When I was a kid, my dad often told me, "Aimee, I don't expect perfection from you, just sainthood!" Not being a churchgoer, I had a fairly secular image of sainthood. To me it was beyond perfection. I took my father's words to heart and sought to be better than perfect. If I got an A, I wondered why it hadn't been an A+. Better than perfect was what I tried to be, what I was meant to be. I still think about this sometimes. I’ve gotten to a point in my life where I am not trying to meet my dad’s expectations of me. Mostly. But that early image of what I should strive for has a way of being present. I still find myself
reaching for something beyond perfect. And when I do not reach it, I find myself asking, why didn’t I do better? What did I do wrong? Do others see this as failure? And, worst of all, does God?
So today’s reading from First John really caught my attention. The word perfect appears 4 times in that short passage. It’s what I heard and focused on as I read it aloud this past week. Yet this passage, which refers to perfection 4 times,
refers to love 28 times. How then is it that what I remembered after reading it was Perfection – a call to perfection, a reminder of my own desire to be perfect, and of the ways that I do not meet that definition. Of course, we’re reminded daily
of how we are not perfect. Turn on the TV for 5 minutes, every commercial that you see will drive that home in some way or another. Either you drive the wrong car, or you use the wrong deodorant, or you eat too much of one thing or not enough of another. Not that I need the television to remind me of the ways that I fall short. I do that for myself. Like most people, I am my own harshest critic. So it’s no surprise that in the midst of a passage about God’s abiding love,
what I hear is a call to perfection, not God’s promise to dwell with me, God’s promise to be love for me, in me and through me.
Well, my obsession with this word ‘perfect’ drove me to investigate further. The root word in the original Greek, what we translate as ‘perfect’ or ‘perfected’ or ‘perfection,’ is ‘telos.’ And telos is different from the way we use ‘perfect.’ Telos is about accomplishing, not what others expect of us, but what is already a part of us. Telos is about completing, achieving what we are intended for. It is about becoming what we are made to be. Telos is the acorn growing up into an oak tree. Telos is the baby chick in our preschool growing into a rooster. Telos is the grape vine in the gospel reading bearing grapes. And what John tells us in this letter that we read today is that God intends, has made us, to be love; to be God’s abiding love: “if we love one another, God lives in us, and God’s love is perfected in us.” God’s love comes to be what it is meant to be, in us.
And in God, we become what we are meant to be, bearers of God’s love for our neighbor. Jesus speaks of God’s abiding love,
and of God’s intended future that we are being drawn into, in the gospel passage today. “I am the vine, you are the branches.
Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing.” Jesus is describing our telos; our intended future.
Branches are part of the vine, they will naturally live with the vine, and they will naturally bear fruit. It’s what the branches of a grapevine do. They can’t suddenly produce olives. Or cats.
Even before I knew about God’s promises for me, I was feeling my way gingerly into them, being drawn forward toward God’s future, toward the possibilities that God had placed in me from the beginning. We all make decisions every day, decisions that cut off some future possibility for us. Whether we are intentionally trying to discern God’s calling, or whether we are seeking some more worldly sense of perfection, we are always choosing paths without knowing where they lead. Like the vinegrower,
we prune branches that seem not to be bearing fruit. In college, I chose to study anthropology instead of chemistry. After college, I chose to move to Seattle and then to Alaska. I had other opportunities, and each choice I made cut off possibilities.
It is hard to know for certain if I made the exact right decision each time. But I can see now the unexpected ways that branches regrew, and I can see the hand of a vinegrower greater than myself, drawing me into a future that I had never dreamt of. Once I said no to a friend who asked me on a date. Now we’re married with two children. Once I turned reluctantly away from a PhD in anthropology. Now I use my understanding of cultures to think about how congregations transform.
Once I decided I was not called to be a teacher. Now I use my passion and gifts for education to teach confirmation and Sunday school and adult forums.
The pruning of branches is sometimes a relief, sometimes painful. But the resulting growth is always a surprise,
and God is at work in it, drawing us toward that promised perfection, the telos perfection of God’s love, the fruit that we are made to bear.
Jesus also describes how that intended future is not something I have to accomplish alone. It is done in community, both with Jesus and with one another. A vine with one branch won’t bear much fruit. But together we make up a system of branches,
intertwining and stretching and supporting one another. And as we grow towards what we are meant to be, God is at work as well. God, the vinegrower, is tending us, coaxing us, even helping us to prune and regrow. During our adult forums this month, we are talking about our spiritual gifts. We’re working together to learn about the gifts that each of us has been given,
the gifts that equip us for ministry. As we do this, we are also hoping to learn more about how this congregation has been gifted. What are the leading gifts that we offer to our neighbors in Longfellow Parish? Next week, some of the leaders of the congregation, the council, the staff, and others, will meet on Sunday afternoon. We have a facilitator, Richard Andersen of Lutheran Social Service, who is going to help guide us through a conversation about how God is drawing this congregation
to serve here in this corner of Minneapolis. The question we are asking is a question about telos. What is the future that we are being drawn into? What has God already given us, what seeds have been planted in us, how is God’s love abiding in the world through us? What fruit is waiting to burst forth from this vine?
The answer is in us already, we are simply looking for the words to describe what God has already begun in us.It is an exciting time for Christ Church Lutheran, and for the Longfellow neighborhood. As we discern our purpose, our identity as a part of the Body of Christ, we will certainly be drawn into new relationships, new ways of knowing one another and our neighbors. As we discover how we are gifted, we will begin to bear fruit in ways we have probably never imagined before. It is also a difficult time. While some branches begin to bear fruit, others may not. Some ministries will grow while others fade. And some that we thought were fading may burst forth with a new kind of life that will surprise us all. As Jesus reminds us, a pruned branch bears more fruit.
Together we form a set of branches, and together we abide in God’s love. Together God’s love is the fruit we bear,
the fruit we cannot help but bear, as God’s love grows in us and through us into our neighborhood.
All those years ago, when my dad told me that he wanted sainthood, not perfection, I took it as a challenge. I strived, I worked, I beat myself up for my failings. Only to realize years later that both sainthood and perfection have been given to me. Sainthood was given to me in my baptism, a promise from God that I am washed clean, forgiven and justified. And perfection was given to me as well, or rather it is being given to me. I was drawn to the waters of baptism, and I am always being drawn into the future that God has prepared me for. Like the branches of the vine, I am already equipped to bear fruit. Indeed, I cannot do anything but bear fruit. There is work for me to do, but I do not do it alone. And I do not do it out of fear, out of my striving for perfection, out of fear of falling short of my dad’s or my God’s expectations. Instead, I love because God first loved me. God’s love is being perfected in me, in us. And that perfecting love casts out fear. We are free to set aside fear of failure, fear of letting go, fear of pruning, and live into the future that God promises. A future borne out of God’s perfect and perfecting love.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Second Sunday of Easter - April 19 - 1 John 1:1-2:2; John 20:19-31
Christ is Risen!
Christ is Risen indeed! Alleluia!
