The Fifth Sunday in Lent - April 2

A Few Things to Say About Death

Ezekiel 37:1-14

John 11:1-45

Writing about today’s readings another preacher says:

We Christians have some very distinctive, and some very special, things to say about death—about both real, physical death and about the other deaths, the little deaths, the endings and changes and losses that we seem constantly to be experiencing. In fact, we say much the same thing about both types of death. What that is can be found in both Ezekiel and John.  (The Rev. James Liggett, HERE.)

We just heard the reading from Ezekiel and from John’s Gospel.  Death is front and center in both readings.  Ezekiel tells the story of the valley of the dry bones and the Gospel is about the death and raising of Lazarus.

From Ezekiel:  The hand of the Lord came upon me, and he brought me out by the spirit of the Lord and set me down in the middle of a valley; it was full of bones. He led me all around them; there were very many lying in the valley, and they were very dry.

They were very dry.  We are meant to understand that they are long dead.  There is absolutely no remnant of flesh or life within them.  Even the bones convey their powerlessness:  our hope is lost.

In the reading from Ezekiel we look upon the reality and power of death.

It’s a similar perspective in the Gospel.  Lazarus is dead.  Jesus’ delay ensures that we know Lazarus is dead.  After Jesus heard that his friend Lazarus was sick did Jesus’ really intentionally delay so that Lazarus would die and Jesus could then perform the miracle?  Maybe, although I certainly have trouble with that picture.  Maybe this is all on John.  Lazarus did die before Jesus arrived.  And maybe the way John tells the story has to do with John’s intense focus on Jesus’ work.  John wants to shine the spotlight brightly and solely on Jesus’ “sign.”  For John these signs are even more than miracles that prove Jesus’ power.  They point to God, revealing God’s presence in Jesus and the nature of God’s care for people.

In any case, Jesus arrives the fourth day after Lazarus died.  In the Bible after three days, hope is lost.  Jewish spirituality of the time taught that the soul lingered for three days near the body, but now it is gone.  Decay has begun.  Lazarus is dead.

To introduce a touch of levity, I’m reminded of the early scene in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy’s house has landed on the witch.  The munchkin coroner sings:

As Coroner I must aver,

I thoroughly examined her.

And she's not only merely dead,

she's really most sincerely dead.

In John’s Gospel we are meant to understand that Lazarus is not only merely dead, he’s really most sincerely dead.

These readings show us death in all of its inescapable power.  They do not brush death away as insignificant or of no concern to people of faith.  Death is real.  And it is powerful.  More powerful than we are.

We Christians have some very distinctive, and some very special, things to say about death.  And the first thing we say is that death is real and it is powerful.

But the second thing we say is that the breath and the word of God are more powerful than death.  God breathes life even into death.

God’s breath, through the prophet Ezekiel, breathes life into the very dry bones of Israel.  Into bones long, long dead and without hope.

And Jesus’ words bring life again to Lazarus.

We Christians have some very distinctive, and some very special, things to say about death.  Death is stronger than we are.  God is stronger than death. 

And we say these things both about real, physical death and about the other deaths, the little deaths, the endings and changes and losses that we seem constantly to be experiencing.  God brings resurrection after physical death.  God also brings life after all of the other real, significant deaths we face and experience throughout our lives.

When Jesus in today’s Gospel says, I am the resurrection and I am the life, maybe that’s not just two ways of saying the same thing.  Maybe Jesus is saying two related, but different things.  I am resurrection after physical death.  And I am life, now, after the spiritual and personal deaths we experience in our daily lives. 

In all of these stories we’ve been hearing from John’s Gospel, Jesus is speaking on several levels.  When he talks with Nicodemus about being born again, he means being born again spiritually.  When Jesus talks about being the bread of life, he’s talking about spiritual sustenance.  When Jesus tells the woman at the well that he is living water, he means that he can quench the yearnings of our soul.  And today he is not just talking about life after physical death, he is also (perhaps even more importantly) talking about spiritual life.

Jesus is talking about renewing life after the little deaths, the endings and changes and losses that afflict us all.  Jesus is talking about restoring our soul when sin—pride or greed has killed our soul within.  Grief.  Jesus brings new life to all of  the pockets of darkness and death within us that keep us from knowing the abundant life that is God’s hope for us in this life.

So as we look at those places of darkness and death within us, let us pray the words of the hymn:  Breathe on me, breath of God.  Fill me with life anew.

Remembering Lazarus, let us cry to Jesus:  Unbind me.  Let me go.

We Christians have some very distinctive, and some very special, things to say about death.  Death is stronger than we are.  But God is stronger than death.  And God’s breath, Jesus’ word speak life even into death.

The Fourth Sunday in Lent - March 26

The Lord is My Shepherd

Psalm 23

I wonder how many of you have ever seen a real shepherd.  If the Bible didn’t mention them would you give them any thought at all?  It’s funny that we cherish an image so deeply that is not a part of our own experience at all.

