Tactics

Text: Colossians 3:12-27 December 31, 2006

Welcome, children of God, holy and beloved.

Modern Protestant Christianity is a long on strategy and short on tactics. Or to be more churchy: long on theology and short on practices. Or what Christianity calls disciplines: things we can do to live the kind of faithful life we would like to live. It is great to know that we are justified by God's grace, but now what? What do we do day to day, hour to hour, knowing we have been freed from the power of death?

For Protestants, disciplines have usually been put at the back of the drawer, along with the unpaired socks and the squashed penny souvenir from the Space Needle. Something not very useful but not yet ready for the trash. Luther and especially his fellow reformers felt that Christians had been captive to the rules and regulations of the Roman church, and so de-emphasized many powerful but traditional disciplines that they thought enslaved people to the church hierarchy. And in our time, people have been confused about how and how much their faith can and should be expressed in public, as opposed to personal or private, lives. There is a school of thought that imagines faith to be something emotional—a feeling, sort of—or belief, but not something real; as real, say, as paying the rent or dealing with your boss or your significant other. Practical things.

But the need for guidance—we have been saved by Christ; now what do we do today, or this minute?—is a question even the earliest Christian communities struggled with. The passage in the letter to the Colossians we just heard from tries to help its readers with an answer.

It is likely that this epistle was written by someone other than Paul, some time after his death, but to a group of followers of Jesus who are trying to conform their lives to Jesus. How should they do that? The letter presents a kind of argument, or a kind of program, for behavior. In summary, the argument says that we can act in a certain way out of power that comes from Christ. In detail, the argument has four parts.

First, it starts by making clear that the things that usually guide people’s actions: power, position, safety, revenge, things like that, are not helpful to Christians. Instead, the people are urged to be compassionate, kind, humble, gentle, and patient. What these five things have in common is a tendency to put others before ourselves. To consider others to be equal to or better than we are. Counter-cultural, for sure. [As one scholar explains:] To waive one’s rights rather than be concerned for personal gain. To not become frustrated and enraged but to make allowances for other people’s exasperating behavior. To acknowledge as if we were feeling it ourselves the pain that others feel. All these things are essential, Colossians argues, for the sake of the community. And the community in the end is the whole world.

But this is a list of goals, not tactics. Easy to note, hard to do. So the second part of the argument backs up a step. Everybody wants to be compassionate. No one wants to hurt others. But how can we do that? We start with what we know. And what we know is the word of Christ. Which in our case means the words of Jesus (his teachings, prayers, and parables) and the words about Jesus (the Gospels, and also the words that others tell us about their own experiences of Christ) and about the words in our own heads and hearts about Jesus (our own experiences of Jesus in life, in prayer, and in worship and song).

“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly,” the people are told. The word is like food. Rich food. Good food. Delicious and nutritious. As rich as Christmas chocolate and good wine and as nutritious as tofu and green beans. Like food, the word of Christ gives us energy, power, and substance. It is necessary for life and action. Let the food-like word of Christ be in you, says Colossians. That means: don’t fill up on other things; don’t spoil your appetite. And it means: seek the word; spend time in the pantry and looking into the refrigerator. Snacks would be good, too.

The third part of the argument is that the word of Christ leads to peace. The peace is a result of confidence that in Christ, death has no power to rule us. What we learn from the word of Christ is that we can live without fear. Or maybe more practically, that when we have fears—which we are bound to have—that we can turn to the word of Christ to remind us that the fears are—at their core—groundless.

“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts,” the people are told. There are lots of other things that might rule in our hearts. What are the things that pull us, move us, and rule us? Wanting to be admired, to be safe and secure, to be loved, to not be lonely, laughed at, ignored. To get good grades. To get back at someone, to be left alone, to not be bothered. But of all those things, says Colossians, the peace that Christ brings is the ruler of them all. They are the subjects. You tell them to hush, to quiet down a bit, to chill. Let peace have its sway, says Colossians. Let peace be the boss.

The goal drives us. The word powers us. The peace frees us. But it is Jesus who shows us what to do. The fourth part of the argument is that empowered by the word and freed from the power of fear and death, we live our daily lives through the guidance of Jesus. “Do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus,” says Colossians.

As we do anything, keep Jesus is mind. Think to yourself: I do this in the name of Jesus. I come across a beggar on the street. Could you say: “I give this dollar in the name of Jesus.” How about: “I pass on by in the name of Jesus.”

Could you say: I admire the sky in the name of Jesus. I eat this Special K cereal in the name of Jesus. I vote for this person in the name of Jesus. How about: I complain about my boss in the name of Jesus. I throw this trash on the street in the name of Jesus. I smoke this cigar in the name of Jesus. How about that?