Okay. So now what?
We made it through Lent.
We made it through Holy Week.
We have been on the Three Day journey from death to life. Now what?
Easter began last week, and we have 50 days of the Easter season, springtime in our world, new life popping up all around us. It’s easy to be excited by that for a while. But what comes next? Pentecost. And then…Ordinary Time. The long season between seasons. The dog days of the church year. Summertime, when we are all given permission to “check out” of church. School is out. Vacations are happening. Sunday school is done for the year. Confirmation is over. Adult Forums are concluded. We can be…well… Ordinary. What has Easter to do with that?
Today’s readings are trying to tell us what Easter has to do with Ordinary time. With our ordinary lives. With our ordinary days as ordinary people. Today’s readings tell us about community. But this is a community that is by no means ordinary. At least not in the way that we usually think of ordinary. This is a community that is Ordinary – capital O Ordinary. A people that is living in the wake of Easter – unable to return to life as it once was, because of a story.
What is community living? Today, as in Christ’s time, here in America, as nearly everywhere in the world, living in community is often about presentation. Sometimes I’ve heard people talk about how in Asian societies, there is a huge concern with “saving face.” And I wonder, how is that different for us? We may go about it differently, but we are so often concerned with the face that we present to the world. When do we have the chance to be our authentic selves? How often in our lives are we able to show who we really are? To share our failings; our difference; our brokenness; pain; doubts. Even if we dare, for a moment, to expose our wounds, we are not allowed to feel okay with them. We can share them with our therapist or our friend or our support group, because we are ready to change. We are ready to lose weight, to turn our lives around, to put aside our vices and move forward toward perfection. Where are we able to be ourselves, just as we are, fully truthful, without shame? Where do we allow others to be who they are, to bring their worst along with their best, without fear of rejection?
According to the letter of John that we heard today, here. Right here. In this fellowship, in this community, in this Body, we are able to be completely and truthfully ourselves. John tells us, “if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.” So often I have heard this as an indictment, as a finger pointing at my heart, showing me the lie that is there, the deceit, the sin. But today, on this side of Easter, I hear this as an invitation. Because of Christ, I am invited to open my heart and show all that I am, the shame, the pain, even the doubt. I do not have to hide that anymore. I can bring that out into the light – into Christ. As the risen Christ showed his wounds to Thomas and the other apostles, I, too, can show my wounds, and be seen for who I truly am. And John tells me these things, not so that I can be rejected for my sin, “but so that (I) may have fellowship…so that joy may be complete.”
Of course, the problem comes in when I realize that I don’t get to decide with whom I have fellowship. John tells us that we have an advocate, that Jesus is our Advocate with the Father, not only for us, but for the whole world. Unfortunately, that does mean everyone. So much of what we hear as the Christian message in the world today has to do with the individual, with Jesus as a personal savior. And so he is. But he is also the savior of the whole world, and we don’t get to decide who is included in that. Our fellowship, our salvation, our Body, is shared with all the world, including those we would rather not share it with.
When I was serving as the President of my congregation in Seattle, I occasionally had disagreements with other parishioners. There was one man in particular, Joe. One day during a presentation, as I was trying to encourage a new look at our governing structure, Joe, completely misunderstanding me, said something really hurtful. I couldn’t even finish giving my presentation. I sat down and cried. In fact I cried for the rest of the day. He apologized. Well, his wife made him apologize, after she apologized for him. He said his blood sugar was off and that had caused him to misunderstand me. Anyway, we moved awkwardly forward, and even managed to work together on some things after that, but I always felt uncomfortable, not sure how to deal with him. And then one day, I was asked to assisted in serving communion. An interim pastor was filling in while our pastor was on sabbatical. And this interim pastor was a quadriplegic. He spoke the words of the thanksgiving and institution, while I held the elements, the bread and the wine. And then I served the bread around the circle while another assistant followed along with the wine. When I came to Joe, I looked at him, and I spoke his name, “Joe, take and eat the Body of Christ, broken for you.” And something shifted. Just as Mary recognized Christ in the garden when he spoke her name, and the travelers to Emmaus recognized Christ in the breaking of the bread, I recognized Christ as I spoke Joe’s name and broke bread with him. Just as Thomas and the others in that room recognized Christ in his wounds, I saw Christ in the broken relationship between myself and Joe. And as we shared the meal together, the relationship changed. We were able to lay on the table all of ourselves, and move forward. Our breach wasn’t forgotten. Christ’s wounds weren’t healed in his resurrection – they were still there, able to be seen and, it seems, touched. But they no longer determined the future. Christ was raised to new life. As the Body of Christ, we may have wounds. Brokenness, division, even schism. But they do not have to determine our future. Our future is at the table, in the shared meal, in the new life that we receive at our baptisms. Our future is an Easter future.
This week, there were two funerals here at Christ Church. Two beloved women names Alice. Alice Tomhave, a member of this congregation for 80 years, and Alice Lindberg, the mother of Donna Lindberg. As the families and friends of these dear women gathered to mourn and remember them, these words of Paul in his letter to the Romans were read:
“When we were baptized in Christ Jesus,
we were baptized into his death.
We were buried therefore with him
by baptism into death,
so that as Christ was raised from the dead
by the glory of the Father,
we too might live a new life.
For if we have been united with him in a death like his,
we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.”
This is our story.
The story did not end 2000 years ago, at the crucifixion. Or 3 days later, at the empty tomb. It did not end 1900 years ago when the last words of the Scriptures were written down. It did not end 1700 years ago when the books were gathered into a canon, or when the creeds were written. It did not end 500 years ago when Luther nailed his these to the door of the cathedral. It did not end last week at the celebration of Easter.
The story does not begin at our funerals. It is not a story that begins with our death. That story, as John says, “was from the beginning, what we have heard,
what we have seen with our eyes,
what we have looked at and touched with our hands.”
This story continues today. God is light, in God there is no darkness. We continue to be drawn into it even as we help to write the next chapter of it. We are free to receive the peace that Christ gives us, to receive one another as we are, wounds and all. As we gather together at the waters of baptism today, to welcome Zachary Lawrence Swanson into the story. As we gather together at the Table today, all of our brokenness laid bare on that table, this is the story that we hear and see and touch and taste and take right into our bodies. This is the story that holds us together, so that we can live Easter lives in Ordinary time.
Christ is Risen indeed! Alleluia!
Okay. So now what?
We made it through Lent.
We made it through Holy Week.
We have been on the Three Day journey from death to life. Now what?
Easter began last week, and we have 50 days of the Easter season, springtime in our world, new life popping up all around us. It’s easy to be excited by that for a while. But what comes next? Pentecost. And then…Ordinary Time. The long season between seasons. The dog days of the church year. Summertime, when we are all given permission to “check out” of church. School is out. Vacations are happening. Sunday school is done for the year. Confirmation is over. Adult Forums are concluded. We can be…well… Ordinary. What has Easter to do with that?