The image of the good shepherd is a common one in the Bible.  It occurs first in the Old Testament where it is a description of what a godly ruler should look like.  At one point in the history of God’s people, the monarchy in Jerusalem has failed, so God decides to step in.  Speaking through the prophet Ezekiel:

For thus says the Lord God: I myself will search for my sheep, and will seek them out. [Since the King isn’t!] I myself will be the shepherd of my sheep, and I will make them lie down, says the Lord God. I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak, but the fat and the strong I will destroy. I will feed them with justice (Ezekiel 34:11, 15-16).

King David is seen as one who will fulfill this role of godly king as good shepherd.  Maybe that’s why the lectionary gives us Psalm 23 the same day we hear about the anointing of David.  (We’ll pray Psalm 23 again in just a few weeks on “Good Shepherd Sunday” in Easter season when Jesus refers to himself as the Good Shepherd.)

Psalm 23 is certainly the most popular of all the psalms in the psalter.  If people only one piece of the Bible, it’s likely to be the 23^rd psalm.  One writer has called it essential for daily living for people of faith.

To help hear this familiar psalm with fresh ears, I want to read a different translation.  This is by a modern Hebrew scholar who tries to capture both the meaning and the spirit of the Hebrew poetry (The Book of Psalms, Robert Alter).

The Lord is my shepherd,

            I shall not want.

In grass meadows He makes me lie down,

            by quiet waters guides me.

My life He brings back,

            He leads me on pathways of justice for His name’s sake.

[My life He brings back.  Though “He restoreth my soul” is time-honored, the Hebrew nefesh does not mean “soul” but “life breath” or “life.”  The image is of someone who has almost stopped breathing and is revived, brought back to life.]

Though I walk in the vale of death’s shadow,

            I fear no harm,

                        for You are with me.

Your rod and Your staff—

            it is they that console me.

You set out a table before me

            in the face of my foes.

You moisten my head with oil,

            my cup overflows.

[You moisten my head with oil.  The verb here, dishen, is not the one that is used for anointment, and its associations are sensual rather than sacramental.  Etymologically, it means something like “to make luxuriant.”  This verse, then, lists all the physical elements of a happy life—a table laid out with good things to eat, a head of hair well rubbed with olive oil, and an overflowing cup of wine.]

Let but goodness and kindness pursue me

            all the days of my life.

And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord

            for many long days.

[for many long days.  This concluding phrase catches up the reference to “all the days of my life” in the preceding line.  It does not mean “forever”; the viewpoint of the poem is in and of the here and now and is in no way eschatological.  The speaker hopes for a happy fate all his born days, and prays for the good fortune to abide in the Lord’s sanctuary—a place of security and harmony with the divine—all, or perhaps at least most, of those days.]

The 23^rd psalm is one of just five psalms that are identified as “trust” psalms (Psalms, Walter Bruggemann, William H. Bellinger, Jr.).   (Probably the second most popular psalm, 121 “I lift up my eyes to the hills”, is another.)

We think of this psalm as a source of comfort.  But the perspective that the psalmist is expressing is one of deep trust.  Trust in the presence and goodness of God.

An important thing to note about psalms of trust is that they always start from a place of distress.  They are spoken and prayed out of a place of danger, threat, uncertainty or fear.  Trust is expressed in the midst of distress.

Another thing to note about Psalm 23 is that it starts out describing God in the third person.  “The Lord” is my shepherd.  Then it moves to second person, “You” are with me.  These words are spoken by someone who has a close relationship with God.  This is an intimate conversation.

You are with me.  In the midst of my distress, you are with me.

And because you are with me.

I fear no harm.

I shall not want.

In the presence of God I do not fear and I lack for nothing.  God’s presence stills my fears and fulfills my needs.

We spend a lot of time fearing and wanting. 

The psalm describes a different sort of life where fears are quieted and wants dissolve.  You are with me.  I fear no harm.  I shall not want.

Not surprisingly, there are lots of hymn settings of Psalm 23.  They describe this life in God’s presence.

I nothing lack if I am his and he is mine for ever.

The Lord my God my shepherd is; how could I want or need?

How do we make the psalmist’s words our words?  How do we truly pray this psalm in our own first person?

First, we need to face and acknowledge the places of distress or anxiety in our own lives.   We need to see and name the fears and threats we face and our longing for God’s presence with us.

And then, with the psalmist’s words to guide us we may grow in trust.  Our own trust in God’s presence and goodness and care will grow out of the psalmist’s experience and conviction.

I think also about the Communion of Saints.  We’re talking about saints in the Lent study class.  And I think of all of the voices past and present who pray this psalm.  The millions of voices who have said these words with conviction and hope, their voices affirming the deep truth of their trust in God.  For me, those voices are both reassurance and invitation.  An invitation to join with them in faith and trust and prayer.