I paint this picture. I visit my aunt. I take the dog for a walk. I give some money to Oxfam. I buy an iPod. I fix my car. I write this nasty letter or this complimentary one.

Do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus. In some things we do it is easy to add “in the name of Jesus.” “I donate to Lutheran World Relief.” “I say hello to the ticket taker.” In others, it makes us uncomfortable. Rightly so. “I cheat on my taxes.” Or makes us embarrassed or sad. “I steal from my business colleague.” “I refuse to call my father.” Or so bad and secret that it makes us go “la la-la la-la. I don’t want to hear you.” The rule of thumb for Colossians is this: judge what you do, or intend to do, by considering whether you would be comfortable doing it “in the name of Jesus.” If you would, then do it. If you wouldn’t, then don’t.

Thinking about Jesus in all we do helps us pay attention to life and our lives. It is a kind of mindfulness. It is a discipline, a habit of being that helps us live more intentionally (that is, not by accident or distractedly or carelessly). It helps us to notice the world more (makes that Special K taste better and the clouds more beautiful and the iPod more amazing), it helps us do with less (because we take time and enjoy the pleasures of appreciation), and it helps us be virtuous as defined in Colossians (because we notice that others are much like ourselves).

It sounds from all this that faith proceeds practice. But it is usually the opposite. If we wait until we feel spiritually ready, we’ll never start. It is like trying to write the perfect love letter, which being never perfect never gets sent, and the lovers never meet. Spiritual practice is not like a final exam, best taken after much preparation. It is more like trying to fix a faucet. You just start, and if you find that you have to rush to the hardware store to find the right bolt, then back a while later to get that special tool—well, that’s how such things go. And that’s how most of us learn about plumbing.

Faith is like that. You start out doing things in the name of Jesus. And in your heart, the peace of Christ begins to rule, and in you, the word of Christ begins to make itself at home. And pretty soon, you find yourself acting with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. And you begin to see, as Colossians says at the very first, that you are chosen by God, holy, and beloved.

One Tough Cookie

Text: Luke 1.47-55 December 24, 2006

Let’s not make Mary out to be too sweet. Let’s not put her in a beautiful blue robe (why is it always blue?), with blushing cheeks and flowing hair, a contemplative smile, and a halo-like glow surrounding her.

Mary was a street kid, or would be if she lived now in the city. She was very poor. Her husband-to-be, Joseph, was a carpenter, not an admired craftsman but low on the economic ladder, a rung even lower than a subsistence farmer. She was probably young, maybe thirteen or fourteen. She lived in a really bad time for Jews in Palestine. Roman armies patrolled the streets, and crucifixion was common for minor crimes, including not knowing your place, or talking about a time when Israel might be free again. If you kept your mouth shut you might keep your life.

Mary was one tough young lady. Not at all fragile and shy and retiring. We do her an injustice if we sentimentalize her. When we do, it is too easy to forget that Mary has something to do with Jesus besides being a vessel for God’s grand scheme. Some call her the first model of a Christian disciple, and if that is true, we who are trying to follow Christ need to see her as an agent in the story of God’s work.

Today we read aloud Mary’s response to Gabriel’s message. This beautiful song, called the Magnificat—from the first word in the Latin version—is a song about God shaking things up, unsettling things, and delivering on a promise. Listen, disciples of Christ, to the three things that Mary says.

Mary says Yes.

She says Yes to God’s invitation, even though it would have been very clear to her that lying low would be more prudent. It was not a good time to be talking about a Messiah or the restoration of the power of Israel and in memory of its great former King David. That would be dangerous talk.

And it is clear that Mary knew it, for her song is all about turning things on their heads. Things that seem to be settled will be unsettled. Things will be stirred up, and when things get stirred up, stuff on the bottom and stuff on the top can mix in odd ways, and the dregs can become the cream. Raising up the poor and, more threateningly, bringing down the rich. Raising up the lowly and, worse, throwing down those in power—the mighty down from their thrones. This is seditious, Mary’s song is.

And into this world, and into this mess, Mary will bring a child who is not going to be shy about his mission. Mary knows it. I’m sure that’s what she ponders in her heart when her son is finally born.

Yet, smart and tough, Mary says Yes. Yes. I’ll bear the son of God and I’ll raise him and fear for him and be proud of him and watch him through to his end. Yes, she says.