Today’s readings are trying to tell us what Easter has to do with Ordinary time. With our ordinary lives. With our ordinary days as ordinary people. Today’s readings tell us about community. But this is a community that is by no means ordinary. At least not in the way that we usually think of ordinary. This is a community that is Ordinary – capital O Ordinary. A people that is living in the wake of Easter – unable to return to life as it once was, because of a story.
What is community living? Today, as in Christ’s time, here in America, as nearly everywhere in the world, living in community is often about presentation. Sometimes I’ve heard people talk about how in Asian societies, there is a huge concern with “saving face.” And I wonder, how is that different for us? We may go about it differently, but we are so often concerned with the face that we present to the world. When do we have the chance to be our authentic selves? How often in our lives are we able to show who we really are? To share our failings; our difference; our brokenness; pain; doubts. Even if we dare, for a moment, to expose our wounds, we are not allowed to feel okay with them. We can share them with our therapist or our friend or our support group, because we are ready to change. We are ready to lose weight, to turn our lives around, to put aside our vices and move forward toward perfection. Where are we able to be ourselves, just as we are, fully truthful, without shame? Where do we allow others to be who they are, to bring their worst along with their best, without fear of rejection?
According to the letter of John that we heard today, here. Right here. In this fellowship, in this community, in this Body, we are able to be completely and truthfully ourselves. John tells us, “if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.” So often I have heard this as an indictment, as a finger pointing at my heart, showing me the lie that is there, the deceit, the sin. But today, on this side of Easter, I hear this as an invitation. Because of Christ, I am invited to open my heart and show all that I am, the shame, the pain, even the doubt. I do not have to hide that anymore. I can bring that out into the light – into Christ. As the risen Christ showed his wounds to Thomas and the other apostles, I, too, can show my wounds, and be seen for who I truly am. And John tells me these things, not so that I can be rejected for my sin, “but so that (I) may have fellowship…so that joy may be complete.”
Of course, the problem comes in when I realize that I don’t get to decide with whom I have fellowship. John tells us that we have an advocate, that Jesus is our Advocate with the Father, not only for us, but for the whole world. Unfortunately, that does mean everyone. So much of what we hear as the Christian message in the world today has to do with the individual, with Jesus as a personal savior. And so he is. But he is also the savior of the whole world, and we don’t get to decide who is included in that. Our fellowship, our salvation, our Body, is shared with all the world, including those we would rather not share it with.
When I was serving as the President of my congregation in Seattle, I occasionally had disagreements with other parishioners. There was one man in particular, Joe. One day during a presentation, as I was trying to encourage a new look at our governing structure, Joe, completely misunderstanding me, said something really hurtful. I couldn’t even finish giving my presentation. I sat down and cried. In fact I cried for the rest of the day. He apologized. Well, his wife made him apologize, after she apologized for him. He said his blood sugar was off and that had caused him to misunderstand me. Anyway, we moved awkwardly forward, and even managed to work together on some things after that, but I always felt uncomfortable, not sure how to deal with him. And then one day, I was asked to assisted in serving communion. An interim pastor was filling in while our pastor was on sabbatical. And this interim pastor was a quadriplegic. He spoke the words of the thanksgiving and institution, while I held the elements, the bread and the wine. And then I served the bread around the circle while another assistant followed along with the wine. When I came to Joe, I looked at him, and I spoke his name, “Joe, take and eat the Body of Christ, broken for you.” And something shifted. Just as Mary recognized Christ in the garden when he spoke her name, and the travelers to Emmaus recognized Christ in the breaking of the bread, I recognized Christ as I spoke Joe’s name and broke bread with him. Just as Thomas and the others in that room recognized Christ in his wounds, I saw Christ in the broken relationship between myself and Joe. And as we shared the meal together, the relationship changed. We were able to lay on the table all of ourselves, and move forward. Our breach wasn’t forgotten. Christ’s wounds weren’t healed in his resurrection – they were still there, able to be seen and, it seems, touched. But they no longer determined the future. Christ was raised to new life. As the Body of Christ, we may have wounds. Brokenness, division, even schism. But they do not have to determine our future. Our future is at the table, in the shared meal, in the new life that we receive at our baptisms. Our future is an Easter future.
This week, there were two funerals here at Christ Church. Two beloved women names Alice. Alice Tomhave, a member of this congregation for 80 years, and Alice Lindberg, the mother of Donna Lindberg. As the families and friends of these dear women gathered to mourn and remember them, these words of Paul in his letter to the Romans were read:
“When we were baptized in Christ Jesus,
we were baptized into his death.
We were buried therefore with him
by baptism into death,
so that as Christ was raised from the dead
by the glory of the Father,
we too might live a new life.
For if we have been united with him in a death like his,
we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his.”
This is our story.
The story did not end 2000 years ago, at the crucifixion. Or 3 days later, at the empty tomb. It did not end 1900 years ago when the last words of the Scriptures were written down. It did not end 1700 years ago when the books were gathered into a canon, or when the creeds were written. It did not end 500 years ago when Luther nailed his these to the door of the cathedral. It did not end last week at the celebration of Easter.
The story does not begin at our funerals. It is not a story that begins with our death. That story, as John says, “was from the beginning, what we have heard,
what we have seen with our eyes,
what we have looked at and touched with our hands.”
This story continues today. God is light, in God there is no darkness. We continue to be drawn into it even as we help to write the next chapter of it. We are free to receive the peace that Christ gives us, to receive one another as we are, wounds and all. As we gather together at the waters of baptism today, to welcome Zachary Lawrence Swanson into the story. As we gather together at the Table today, all of our brokenness laid bare on that table, this is the story that we hear and see and touch and taste and take right into our bodies. This is the story that holds us together, so that we can live Easter lives in Ordinary time.
Good Friday
“What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title.”
My 8th grade English teacher, Ms. Howard, would be proud that I remember that so well all these years later. This passage of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet has been going through my head over and over the last few days. At last week’s adult forum,
we talked about the readings of the Easter Vigil, and how as we read through them tomorrow night, we are speaking our name, the story of us that stretches back to the beginning of the world. It is a long name, and it is a beautiful name, and it is a mysterious name.
And it is a scandalous name.
It is a name that carries creation and deliverance, redemption and joy, And it is a name that carries pain, and suffering, and shame, and death. Like Juliet and her Romeo, there are times when I almost want to refuse my name, set it aside, and look for a new one, so horrific and offensive is that name.
Today is one of those days.
Because today is the day when I have to face the hardest truths of my faith. The truth that God died.
The truth that God died.
The Christian confession that we proclaim tonight is that God became human, and then died on a cross, humbled to the point of death, and was laid in a tomb.
Dead.
Suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died and was buried.
Descended to the dead.
This confession, perhaps more than any other, has separated Christians from the followers of other faiths
throughout the centuries. It is such an offense, such a scandal, that entire peoples see us as blasphemers for suggesting it.
How can God die?
God is all-powerful;
God is all-knowing;
God is life itself!
How can God die?
It is a scandal to suggest it.
Today is the day when I have to face the hardest truths of my faith.