For these words to be ours, we also need to know them.  If someone didn’t make you memorize the 23^rd psalm when you were younger, now is the time.  The translation doesn’t matter.  If the King James is your favorite, it’s easy enough to find.  Learn the words and make them yours in daily life.

The Third Sunday in Lent - March 19

A Conversation

John 4:5-42

I have a set of books that are commentaries on different books of the Bible.  They are written by Biblical scholars, but specifically intended for preachers.  The one on John’s Gospel (Gerard Sloyan, Interpretation Commentary) says this about today’s Gospel reading about Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well:

Belief in Jesus by a religiously ostracized group is what the story is about.  Hence all moralizing about the woman’s irregular life or Jesus’ relations with women, interesting as they are, are not especially useful as an exposition of the text.  The story is about religious tensions and a church which, in its origins, sought to overcome them, even while the attempt itself caused new tensions.  John 4 should be preached in the spirit in which it was written.  If it is not, the Gospel is betrayed.

The Gospel story is about coming to faith and about reconciliation in the midst of religious tensions.  Jews and Samaritans had a common heritage but they had become estranged over religious practice.  The Samaritan women and other Samaritans came to faith in Jesus and the healing of a deep family feud over religion was begun.

But what actually happens in this morning’s long Gospel reading?  Jesus and the Samaritan woman have a conversation.  They have a conversation.

No demands are made.  No judgment is passed.

It’s a conversation.

When was the last time you had a meaningful, significant conversation?

Two things make this conversation meaningful and significant.  First, they both bring themselves to the conversation—both Jesus and the woman express some level of authenticity, need, vulnerability.  Both are thirsty, deeply yearning for refreshment.  And both need help and express that need.  Second, they listen, acknowledging the personhood of the other.  So often we seem to have lost the ability to listen, to respect the words of others.  The woman in particular asks good questions, and listens, trying to understand the answers.

We need more of those sorts of conversations.  Certainly in our political lives right now.  The church can and should be the place to model these sorts of respectful, meaning, significant, conversations.  But we need them, too, in our personal relationships and, perhaps most to the point this morning, in our spiritual lives.

Karoline Lewis teaches preaching at the Lutheran Seminary in St. Paul.  She describes some of the qualities of what she calls “holy conversations” (Working Preacher, HERE).

1)   Mutual vulnerability.

2)   Second, questions are critical to conversation. Not questions that have already decided on the right answers. Not questions that are asked only to feign manners. No, questions that communicate curiosity, an interest in the other, a longing for information and understanding. The woman at the well is full of questions, thoughtful questions, questions that matter and lead Jesus to reveal to her who he really is. Jesus affirms questions, even invites them. God wants us to ask questions because it is questions that strengthen relationship.

3)   Holy conversations take time.  I couldn’t find the reference this week, but I read once that this is Jesus’ longest conversation with an individual that is recounted in Scripture.  Holy conversations cannot be rushed.

4)   In a holy conversation, we should expect to be surprised, to learn something we did not know before.  And we should expect to be changed, to grow.

So I encourage you:  have a conversation about faith with someone.  If we were to model Jesus’ practice in this morning’s Gospel, that conversation should be with a conservative born-again Christian or a strict Catholic, someone with whom we share a common heritage of faith but have become estranged over religious practice.  A holy, meaningful, conversation, though, does take mutuality.  And that can be a challenge, but don’t let that deter you (or serve as an excuse).

Consider a friend or family member.  Have a conversation about faith.

If you have a hard time thinking about getting started, I want to tell you about a neat organization—Story Corps.  Some of you are probably aware of it.  They record and preserve conversations and stories, meaningful and significant conversations and stories.  If you listen to NPR in the mornings you have heard some of the recorded conversations.

It began in 2003 with a recording booth in Grand Central Station.  There’s one now here in Chicago, too, at the Cultural Center downtown.  Here’s their mission statement (From their website, HERE).

StoryCorps’ mission is to preserve and share humanity’s stories in order to build connections between people and create a more just and compassionate world.  We do this to remind one another of our shared humanity, to strengthen and build the connections between people, to teach the value of listening, and to weave into the fabric of our culture the understanding that everyone’s story matters.

They don’t mention Jesus, but that’s a pretty Christian mission statement.

They talk about how they have found, over the years, that the key to great conversations is asking great questions.  So they have suggestions.  For conversations about family, school, relationships, war, or religion.

• Can you tell me about your religious beliefs/spiritual beliefs? What is your religion?
• Have you experienced any miracles?
• What was the most profound spiritual moment of your life?
• Do you believe in God?
• Do you believe in the after-life? What do you think it will be like?
• When you meet God, what do you want to say to Him?

Good questions are the beginning of holy, meaningful, significant conversations.  Meaningful, significant conversations are beginnings for much more.  The beginning or deepening of relationships.  The beginning of faith for the Samaritan woman.  The beginning of reconciliation amid religious tension and difference.

So give it a try!  Have a conversation about faith with someone.