When God calls, who knows what is going to happen? We don’t live in perfect times, no one ever has. If we are waiting for conditions to be just right before we do anything—in our lives or in our world—we’ll never say Yes. And we cannot set conditions, no bargaining with God. I’ll do this if you, God, make sure everything will work out the way I want it to. That is not to say you can’t complain to God or make demands of God or be unhappy with where God takes you. And I’m sure if you do that God will listen and will promise to be with you all the way. It’s just that it will be God’s way, not yours.

Mary says Help!

Mary is not afraid to ask for help, or to be person who agrees she needs help. A savior has come, she sings. To be saved, you need something to be saved from. To be redeemed, you need to be captured by something. Saving means healed, and to welcome healing—and Mary does—you have to admit you are not doing all that well.

When you are privileged you get things no one else does: you never have to wait, and you never have to be crowded. But all the rest of us live in a world constrained by other people and by time and logistics. We are limited, as creatures are. Mary calls the privileged “proud in their conceit,” and in the King James Version of the Bible she calls them “proud in the imagination of their hearts.” In the Greek, it is “arrogant in their understanding of their hearts.” In other words, they don’t think they need anything.

Christianity does not have much to offer to people who are totally satisfied with the way they are and the ways things are in the world. But who is so satisfied? Not the people in Mary’s situation or in the situation of any real person that I know.

To say Help! means to admit that we need help. That we would welcome some divine intervention because we need that intervention. That we cannot do it, whatever it is, without help, and that we welcome God’s hand in our lives.

And Mary says Hooray!

The whole song is one big Hooray! Hooray not for Mary herself, though that, too (“The Almighty has done great things for me,” she says). But hooray that God’s regime is, or soon will be, the one in power. For the writer of Luke’s Gospel, who the ruler of the world is—Caesar or God—is one of the main points of the coming of Jesus. And to Mary, the answer is definite and clear. The jubilation that Mary feels is the joy at a major good change in things. Maybe it’s like the way the Democrats felt at the last election. Or to be a little more personal, the way you might feel getting married, or having a child, or beginning a new friendship. In the present event there are signs so definite and true as to be certain that a new future is about to unfold. A great future.

Christians live under a promise. For some, that seems absurd. Things go on, and what will be is what will be. There might be hope, but to the cynical it is more like whistling in the dark. But it is part of the fabric of Christianity to be naïve enough to think that God has something in store for this world that will recover and renew it.

The story of the Bible is a story of an ongoing relationship between God and people. We do not have a faith in which God does all the work while we sit around like lumps. Nor do we have a faith in which people struggle or prevail by themselves while God watches without much interest. The history of our faith—over time and for some, in our individual lives—is a conversation, full, as for Mary, of both contemplation and passion.

Advent rushes up against Christmas, especially in this year when we celebrate both in the same day. The song of Mary is like the overture to the greater song. Which in itself is a duet. Call and response. One asks for help, the other responds. One calls in invitation, the other agrees. And in the heavens and on this earth, all say Hooray!

Amen.

Slackers

Text: Zephaniah 3:14-20

It seems that a confluence of factors has put the stress-o-meter off the scale. I know that because I can see stress in your faces and the faces of just about everyone I know. I hear it in your voices and the voices of others. I see it in your lives and the lives of others.

The stress-o-meter rises whenever there is something to stress about. And the stress-o-meter tells me that we are in a tight spot. There is way too much to worry about. Even if nothing worrisome is happening in your own life, you might worry about things happening to the world: wars and genocide—Iraq, Palestine, Sudan; the 40 million people living with AIDS; the spread of nuclear weapons; individuals blowing themselves and other people up; oppression and slavery; melting ice caps. These things crank up the stress-o-meter a couple of notches.

But I’d bet that it is stress closer to home—closer to our individual selves—that is wearing us down the most. It is the usual stuff, I’m sure. Papers and projects due, long nights at the office; looking for a job or to get out of a job that gives you the creeps. Moving from one house to a new one; or from one town to a new one. Trying to find a good relationship or get out of a bad one. Caring for a cranky child or a cranky parent. Seeing people we love change in weird ways and wondering how to deal with that.

It is not like these things are new, really. In the Gospel reading, people ask Jesus what they should do to change their lives. And Jesus speaks to them about things that are on their minds. Having the basics for life: clothing, food. Trying to be a good person. Trying to do an excellent job.

Yet knowing that people are and have been in the same boat doesn’t help. The total of all the items on our lists can be impossible to deal with, and, God knows, the burden of all our chores and worries takes way too much energy to bear and doesn’t leave us much for joy, which is the word for today, this third Advent Sunday.

