Luke 15:1-10
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
As they do each week these two thoughts guide our reflections.
What is life saying when the lost coin is found? It takes but a second to view a two thousand year-old teaching through the LCL lens. Surely the story is about connection that restores coherence as the coin returns to its rightful owner. Surely the search is full of hope. Surely the coin didn't just appear, she needed to look once, twice, three times under the table, beside the vase, in the kitchen drawer, beside her bed. And surely the story is a enough of a blessing to vividly implant itself in the life of churches and believers around the planet.
But then the questions begin.
Shouldn't she have been better organized?
Shouldn't the Shepard have repaired the hole in the fence? I realize full well they did not have barbed wire in Jesus' day, and I am aware that I live in a part of the country where fence repair is a constant obligation.
But still . . . if the band of sheep had been a bit more coherence, if the church had a clearer understanding of right and wrong, a tighter mode of enforcement, wouldn't it be unnecessary to celebrate the return of a sheep that shouldn't have been lost in the first place?
And so . . . connection regrets the lack of coherence, and coherence gives thanks for connection. Each takes a turn, each prompts a question, each sheds light on the church that claims defining identity (don't get lost!) and, at the same time, recognizes that sheep, coins, people, and even churches are prone to get lost.
There is a rhythm in life. Not surprisingly, there is a rhythm in this Sabbath's Lectionary selections. Listen to Jeremiah's vision of a world lost, a world swept away, and a world saved from desolation.
Jeremiah 4:11-12, 22-28
At that time it will be said to this people and to Jerusalem: A hot wind comes from me out of the bare heights in the desert toward my poor people, not to winnow or cleanse— wind too strong for that. Now it is I who speak in judgment against them.
'For my people are foolish,
they do not know me;
they are stupid children,
they have no understanding.
They are skilled in doing evil,
but do not know how to do good.'
I looked on the earth, and lo, it was waste and void;
and to the heavens, and they had no light.
I looked on the mountains, and lo, they were quaking,
and all the hills moved to and fro.
I looked, and lo, there was no one at all,
and all the birds of the air had fled.
I looked, and lo, the fruitful land was a desert,
and all its cities were laid in ruins
before the Lord, before his fierce anger.
For thus says the Lord: The whole land shall be a desolation; yet I will not make a full end.
Because of this the earth shall mourn,
and the heavens above grow black;
for I have spoken, I have purposed;
I have not relented nor will I turn back.
You lost that coin!
You lost that ewe!
You are beyond reproach.
You are incorrigible!
And so . . .
Creation itself deconstructs.
The language of life gives way to a vision of death.
Chaos appears.
Light disappears.
The center cannot hold.
Waste replaces form.
Even “waste” receives an adjective of despair: void.
Empty.
Sites of revelation tremble, turning into hills whose reach cannot touch the heavens.
People have disappeared.
Only the hills travel in the chaos.
The birds have fled.
Cities are no more than fallen walls.
And yet . . . life will not be silence.
And yet . . . life speaks.
And yet . . . beneath our propensity to judge things as “good” or “bad” life continues.
And yet . . . the end will not be full.
And then . . . beautifully . . . and surprisingly . . . we receive the gift of mourning. In the depth of its sorrow, in its profound sense of loss, we find a path to healing. As Shakespeare had King Richard say, “You may my glories and my state depose, but not my griefs. Still I am king of those. (Richard II)
And how do we speak this mourning?
We give it time.
We connect with its hope.
We trust that order will one day return.
We sense that life is bigger than us.
There it is . . . the coin.
There it is . . . the lamb.
There it is . . . the morning.
Perhaps we can take better care of the fence as we preach, teach, and heal. Perhaps life can be our guide.
Larry
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Lectionary readings for September 2, 2007
Lectionary readings for September 2, 2007
Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time
Jeremiah 2:4-13 with Psalm 81:1, 10-16 or
Sirach 10:12-18 with Psalm 112 and
Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16 and
Luke 14:1, 7-14
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
Each week these two thoughts prompt the words of this column.