First Sunday in Lent - March 5

Trusting God

Genesis 2:15-17, 3:1-7

Matthew 4:1-11

The season of Lent began a few days ago on Ash Wednesday.  Today is the first Sunday in Lent.  On this first Sunday in Lent the Gospel reading is always one of the accounts of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness.

Matthew tells us that immediately following his baptism, Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness where he was tempted or tested by Satan.

We all know what temptation is.  We know what it feels like.  The internal tug or urge to do something that we know is not right.   It’s the voice or push inside of us to do something we know we shouldn’t.

In our daily lives, temptation is often associated with relatively innocuous things….  like dessert.  Although we can also face very significant temptations.

Was Jesus actually tempted?  We know Satan tried to tempt him.  But did he feel that internal tug of temptation?  He might have; he was fully human as we are, but we don’t know.  Many commentators have noted that what the devil offered certainly might have been tempting to Jesus.  But none of the Gospel accounts say that Jesus struggled or wrestled to overcome what the tempter offered…

What Jesus clearly did do was choose to trust the Word of God over the words of the devil.

Whether or not Jesus is overcoming temptation in this passage, he is clearly modeling trust.  For me, it’s helpful to think about this passage as being as much about trust as temptation.  It challenges us to ask:  which voice do you trust?  Who do you trust to really have your best interests at heart?  Do you trust God over the voices of the world and the devil?

Real trust has to be earned.  It’s important to differentiate between obedience and trust.  Obedience can be enforced “from above” by anyone with power.  The parent or boss can enforce obedience by saying:  Follow my orders or else there will be consequences…  no dessert for you…  no promotion or new opportunities for you…  It’s tempting sometimes to think of God in these terms, as one who enforces obedience.  But I think God is much more interested in earning our trust than in enforcing our obedience.

Trust, which is given, “from below” must be earned.  By the child, for example, with a loving parent who learns, over time, that the “rules” are always intended for the child’s wellbeing and that they may trust the parent’s love and care.  Or by our consistent experiences over time of God’s love and care that show us that God is trustworthy.

In this context, I feel for Adam and Eve.  I don’t take that story literally, but as it’s told they are brand new human beings, naïve and innocent, without any life experience.  One voice says to them: “Don’t eat of the tree because I say so.”  Another voice quite reasonably says: “the tree is good for food, a delight to the eyes, and it is desired to make one wise.”  Without any past experience to help them decide which voice to trust, it’s not surprising they made the wrong choice.

Trust is built, earned, given.

Was it easy for Jesus’ to trust God?  Probably not always, but he had the experience of his intimate relationship with the Father to anchor that trust. 

So I’m left with two questions or reflections for what this might mean for us.

First, do we give God a chance to earn our trust?  We have to listen to God’s Word, follow God’s guidance over some period of time before our experience will teach us that God is trustworthy.  We can’t just stand on the sidelines.   We have to participate in a relationship with God before God can earn our trust.  Do we give God that chance?

There’s a wonderful prayer in the Book of Common Prayer.  It’s titled “For young people,” but it’s appropriate for everyone.

God our Father, you see your children growing up in an unsteady and confusing world (that’s all of us!):  Show them that your ways give more life than the ways of the world, and that following you is better than chasing after selfish goals.

Lent is a time to intentionally draw closer to God’s ways…  a time to read and meditate on God’s Word….   a time to focus more clearly on following God guidance, rather than chasing after selfish goals.  Does your Lenten discipline draw you closer to God so that you may experience God’s love and deepen your trust in God’s care?  If the experiences of Lent do draw us closer to God we will grow in trust that his ways do, in fact, give more life than the ways of the world.

Second, do the actions of our lives show others that God is trustworthy?  Will other people see in us the positive fruits of a life lived trusting in God?  Each of us has the potential to help others come to a place in their lives of trust in God’s love and goodness.  We can be a part of other peoples’ experience that teaches them that God is trustworthy.

Ash Wednesday - March 1

Telling the Truth

The structure of this Ash Wednesday service is unique, but at a typical celebration of the Eucharist on Sunday morning right after the opening dialogue of greeting between the celebrant and people we pray a prayer called the collect for purity.

Almighty God to you all hearts are open, all desires known, and from you no secrets are hid:  Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you, and worthily magnify your holy Name; through Christ our Lord.

We call it the collect for purity because the intercession, the primary prayer, the action we seek from God is cleansing.  Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts.  Purify us as we prepare to come before you in worship.

But I often get hung up a bit on the first part of the prayer, the introductory part. Almighty God to you all hearts are open, all desires known, and from you no secrets are hid.

There’s a lot there!  I suspect that if we really focus on this prayer we hope that God will purify us without anyone really having to look too closely or specifically at our hearts, desires or secrets.  Or we certainly hope that God will cleanse us without disclosing our secrets.  Most of the time, we prefer our hearts closed, our deep desires unknown to the broader world and we definitely like our secrets to remain hidden.

