Living the Fat Life

Text: Luke 22:14-23:56

Pastors are advised by the instruction manual to prepare no sermon for today, or at least keep it very short. So while I do not want to leave without commenting on this dual‑purposed Sunday, I’ll keep it short.

We are tempted by beginnings and endings. The temptation is to forget or elide the middle. And instead to condense it into kind of historical concentrate, holding more than its due of hopes and regrets. In the church, days like today aggravate this view that life is mostly about big events, big changes. Today is especially guilty, where in one Sunday we have the triumphant march of Jesus into Jerusalem followed within a few minutes by the horrible execution of Jesus. It is not really understandable. Even though joys sometimes do turn suddenly to sorrows, this does not seem like one of those occasions.

The danger here is not just that we sentimentalize the story of Jesus. Which we do. Or that we pay too little attention to the ministry of Jesus in the world. Which we also do. (Our creed, for example, goes “Born of the virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, crucified, died, and was buried.” Is that all there was of Jesus? Born and died. What about the life that Jesus led and the people who heard and followed him? And the great missionary Paul rarely mentions the life of Jesus.) But danger is not there. The danger is in thinking that Jesus has nothing to do with his death. And that things happen without a reason (other than “God wants it”). And that people killed Jesus because he was good and they were bad. Mostly people do not do that. Mostly people do not hate goodness. Mostly they hate being scared.

Life is more than beginnings and endings. Jesus’ life and our lives. What happens to us happens mostly in the middle. This story in Luke, though momentous and important, fits into a larger story of the life of Jesus. This is especially true in Luke, which is really just the first part of a two-part story that continues into Acts (most scholars refer to Luke and Acts together as “Luke/Acts.”) The events of Holy Week are in the center, but there are edges, too. The life of Jesus. The life of his followers.

The twin Gospel readings for today in Luke leave out what happens between the triumph and the tragedy. But the Gospel of Luke does not leave them out. Once in Jerusalem, Jesus stops healing and starts preaching in a major way. And what he says surely scared the people, at least the people who had the power to execute someone. He preaches about the end of the old times and the certain coming of new ones. That means the destruction of the Temple and of the city of Jerusalem. It means that what the people had counted on had always been wrong or was about to be wrong. He preached about corruption in high places. He preached about a culture whose foundation was crumbling, and he preached it with a little bit of regret and a whole lot of satisfaction. And he preached that this would happen soon. In their lifetimes. Be watchful, he said. Be careful.

We cannot help focusing on the end points. The transitions. Because they are times of intense hope and despair, birth and death, adventure and grief. On this strange day, the boundary between Lent and Holy Week, when we hear eager anticipation of the crowd turn into confused unbelief, and we ourselves peek to Easter when it all gets turned around again, we might be as shattered emotionally as we are when sorrow and joy butt up against one another in our lives. But of this time and that, we need to remember that highlights and lowlights make thin gruel.

Our lives are fatter and richer than that. I’m not saying that events like this are not a big deal. They are just not the only deal. Or even the majority deal. We rightly celebrate the peaks, but we live mostly on the plains. We are a plain people.

Between birth and death, triumph and tragedy, we live. And human divine Jesus lives there, too.

Rubbish, I Reckon, Compared to Jesus

Text: Philippians 3:4b-14

There are at least two ways to hear these words of Paul in his letter to the Philippians.

Paul, who is in jail (it is hard to say where and when), writes to the church at Philippi, comforting them that he is all right. And, as usual, advising them about how to be a better community of people who follow Christ. In this passage we just heard, he writes to warn them of the teachings of what Paul calls the “dogs and evil workers.” That part the assigned reading somehow skipped over. As Paul often does, he is making a case.

One way to hear his words are as a polemic against materialism. And against our worshipping of accomplishments. Against, as Paul says, our confidence in the flesh. By which he means not our bodies—this is not about that kind of morality—not our bodies so much as our soul’s captivation with stuff, things, achievement, and conversely our fear of their loss. I have spoken about this before, interpreting this passage as some kind of scriptural support for deaccessioning. Get rid of all that stuff, and you will be free. Not intending to question the ethics of having and hoarding, though that is a good thing to question. But to offer a promise of freedom from its burdens. Nonetheless, those sermons always sounded like: get rid of your stuff, you’ll be better for it. More law than gospel.