When we produced one of the pod casts for the Leading Causes of Life we realized it was intended to be more of an invitation than a presentation. The invitation asked us to remember and learn from experiences that revealed the depth of connections, the presence of coherence, the voice of hope, and the power of blessings in our lives. Scripture is also an invitation to remember. We read its words and instantly begin sorting through the flurry of memories that say, “That's true,” or, “I've experienced that,” or “What's the message.”
The building next door to my first church was once a Methodist church. A technology firm bought the sanctuary when the Methodists built a new facility. Most of the stained glass windows were still in place, but the pews and altar were replaced with tables, chairs and desks. The parking space nearest the door had a sign designating it for management. Churches sometimes have parking spaces reserved for “Clergy” just as hospitals do for “Doctors.” The CEO however, made a point of taking the most distant parking space he could find. To him walking through the rain and snow was a way to honor his employees, a way of embracing humility. He didn't talk about it; he didn't want his walk to be a “big deal.” It was an invitation, not a presentation. And it took to heart what Jesus teaches in this week's Gospel.
Luke 14:1, 7-14
On one occasion when Jesus was going to the house of a leader of the Pharisees to eat a meal on the sabbath, they were watching him closely.
When he noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable. ‘When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, “Give this person your place”, and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, “Friend, move up higher”; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.’
He said also to the one who had invited him, ‘When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.’
If you are a pastor, I am sure that you, like me, are astonished at the sublime depth of quiet faith in the lives of your parishioners. We often complain about committees or circumstances, but beneath the troubled waters there is a depth of coherence that defies expectation.
Our church had one of the lead citizens of our town. When Ollie died our church was not big enough to seat all who would attend, so the congregation borrowed the Lutheran Church. (In Minnesota it's a fairly sure bet that the Lutherans have the largest sanctuaries!) Ollie had left specific instructions for his funeral.
There would be no eulogy.
There would be no telling of his successes.
There would be no list of accomplishments.
There would be no mentioning of his many honors.
Instead there was to be three things, and three things only:
Prayer, hymns, and scripture.
In his own way he took the words of Jesus were taken to heart. And once again they pierce our hearts. “What will they say about me?” we may have wondered. Ollie showed that a funeral is an invitation rather than a presentation. He made sure that life was the keynote speaker.
Life, of course, is big enough, wide enough, and deep enough to defy categories. W.E.B. DuBois eloquently pierced the conditionality of life when he wrote, “How does it feel to be a problem?” His question lingers in the arenas of race, class consciousness, and disability.
The poor have a problem. They cannot pay their bills. Invite them.
The crippled have a problem. They cannot keep up. Invite them.
The lame have a problem. They are dis-abled.
The blind have a problem. They cannot see and, in Jesus' day, must beg or be led around.
It was a long walk across the parking lot. But resisting privilege was a necessary journey.
It was an odd funeral when Life was the speaker.
It was a stunning call to action when Jesus recognized the presence of life in lives that were considered problems.
This week. . . life speaks to us again.
Soft walking,
Larry
Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time
Jeremiah 2:4-13 with Psalm 81:1, 10-16 or
Sirach 10:12-18 with Psalm 112 and
Hebrews 13:1-8, 15-16 and
Luke 14:1, 7-14
Life has a language.
And scripture has a word for us.
Each week these two thoughts prompt the words of this column.
When we produced one of the pod casts for the Leading Causes of Life we realized it was intended to be more of an invitation than a presentation. The invitation asked us to remember and learn from experiences that revealed the depth of connections, the presence of coherence, the voice of hope, and the power of blessings in our lives. Scripture is also an invitation to remember. We read its words and instantly begin sorting through the flurry of memories that say, “That's true,” or, “I've experienced that,” or “What's the message.”
The building next door to my first church was once a Methodist church. A technology firm bought the sanctuary when the Methodists built a new facility. Most of the stained glass windows were still in place, but the pews and altar were replaced with tables, chairs and desks. The parking space nearest the door had a sign designating it for management. Churches sometimes have parking spaces reserved for “Clergy” just as hospitals do for “Doctors.” The CEO however, made a point of taking the most distant parking space he could find. To him walking through the rain and snow was a way to honor his employees, a way of embracing humility. He didn't talk about it; he didn't want his walk to be a “big deal.” It was an invitation, not a presentation. And it took to heart what Jesus teaches in this week's Gospel.