But it is not the quantity of things by itself that stresses us. I don’t stress in anticipation of doing something well, or even doing it OK. So say I’m signed up to make a birthday cake for a friend’s party. If I think I can do that easily, or that if I can’t it doesn’t matter much, or that I can accomplish the same goal by doing something else (like buying a cake), that’s one thing.

But if I think I’m going to mess up, that’s something else. That’s stress. We stress about things when we are afraid we are going to mess up, or might. When we are afraid that if we can’t or don’t come through something bad will happen to us or to people we love or people who count on us. It is not the work. It is not the prospect of the doing itself, it is the fear that we might do it badly. It is that feeling that wakes us up at 5:30 in the morning. That things will go wrong. When we fear we might be bad.

At the center of Christianity is the resurrection of Jesus. The meaning of the resurrection spreads widely throughout the teachings and life of Christian faith. One of the corollaries of the resurrection is that God will make all things new. That what seems to be the end is not, and that we are not condemned by our past. That a way has been made to the future that is different from the past. In the adventure of God, the most horrible thing can butt right up against the more wonderful thing.

And another corollary of the resurrection is that forgiveness is a part of everything that happens between us and God. That God is not only willing to forgive us but that God fervently desires to.

We use the word “forgiveness” so often that we might mistake its power. It means let off the hook, in a big way. Imagine you are on trial for a major crime. Life in prison. Then imagine the verdict is announced: acquitted! That’s like being forgiven. Imagine you have a lump or a sore, and you are afraid that means an invasive cancer. Then imagine the diagnoses is announced: benign! That’s like being forgiven.

The book of Zephaniah from which we heard this morning has only three chapters. The first two are a rant about how bad Judah and its neighbors have been and what jerks they are and how things are destined for a bad end. But then, in the last verses of the book, God acquits the people. The Lord takes away all judgments against them, it says. So “sing aloud, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart.” All their burdens—the lame and the outcast will be saved, the prophets says—will be lifted. The Lord will rejoice over them and be glad.

God forgives us not only because God is good, it seems, but because God is made glad by forgiving us. God is made glad by seeing God’s people—that means you and me—seeing God’s people be joyful.

God will forgive us for the things that we mess up. It is not our job nor are we able to get everything right. Maybe we are overly responsible. (A little proud, even, hesitant to leave things in the hands of others or the hand of God.) You know in advance that God will forgive you. Perhaps you could know in advance that you will forgive yourself if you mess up. Even if you make mistakes, get it wrong, even really wrong. God cut Israel a little slack, and Israel messed up pretty bad. You know that God will cut you a little slack, no matter how much you mess up. Perhaps, knowing that, you can cut yourself a little slack, too. It’s okay. It’s all right.

I’m not saying this is simple to do. I’m not saying that things we do are not important, even really important. (Though not eternally important.) I’m not encouraging people to forsake their duties and commitments or to become cynical about them. God does not say to Israel, “who cares? Not a big deal, guys.” God does say, “It would make me glad to see you full of joy.”

No one likes to see you wake up at 5:30 in the morning full of worries. Not even God.

One way to think about this is: if God will forgive you when you mess up, who are you to dispute God’s judgment? Another way is: if God wants you to have a little fun, maybe you should.

The prophet tells us that God rejoices in our joy. God brings us home, says Zephaniah, and God “will renew you in his love. He will exult over you with loud singing, as on a day of festival.” Like today.

Name Renewed

Text: Jeremiah 33:14-16 December 3, 2006

What is your name?

In the Commonwealth of Massachusetts your name is what you are known by. If you decide to change your name from Fred to Ferdinand you just tell everyone you meet that your name is Ferdinand. And it is. No need to go to court or post listing in the paper or anything like that. According to the law, your name is not unchangeable and inherent, but depends on your actions (telling and using your name) and on your choices. It says something about you, or can.

Historically, names tell about relationships. With your family, for example. So Ericson is son of Eric, Petrova is the daughter of Peter. Or your relationship with your job. So Cooper is a barrel maker, and Stein (meaning stone) is a stone cutter, and Smith is a blacksmith. Or your relationship with your town or place. So the Jesus we follow is Jesus of Nazareth; or more modernly: Kierkegaard, the family that lived by the church, the kierke; or Jack London, from London.

In the time in which Jeremiah prophesied, the people of Israel had become confused about their name, the name of their nation and people. Not the name itself, really, but the significance of it. Not what they were called, but what they were called in the eyes of God and the nations. Their name had been given to them centuries ago by God after Jacob wrestled with an angel. But now, it seems that their relationship was heading for divorce. Having been exiled from Judah, having the Temple—the house for God—destroyed, what did they mean to God, and what did God mean to them? Were they a people of the land? Or of a system of beliefs? Or adherents to some special code? Or nothing special?