Still, there is some truth in that (I’m not ready to let it go just yet) and to hear Paul that way is not a mistake. After all, he does say that a bunch of things that he and we value he now counts as rubbish. He gives us his résumé. On it are things both of accomplishment and birth. Status, class, ethnic origin, positions of authority and responsibility, titles, reputation, the respect of friends and colleagues. It’s things and things associated with things.

Before he met Jesus, Paul had been an enforcer for and a member of the power elite. He searched for followers of Jesus and brought them to jail. He was skillful, sophisticated, and well-educated. He was a faithful worshipper. he knew what to wear and how to meet and greet. He knew how to be smooth when he had to be. He was the right people.

What he does not talk about here, but which are just as much things of the flesh, are our fears that are the flip side of our résumés. Of being alone—at any age. Of being sick and helpless, in the hands of others. Of not being able to think straight. And all we do to keep those things at bay.

We trust in things of the flesh because we think that they are safe, attainable, and effective. By good and energetic action we can ensure the health and life of us and our friends and family.

But that is not true, says Paul. All these things that he thought were so great he now reckons, now figures, now counts, as rubbish. As refuse. The word he uses means things pretty disgusting. Like the grad-doo that ends up in the gutters on Cambridge streets after a long and wet winter. He is not talking about stuff you just don’t like but which you might decide to store away in the cellar or attic for a while. This is stuff you want to get out of your house and life as soon as possible.

I hold these things, Paul says, to be a loss. The word in this case means not something mislaid and sought for. But something which causes damage and it’s good riddance to bad rubbish. The word literally means not tamed. These things of the flesh narrow our lives and hem us in. We might consider how much time and energy we give to these wild things.

Yet even so, and in spite of the picture I just painted, Paul does not say these things in themselves are bad things. “I too,” he writes just before this passage, “I too have confidence in the flesh.” Not had. But present tense. Many fleshy things are useful. Pens to write with, shoes to walk with, roofs to keep us dry.

Paul trusted these things, as we do, to protect him, to give him purpose, to bring him peace, and to provide a solid base for action in life. But in practice they did not. It is just that none of these things ever got him one bit closer to where he wanted to go. Where he wanted to be.

The things are rubbish not in themselves. They are rubbish only compared to Jesus. Which is, finally, the second way to hear this passage. The words of Paul about the dangers of things of the flesh might be compelling and useful to us. I find them so. But without Jesus in the picture they are only musings of a wise man on clean living. Paul’s relationship with Jesus Christ overwhelms his admiration for things he once valued, still values. But they no longer bless him. Jesus does.

We want to be blessed. We want to be favored. We want to live the good life. When we say at the end of the Sunday worship, “the Lord bless you and keep you,” we are hoping for each other that we all get to live fine lives. That we will be safe, and have peace of mind, to know beauty in the world and joy in our friends, to feel like we rest on good foundations.

Christ has given Paul blessings. You can feel it in Paul’s writings. In so many words and so often he tells his churches and us: “I feel so blessed I can hardly stand it.” Blessed in spite of his ailments and all. Much more blessed than he was with that rubbish.

The feeling I get from Paul—and this is total speculation—is that in Christ he feels a unity that all the other things in his life never gave him. Our stuff and our accomplishments, accentuated sometimes by our fears, are fragmented. They are never quite whole, and never have what it takes to make us whole.

I want to know Christ, Paul says. (Maybe—I wonder—to know as Peter did. Jesus’ friend. To be connected with Jesus in the deep and pervasive way that you know someone you love.) I want to be found in Christ, Paul says. I want to gain Christ. Paul does not want to know about Christ. Paul wants to find in Christ a unity of life and spirit and that comes from being a part of the larger story of God and God’s world.

Not that he is—or we are—already there. Not that I have already obtained this, he says. It is not something Paul or we accomplish. It is the intervention of God, not our own power, that lets us know Christ. It is a blessing. Brothers and sisters, Paul says, rejoice in the Lord.

What has happened to Paul is that his eyes are different. He sees that he was looking for the good life in all the wrong places. But now he has had a glimpse of what is possible. He sees that knowing Jesus Christ will bring him nearer to where he wants to be. He has decided to act as if he did. For that he is already blessed. Just wanting that is a blessing.

Lent is a time when we try to be quiet enough to be open to the workings of the Holy Spirit. How do we stand with regard to rubbish and to Jesus? Where do we want to be? Are we getting there? Who will guide us there?

Found Things Don't Have to Repent

Text: Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

Unless you are perfect, you have sinned. You have sinned against God and against other people.