Luke 14:1, 7-14
On one occasion when Jesus was going to the house of a leader of the Pharisees to eat a meal on the sabbath, they were watching him closely.
When he noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable. ‘When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, “Give this person your place”, and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, “Friend, move up higher”; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.’
He said also to the one who had invited him, ‘When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.’
If you are a pastor, I am sure that you, like me, are astonished at the sublime depth of quiet faith in the lives of your parishioners. We often complain about committees or circumstances, but beneath the troubled waters there is a depth of coherence that defies expectation.
Our church had one of the lead citizens of our town. When Ollie died our church was not big enough to seat all who would attend, so the congregation borrowed the Lutheran Church. (In Minnesota it's a fairly sure bet that the Lutherans have the largest sanctuaries!) Ollie had left specific instructions for his funeral.
There would be no eulogy.
There would be no telling of his successes.
There would be no list of accomplishments.
There would be no mentioning of his many honors.
Instead there was to be three things, and three things only:
Prayer, hymns, and scripture.
In his own way he took the words of Jesus were taken to heart. And once again they pierce our hearts. “What will they say about me?” we may have wondered. Ollie showed that a funeral is an invitation rather than a presentation. He made sure that life was the keynote speaker.
Life, of course, is big enough, wide enough, and deep enough to defy categories. W.E.B. DuBois eloquently pierced the conditionality of life when he wrote, “How does it feel to be a problem?” His question lingers in the arenas of race, class consciousness, and disability.
The poor have a problem. They cannot pay their bills. Invite them.
The crippled have a problem. They cannot keep up. Invite them.
The lame have a problem. They are dis-abled.
The blind have a problem. They cannot see and, in Jesus' day, must beg or be led around.
It was a long walk across the parking lot. But resisting privilege was a necessary journey.
It was an odd funeral when Life was the speaker.
It was a stunning call to action when Jesus recognized the presence of life in lives that were considered problems.
This week. . . life speaks to us again.
Soft walking,
Larry
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Lectionary citations for Sunday, August 19, 2007
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Lectionary citations for Sunday, August 19, 2007
Isaiah 5:1-7 with Psalm 80:1-2,8-19 or
Jeremiah 23:23-29 with Psalm 82 and
Hebrews 11:29-12:2 and
Luke 12:49-56
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
These Lectionary reflections are based on those two thoughts.
Today's reading catches me off guard and puts me on edge.
The life it describes, and the life around me, is one of ferocious
intensity. As I write on this August evening the sky is a blanket of
smoke. Yet another fire "blew up" this afternoon in a drainage that
was spared last summer. Four church camps were evacuated, among them
the Methodist Camp on the Boulder and the camp of my own
denomination, the United Church of Christ.
When Jesus says, "I came to bring fire to the earth," I
cannot help but be taken aback. I would so much prefer a text that
speaks of healing rivers, of storms that are calmed, of rain that
ends the drought. But this week's Gospel is wrapped in fire as life
itself is sometimes wrapped in fire.
I recall carrying one of our twins under each arm as we fled
a burning house a quarter century ago. I recall the words of a
professor who survived the fire bombing of Tokyo when he gently spoke
to a group in seminary who decided to ritually burn some texts they
found unacceptable. "Be careful of fire," he said. "Handle it
carefully. You must be aware of what you are doing." To believe we
control fire is a mistake. It controls us. The small campfire, the
gas burner, the match and the forest fire lit by a streak of dry
lightening--they all organize our actions.
So does baptism.
The new life it proclaims necessitates the end of one order
and the birth of something new. Jesus minces no words in his
proclamation. He will not let us be distracted by preferable
scripture. He will not allow us to shy away from the forest fires
his baptism kindled.
Will the baptism that organized his life also organize our
lives? And so the terse text begins:
Luke 12:49-56
I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were
already kindled! I have a baptism with which to be baptized, and what
stress I am under until it is completed! Do you think that I have
come to bring peace to the earth? No, I tell you, but rather
division! From now on, five in one household will be divided, three
against two and two against three; they will be divided:
father against son
and son against father,
mother against daughter
and daughter against mother,
mother-in-law against her daughter-in-law
and daughter-in-law against mother-in-law.'