Our sincere prayer might be something more like:  Almighty God, cleanse us if you can, but please hide our insecurities, our mistakes, our shortcomings.  Hide anything about us that seems to make us “less,” in our own eyes or the eyes of the world.   Keep the secrets of our sins hidden.

In a recent reflection on Ash Wednesday in the Christian Century, Nurya Love Parish talks about the first Ash Wednesday service she ever attended.  She was in her twenties and describes herself at that time as a “spiritual tourist.”  She had grown up without any religious practice, but had become captivated by spiritual exploration. 

That exploration took her to a church in Boston on Ash Wednesday for a service using the traditional Christian liturgy for Ash Wednesday. 

I’ll never forget sitting in that old box pew, watching as people went up for the imposition of ashes.  I realized something:  this was a place where people told the truth.  The liturgy made them do it.  They told the truth about themselves—that they were mortal, that they were sinners, that they were scared.

I had been a lot of places in my first twentysome years of life.  I had never been anywhere quite as truthful as that Ash Wednesday liturgy.

The Ash Wednesday liturgy makes people tell the truth.  No secrets are hid.

We are mortal.  We are sinners.  And often we are scared.

Paradoxically, I think a big part of the appeal of this service, this Ash Wednesday liturgy is the power of its truth-telling.  The truth is laid bare.

Today, in these words, there is no wiggle room, no conditional mistakes or excuses.

You are dust.  Remember that you are dust.  And to dust you shall return.

We are sinners.  A little later in this service we will say the litany of penitence.  This is the only service in which we say this litany.  (We’re permitted to use it at other times, but choose not to.)  Listen to the words.  Listen to the litany of sins that we own.  These are our words.  Our truth.

Also in this liturgy, right after the imposition of ashes, we will say together Psalm 51.  I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.  We proclaim the truth.

We are mortal.  We are profound sinners.  Those are important truths that are spoken in this liturgy.  Yet our mortality and sinfulness are not the most important truth we say today.  We proclaim our dependence upon God.  Our dependence upon God.

Without God, we are nothing more than dust.  Without God, we are nothing but miserable sinners.

But with God…

With God, we are more.  By God’s grace, we are given new and contrite hearts, fullness of life and wholeness of soul, renewal and reconciliation that overcome death and estrangement.

Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, you desire not the death of sinner, but rather that we may turn from our wickedness and live…

The Ash Wednesday liturgy proclaims that truth as well.

The Fifth Sunday in Lent - March 13

Being Prodigal

John 12:1-8

Jesus commends Mary for being prodigal.  In today’s Gospel reading Jesus commends Mary for being prodigal.

Many of you will remember that last week, preaching on the so-called parable of the prodigal son, I talked about God’s prodigal mercy and forgiveness towards us.

This week Mary is prodigal in her actions with Jesus.

This week I actually looked up prodigal in the dictionary.  It means: spending money or resources freely and recklessly; wastefully extravagant.

It’s only our lectionary that brings last week’s Gospel reading together with this week’s.  They come from different Gospels.  The parable is in Luke; today we’re in John.  And the settings in Jesus’ ministry are different.  In both, of course, Jesus is teaching those near to him.  And, from our vantage point, we know that in both Jesus’ face is already set towards Jerusalem.  The cross is within view.

The chronology of Jesus’ passion is a bit different in John than in the synoptic Gospels.  In John’s Gospel the story we heard this morning takes place just before Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, only days before his crucifixion.  It is set in Bethany, just across the Kidron valley from Jerusalem.

Mary’s anointing of Jesus is the focus of this reading.  It’s probably worth noting that it is clearly Mary of Bethany, sister of Martha (and not Mary Magdalene as often shown in popular depictions), who is the actor in this story.

In Jesus’ day there were several reasons for anointing:  Anointing for a purpose, king’s or prophet’s heads were anointed as a symbol of the special purpose or power to which they were called.  Anointing was done for healing, as it continues to be today.  And bodies were anointed after death for burial.

Mary anoints Jesus’ feet using a pound of pure nard.  Historians say that would have cost the equivalent of a year’s salary for a typical laborer in that day.  Nothing about this story is “practical.”  None of it really makes sense even within the context of contemporary rituals.  Mary uses way too much perfume.  And why Jesus’ feet?  There is no precedent for that.  (Some scholars suggest it is to distinguish this anointing from a prophetic or messianic anointing…  maybe)  And then she wipes it off with her hair.

Mary’s action has no practical or ritual meaning.  It seems to foretell Jesus’ coming death, but the main point of the action is simply Mary’s act of prodigal care for Jesus.  Mary’s prodigal act of care for Jesus.

And Jesus tells them not to criticize her for it.  It’s OK to be prodigal towards Jesus.  To recklessly “waste” a pound of costly perfume.  Just because.  Just because it’s Jesus.

Last week the story was about God’s prodigal mercy, love, and forgiveness towards us.  Given to us not measuring our worth or counting the cost.  God is carelessly, recklessly, prodigally merciful towards us.