We sin against God. Some people take this to mean that God is recording all our little mistakes (and big ones) in a large book (the one that St. Peter looks to at the pearly gates, I imagine). And that God is judging us daily, disapproving of things now and at the end of time.

There is another way to look at this, though. Another way to look at this is to say we have sinned against Good. Against the good. Not all our sins are against others directly. We do things we ought not to do. We cheat at something. We disdain others for no good reason. We think bad thoughts or act like idiots. We agree with plans we know to be evil. Or we make those plans. We keep more than we need. We lie to ourselves. We live high on the exploitation of others.

Or we do not do as we ought to do. We turn our backs on someone who asks for help. We are silent when a courageous voice is needed. We are timid because we are afraid.

We do things that are not good and do not do the things that are good. I don’t know if God is disappointed or chagrined or annoyed at us. We, in moments of reflection, certainly are.

There is no one to forgive us these sins of doing and not doing. When we pass by a sick man asking for help on the street because he makes us nervous or frightened, that is not good. But who can forgive us? The needy man is gone. We cannot apologize to him. (Except perhaps on judgment day, when we pray that all those we passed by and passed over will forgive us.) But now, we have no one to forgive our sins. Only God forgives us these sins against Good.

But just as often, we sin against others. The harm our sins cause is personal and obvious. Horrible sins that cause death or suffering. Or that cause others sorrow or loss. Angry, stupid sins and clever, intentional ones. For those sins, we ask particular forgiveness. We hope to make amends. If we are fortunate, we can seek reconciliation. We hope that we may be forgiven by the one whom we have harmed.

The younger son in today’s Gospel story sins against both the good and against others. “I have sinned against heaven and before you,” he says. He says it twice, once in planning his return and once when he sees his father. He has done what he knows he should not have done, and he has hurt his father and also his brother.

Regarding the sins against others—forgiveness is theirs to grant or deny. The younger son is forgiven by his father, but it seems not by his brother. That’s how it works with others. We can only offer. And wait. And sometimes remain unrequited.

But regarding the sins against God, we can be more hopeful. The Pharisees accuse Jesus of eating with sinners. Jesus says to them, “you bet I do.” The implication is that that is what God requires. The Good demands that not only are sinners tolerated but welcomed. And if to that we add Luther’s proclamation that all of us are saints and sinners, we get that God demands that we all welcome all people. That we are more than not mean to them but that we sit down with them and eat with them. That is, treat them like our friends and family. At least, that’s what Jesus does in Luke’s Gospel.

But in the parable that Jesus tells, the father goes further than that. Now only does he tolerate his younger son and welcome him, but he keeps an eye out for him (“while he was still far off, his father saw him,” it says. He was watching and waiting). And more, he ran to him to greet him and to invite him home.

Now, you can—and people do—see yourself as one of these characters. The profligate and dissolute younger son, or the betrayed older son, or the anxious and then enthusiastic father. I certainly have been all three, at one time or another. But this is a parable, not a moral tale. It tells us about God.

Some say, since this is a Lenten reading, that it is about repentance, and about how the younger man comes to his senses and turns into a better person. But first of all, the father watches for the son and seeks him and runs to him before the father has any idea of what the son intends. He does not know whether the son repents or just wants a few more bucks. And second of all, we don’t really know what happens after the story ends; all we know is that he came home this time. Who knows what happens next?

And third of all, this parable is the last of three in Luke about searching for something that is lost (the other two being lost sheep and lost coins). And lost things do not have to repent for us to want them back in our fold, or purses, or homes, or hearts. The finding of things lost has more to say about the finder than about the thing lost.

When we seek forgiveness from others, we seek them out in reconciliation. But when we seek forgiveness from God for sins against Good, it is God who does the seeking. It would be nice if we repented. Repentance makes God’s forgiveness understandable. It puts it in context of our sin and regret.

But in the story, the father has forgiven the son long before the son repents, before he returns home. The father has forgiven the son because he is his son.

We forgive others in time, or pray to. But God forgives from the start.

A Devotional

Text: Psalm 63:1-8

Lutheran World Relief is an admirable organization that provides help for hungry, impoverished, or devastated people all over the world. They know that God calls them to help those who need help, and they are dedicated to do so effectively and efficiently. This church, Faith, and individuals in it have supported them by giving them money. I think they are great.