In the passage we just heard, Jeremiah tells the people that in the hopes of God the day is soon coming when they will know again who they are. A leader will spring up, says the Lord, who will be just and righteous. And Jerusalem will have a new name: The Lord is our righteousness.

This is kind of a strange name. A little long, but nice. Where do you come from? I come from the place named “The Lord is our righteousness.” That is the name of my community. That is the name of my home. That is the name of my people. It tells us something, like the names of old, Richardson whose dad was Richard, or the Fishers who worked on the sea. It tells us something important about them and about their relationships. It tells us something about how the holder of this name relates to God.

The name “the Lord is our righteousness” means two things. First, it means that when we are looking for righteousness—that is, when we are trying to find out how to live in the best way possible—we look to God, we turn to God. So the name tells us something about ourselves. It tells us on whom we depend. And second, it also means that when we are trying to figure out what God is like and what God intends for and with us, that we know that God is righteous. So the name tells us something about God.

Righteousness does not mean morally blameless (as it is mostly used now). It means truthful, ethical, fair, things in line with what God hoped for when God created the gift of the world and life, the way things were designed to be in the imagination of God. A righteous world is not one in which everyone walks around telling everyone how good they are, being righteous and all, or how good everyone else, probably not righteous, should be. It is a world in which widows and orphans—code words for people who are poor, oppressed, have a hard time functioning or coping—in which the disposed are cared for by those in possession, in which those without power are protected by those in power, in which the strong are peacemakers.

Perhaps “the Lord is our righteousness” would be a good name for us, the world in our time, our culture, ourselves, you and me. We too are confused about our name. All sorts of forces surround us, just as in the time of Jeremiah. And in the time of Jesus that Luke writes about. What shall we be known by? Shall we be known as powerful and rich? Generous and courageous? Self-indulgent? self-sacrificing? What shall we be known by? What name will we choose that tells people to whom we turn? And what name will we choose that tells people what is important about the God we follow?

The rite of baptism that we just celebrated is full of names. We are the devil-renouncers. We are the ignorers of empty promises. We are the redeemed ex-slaves. We are the people freed from the power of sin and death. We are the people who praise God in thanksgiving for the gifts of life. That is who we are.

In baptism we get a new identity. We become known as a Christian. Once people’s first names were known as “Christian” names. Meaning that in baptism one receives a new name to go with the new life. We say that we become members of the body of Christ. We are bearers of a light that shines unmistakably before others.

Advent is a time of repentance, a word that means turning. Turning over a new leaf, in one sense. But in another, more powerful sense, means turning back to view what we have been and to consider whether we might be something else in the future. Something new. It is a good time to think about our real name. Who are we? Who are we really? What is our real name, the name that describes us perfectly in the center of ourselves?

Your name is what you are known by. What name shall that be?

No Exit, Thankfully

Text: Mark 13
Other text: Daniel 12:1-3
November 19, 2006

Robert Pirsig, in his classic book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, coins the term “gumption trap.” A gumption trap is where you find yourself when you have done everything you can and things still don’t work. It happens when you cannot figure out how to get that stupid bearing back in its seat or that rusted retainer off the bolt. But he means it to be more than a mechanic’s frustration. It is a kind of trap of the mind, where all roads seems to be dead ends, where you can’t find your way out of the mess you are in, where it seems that the forces are aligned against you, or at least out of your control. It feels like urgent, anxious desperation.

It is one thing if what you cannot get to fit is bearings and bolts. It is another altogether if it is your life that is not fitting. You can put down the tools and walk away. And sometimes you wish you could do the same with your life. Pack it up and move on. You wish for what some call “the geographic cure.” Escape by change in geography. Change of scene, leaving behind those things that you can’t figure out or repair, as much as you’ve tried. Get out of that troubled relationship. Quit that stupefying job. Change careers. Get off the fast track, or get on it. Flee those classes that you didn’t want to take and that dissertation that has no end. Stop fretting about money. Leave behind those closets and drawers and boxes and hard drives full of stuff. Leave behind the noisy neighbor, the ratty apartment. The unfulfilled ambitions. No place is perfect, but almost any place has got to be better than this place.

Whole nations and cultures and peoples can feel this way, and when they do, a kind of writing called “apocalyptic literature” appears. Stories and myths that are like a cosmic geographic cure. A major change of scene. Stories of whole worlds—of the world—being changed from the foundation up. The destruction of all that is familiar and in its place a new world. In the Bible, parts of the book of Daniel—such as the part we just heard—and much of the book of Revelation, and a few passages in each of the first three Gospels, including the one we just heard from Mark. The world is destroyed in anguish in preparation for a new world. All that hurts us is done away with.