This week the story is about Mary’s prodigal care for Jesus.

Maybe prodigality is a good thing in our relationship with God.  Maybe prodigal acts are a quality of that relationship.  Not only in God’s actions towards us, but in ours towards God.

I don’t do prodigality easily.  Being wasteful or reckless are not good things in my world.  And I’m not suggesting that we should be prodigal in all aspects of our lives.  I’m NOT saying that Christians should be wasteful or reckless in everything we do.  We are called to be good stewards, to honor with reverence the gifts we have been given in life.

But maybe in this one area…  in our relationship with God.  Maybe in this one area, it’s good to be prodigal.

After all, our relationship with God is formed of God’s unfathomable, limitless love.  And it’s a relationship that exists in eternity, time without end.   Why not be prodigal?

What does that mean for us?  To be prodigal within the context of our relationship with God?  To act prodigally in our love for God?  To recklessly express our relationship with God?

Our money and material gifts are certainly a part of how we express our relationship with God, as it was for Mary, but that’s just one piece and maybe not the most important thing I’m thinking about.

How about being prodigal in praise?  Not limiting in any way our extravagant praise of God.

Or being prodigal in what we bring of ourselves to our relationship with God.  Our hopes, our fears, the things that matter most to us.  Recklessly risking all that we are in the context of our relationship with God.  Not keeping any of our life separate from God; holding nothing back.

Or being prodigal in our service of others who bear the image of Christ.  Recognizing Christ present in others and seeing the way we treat others as a part of our relationship with God.  And expressing that relationship with prodigal service.

As I said, prodigality doesn’t come naturally to me.  I’m still thinking about what this may mean for me, and I hope you will ponder what it might mean for you.

The Fourth Sunday in Lent - March 6

Unconditional Forgiveness

2 Corinthians 5:16-21

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

Last week I mentioned how well the words of the Ash Wednesday liturgy capture the meaning of Lent.  But there are some words in that liturgy that often give me pause.  We all say the sweeping and profound Litany of Penitence, naming the many ways we sinfully fall short of God’s hope for us.  The litany is followed by the absolution where we affirm that God “pardons and absolves all those who truly repent, and with sincere hearts believe his holy Gospel.”

Those who “truly” repent and those whose faith is “sincere.”  Those words make God’s pardon sound conditional.  Not only must we repent, we must “truly” repent and we must have sincere faith, as well.  We have to meet those conditions before God forgives or absolves.  And how true must our repentance be?  How do we measure the sincerity of our faith?  How do we know if we’ve met God’s conditions?  The idea that God’s forgiveness is conditional on some standard we must meet troubles me.

Today’s epistle and Gospel readings suggest God’s forgiveness is unconditional.

Unconditional forgiveness.  What do you think about unconditional forgiveness?

The Ash Wednesday absolution always makes anxious, worrying about what criteria are necessary to qualify for God’s forgiveness.  But I am also uncomfortable in the world of unconditional forgiveness.  Unconditional.  Forgiveness given by God without any requirements, conditions, or expectations for that forgiveness.

Looking first at the epistle.  Paul’s relationship with the church in Corinth is troubled.  It’s become personal.  They have challenged his ministry and his authority; he has written back expressing hurt and defending his ministry.  Everybody feels hurt and wronged.  Some of the really puffed up disciples in Corinth commend Paul’s chastisement (of others) but rebuke his gentleness at the same time.  He can’t win.

In the midst of this very messy situation, Paul writes this meditation on forgiveness and grace that we heard this morning.  It’s a meditation on God’s grace and forgiveness.  Remember this line in particular, “in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them.”  Not counting their trespass against them.

What follows is my second-hand interpretation of a summary of a theologian’s reflection on God’s forgiveness (David E. Frederickson summarizing John D. Caputo HERE).  Paul talks about no longer looking at the world from a human point of view.  There are two ways to think about forgiveness:  the human way and the divine way that Paul is describing in this passage.

The human view of forgiveness depends on reasons, excuses, or confession;  it is conditional.  These conditions in a sense “buy” back the debt incurred through the injury.  The wrong doer confesses, explains, compensates and then forgiveness is granted.  It’s a transaction that depends upon the sinner meeting the required conditions.  God’s forgiveness, however, seeks to exist apart from any economic consideration. It seeks to be pure and absolute. Its logic, against the logic of common sense, demands that only the unforgivable can be forgiven, only that which is not forgotten, blotted out, cleansed, or purified, can be given back to the wrong doer as a gift with no strings attached. If one is moved to forgive based on the repentance of the offender or some proclivity of the sinner which excuses the wrong then it ceases to be forgiveness. Likewise, forgiveness offered because it heals the one who forgives (which may indeed happen) is no longer forgiveness in the strict sense. Forgiveness requires there be no reason for it. It must be a pure gift.