In a recent issue of their newsletter, the president of Lutheran World Relief offered what he called a devotional. “A Christian Devotion,” is what the article was called. In it, the president talked about how his organization hears the cries of the suffering, said that evil is real and sorrow inevitable, told a little story from his personal life, and ended by quoting Luther. It was a nice article. Encouraging and hopeful. But how was it devotional? How would we have known? If the newsletter had not labeled it “A Christian Devotion,” how would we have recognized it as anything different than a reflection by this good man on the need to help others? Or is that the same thing as a devotional? What does that mean anyway? What is devotion?

Devoted, devout, devotion. All related words. But not too specific. People say things like “he’s devoted to his mother,” or “she’s devoted to her husband,” or “she’s devoted to her job—she comes home late and works hard.” Or “he is devoted to his political party” or “devoted to an idea.” Paul Farmer is devoted to the people of Haiti and the idea of providing them medical care otherwise not available. Are devotion to parent, spouse, employer, calling—are they all the same? We say that a dog is devoted to his owner. How about that? Is that the same thing, too?

Lutherans in the past have been a little nervous about the word “devotion.” That is because there have been battles in the past about whether Lutherans should be more or less interested in doctrine or more or less interested in one’s relationship with God. Especially if that relationship has anything to do with an emotional attachment to God. Which a devotion to God certainly does. But whether you are somber or passionate, an emotional attachment to God is part of your faith, even if you are Lutheran.

Someone wrote about today’s psalm that it is “one of the truly great pieces of devotional writing in all of human history.” This psalm is all about the relationship people have with God. Or to be more exact, what one person has. “People” is too general here. This is about a person and God. About, if you choose to make it so, about you and God.

The word “devotion” hardly appears in the Bible. But a devotional life has been part of people’s response to God since way before Jesus. Anything that starts out “My God, you are my God,”—that’s devotional. Anything that starts out like a letter to God written from the heart—that’s devotional. Scripture, poem, prayer, or thought, it does not matter.

Devotion has been fundamental to Christian experience. It is both something on which our faith stands and, at the same time, something that is a result of what we do in our faith. It is a pre-requisite and a perquisite. We need it to give power and energy and patience to our Christian life, but it is also a benefit of that life.

Devotion is a word that describes a kind of intense relationship. It does not have to be a happy one. Someone who is devoted to his or her dying spouse does not have to be thrilled about it. Someone who is devoted to his or her job or calling usually has good days and bad days. Same with devotion to God. But it is still devotion.

Devotion, to God or otherwise, has two attributes that are key. The first is that it is other-centered. That is, if you are devoted to another, that other person is the center of your life. Not necessarily all of your life, but the focus of its attention. What you think about in the idle times, the things you wake up wondering about, the mental reminder notes you write yourself.

The second attribute of devotion is that it changes you. It changes the way you act and it changes the way you see. Toward the object of your devotion you are more attentive, expectant, and patient. People sometimes say of someone’s devotion: “I don’t see how you can put up with that.” “That” being some difficult condition, or demand, or effort. But it does not matter; devotion uses some other calculation.

When we are devoted to something or someone, we see them differently than others do or than we ourselves did before. We see ourselves, perhaps, more as servants than as served. More humble. More generous to others. Our hopes become both less grandiose and at the same time more likely to be met. “I hope I can make a difference here.” “I hope I can be with her until the end.” “I hope to be at peace with my life.”

Psalm 63—this great piece of devotional writing—paints a picture of the devoted life. It tells us what we might expect when we are devoted to God, who is the object of devotion here, and hints at ways we might strengthen that devotion.

The protagonist in this psalm—what religious folks call the “psalmist”—the psalmist can hardly stand it. He or she feels a deep longing toward God that is so powerful that the psalmist faints in desire. This is how you feel when you first become infatuated with someone. You can hardly stand up. A glimpse of that person, a voice, makes your insides go all crazy. The protagonist needs God just as desperately as a starving person needs food or water—more so. As much as an insomniac needs sleep. “Your love is better than life,” it says.

The psalmist seeks God out in church, in the sanctuary, where God is likely, one hopes, to be found. He or she speaks aloud to others about God—“my mouth praises you with joyful lips.” The psalmist tells God what’s going on: I bless you, I praise you, I life up my hands to you. God, you are great. God, you are my God.

And in the end it comes down this: the object of your devotion is worthy of it, and worthy of your trust, and that you consider yourself worthy to be devoted. In the end, the writer of the psalm sings out in joy. “My soul clings to you, your hand upholds me.”

It is these kinds of words, these powerful and radiant words, that has made Lutherans queasy. It sounds pretty emotional. It sounds pretty pious.