The truth that God died and that I would have done nothing to stop it, if I had been there.
Who in this story understands?
Who in this story comes to Jesus’ aid?
In John’s passion story that we just heard, it is Jesus who protects his disciples, from the beginning to the end.
When the police come to the garden to arrest him, Jesus steps forward, shielding his disciples, and says, “if you are looking for me, let these men go.” Peter makes a feeble attempt to fight, but Jesus protects Peter again, tells him to put away his sword and walk away. Swords will not help here, as Jesus knows; they will only make matters worse. Jesus protects Peter from himself.
And then Peter denies Jesus, not once, not twice, but three times. Pilate makes a feeble attempt to free Jesus, but when the crowds turn the accusation on him, he agrees to their demands. Jesus is left without aid, misunderstood by everyone, abandoned by everyone, betrayed by one friend, denied by another, to carry the cross by himself to Golgotha.
And would I have done any differently as a disciple?
Do I do any differently as a disciple?
Today is the day when I have to face the hardest truths of my faith.
The truth that God dies again and again, the people of God continue to die, the Body of Christ continues to suffer,
and I continue to be culpable. Around the world, and here in my own back yard, people are crying out for freedom,
for change, around the world, and here in our neighborhood, fellow children of God are suffering at the hands of the world’s power structures, the world’s economic structures, the world’s social structures.
The Jesuit martyr Ignacio Ellacuría, speaking of suffering of the people of El Salvador, said,
“This crucified people is the historical continuation of the Lord’s servant, whom the sin of the world continues to deprive
of any human decency, and from whom the powerful of this world continue to rob everything, taking everything away,
even life, especially life.”
The people of God continue to suffer.
I am not trying to perpetuate their suffering, but war and pollution and poverty persist. I march for peace, I recycle, I buy fair trade and organic products. Yet sinner that I am, I continue to be a party to the suffering of the Body of Christ,
even as I am a part of it.
Today is the day when I have to face the hardest truths of my faith.
Today I recognize that the cross is as far as we go.
As far as we can go.
The cross is where we arrive as human beings. The cross is the endpoint to which the human condition brings us. Anything more or better, anything creative, anything redemptive, anything hopeful, anything that we find beyond the cross
comes from elsewhere, comes from outside ourselves.
As much as I would like to bring an end to suffering, It is not my action that brings it, It is God working through, or in spite of, my actions. It is God working through the cross. God working in spite of death.
So why do we claim the cross?
Why do we hang a cross in the front of the church, display it outside the church, trace it on our foreheads, hang it around our necks, tattoo it on our bodies, use it in our artwork and architecture, make its sign in our prayers, reverence it on Good Friday?
What would possess us to cling to the symbol of our greatest shame, the tree on which we hung our God, the source of our scandal and offense?
Because it is not only the source of our shame.
It is also our name.
It is God’s story, and it is therefore our story.
God’s story, the story that we will hear tomorrow night through the scriptures of the Old Testament, is a story about scandal.
Our name, the name that we will hear tomorrow night, is a name about offense.
Isaiah tells of this offense in chapter 52 that we heard read tonight.
“13 See, my servant shall prosper;
he shall be exalted and lifted up, and shall be very high.
14 Just as there were many who were astonished at him …
so he shall startle many nations;
kings shall shut their mouths because of him;
for that which had not been told them they shall see,
and that which they had not heard they shall contemplate.”
God’s story astonishes, startles, shuts the mouths of kings. God’s name opens eyes to see, opens ears to hear. Throughout the Scriptures, when people encounter God, they fall to their knees. In the garden, Jesus spoke God’s name as his own, and the soldiers fell to their knees. “Who are you looking for,” Jesus asks. “Jesus of Nazareth,” they reply. “I am,” says Jesus, and all of the story of God, the name of God, is contained in those words, and the soldiers fall to their knees. We have been buried with Christ by baptism into death. The very moment when God called our names, when we were washed clean and claimed, Christ’s death became our name.
God’s story, the story that offends and astonishes, that startles and knocks people to their knees,
became our name.
My name is a scandal.
Your name is a scandal.
And as much as I may want to refuse my name when I am confronted with the awful truth of it, it is my name.
I have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever.
The tough truth is that God died.
The scandal is that God chose to die.
God, all-powerful, all-knowing, life itself!, chose to die.
The scandal is that God chose to die for me, Me who would deny God, who would turn away from God, who would crucify God again and again, who would look for as many outs as I could find.
For me, who would just as soon figure out a way to save myself, God knew that I could not, and for me, God chose to die.
This is the ultimate offense, the ultimate scandal.
That is what is in a name.
My name.
And yours.
And ours.
Thanks be to God.
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title.”
My 8th grade English teacher, Ms. Howard, would be proud that I remember that so well all these years later. This passage of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet has been going through my head over and over the last few days. At last week’s adult forum,
we talked about the readings of the Easter Vigil, and how as we read through them tomorrow night, we are speaking our name, the story of us that stretches back to the beginning of the world. It is a long name, and it is a beautiful name, and it is a mysterious name.
And it is a scandalous name.
It is a name that carries creation and deliverance, redemption and joy, And it is a name that carries pain, and suffering, and shame, and death. Like Juliet and her Romeo, there are times when I almost want to refuse my name, set it aside, and look for a new one, so horrific and offensive is that name.
Today is one of those days.
Because today is the day when I have to face the hardest truths of my faith. The truth that God died.
The truth that God died.
The Christian confession that we proclaim tonight is that God became human, and then died on a cross, humbled to the point of death, and was laid in a tomb.
Dead.
Suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died and was buried.
Descended to the dead.
This confession, perhaps more than any other, has separated Christians from the followers of other faiths
throughout the centuries. It is such an offense, such a scandal, that entire peoples see us as blasphemers for suggesting it.
How can God die?
God is all-powerful;
God is all-knowing;
God is life itself!
How can God die?
It is a scandal to suggest it.
Today is the day when I have to face the hardest truths of my faith.
The truth that God died and that I would have done nothing to stop it, if I had been there.
Who in this story understands?
Who in this story comes to Jesus’ aid?
In John’s passion story that we just heard, it is Jesus who protects his disciples, from the beginning to the end.
When the police come to the garden to arrest him, Jesus steps forward, shielding his disciples, and says, “if you are looking for me, let these men go.” Peter makes a feeble attempt to fight, but Jesus protects Peter again, tells him to put away his sword and walk away. Swords will not help here, as Jesus knows; they will only make matters worse. Jesus protects Peter from himself.
And then Peter denies Jesus, not once, not twice, but three times. Pilate makes a feeble attempt to free Jesus, but when the crowds turn the accusation on him, he agrees to their demands. Jesus is left without aid, misunderstood by everyone, abandoned by everyone, betrayed by one friend, denied by another, to carry the cross by himself to Golgotha.
And would I have done any differently as a disciple?
Do I do any differently as a disciple?
Today is the day when I have to face the hardest truths of my faith.