He also said to the crowds, 'When you see a cloud rising in
the west, you immediately say, "It is going to rain"; and so it
happens. And when you see the south wind blowing, you say, "There
will be scorching heat"; and it happens. You hypocrites! You know how
to interpret the appearance of earth and sky, but why do you not know
how to interpret the present time?
Calm down, I want to say. Those of us whose lives depend on
the rain are not hypocrites when we learn what the clouds and the
winds portend. But we confess we have often talked more about the
weather than we have searched out and spoken the language of life.
We confess we have been preoccupied with our own affairs more than we
have allowed baptism to order those affairs.
Calm down, I want to say to the arguing family. I confess I
often wish to end the argument more than I want to actually follow
the arduous route that would reconcile the Prodigal and his older
brother.
The hypocrite says one thing and does another. How often do
we acknowledge baptism but fail to live it? How often do we become
fluent in the language of complaint and fail to learn he verbs of
life that demand reconciliation before false agreement; that call for
genuine hope instead of wishful thinking; that require a stream of
blessings that we cannot give ourselves?
How often do we shy away from life? How often is it too raw,
too visceral, too hot to approach? How often will we let it be too
kind to defend itself, too forgiving to hold a grudge, too beautiful
to own?
And so fire sweeps across the landscape of our soul. We know
we should not be afraid. We know it is heat that turns mere flour
into bread. We know it is heat that refines precious metals. We
know ashes are a sign of rebirth. And we know that when we are burnt
by fire there is, after the conflagration, a blessing.
Next June the mountains will reveal their true lines without
the trees to cover the slopes. Next June wild flowers will erupt in
profusions of color just as they did this June where the fires
exploded last summer.
"Don't you know things change?" Jesus seems to say. And so
we have a scripture devoted to agency, the carrying out of mission,
the doing and the receiving of life. Funny thing about agency.
Sometimes we are the actors, and sometimes life happens to us.
Either way change is in the wind.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Readings for Sunday, August 12
Lectionary Readings:
Isaiah 1:1,10-20 with Psalm 50:1-8,22-23
Genesis 15:1-6
Hebrews 11:1-3,8-16
Luke 12:32-40
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
Each week these two thoughts frame LCL’s Lectionary Lens.
In every Lectionary there is a thread of coherence that knits together the readings. Each Sabbath the Psalms sing what the Epistles convey, the first readings frame what the Gospels observe. And, in every Lectionary, we can't help but connect it to our personal experience. We do so somewhat carefully, knowing that if there are too many “I's” in the sermon we may have eclipsed part of its message. But we also know that worship is not intended merely to make an interesting point. It runs deeper than that. The world's needs, to say nothing of our own needs, are greater than that. We wonder how we can cling to faith when there are so many circumstances that seem to work against us.
This week's Epistle lesson sheds light on how we navigate the visible and invisible streams of reality. Because the verses are so well known we would be wise to unpack them slowly.
Hebrews 8:1-3, 8-10
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Indeed, by faith our ancestors received approval. By faith we understand that the worlds were prepared by the word of God, so that what is seen was made from things that are not visible.
By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to set out for a place that he was to receive as an inheritance; and he set out, not knowing where he was going. By faith he stayed for a time in the land he had been promised, as in a foreign land, living in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. For he looked forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God.
In our lives the last three months have led us through the intricate and often daunting maze of the medical world in search of healing. We know chronic diseases preclude healing. I know I must learn to live with the complications that are part and parcel of a half century with Type 1 diabetes, and that my wife and children must live the increasing burden of pain my wife and children experience each day. There is a sense in which we, and all people with chronic disease, have been betrayed by the very body that was designed to sustain us.