And so it is. But our quest is the quest for the ultimate. It comes from our whole selves (what the psalm calls soul) and from our bodies (what the psalm calls flesh). People rarely show up in church because of, or only because of, intellect and right thinking. They show up because they want to know God. The words of the psalm are over the top. Good. We want some of that.

How do we get there? There is a chicken and the egg nature to devotion. Devotion leads to acts that bind us together with the person, the thing, God, to whom we are devoted. At the same time, acts of devotion—worship, kindness, mindfulness, patience, praise—lead to powerfully connected relationships.

It is blessed for us that this is a virtuous cycle. It grows on you. Devotion is not a feeling. It is a practice. And like other Christian practices—prayer, charity, compassion—it takes practice. The husband was not the devoted nurse at the start. The worker was not devoted to her job at the start. The psalmist, probably, did not go weak in the knees at the start.

Devotion is an intense and intimate relationship. But it begins with small steps. The psalm teaches us. Send God messages from your heart. This Lent, may we open each day, praying: My God, you are my God. I seek you. And may we end each day: My spirit is content.

Forgetful Us

Text: Luke 13:31-35

Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18

From time to time the relationship between God and people has been tumultuous and troubled. I can’t speak for how God views it, but people seem to have mixed feelings. We are often of two minds. The first mind welcomes—calls for—God’s involvement in our lives. We are grateful to God, and we bring to our relationship reverence, thanksgiving, and praise. The second mind finds God to be at best irrelevant and at worst demanding, interfering, and difficult to live with. In the Bible, which is the story of God and us, this on-again off-again relationship starts in the Garden of Eden and carries right on through. And up to the present.

The complaint Jesus makes about Jerusalem—and its habit of killing the prophets who are sent to it—is just one more episode in this conflicted story.

In one sense the passage is not about Jesus at all. It is about God’s role in history and the prophets who try to speak for God to an uninterested or antagonistic audience. When Jesus quotes psalm 117—blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord—the question is not so much whether the blessed one is Jesus. That is, we know that someone is blessed, but is Jesus the one? The question is whether this man, this prophet, is blessed or otherwise. That is, we see this man, but is he really blessed or not? If the people answer Yes, then they are acknowledging that God is speaking to them through Jesus. And Christians would say that God is even appearing to them. But the track record is not good; Jerusalem is not often willing to grant God’s voice. If ever.

This is not too shocking. The role of any prophet is to be in conflict with the powers and principalities. The whole point of a prophet—including and especially Jesus—is to preach and act against the prevailing systems of power that have forgotten God. It is not surprising the Jerusalem kills prophets sent its way. Jerusalem in its day was like a combination of New York City and Washington DC. A city of commerce and government. Why would they welcome someone who told them that God was on their case and had a few things to tell them?

What Jerusalem had forgotten was that the city owed its entire existence to God. The whole of Israel, the nation, came as a gift from God. Starting with God’s promise to Abraham, who is called Abram when we first meet him in Genesis, God makes covenants, or agreements, with Israel. “I am the Lord who brought you out of [your birthplace] to give you this land to possess.” You are my people, says God repeatedly. This is your land that I give to you and that I bless for your use. Over and over in this passage the word is repeated: give, gift. “On that day the Lord made a covenant with Abram, saying ‘to your descendant I give this land.’” And the land God is talking about is the land in which Jerusalem, by the time of Jesus a thriving metropolis, sits.

But Jerusalem has forgotten. It has taken the land, the city, the gift of life, for granted. It goes its own way. And when God reminds them, it puts God’s voices to death.

So in another sense this passage is all about Jesus. What can be more personal than a contract out on you, a price on your head? One can speak in general of prophets and their troubles, but the prophet in this case is someone particular. It is Jesus. Herod wants to kill you, claim the Pharisees. You, Jesus, in particular, is the one they are talking about. Jesus has just told the people in power that they won’t be there for long. The last will be first and the first last, they have heard him say. Not pleasing words to those who are now first. And he has a bad attitude. Jesus in Luke has a confident arrogant swagger that we today might admire, but that I’m sure the officials of his day did not. I must, he rebuts the Pharisees, I must go to Jerusalem, who kills the prophets like me. But not right this minute. I am busy. Casting out demons and healing people. I’m busy today, and I’m busy tomorrow, and pretty much the day after. But then I’ll go.