Such stories come from people who live under inescapable oppression, like some of the early Christians under Roman rule. They grow out of endless weariness, when there seems no way out, all solutions exhausted. They are stories of an worn out and beleaguered people. Any place has got to be better than this place.

Some people read these stories as predictions of the end of the world. They see them as portraying a final, cleansing purge. The oppressed are finally vindicated. The good raised up to heaven. God the creator becomes the destroyer. The evil ones are finally punished as they deserve, in suffering, and the world destroyed in violence. The end of time.

But though born out of oppression and despair, apocalyptic stories are not mostly stories of revenge and devastation. They are mostly stories of hope. Hope not for the end of the world, but for a better world. In one sense, they are political stories, stories of liberation from occupying powers and freedom from tyranny. And in another sense, they are personal stories, stories of a new life lived as God intended all people to live, in joy and peace. They are less about the punishment of the wicked (though there is some of that, too) and more about the—at last!—happiness of the good. The hope is not for the end of life but for new life. Not that the people would be pulled out from Israel—that had already happened in the Exile and no one liked that—but that people of Israel would be free.

The heart of the message of the Bible is that God loves the world. Apocalyptic stories do not change that message. They are not stories of destruction but of redemption and restoration. God created the world and named it good. Not good for just a while, not good just until humans messed up or did something really bad. But a good creation.

God loved the world, we read in the Gospel of John. Into that world that God loves came Jesus, the incarnate child of God. God so loved the world, John writes, that God sent Jesus to be in the world. And it was right into the middle of a time of oppression, occupation, poverty, and violence in the world. God came to be with people.

The apocalyptic writers do hope for a big change. But the change is for a new world, not no world. A change here, not in some other geography. A new Jerusalem, one restored to greatness and obedience to God, not the end of Jerusalem. The pangs that Mark writes about (and Paul, too) come before the birth of the world—the world renewed—not ended. They appeal not to a punishing God, but a saving and healing God. They pray, as we do in the Lord’s Prayer, not to be whisked up to heaven before our time but for God’s kingdom on earth, God’s hopes to be fulfilled on earth, as they are in heaven, in our time.

We sing hymns today of plenty, of harvest, of goodness, of God’s gifts in this world. We sing today especially in anticipation of Thanksgiving, but we are always thankful for this earth and for our lives in it, and for God’s presence here among us, and God’s revealed interest in this little speck in the huge universe.

Yet even so, people suffer and people do evil things. And sometimes it causes us to become so weary we cannot stand it. And in those times, we have to think: what do we hope for? Do we hope to be taken out of life or do we want a better life? Are we impatient for the end of creation or a fulfillment of creation’s potential?

There are some who happily, eagerly, read these stories as final judgment and hope for the end of time in our time. It is an understandable reading, because it is born from weariness, frustration, and fear that we all feel. But it is not the hope of the people who wrote or first read these writings.

It is a gumption trap to so quickly conclude that there is no salvation, no solution. It is not what Christians proclaim. We are a people who proclaim that the world will be saved, that we will be healed, that even in the times of despair, Jesus promises new life ahead.

The geographic cure never works. It never works because you bring your life with you wherever you go. And because one place is much like another. And because it doesn’t match your hopes. What you hope for is not that all your enemies will die but that you will live. Not that your troubles will be vaporized but that they will have no more power over you. There are lots of reasons you might leave town—in Boston, there are the cold winters, hot muggy summers, crazy traffic with no road signs—but if in weariness you are looking for the geographic cure, you’d be better off staying here and chatting with God. Because when you are tempted to leave town, what you hope to find is not so much a new town as a new life.

Jesus Weeps

Text: John 11:32-44 November 5, 2006

It is one thing to make an example of your friend. It is another thing altogether to be there at his graveside.

There is a back-story to today’s reading in the Gospel of John. A couple of days earlier someone had brought a message to Jesus. His friend Lazarus was ill. Lazarus was the brother of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed Jesus with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair. The sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” But when Jesus heard about it, he said to his disciples, “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” And therefore, John reports, although Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, he stayed two days longer before he left to see him.

By the time they arrived in Bethany, where Mary and Martha lived, Lazarus was dead. He had been in his tomb for four days. Jesus knew it. He had said earlier to the disciples, “Lazarus is dead.”