And so life has asked us to live in a world defined by a different set of expectations. We do so with the conviction that “it is worth it.” We do so knowing that pretend and denial, to say nothing of magical thinking, are not part of the conversation. Once we are called to a new place we have no choice but to fill that place as best we can. What was familiar must no longer be familiar. Change is in the wind. Had Abraham denied his call his life-changing story that is so deeply shared by three faiths would have no light to shed. But that does not make the journey easy. Indeed, scripture underlines the inherent difficulty of responding to a call. Yes, Abraham set out by faith. Yes, he didn't know where he was going. But once he arrives in the promised land the story line takes a sudden and dramatic turn. He and Sarah are living in this promised land “as in a foreign land.”
This is a tenuous existence. This is a dangerous existence. I happened to visit Lesotho not long after an uprising. The family I stayed with had a special satchel hanging on a hood beside the front door. In it were birth certificates, passports, identity cards, phone numbers, cash, credit cards—emergency supplies they might need if violence once again came there way. Living in a foreign land, be it another country or in our own country, is an “iffy” existence.
I think of the millions of people who claim life in a medical system that must count its costs and finds it hard to welcome their lack of insurance or their incapacity to pay. They are in a promised land of healing but find it a foreign place. What's to be done? They, and we, cling to a dignity that is not material. We live in promise when we find ourselves in a foreign land. In the words of Scripture “We look forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God.” The promise does not take away the afflictions of a body that has betrayed us, but it does allow us to not get caught in circumstance. It does allow us to keep despair at bay. Indeed it is comforting to know Abraham found the promised land an uncertain place; that he had to adapt, and re-adapt, adapt again, and then adapt yet again to not lose his life-defining call.
A pastor once said to me, “Never underestimate the burdens people are carrying on their shoulders then they come into worship.” This Sunday, in your church there are some givens:
Someone will wonder how they are to live when their body has betrayed them;
Someone will wonder if they have the courage to live out an authentic call with unknown implications;
Someone will wonder if they can risk a call to live in another country;
Someone will wonder how to live in that land of tenuous uncertainty;
Someone will wonder if faith can quell the chaos that seems to once again swallow the world with each news cycle'
Someone will come to a holy place whose entire architecture is designed to emphasize and inspire coherence, with the hope of restoring their lives;
Someone, you see, is traveling to the promised land and wonders how to get there.
In short, there is a yearning for the coherence of life that transcends circumstance. This Sunday you will name the circumstances that would seek to restrain our lives. And then you may well ask, “Friends, what is it that defines us? We are defined by faith and it is through faith that we receive our approval.”
Thanks be to God.
Larry
Isaiah 1:1,10-20 with Psalm 50:1-8,22-23
Genesis 15:1-6
Hebrews 11:1-3,8-16
Luke 12:32-40
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
Each week these two thoughts frame LCL’s Lectionary Lens.
In every Lectionary there is a thread of coherence that knits together the readings. Each Sabbath the Psalms sing what the Epistles convey, the first readings frame what the Gospels observe. And, in every Lectionary, we can't help but connect it to our personal experience. We do so somewhat carefully, knowing that if there are too many “I's” in the sermon we may have eclipsed part of its message. But we also know that worship is not intended merely to make an interesting point. It runs deeper than that. The world's needs, to say nothing of our own needs, are greater than that. We wonder how we can cling to faith when there are so many circumstances that seem to work against us.
This week's Epistle lesson sheds light on how we navigate the visible and invisible streams of reality. Because the verses are so well known we would be wise to unpack them slowly.
Hebrews 8:1-3, 8-10
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Indeed, by faith our ancestors received approval. By faith we understand that the worlds were prepared by the word of God, so that what is seen was made from things that are not visible.
By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to set out for a place that he was to receive as an inheritance; and he set out, not knowing where he was going. By faith he stayed for a time in the land he had been promised, as in a foreign land, living in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. For he looked forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God.
In our lives the last three months have led us through the intricate and often daunting maze of the medical world in search of healing. We know chronic diseases preclude healing. I know I must learn to live with the complications that are part and parcel of a half century with Type 1 diabetes, and that my wife and children must live the increasing burden of pain my wife and children experience each day. There is a sense in which we, and all people with chronic disease, have been betrayed by the very body that was designed to sustain us.