Jesus preaches an astounding gospel. Especially in Luke. The good news is that the poor and the outcast will no longer be so. The rich and the powerful will not longer be so, but will be cast down from their thrones. He preaches that the vertical will become horizontal. That the relationships of power than go up and down will become level, a plain. In his sermon on the plain (its a plain in Luke, a mount in Matthew), he tells us not to judge, not to charge interest on loans, to give whenever and for whatever we are asked, to not try to recover what is taken from us. We do not, evidenced by our actions, take these words of Jesus seriously. We therefore should not condemn the people of Jerusalem too harshly, who like us simply equivocated and hedged when it came to the hard parts.

How I wished I could gather you, you people of Jerusalem, gather you to me as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. Jesus mourns. You were not willing. The chicks say no. They will not be embraced by mother Jesus. Why not? Why would they not accept their mama’s embrace?

There is a time when an embrace is all we need. Our parents’ arms around us to comfort us and make us feel protected. Little children, like chicks under the wing. But later we push away our parent’s embrace. It is embarrassing. We want to forget our mama. We are grown up and independent. And we have learned that our parents cannot save us. So thinks Jerusalem.

Yet after this adolescence, we again see the embrace to be the gift it can be. An expression of comfort, affection, condolence, hopefulness. A quiet and undemanding presence. Part of an eternal relationship. Is that what Jesus longs for in deadly Jerusalem?

Gratitude is the foundation of religion. Maybe it is possible to be spiritual without gratitude, but I’m not sure about that. Christians attach gratitude to an agent, to God. Gratitude is a first connection to God, and serves among other things to remind us who God is and what God has given us.

But we, like Jerusalem, forget God. Then our relationship with God gets into trouble. Then it is easy to think that there is nothing to be grateful for and no one to be grateful to. It is easy to think we owe God nothing. Rather than life, existence, everything.

I said at the beginning that I couldn’t speak to how God views our relationship, but that is not true. The story of the Bible, the story of us and God together, is a story of loyalty. On God’s part. Even when not on ours. You can hear this in the other readings for today and the psalm. God remains loyal to God’s people. God keeps the covenant. God constantly tries to make contact. God weeps for us and longs for us. God comes to be with us. With open wings.

Down to the desert to pray

Text: Luke 4:1-13

We are now 10% into the season of Lent. Lent is usually thought of mainly as the preface to Easter, much as Advent is thought of as the preface to Christmas. But like Advent, it is not just a prelude to something better. If the pleasure of the journey is its unfolding, then the worth of Lent is in the journey to which it invites us.

People have described Lent as a time of penitence and as a time of preparation. Historically and currently those are both accurate. But the word Lent in English has the same root as the word “lengthen,” as in the lengthening days. In Lent the days get longer, at least in the northern hemisphere. Lent is therefore not only lengthening but also lighten-ing, becoming lighter. The days are lighter as in they contain more light. And also, in the other sense, as Lent goes on, the spiritual load gets lighter, as in they get less ponderous. In the end—and we all know how the story turns out at Easter—we celebrate joyfully.

But we do not not start there. We do not start the journey there. We start the story with Jesus in the desert, led (as Luke says) or driven (as Mark says) there by the Holy Spirit. We start with Jesus famished in the desert.

Jesus is there a long time, which is what “forty days” means in the Bible. Forty means “long enough.” Long enough for whatever needs to happen to happen. It is clear that Jesus had to be in the desert. It is the first thing he does, after his baptism, in his adult ministry. He is guided by the Spirit. This is not, evidently, an optional step.

While there, Jesus is tempted or tested or tried—the word means all these things. But he is not tempted to wickedness and evil. He is presented with three temptations. None of them are diabolical. They are, all three, temptations to satisfy central human needs. The need for food or sustenance, the need for power or control, and the need for safety and security.

The devil offers Jesus bread. What do we need to sustain us? Food, plus shelter, clothing. Not everyone in the world has them. But don’t we want more? Medical care? Housing? Transportation? How about entertainment? Do we need a reserve to prepare for hard times? Do we need more than our daily bread? How much more? Perhaps a little more. Perhaps more than a little. And a place to store it. And perhaps a few luxuries. For fun. The devil offers freedom from want.