The truth that God dies again and again, the people of God continue to die, the Body of Christ continues to suffer,
and I continue to be culpable. Around the world, and here in my own back yard, people are crying out for freedom,
for change, around the world, and here in our neighborhood, fellow children of God are suffering at the hands of the world’s power structures, the world’s economic structures, the world’s social structures.
The Jesuit martyr Ignacio Ellacuría, speaking of suffering of the people of El Salvador, said,
“This crucified people is the historical continuation of the Lord’s servant, whom the sin of the world continues to deprive
of any human decency, and from whom the powerful of this world continue to rob everything, taking everything away,
even life, especially life.”
The people of God continue to suffer.
I am not trying to perpetuate their suffering, but war and pollution and poverty persist. I march for peace, I recycle, I buy fair trade and organic products. Yet sinner that I am, I continue to be a party to the suffering of the Body of Christ,
even as I am a part of it.
Today is the day when I have to face the hardest truths of my faith.
Today I recognize that the cross is as far as we go.
As far as we can go.
The cross is where we arrive as human beings. The cross is the endpoint to which the human condition brings us. Anything more or better, anything creative, anything redemptive, anything hopeful, anything that we find beyond the cross
comes from elsewhere, comes from outside ourselves.
As much as I would like to bring an end to suffering, It is not my action that brings it, It is God working through, or in spite of, my actions. It is God working through the cross. God working in spite of death.
So why do we claim the cross?
Why do we hang a cross in the front of the church, display it outside the church, trace it on our foreheads, hang it around our necks, tattoo it on our bodies, use it in our artwork and architecture, make its sign in our prayers, reverence it on Good Friday?
What would possess us to cling to the symbol of our greatest shame, the tree on which we hung our God, the source of our scandal and offense?
Because it is not only the source of our shame.
It is also our name.
It is God’s story, and it is therefore our story.
God’s story, the story that we will hear tomorrow night through the scriptures of the Old Testament, is a story about scandal.
Our name, the name that we will hear tomorrow night, is a name about offense.
Isaiah tells of this offense in chapter 52 that we heard read tonight.
“13 See, my servant shall prosper;
he shall be exalted and lifted up, and shall be very high.
14 Just as there were many who were astonished at him …
so he shall startle many nations;
kings shall shut their mouths because of him;
for that which had not been told them they shall see,
and that which they had not heard they shall contemplate.”
God’s story astonishes, startles, shuts the mouths of kings. God’s name opens eyes to see, opens ears to hear. Throughout the Scriptures, when people encounter God, they fall to their knees. In the garden, Jesus spoke God’s name as his own, and the soldiers fell to their knees. “Who are you looking for,” Jesus asks. “Jesus of Nazareth,” they reply. “I am,” says Jesus, and all of the story of God, the name of God, is contained in those words, and the soldiers fall to their knees. We have been buried with Christ by baptism into death. The very moment when God called our names, when we were washed clean and claimed, Christ’s death became our name.
God’s story, the story that offends and astonishes, that startles and knocks people to their knees,
became our name.
My name is a scandal.
Your name is a scandal.
And as much as I may want to refuse my name when I am confronted with the awful truth of it, it is my name.
I have been sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever.
The tough truth is that God died.
The scandal is that God chose to die.
God, all-powerful, all-knowing, life itself!, chose to die.
The scandal is that God chose to die for me, Me who would deny God, who would turn away from God, who would crucify God again and again, who would look for as many outs as I could find.
For me, who would just as soon figure out a way to save myself, God knew that I could not, and for me, God chose to die.
This is the ultimate offense, the ultimate scandal.
That is what is in a name.
My name.
And yours.
And ours.
Thanks be to God.
Palm/Passion Sunday
I’ve been learning to knit over the last few months. One thing that I’ve discovered is that you can’t knit right, you can’t grab a little thread of yarn with a pointy stick and pull it through a little loop, if there is no tension. The thread of yarn needs tension, the loop needs tension, even the point stick needs just the right tension, or the whole thing just doesn’t work.
Today is perhaps the day of greatest tension in the church year. Here we sit between Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, the day when he was welcomed as a king, and his humiliation and rejection, his suffering and disgrace, his death on the cross. We have just reenacted that triumph, carrying our palms into the sanctuary, parading and shouting “Hosannas.” Yet we are still in Lent, and we still hold back our Hallelujahs. As you hear the Gospel story, literally sitting in the tension between the two voices of our readers, listen for some of the tensions in the story: the woman who anoints Jesus for his death, even as he lives; Judas who has betrayed Jesus, yet still calls him Rabbi and kisses him; Jesus who knows that he has been betrayed, yet breaks bread with his betrayer; Peter, James and John whose spirit is willing, but whose flesh is weak; Peter, who wants to stay faithful to Jesus, but cannot stop his denials.
As with my knitting, Life is impossible without tensions. Conscious tensions of day to day: how do I raise an independent and inquisitive child, while keeping her safe and me sane? Subtle tensions, at the back of my mind, yet governing my life: money isn’t everything, really just paper and numbers, but it is important to nearly every decision. Tensions forced to our attention only by illness or tragedy: how do I live my life fully, knowing that I am each day moving closer to death? So much time and effort is spent trying to resolve these things. Yet they are inescapable. We must live in the tension.
In the Paul’s Letter to the Philippians, we heard about some of the tensions that Christ holds: he was in the form of God, yet in human form; he was equal to God, yet he took the form of a slave; he was humbled and then exalted. Our God holds the tensions for us. Fully human yet fully divine, as Paul describes; speaking, yet listening, as Isaiah describes; entering Jerusalem in triumph, only to die in disgrace, as Mark describes. The time is fulfilled and the kingdom has come near, yet we pray for God’s kingdom to come to us again and again. Our sins have been washed clean by our baptism, so we are saints, yet we are captive to sin, so we are sinners. We move each day toward death; yet in Christ, in our baptisms, we have already died, so that we can live a new life. We are isolated, alone, individuals, yet in Christ we are one Body. And as Christ, as that one Body, we are able to hold the tensions. We can hold tensions that we do not know how to resolve. There are so many issues that tear us apart as a body: the interpretation of the Scriptures; the use of war and political power; the meaning of communion and who should receive it; the definition of marriage and who should be allowed it; the nature of ordained ministry and who should answer that call. Yet today, of all days, we are reminded that we have a God who can hold the tensions, who does not require us to find resolution, but who invites us to live with God in those tensions. And it is there, of all places, that we find the freedom to move forward together in tension. Today of all days, after the triumphal entry, and the harrowing death, we are left at the end of the readings with a God entombed, a God who has died and been laid to rest. And how do we respond? By stepping forward together in the midst of that sorrow, and celebrating the Resurrection, by coming as a Body to the Communion Table, by giving thanks together to a God who would be humbled to the point of death, so that we can be free.