Now Jesus stands near the tomb. He is among his best friends, people whom he loves and who love him. It is a scene of death. Lazarus, his friend, is dead. It is a scene of sorrow. Mary and Martha grieve and weep in mourning, loud and wailing. They say to him, each one in the same words, first Martha, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Then Mary, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” It is unclear whether they are accusing Jesus. Or what they thought he might have done. Some people were heard to wonder: this Jesus made the blind see. Could not he have kept Lazarus from dying. Did Jesus think: They are right. I could have, and I didn’t.

Jesus wept. Not wailing, not like formal mourners at the graveside. The word John uses is different for Jesus. Mary and Martha wailed. Jesus wept quietly. He shed tears, we might say. He shed tears when he saw the sorrow of Mary and Martha and all the crowd, also, who had come to mourn. Who would not have wept?

For John, the Gospel writer, everything Jesus does points to the divine. John is not particularly interested in the humanity of Jesus. Unlike Mark, whom we have been hearing from this year, who loves the person of Jesus. John loves the God in Jesus. The first part of the Gospel of John is called by scholars the book of signs, signs that point to Jesus’ amazing godliness. And the second part is known as the book of glory, meaning the execution and resurrection of Jesus. For John, everything has another meaning.

But in spite of that, the human Jesus sometimes escapes the words of John and reveals the part of Jesus that we know is in him. He sneaks out from behind the curtain and shows himself. Jesus is about to raise Lazarus from death, a miracle if there ever was one, and a prequel to his own resurrection. It is a time of sign and of glory. Yet Jesus weeps silently.

Why does Jesus weep? Does he weep for his friends Martha and Mary in mourning? Does he weep for the loss of his friend Lazarus? Does he weep because he thinks he could have done something sooner? Does he weep because he is Jesus, who cannot put friends before duty? Who knows why he weeps? He weeps for all these things and more.

When someone you love dies, there is so much to weep for. For your loss, and for the sorrow of your friends who survive, and in regret for things you wished you had done—that call, that apology, that forgiveness, loving more, saying more—and in dismay in the ending of things that you cannot prevent.

Jesus weeps. But Jesus is also angry. Greatly disturbed in spirit, according to the reading. But “really ticked off” might be another way to say it. The word means angry. It comes from a word in Greek that sounds like the sound an angry horse makes. He is angry when he first sees Mary and the others. And again, when he stands in front of the tomb. This is not a moment of glory for Jesus, even though he is about to gloriously raise a man from the dead. This is not a moment Jesus seeks out, not something Jesus is thrilled about.

Lazarus is not an example, he is Jesus’ friend. John sees the death of Lazarus as a means to an end. Jesus sees death, just death.

It is right to be angry at death. There is nothing good about it. Perhaps we can see beyond death. To the rest it brings a tired and troubled soul. To the resurrection which we have been promised. To the returning of our bodies to the earth. But death itself? It is right to be angry.

God hates death. Though it is always risky to claim to know what God thinks, it seems to me that the life of Jesus, God in human flesh, shows us that God hates death. Why else come as Jesus to free us from the power of death? Death makes Jesus angry, makes God angry. Greatly disturbs God in the spirit. Agitates God.

Someday, we read in Isaiah and someday, we read in Revelation, there will be no more death. No death to greet with sorrow and anger. But at the moment death is with us. If I recall correctly, there is not a story in the Bible or tradition in which God keeps anyone from dying. Not even Jesus.

Death is serious business. In spite of Jesus’ knowledge of the ways of heaven and earth, he does not relish his own execution. In spite of the impending miracle of Lazarus brought back to life, Jesus is angry. In spite of our conviction of eternal life in God, we dread death.

Death is not nothing to Jesus. It is dreadful. God does not promise in the short term to take away death. But Jesus does promise that we need not fear it. We can cry in sorrow and anger at death. We would be crazy not to. Jesus does.

But we do not have to give ourselves up to its power to rule us through fear. Death is flimsy. Death does not have the last word.

The fact of death greatly disturbs us in spirit. But the power of death is weak. Jesus does not ask us to believe that death is insignificant. But in the face of God’s power and reach, care and compassion, and eternal friendship, it does not signify much.

Reformation On-going

Text: John 8:31-35
October 29, 2006

This is a big day for Martin Luther. We sing hymns that he wrote, and we hear his words quoted. The Lutheran church worldwide is especially proud of Martin Luther on this day, and will celebrate the day more energetically than most other Protestant denominations. You would be forgiven if you thought that the name of this day was Martin Luther Sunday.

But it is not. This is Reformation Sunday. What we celebrate today is The Reformation. That period about 500 years ago when the unity of the formal Christian church was shattered. Though there had been major splits in the church before, in the Reformation the very idea of what the Christian church was made of changed. It wasn’t Luther who made this happen. Forces were already weakening the Roman church. Luther was just the right man in the right place.