The devil offers Jesus authority. How much control over our own lives do we need? None of us want to be led, as the apostle Paul once wrote, tied to a rope held by someone else, or blown by the whims of an uncertain wind. To be slaves or servants of another. Should we not be masters of our own fates? And then perhaps master of a few others who threaten our fates. Shouldn’t we insure ourselves against circumstances? Shouldn’t we be self-reliant, self-sufficient? Not dependent on others. Neither a borrower or a lender be, says the proverb. Should we hedge our bets, protect our borders, maintain our fences? Shouldn’t we establish rules and codes and limits and order? The devil offers freedom from uncertainty.

The devil offers Jesus protection from harm. How safe do we need to be? Can we save ourselves from accident, stupidity, or evil? Can we identify all enemies? Can we ferret out all dangerous secrets? Can we preserve ourselves against all disease that threatens our bodies? How about against craziness, against mis-directed anger? How about against righteous anger? Can we protect ourselves from from love turned cold, from change of heart, from loss? The devil offers freedom from human pain.

The devil offers freedom from want, uncertainty, and pain. The things we fear the most. Any yet Jesus says three times: No! No. No. Three hard to refuse offers. Three instant rejections.

It is not that Jesus hates a full stomach, or stability, or safety. We need those things. Those are the things that God provides for us (as we heard in the all the other readings for today). The question is, first, whether the fear of not having those things seduces us more fervently than God does, and second, whether we trust God to provide them. We have many suitors for our loyalty, obedience, and attention. Who guides our life? We cannot say yes to God unless at some point we say no, as Jesus does in the desert, to God’s rivals for us. We need that desert time.

The desert is a place where there is nothing else. Just we and our thoughts. It is a metaphor for retreat, silence, meditation, and cleansing. We need time there. And Lent is a good and traditional time.

What is it about the desert?

The desert is far away. It is isolated from all the voices that call on us every minute to attend to them. Including our desires and our responsibilities.

The desert is empty. It has none of the shiny things that we usually have all around us. Things that are interesting, or falling apart, or need organizing or otherwise attending to.

In the desert we are unobserved. We are not required to please anyone (nor will we get their admiration). We are not required to be anyone, or to act in any special impressive, or polite, or outrageous way.

In the desert we are vulnerable. The quiet of the desert lets our thoughts come unimpeded. The harshness and limits of the desert test our comfort.

And finally, in the desert we are alone. We have only ourselves and God as companions. It is a good time for intimate, disturbing, renewing, and lengthy conversations.

This kind of removed, empty, unobserved, vulnerable, alone time is an important Christian practice. It is a prayer discipline and one of the traditional practices of Lent. Not literally time in the desert, though lots of people have done that, but more practically time that we reserve in our lives, weekly or daily, yearly, removed from the normal calendar.

The temptations of Jesus in the desert are temptations to deny our limits and our finite-ness. But the truth is that hunger, uncertainty, and pain are essential parts of the story of our lives. And the lives of all people. Our attempts to deny that induces in us a kind of sleepiness or depressive fuzziness in life. Desert prayer helps us remember what is true. It wakes us up. It makes our vision sharper.

The season of Lent is a season of repentance. The word means not so much remorse as a change of direction, a turning. But abstract repentance is meaningless. So Lenten disciplines—which are just everyday Christian disciplines, but we talk about them more pointedly—Lenten disciplines are tactics, rules of thumb, things that have worked for others who wish to change their lives. There are a handful. We’ll come across others during these weeks in Lent. But they all start, as it did for Jesus, in a desert place. It is evidently not optional. They all start with time enough in the desert.

First Impressions

Text: Luke 5:1-11

When you are introduced to a story in the Bible, it is a little like meeting someone for the first time. You wonder whether this person is going to be a life-long friend or more a friend-of-a-friend kind of person. In either case, first impressions are important. But in the case of life-long friends, first impressions often turn out to be wrong. Some of my best friends were idiots when I first met them. I’m sure the feeling was mutual. But now we see each other more deeply, we have had more shared experiences, and though the idiocy remains, the connection is much more rich, complicated, and respectful. This is true of scripture as much as it is true of people.

When you first meet this story in Luke, which seems to be about fishing and fishers, you might be impressed by different things. Certainly biblical scholars have. They do not agree. For example, you might think this passage was put together from three separate stories mashed together by a common marine theme. There is a story of Jesus teaching people. There is the story of a miraculous catch of fish. And there is the story of Jesus calling new disciples.

Or you might think this passage is mostly about the miraculous power of Jesus to provide abundantly, helping the laborers gratefully gather the fruit of creation.