And so life has asked us to live in a world defined by a different set of expectations. We do so with the conviction that “it is worth it.” We do so knowing that pretend and denial, to say nothing of magical thinking, are not part of the conversation. Once we are called to a new place we have no choice but to fill that place as best we can. What was familiar must no longer be familiar. Change is in the wind. Had Abraham denied his call his life-changing story that is so deeply shared by three faiths would have no light to shed. But that does not make the journey easy. Indeed, scripture underlines the inherent difficulty of responding to a call. Yes, Abraham set out by faith. Yes, he didn't know where he was going. But once he arrives in the promised land the story line takes a sudden and dramatic turn. He and Sarah are living in this promised land “as in a foreign land.”
This is a tenuous existence. This is a dangerous existence. I happened to visit Lesotho not long after an uprising. The family I stayed with had a special satchel hanging on a hood beside the front door. In it were birth certificates, passports, identity cards, phone numbers, cash, credit cards—emergency supplies they might need if violence once again came there way. Living in a foreign land, be it another country or in our own country, is an “iffy” existence.
I think of the millions of people who claim life in a medical system that must count its costs and finds it hard to welcome their lack of insurance or their incapacity to pay. They are in a promised land of healing but find it a foreign place. What's to be done? They, and we, cling to a dignity that is not material. We live in promise when we find ourselves in a foreign land. In the words of Scripture “We look forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God.” The promise does not take away the afflictions of a body that has betrayed us, but it does allow us to not get caught in circumstance. It does allow us to keep despair at bay. Indeed it is comforting to know Abraham found the promised land an uncertain place; that he had to adapt, and re-adapt, adapt again, and then adapt yet again to not lose his life-defining call.
A pastor once said to me, “Never underestimate the burdens people are carrying on their shoulders then they come into worship.” This Sunday, in your church there are some givens:
Someone will wonder how they are to live when their body has betrayed them;
Someone will wonder if they have the courage to live out an authentic call with unknown implications;
Someone will wonder if they can risk a call to live in another country;
Someone will wonder how to live in that land of tenuous uncertainty;
Someone will wonder if faith can quell the chaos that seems to once again swallow the world with each news cycle'
Someone will come to a holy place whose entire architecture is designed to emphasize and inspire coherence, with the hope of restoring their lives;
Someone, you see, is traveling to the promised land and wonders how to get there.
In short, there is a yearning for the coherence of life that transcends circumstance. This Sunday you will name the circumstances that would seek to restrain our lives. And then you may well ask, “Friends, what is it that defines us? We are defined by faith and it is through faith that we receive our approval.”
Thanks be to God.
Larry
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Readings for Sunday, August 5
Readings for Sunday, August 5
Hosea 11:1-11
Ecclesiastes 1:2, 12-14, 2:18-12
Luke 12:13-21
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
Each week these two thoughts frame LCL’s Lectionary Lens.
We start with Jesus’ parable of the rich fool.
“Someone in the crowd said to Jesus, ‘Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.’ But Jesus said to him, ‘Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?’ And he said to them, ‘Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.’ Then he told them a parable.
“The land of a rich man produced abundantly. And he thought to himself, ‘What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?’ Then he said, ‘I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, ‘Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’ But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be? So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich towards God.’”
Blessing is one of the five Leading Causes of Life. Like life the notion of blessing requires some unpacking. We learn in seminary that once blessings are given they cannot be taken away. And, in story after story, we are reminded of their extraordinary power. They derive this power from a configuration that checkmates their indiscriminate use. We can receive blessings. And we can give blessings. But we cannot bless ourselves. At their very core blessings require a community, a relationship, an intrinsic understanding that life is not our own creation.
I wonder in a musing sort of moment, what Jesus would have said had the person in the crowd simply asked for a blessing. What if he had asked, “How am I to use what I hope to receive?” We will never know because his mind was set on things. The rich fool also set his mind on things rather than blessings. Jesus points out that things will ultimately prove empty if they are self-serving. The selfish use of things is akin to trying to bless one’s self. It is an inherent contradiction of life.
The message is important. This is the only parable in which God speaks directly. Jesus talks; the story tells its tale, as stories always do; and God talks. One can’t get much stronger than that. The message requires a weighing of priorities, and a working recognition that the way things are used can be a blessing or a curse.