Today is perhaps the day of greatest tension in the church year. Here we sit between Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, the day when he was welcomed as a king, and his humiliation and rejection, his suffering and disgrace, his death on the cross. We have just reenacted that triumph, carrying our palms into the sanctuary, parading and shouting “Hosannas.” Yet we are still in Lent, and we still hold back our Hallelujahs. As you hear the Gospel story, literally sitting in the tension between the two voices of our readers, listen for some of the tensions in the story: the woman who anoints Jesus for his death, even as he lives; Judas who has betrayed Jesus, yet still calls him Rabbi and kisses him; Jesus who knows that he has been betrayed, yet breaks bread with his betrayer; Peter, James and John whose spirit is willing, but whose flesh is weak; Peter, who wants to stay faithful to Jesus, but cannot stop his denials.
As with my knitting, Life is impossible without tensions. Conscious tensions of day to day: how do I raise an independent and inquisitive child, while keeping her safe and me sane? Subtle tensions, at the back of my mind, yet governing my life: money isn’t everything, really just paper and numbers, but it is important to nearly every decision. Tensions forced to our attention only by illness or tragedy: how do I live my life fully, knowing that I am each day moving closer to death? So much time and effort is spent trying to resolve these things. Yet they are inescapable. We must live in the tension.
In the Paul’s Letter to the Philippians, we heard about some of the tensions that Christ holds: he was in the form of God, yet in human form; he was equal to God, yet he took the form of a slave; he was humbled and then exalted. Our God holds the tensions for us. Fully human yet fully divine, as Paul describes; speaking, yet listening, as Isaiah describes; entering Jerusalem in triumph, only to die in disgrace, as Mark describes. The time is fulfilled and the kingdom has come near, yet we pray for God’s kingdom to come to us again and again. Our sins have been washed clean by our baptism, so we are saints, yet we are captive to sin, so we are sinners. We move each day toward death; yet in Christ, in our baptisms, we have already died, so that we can live a new life. We are isolated, alone, individuals, yet in Christ we are one Body. And as Christ, as that one Body, we are able to hold the tensions. We can hold tensions that we do not know how to resolve. There are so many issues that tear us apart as a body: the interpretation of the Scriptures; the use of war and political power; the meaning of communion and who should receive it; the definition of marriage and who should be allowed it; the nature of ordained ministry and who should answer that call. Yet today, of all days, we are reminded that we have a God who can hold the tensions, who does not require us to find resolution, but who invites us to live with God in those tensions. And it is there, of all places, that we find the freedom to move forward together in tension. Today of all days, after the triumphal entry, and the harrowing death, we are left at the end of the readings with a God entombed, a God who has died and been laid to rest. And how do we respond? By stepping forward together in the midst of that sorrow, and celebrating the Resurrection, by coming as a Body to the Communion Table, by giving thanks together to a God who would be humbled to the point of death, so that we can be free.
sermon from March 29 - John 12:20-33
In my hometown, just outside Washington, DC, there is a place called 7 Corners. It’s a huge crossroads where at least 4 different major roads meet. There’s a shopping mall there, also called 7 Corners, and I remember as a kid thinking it was a long way from our house, though now I know it’s only about a 20 minute drive. When I learned to drive, an early challenge was navigating the complex system of lights at 7 Corners, and still coming out on the right road when I got through. I think of 7 Corners sometimes when I come to a decision point in my life, when I am not sure what to do, which way to go, when I am at a crossroad. The noise and confusion, the impossible busy-ness and the difficult navigation, the hundreds of other people trying to get it right themselves, but seeming to get in my way, throwing my own certainty into question. That is how I often feel when I come to a major decision point: how do I know what is right? How do I know which way to go?
Jesus is at a crossroad. As today’s gospel reading opens, Jesus has just entered Jerusalem, and his public ministry is coming to an end. In just a few verses, he will begin washing the feet of his disciples, and shortly after that he will be betrayed by one of his closest companions, and handed over to death. Yet even as he is beginning to look toward that moment, still people are coming, looking for him, wishing to see him, hoping to believe. How does Jesus handle this moment? How does he navigate this crossroad? In some ways, it seems like his fate is sealed already. In the last chapter, Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, and in response the religious leaders decided that Jesus must die. But Jesus could yet choose a different path. He could recant, he could apologize for his behavior, even as he stands before Pilate it seems like he could talk his way out of death. But to what end? What kind of a choice is it that he could make?
Right now, at the crossroad, he could continue to gather followers to himself. Look! here are some Greeks,being brought to him by Philip and Andrew, the two men who brought him the first Jewish disciples. He could welcome these new Gentile disciples and grow a following that could perhaps threaten the political and religious establishments. He could become the King of the Jews, it seems he could even become King of more than Jews. Worldly power is in his grasp, if only he chooses to take it. Jesus is at a crossroad.
Standing at the crossroad, Jesus says, “the hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” The grain of wheat that is planted in the wet, muddy earth of springtime, begins to poke its head up through the mud, and by the summer, it has grown into a stalk of wheat, with many grains ready for harvest. It seems clear that to us, who already know that Jesus will die and rise again, that Jesus is talking about his own death. That seems straightforward enough. But then he adds the next verse, “25Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. 26Whoever serves me must follow me” and I feel a little sick.What does it mean to follow Jesus? What does it mean to hate my life in this world? Does my crossroad have to look like Jesus’ crossroad? What if the grain of wheat does not get planted? A grain of wheat might also be ground up, along with others, and made into flour, and then into a loaf of bread. Something the confirmation class and I know a bit about after last week’s bread-baking extravaganza. But either way, the grain has to give itself up somehow, it has to die to itself as a single, isolated grain, in order to live in a new way, either as a stalk of wheat that gives life to new grains, or as part of a loaf of bread that gives life to a living body.
Standing at the crossroad, Jesus is talking about setting aside oneself, in order to give life to many. It’s a profound statement, to be sure, but I can’t help thinking at some level, “Sure, but that’s Jesus.” He knows who he is and what he’s up to, especially here in John’s gospel. Though we hear other stories, in Mark and Luke and Matthew, where Jesus prays in Gethsemane, prays until he bleeds to have this cup pass from him, in today’s story he say with perfect certainty, “what should I say — 'Father, save me from this hour'? No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour. 28Father, glorify your name.” How can I hope to match that certainty? That clarity of purpose? That readiness to do God’s will?
A friend of mine, a Catholic man, was at a crossroad in his early 20s. At the time when all of his friends were getting married and starting families, he was wondering if he should join a celibate brotherhood, and commit himself to a communal life without marriage or children. He prayed and prayed, “Lord, should I start a family? God, should I join the brotherhood? Tell me which one to do!” But he got no answer. Then one day, he changed his prayer. Instead of asking for a directive, what should I do, he asked this time, “God what would please you?” And the answer came, “Glorify me. Live your life with Me, with God, at the center. If you do this, then either choice will be the right one.” At the crossroad, what mattered was not so much the path he chose, as the reason for the choice.