The human way of looking at forgiveness is as a transaction, conditional.  For God, it is pure gift.  Forgiveness is given by God purely out of God’s love and mercy.  There are no conditions.  You don’t have to earn it or qualify for it.  You don’t even have to want it.  God gives forgiveness unconditionally.  Which is to say God forgives murderers, even if they don’t seek forgiveness.  It can be an uncomfortable idea, this unconditional forgiveness.

But we live in this new creation, Paul says.  Christ brought a new creation where God’s grace and forgiveness are truly given unconditionally.  And furthermore, Paul says, we are not just recipients of this grace and forgiveness, but participants in this new creation, participants in offering God’s unconditional grace and forgiveness to others.

So what do you think about unconditional forgiveness?  What do you think of God squandering forgiveness on people who don’t deserve it, who may not even want it?  What do you think of God wasting forgiveness, apparently without a thought?  What do you think of a God who gives forgiveness away like a prodigal?

To waste or squander without thought of value.  That’s what prodigal means.  God forgives prodigally.

The Gospel reading today is the familiar parable of the prodigal son.  But note the context.  Jesus is eating with sinners and tax collectors.  And the religious authorities are grumbling. “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”   And the Scriptures don’t say that the sinners needed to confess first, or be purified, or meet any other conditions.  Jesus ate with sinners and tax collectors.

The parable is told as a response to the discomfort of the religious authorities to Jesus’ unconditionally sharing a meal with people who were not worthy.

And, technically, it’s not clear that the prodigal son ever actually repented.  His return could be just another scheme to get money and food out of his father.  I’ll tell him this, the son says…  maybe that will work.  Or maybe his was truly penitent.  We can’t know.  But in the parable the father runs out to greet him, embraces him and welcomes him before the son has said a word.  Unconditional forgiveness.

So what do you think about unconditional forgiveness?

It’s very comforting and reassuring to think that it’s offered to me.  God loves and forgives me unconditionally.  There isn’t some standard I have to achieve before God will forgive or bestow grace.

It’s harder, of course, to think of God offering unconditional forgiveness to everyone, to think of God prodigally squandering forgiveness on anyone and everyone.  No matter whether they deserve it or even want it.

So for me, the bottom line is that whenever we want to come him, the door is open.  Whenever you or I want to come home, the door is open wide.  There’s no password, no conditions, nothing we have to prove.  Nothing.  The table is set.  The fatted calf is prepared.  We are welcome.

And, for me, trying to hang on to the belief that the same unconditional grace and forgiveness are offered to others brings me closer to God.  Remembering God’s unconditional mercy for others brings me closer to God and enables me to at least begin to live, as Paul encourages us, as an active participant in God’s new creation.

The Third Sunday in Lent - February 28

Repent

Luke 13:1-9

What would it take to really bring home to you the need for repentance?  What would it take to get your attention?  That’s what Jesus is doing in today’s Gospel passage.  He’s trying to shake up the disciples into an awareness of their own need for repentance.

In Luke’s Gospel, this story is part of a series of events where Jesus is teaching his disciples and the broader group gathered around him.  This particular event is unique to Luke’s Gospel.

It touches upon the persistent question.  Why does suffering happen?  Why does calamity strike some people and not others? Answering these questions is not Jesus primary point, although he does address them.  Jesus point is to rattle the disciples’ into a recognition of their need for repentance.

Jesus refers to two historical events that we know nothing else about.  Evidently Pilate murdered some Galileans while they were in the midst of offering sacrifices to God.  In another instance a tower, perhaps in the walls of Jerusalem, fell, killing eighteen people.

The implied question is:  Did these people die because of their own fault?  Were their deaths punishment for their sin?

Jesus is VERY clear.  These people did not suffer because of their fault.  Suffering is not God’s way of punishing sin.  The occurrence of suffering does not prove some particular state of sinfulness.

Never think that about yourself or about someone else.  Jesus is very clear.

Perhaps more importantly for the disciples and for us, implicit in Jesus’ words:  Don’t assume that just because a tower has not fallen on you that means you are right with God.  The absence of calamity does not prove that everything is right between you and God.

There’s one more very important thing Jesus is saying.  Sin does produce suffering.  God does not produce suffering as a punishment for sin.  Sin itself produces suffering.  Not all suffering is the result of sin.  Calamities just happen.  But sin does produce suffering.  Our sin produces suffering.  Within ourselves, in our relationships with people we care about, and in the world.  As St. Paul says in Romans, the wages of sin is death.  Our sin kills our souls.  Kills our relationships.  And can kill others.

In today’s collect we pray to be saved from our own evil thoughts that assault our souls.  Our sin of pride or covetousness kills our relationships.  And while the people from Jerusalem who were crushed by the falling tower did not die as a result of their sin (Jesus is very clear on that), it is possible that they died as the result of a greedy builder who cut corners on quality or safety to save a few pennies.

So repent.  Sin causes suffering.  Your own sin kills.