It is sometimes tempting to make things the enemy. Such an inflection makes for a predictable sermon. But the truth runs deeper than that. Jesus always speaks to our motivations. Will we use the things and the power we have to bless other people? Or will we become self-serving and thereby render both things and our lives impotent?
I write in the aftermath of working with people whose lives have been turned upside down by cancer. So very much of their lives had been taken away. The things they had were not able to forestall the diagnosis and the ensuing avalanche of bills. To say that they have survived by turning their attention to life would be an understatement. The world of things matters, ask anyone who is unable to pay their medical bills. But its power is empty. One family had statements in the neighborhood of two million dollars, all to save the life of their child. What does one do in such a circumstance? One becomes rich in God. And one begins to wonder how other can be blessed. One woman with expensive cancer medications that were for her now departed husband how they might be shared with others. Is there a way? It is a discussion of blessing.
Qoheleth sees vanity on all sides. In our day and age, as perhaps in every day and age, it is tempting to say, “He’s right.”
But today’s readings are not about vanity. They are about blessing. They are about choosing to become rich in God. In our church, and perhaps in yours, we sing every Sunday, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” Let us receive the blessings that cannot be taken away; and let us bless others knowing these blessings will last forever.
Amen.
Larry
Hosea 11:1-11
Ecclesiastes 1:2, 12-14, 2:18-12
Luke 12:13-21
Life has a language.
And Scripture has a word for us.
Each week these two thoughts frame LCL’s Lectionary Lens.
We start with Jesus’ parable of the rich fool.
“Someone in the crowd said to Jesus, ‘Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.’ But Jesus said to him, ‘Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?’ And he said to them, ‘Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.’ Then he told them a parable.
“The land of a rich man produced abundantly. And he thought to himself, ‘What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?’ Then he said, ‘I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, ‘Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’ But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be? So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich towards God.’”
Blessing is one of the five Leading Causes of Life. Like life the notion of blessing requires some unpacking. We learn in seminary that once blessings are given they cannot be taken away. And, in story after story, we are reminded of their extraordinary power. They derive this power from a configuration that checkmates their indiscriminate use. We can receive blessings. And we can give blessings. But we cannot bless ourselves. At their very core blessings require a community, a relationship, an intrinsic understanding that life is not our own creation.
I wonder in a musing sort of moment, what Jesus would have said had the person in the crowd simply asked for a blessing. What if he had asked, “How am I to use what I hope to receive?” We will never know because his mind was set on things. The rich fool also set his mind on things rather than blessings. Jesus points out that things will ultimately prove empty if they are self-serving. The selfish use of things is akin to trying to bless one’s self. It is an inherent contradiction of life.
The message is important. This is the only parable in which God speaks directly. Jesus talks; the story tells its tale, as stories always do; and God talks. One can’t get much stronger than that. The message requires a weighing of priorities, and a working recognition that the way things are used can be a blessing or a curse.
It is sometimes tempting to make things the enemy. Such an inflection makes for a predictable sermon. But the truth runs deeper than that. Jesus always speaks to our motivations. Will we use the things and the power we have to bless other people? Or will we become self-serving and thereby render both things and our lives impotent?
I write in the aftermath of working with people whose lives have been turned upside down by cancer. So very much of their lives had been taken away. The things they had were not able to forestall the diagnosis and the ensuing avalanche of bills. To say that they have survived by turning their attention to life would be an understatement. The world of things matters, ask anyone who is unable to pay their medical bills. But its power is empty. One family had statements in the neighborhood of two million dollars, all to save the life of their child. What does one do in such a circumstance? One becomes rich in God. And one begins to wonder how other can be blessed. One woman with expensive cancer medications that were for her now departed husband how they might be shared with others. Is there a way? It is a discussion of blessing.
Qoheleth sees vanity on all sides. In our day and age, as perhaps in every day and age, it is tempting to say, “He’s right.”
But today’s readings are not about vanity. They are about blessing. They are about choosing to become rich in God. In our church, and perhaps in yours, we sing every Sunday, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” Let us receive the blessings that cannot be taken away; and let us bless others knowing these blessings will last forever.
Amen.
Larry
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