Or you might think this passage is an allegory, in which the parts of the story—the fishers, the nets, the fish, the catch—all stand for something else. This is a common interpretation, but full of difficulties. If it is an allegory, then who are we? Are we the disciples, catching others? Or are we the fish, being caught? (And you know what happens to fish!) Or are we the net, which God uses to gather disciples? Or the other partners, James and John? Or something else altogether.

My impression today—which is different than it was years ago and will be different, I’m sure, in the years ahead—my impression today is that this passage is like a piece of young adult fiction. Those YA books in the library, written for teens. Like mystery stories and romances, these books all follow the same plot, more or less. And they all have the same point, more or less, which is how friends are made and friendships kept. The plot always goes like this:

1. The bad first impression.

2. The big event.

3. The awkward moment.

4. The commitment of true friendship.

And that’s how today’s Gospel story goes.

#1: The bad first impression. Imagine Peter’s point of view. Actually, he is still Simon, since he has not yet joined Jesus nor been renamed by him. So, Simon’s point of view. This man Jesus hops into Simon’s boat. He makes Simon—who has been up all night fishing—row out a bit just so Jesus can speak to some folks who have come to see him. Presumably Simon has to just sit there with Jesus. Then he tells Simon, who has caught no fish, to go out and try again. Jesus knows nothing about fishing. Nobody goes fishing in the daytime. What is with this guy?

#2: The big event. Nonetheless, Peter—can we call him Peter?—does what Jesus asks. That’s how it goes in stories like this. There is a little bit of trust that becomes possible here. Like a bit of tinder for a fire. Something about Jesus makes Jesus seem OK to Peter. Peter doesn’t tell Jesus to take a hike. Instead, Peter is willing to give it a shot. Wow, good thing he did. They throw their nets into the water and a whole bunch of fish swim in. “Many a lot” it says in Greek. Who is this person?

#3: The awkward moment. Or, to be more religious, the conversion. There is always a point in these stories when the protagonist—Peter in this case—sees his new friend in a different light. When suspicion turns to realization, when doubt turns to respect. The beginning of love. Peter realizes that the annoying parts that he first saw in Jesus don’t really matter. It doesn’t matter that Jesus is a little bossy and ignorant about fishing. That is not the main thing. In a young adult novel one person says to the other, “well, I guess you are OK after all. I’m sorry I was such a jerk.” In the Gospel of Luke, Peter says “Go away from me Lord, for I am a sinful man.” Same thing.

And #4: The commitment of true friendship. Jesus responds to Peter’s offer of apology and affection with one of his own. Not a problem, Jesus says. Let’s go do something great together. And off they go, catching people and having all sorts of other adventures. Which you’ll have to read about in the next book in the series. In our case, the rest of Luke and Acts. And then the letters of Paul, and then the adventure of the whole church. But that’s for another day in the future for Peter and Jesus.

Some people, like Isaiah in today’s first reading, have their lives dramatically changed in a moment by God’s voice. As Paul was, for example. People have a transforming experience, becoming in an instant what seems to them to be a new person. But for most of us, our connection with Jesus is much more like a growing friendship. It develops over time.

There are times when we think that we have, or that God has, made a terrible mistake. There are times when we don’t know who God is and feel that God doesn’t know us very well either, in spite of what it says in the Bible about God counting the hairs on our heads. And there are times when we get a big pleasant unlikely surprise. We learn more about God. More importantly, we see God better, and we know God more, and we begin to trust God. And we begin to want to hang out more together, and then to look forward to doing great things together.

I know less about fishing than Jesus did. But from the little fishing I’ve done, it seems to combine two things. First, fishing is a sport of predictions. Where are the fish, what will they be doing, what will they like today? Lots of little predictions based on previous knowledge, the wisdom of others, intuition, and an sensitivity to the what’s going on in the present. And second, related to this, is that fishing is a series of offers and acceptances. The fishing person makes offers in terms of bait and lure, of course, and hopes the fish will accept. But the fish make offers, too. Tiny and subtle revelations, inviting the fisher to have an open mind. To doubt his or her first impressions and to make changes.

That is how friendship works. With humans or with God. Anglican archbishop and theologian Rowan Williams has said that to say we believe in Jesus is the equivalent of saying we have confidence in Jesus above all things. That confidence emerges over time, like friendship. Developed through little, experimental, trial-sized trusting steps. And big events. And awkward moments. And out of that friendship comes the rest: obedience, loyalty, interdependence, service.

Part of God is big and mysterious. Ineffable, unknowable. But part of the God we know is close and intimate. As connected to us and we to God as one young friend to another.