Jesus is saying to the disciples and those gathered around:  You think being killed by Pilate is bad?  You think having a tower fall on you is bad?  The consequences of your own sin are worse…

God is concerned about our sin.  But if we think of our sin as a problem that God seeks to fix, there are two possible ways God might respond to the “problem of sin.”  One would be to impose justice through punishment.  The other is to seek reconciliation through forgiveness.

One commentator writes:  "[Why do you say that] sin requires punishment? Is God not able to forgive sin? Indeed, aren’t punishment and forgiveness rather antithetical, when you think of it? That is, each is a way of dealing with a problem, but not that compatible. If someone has “paid for sin” then there is no need to forgive. And if one has truly forgiven, then there is no payment required."

God doesn’t punish.  God seeks reconciliation and new life.  God’s hope is that out of sin, new fruit will be born.

The Gospel reading we heard today has two parts.  The first part where Jesus calls for the disciples’ repentance and the second part about the fig tree…  the fig tree that has failed in the past, but God saves it, nurtures it and so deeply yearns for it to become fruitful.

This passage not meant to be about the meaning of suffering.  Jesus is clear that the tragedies he cites had no meaning.  It’s about the seriousness of sin and a call to repentance.  And the promise of reconciliation and renewed fruitfulness.

It’s actually all there in our Ash Wednesday service.

In that service the Church invites us all to the observance of a holy Lent:  Remembering Jesus’ passion and resurrection, the season of Lent became a time in which “the whole congregation was put in mind of the need which all Christians continually have to renew their repentance and faith.”  All Christians.  All of the time.  Need to renew our repentance and faith.

What does it take to bring that message home to you?

But the fig tree is in the Ash Wednesday service, too.  After we say the sweeping and profound litany of penitence, there is an equally sweeping and profound absolution.  The absolution begins with these words:  “Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who desires not the death of sinners, but rather that they may turn from their wickedness and live…

God pardons and absolves.  Restores, reconciles, renews…  That is God’s hope for us; God’s response to our sin.

The Second Sunday in Lent - February 21

Lifestyle Choices
Luke 13:31-35

Two different ways of life are outlined in today’s Gospel. Two different ways of living.

One might be called the Jesus movement. I had a harder time coming up with a name for the Jerusalem one. The Jerusalem heap/rat race/lifestyle…

The Jesus movement. And the Jerusalem lifestyle.

In the Gospel passage Jesus is warned to flee because evidently Herod is out to kill him. I love Jesus’ reply. He says: Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow. I can’t flee; I’m busy. Today and tomorrow.

His calendar is full. He’s busy bringing hope and healing. He won’t be deterred from God’s work, even at the threat of death. The Jesus movement.

Then there is Jerusalem, or the people of Jerusalem. Who kill the prophets and stone those who are sent to them. People who are so unwilling to be deterred from their personal agendas by anything related to God that they silence God’s voice in their midst. They would rather, in the extreme, kill God than have to hear God’s voice or do God’s work.

The phrase “Jesus movement” comes from our relatively new Presiding bishop, installed back in November. I’m sure others have used the phrase before him, but it is a hallmark of his preaching and leadership. We are the Jesus movement, he says. We are the Jesus movement!

I like the phrase because it connotes activity or action. To “be a Christian” is a very good thing, but it does have sort of a static sound to it. A movement, on the other hand, goes somewhere, does something. The Jesus movement is active.

And that activity, Bishop Curry says, works to fulfill God’s dream for the world. Participants in the Jesus movement go out of their way to make things right. To work for reconciliation, between human beings and between human beings and God.

Living the Jesus movement means being busy in the world, with a calendar full of God’s work of hope, healing and reconciliation.

That’s one way of life, being a participant in the Jesus movement.

Or there’s being an inhabitant of Jerusalem, a participant in the Jerusalem lifestyle. Being someone for whom anything and everything other than God’s work is more important. Everything else is more important than God’s work.

Remember: there are other ways to silence God’s prophets besides crucifying them. There are other ways to eliminate God’s presence other than crucifixion. Indifference to God’s word in our lives. Choosing (and it is always a choice!) to fill our calendars with godless activities. Ignoring God’s call to serve others in his name. Tolerating or turning away from injustice in our world.

In today’s Gospel Jesus also expresses tender yearning to care for those very people of Jerusalem, and he grieves or laments that they are unwilling even to be cared for. I pause to wonder sometimes at the depth of grief God must feel looking upon our world. It’s unimaginable.

So what does this mean for us? What about you or me? Are we participants in the Jesus movement or in the Jerusalem lifestyle? There isn’t really any middle ground. Anytime you are not doing God’s work, you’re living the Jerusalem lifestyle. Anytime something other than God’s work is more important to you, you’re in Jerusalem. There is no middle ground. So all of us move back and forth from one to the other. Only Jesus, I think, can live the Jesus movement 100% of the time. And none of us is Jesus. We spend some percentage of our time in the Jesus movement and some percentage in the Jerusalem lifestyle.

What percentage of your time are you living the Jesus movement?

Something to think about during Lent.