Jesus at the crossroad said this prayer, “Father glorify your name.” Or perhaps he said, “not my will, but Yours.” Whatever the words, the prayer is the same, it is a prayer that places God at the center. Jesus said this prayer, and then he went to the cross. Jesus, God incarnate, chose to die, chose to join us even in that worst kind of suffering. And in making that choice, Jesus overcame death’s power. God chose to glorify God’s self. By overcoming sin and death for us. Because Jesus died for us, and rose for us, we too can choose. We can set aside worldly power, worldly ideas of perfection, and we are free. Free to step forward boldly in love, to God’s glory. When we stand at a crossroad, we can pray the prayer that Jesus prayed. It is the same one that he taught us, the one we pray when we don’t know what else to pray, “your will be done on earth as in heaven.” Jesus gave himself for us on the cross, and Jesus gives himself to us again and again, in the bread and the wine of the Table, where we become the Body of Christ. Jesus’ gift to us is that, like the grain of wheat that is planted, or like the grain of wheat that becomes bread, we have already died with him. We are no longer single, isolated beings. We are already One, and so we are free to choose our paths without fear. We are free to choose love. God has glorified God’s name, and God will do it again.
Amen.
Jesus is at a crossroad. As today’s gospel reading opens, Jesus has just entered Jerusalem, and his public ministry is coming to an end. In just a few verses, he will begin washing the feet of his disciples, and shortly after that he will be betrayed by one of his closest companions, and handed over to death. Yet even as he is beginning to look toward that moment, still people are coming, looking for him, wishing to see him, hoping to believe. How does Jesus handle this moment? How does he navigate this crossroad? In some ways, it seems like his fate is sealed already. In the last chapter, Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, and in response the religious leaders decided that Jesus must die. But Jesus could yet choose a different path. He could recant, he could apologize for his behavior, even as he stands before Pilate it seems like he could talk his way out of death. But to what end? What kind of a choice is it that he could make?
Right now, at the crossroad, he could continue to gather followers to himself. Look! here are some Greeks,being brought to him by Philip and Andrew, the two men who brought him the first Jewish disciples. He could welcome these new Gentile disciples and grow a following that could perhaps threaten the political and religious establishments. He could become the King of the Jews, it seems he could even become King of more than Jews. Worldly power is in his grasp, if only he chooses to take it. Jesus is at a crossroad.
Standing at the crossroad, Jesus says, “the hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” The grain of wheat that is planted in the wet, muddy earth of springtime, begins to poke its head up through the mud, and by the summer, it has grown into a stalk of wheat, with many grains ready for harvest. It seems clear that to us, who already know that Jesus will die and rise again, that Jesus is talking about his own death. That seems straightforward enough. But then he adds the next verse, “25Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. 26Whoever serves me must follow me” and I feel a little sick.What does it mean to follow Jesus? What does it mean to hate my life in this world? Does my crossroad have to look like Jesus’ crossroad? What if the grain of wheat does not get planted? A grain of wheat might also be ground up, along with others, and made into flour, and then into a loaf of bread. Something the confirmation class and I know a bit about after last week’s bread-baking extravaganza. But either way, the grain has to give itself up somehow, it has to die to itself as a single, isolated grain, in order to live in a new way, either as a stalk of wheat that gives life to new grains, or as part of a loaf of bread that gives life to a living body.
Standing at the crossroad, Jesus is talking about setting aside oneself, in order to give life to many. It’s a profound statement, to be sure, but I can’t help thinking at some level, “Sure, but that’s Jesus.” He knows who he is and what he’s up to, especially here in John’s gospel. Though we hear other stories, in Mark and Luke and Matthew, where Jesus prays in Gethsemane, prays until he bleeds to have this cup pass from him, in today’s story he say with perfect certainty, “what should I say — 'Father, save me from this hour'? No, it is for this reason that I have come to this hour. 28Father, glorify your name.” How can I hope to match that certainty? That clarity of purpose? That readiness to do God’s will?
A friend of mine, a Catholic man, was at a crossroad in his early 20s. At the time when all of his friends were getting married and starting families, he was wondering if he should join a celibate brotherhood, and commit himself to a communal life without marriage or children. He prayed and prayed, “Lord, should I start a family? God, should I join the brotherhood? Tell me which one to do!” But he got no answer. Then one day, he changed his prayer. Instead of asking for a directive, what should I do, he asked this time, “God what would please you?” And the answer came, “Glorify me. Live your life with Me, with God, at the center. If you do this, then either choice will be the right one.” At the crossroad, what mattered was not so much the path he chose, as the reason for the choice.
Jesus at the crossroad said this prayer, “Father glorify your name.” Or perhaps he said, “not my will, but Yours.” Whatever the words, the prayer is the same, it is a prayer that places God at the center. Jesus said this prayer, and then he went to the cross. Jesus, God incarnate, chose to die, chose to join us even in that worst kind of suffering. And in making that choice, Jesus overcame death’s power. God chose to glorify God’s self. By overcoming sin and death for us. Because Jesus died for us, and rose for us, we too can choose. We can set aside worldly power, worldly ideas of perfection, and we are free. Free to step forward boldly in love, to God’s glory. When we stand at a crossroad, we can pray the prayer that Jesus prayed. It is the same one that he taught us, the one we pray when we don’t know what else to pray, “your will be done on earth as in heaven.” Jesus gave himself for us on the cross, and Jesus gives himself to us again and again, in the bread and the wine of the Table, where we become the Body of Christ. Jesus’ gift to us is that, like the grain of wheat that is planted, or like the grain of wheat that becomes bread, we have already died with him. We are no longer single, isolated beings. We are already One, and so we are free to choose our paths without fear. We are free to choose love. God has glorified God’s name, and God will do it again.
Amen.
March 15 manuscript
Everyone these days has a mission statement. Every organization publishes their mission, sometimes their vision and values as well. Some are complicated statements that try to encapsulate everything the organization is about. Target’s is “to make Target the preferred shopping destination for our guests by delivering outstanding value, continuous innovation and an exceptional guest experience by consistently fulfilling our Expect More. Pay Less.® brand promise.” Some are just a few words, not even a sentence, like Mount Olive Lutheran Church over on Chicago, “Musical, Liturgical, Welcoming.” My home congregation, Gift of Grace, is somewhere in between, “To invest our whole selves in lifting up Christ for our neighbors, inviting them more deeply into the life of God.”, but we also have a vision statement and a list of our deepest values to supplement it. I don’t know where the mania for mission statements came from. I suspect that it grew out of the corporate world, and I know it’s something that is touted in “The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.” I even know someone who, after reading that book, developed a mission statement for her family.
I make fun of this practice, especially when it gets taken to extremes. I am suspicious of mission statements because I often see organizations whose mission is bound to profit or “success” in a monetary or political sense. And these days, who isn’t skeptical of things that come out of the corporate world. But I also see the value of it. Particularly when an organization is faced with difficult decisions, as they all are eventually, a mission statement, can act as a guidepost. It can be help leadership narrow the options, based on decisions that were made when people were calmer, not panicking. Having done the work ahead of time, having a clear understanding of what this organization or community thinks is most important when trouble is not on the horizon, can lead to better decisions down the road when things get hairy or confusing. One congregation, for instance, found themselves in a major conflict over how to spend a large gift. But once they looked at their mission statement, if became clear. They had stated their priorities clearly ahead of time. Of course, the problem is that for some people, the values or mission statement is going to be something along the lines of, “Take what you want, when you want,” or “Money makes the world go ‘round,” or “winning isn’t the most important thing, it’s the only thing.” The concern in these statements is not for the neighbor, but for success by the standards of politics or economics or popularity. For some, these are guiding principles in good times or bad. For most of us, these worldly standards of success become default positions from time to time, even when they stand against our better judgment.