Lutherans and other Protestant churches celebrate the Reformation because that was the time of their incubation. Without the Reformation there would be no Lutherans or Methodists or UCC or Disciples of Christ or Baptists or any of the hundreds and maybe thousands of Christian denominations.

Not everybody sees this as good news, all these little grouping of Christians, and during the Reformation most people thought the upheaval in the church was bad news. Luther himself was unhappy about how things went. He was not interested in breaking the church apart. He would have not been pleased to see a denomination named after him, as we Lutherans have done. “What is Luther,” he said, “After all, the teaching is not mine. Neither was I crucified for anyone.”

Luther sought reform, not replacement. He was a “work in the system” kind of guy. The system was broken, he thought, and he had a few ideas about what was wrong and how to fix it. But he was surprised at what he helped cause. For a long time he thought that if the Pope were only made aware of the problems in the church, he would move to fix them and everything would be ok again. Luther’s early letters to the Pope are heartbreaking and naïve, saying essentially, “I think you are a great guy; why are you letting these bad things happen?”

When we see how the Christian churches are going at each other, we might join Luther in having mixed feelings. So what we celebrate today is not so much the period of the Reformation (capital R) but the idea of reformation (lower case r).

All organizations need reforming from time to time. Good starts and good intentions break down either because an organization forgets its mission or allows it to be corrupted, or because the mission is good but the implementation is not. So a hospital may begin to think that its mission is to make money for its shareholders instead of caring for people. Or a government may begin to think that its mission is to protect the holdings of the rich few instead of the well-being of the many. Or a church may begin to think that its mission is to keep things orderly, privileged, and successful instead of to bring about God’s realm of peace, healing, and justice.

Or the mission may be on track and the execution not. So the hospital may harm people through poor controls and standards, or the government through corruption and cowardice, or the church through greediness for power, success, and admiration.

The church exists so that people may know God. Worship and teaching and service and music and all the other things we do provide ways for people to know God, each person in his or her own way. There is no single path to knowing God, so the church’s most important task is to say what it knows and share what it experiences and teach what it has figured out so far and to nourish people in their faith, and then to get out of the way. The church’s most constant job is to remove barriers between people and God.

We are slaves, as Jesus says, to many things in this world. His audience takes him literally and protests. We are not and have never been slaves to anybody, they say. But Jesus knows that our masters are many. What are the things that boss you around? What are the things that keep you from doing what you know is right? What are the things that make you do what you know is wrong? Those are our masters. When fear is strong in us, we are not ourselves. We are someone else’s. We belong to someone, something else. “A slave to sin” is another way to say this. It feels sometimes is as if we were trying to get through a door, except there is this big guy in our way, blocking the passage. Or as if people have put up Jersey barriers, like they do in construction projects, and our way which seems like it should be short, direct, and pleasant winds all around in annoying detours.

The job of the church is to make those barriers ineffective. Either by removing them, or by showing us that they are not really substantial and permanent, just flimsy and fake. Margaret Payne, the bishop of the New England Synod, wrote about the job of the church this way: “By means of worship, courage, compassion, and teaching, to remove all barriers that resist God’s transforming power.”

All too often, though, the church does the opposite. It puts up barriers. You can’t come in, it says, because of the rules, because of the way you are, because of the way we are. So Paul writes in Romans about how the rules of the church in his should not be used to keep out the pagans who wish to follow Jesus. So Luther speaks out against a church that insisted on mediating between God and people. So Paul extends access to the church to gentiles so that all might follow Jesus. And Luther translates the Bible into the everyday language of the people so all might hear the word of God.

A theologian writes about the ongoing nature of faith. “Now, faith, is a living thing … It is not a once-for-all accomplishment. It is not a possession, like a Visa card, that some have and others don’t. It is an ongoing response to God, to the world, to life. It is therefore a matter of decision—taken not once, but over and over again.” So the church, grounded in faith, and renewed through trust in the ongoing and often surprising guidance of God, is formed over and over again.

In a moment [ ... ] will be installed as the vicar here at Faith. She will take on a role as a leader in the Lutheran church. And she will take another step on her path that, God willing, will lead her to ordained ministry.

[ ... ], there is no perfect church that calls you. There is no church known by human beings that is right now complete and true. There is only—as Luther and his friends wrote— there is only an assembly of those who gather to hear the gospel of Jesus and to share in his supper. There is only a church that works daily, over and over again, to free people from the barriers that keep us from God. There is only a church in constant reformation.