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