Because God was and is aware of that tendency in us humans, God took the initiative, writing a mission statement for us; we find it over and over in the Old Testament. Jesus summed up the mission statements of the Old Testament by saying that we are to love God with all our heart and mind and strength, and that we are to love our neighbor as ourselves. That is the concise version. In case you hear that and ask yourself, “What does it mean to love my neighbor as myself?” a more detailed version is found in today’s reading from Exodus. This is perhaps one of the most familiar passages in the Bible, maybe so familiar that you zoned out a bit while it was being read. You’ve heard it before; many of you can probably even recite it, along with Luther’s explanations of it from the Small Catechism.
We usually call these 17 verses the 10 Commandments. Yet the word “commandment” does not appear in this passage anywhere. In both Hebrew and Greek this passage is known as the 10 “Words,” not the 10 Commandments. These are the Word of God, God’s mission statement for us, God’s vision for how we are to live in community. This becomes even clearer if we dig more deeply into the Hebrew version of these words. In Hebrew there is no way to say “You shall not.” Or rather, “You shall not” is the same as “You will not.” Many scholars have made the argument that our traditional understanding of the 10 commandments, “you shall” and “you shall not,” is a mis-reading, a mis-translation. For example, the Lutheran theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer suggests that this passage would be best translated this way. “I am the Lord your God. I brought you out of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. Therefore, you will have no other gods, you will observe the Sabbath, you will not kill, you will not steal, and so on.” In other words, God begins with a flat-footed claim – this is God’s people. God has already proven God’s care and concern for this people by bringing them out of slavery. But God knows that this people can have no idea how to live together in freedom. And so God is giving them another demonstration of God’s love for them: a vision statement, a way of living together in community that will help them live life fully and well.
This is not to say that these 10 words are not law. They are, rather, the foundation of the law, the vision on which the law is based. They are the guidepost that points us toward how to understand and to live the law. They are God’s instruction on how to live in relationship with and for God, in relationship with and for our neighbor. The mistake that we so often make is that we apply the wisdom of the world to these words of God, this vision of God. We begin to believe that by following this we somehow earn relationship with God, earn God’s love, earn even our very salvation. But, as Paul says, God’s foolishness is wiser than the wisdom of the world. The foolishness of God turns our worldly wisdom on its head. The foolishness of God loves us before we even hear these words in Exodus, or any of the commandments of the law that follow them. The foolishness of God is that God is a fool for love, for relationship, for reconciliation. So much is God a fool for us, that God took these words, and made them flesh. Jesus, God’s Word made flesh, is another way that God shows us God’s vision for our lives. He is the incarnation of God’s mission statement, of God’s vision for our freedom, of God’s word. In Jesus’ life and in his death, he showed God’s concern for us, and he demonstrated abundant life, lived for the sake of our neighbor. God turned the wisdom of the world, the wisdom that would send a man to death on a cross for the sake of political convenience; God turned that wisdom around, chose the way of folly, and used it to overcome death, to overcome sin, to bring us to reconciliation.
We can still work on our mission statements, and we can still look at them as guides for our decisions. But let’s hope that they grow out of God’s foolishness, and not the world’s wisdom; out of our baptismal calling to love and serve our neighbor, not out of our desire to succeed according to the world’s financial and political standards. Christ Church Lutheran’s mission statement is about living out God’s vision as this particular community, in this particular place, at this particular time. We have seen where the world’s wisdom gets us, as our financial markets crumble and economic ruin threatens. Now is an opportunity for us to speak out, to hold God’s foolishness as the heart of our vision, and to ask what God is calling us to do in the face of such a crisis. We have the chance to act according to this grand vision for community, for relationship, for freedom from the world’s wisdom, that God has placed before us as the basis of all the law. And we do so, not in order to earn God’s love or our own salvation, but because God has first loved us, all the way to the point of foolishness.
I make fun of this practice, especially when it gets taken to extremes. I am suspicious of mission statements because I often see organizations whose mission is bound to profit or “success” in a monetary or political sense. And these days, who isn’t skeptical of things that come out of the corporate world. But I also see the value of it. Particularly when an organization is faced with difficult decisions, as they all are eventually, a mission statement, can act as a guidepost. It can be help leadership narrow the options, based on decisions that were made when people were calmer, not panicking. Having done the work ahead of time, having a clear understanding of what this organization or community thinks is most important when trouble is not on the horizon, can lead to better decisions down the road when things get hairy or confusing. One congregation, for instance, found themselves in a major conflict over how to spend a large gift. But once they looked at their mission statement, if became clear. They had stated their priorities clearly ahead of time. Of course, the problem is that for some people, the values or mission statement is going to be something along the lines of, “Take what you want, when you want,” or “Money makes the world go ‘round,” or “winning isn’t the most important thing, it’s the only thing.” The concern in these statements is not for the neighbor, but for success by the standards of politics or economics or popularity. For some, these are guiding principles in good times or bad. For most of us, these worldly standards of success become default positions from time to time, even when they stand against our better judgment.
Because God was and is aware of that tendency in us humans, God took the initiative, writing a mission statement for us; we find it over and over in the Old Testament. Jesus summed up the mission statements of the Old Testament by saying that we are to love God with all our heart and mind and strength, and that we are to love our neighbor as ourselves. That is the concise version. In case you hear that and ask yourself, “What does it mean to love my neighbor as myself?” a more detailed version is found in today’s reading from Exodus. This is perhaps one of the most familiar passages in the Bible, maybe so familiar that you zoned out a bit while it was being read. You’ve heard it before; many of you can probably even recite it, along with Luther’s explanations of it from the Small Catechism.
We usually call these 17 verses the 10 Commandments. Yet the word “commandment” does not appear in this passage anywhere. In both Hebrew and Greek this passage is known as the 10 “Words,” not the 10 Commandments. These are the Word of God, God’s mission statement for us, God’s vision for how we are to live in community. This becomes even clearer if we dig more deeply into the Hebrew version of these words. In Hebrew there is no way to say “You shall not.” Or rather, “You shall not” is the same as “You will not.” Many scholars have made the argument that our traditional understanding of the 10 commandments, “you shall” and “you shall not,” is a mis-reading, a mis-translation. For example, the Lutheran theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer suggests that this passage would be best translated this way. “I am the Lord your God. I brought you out of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. Therefore, you will have no other gods, you will observe the Sabbath, you will not kill, you will not steal, and so on.” In other words, God begins with a flat-footed claim – this is God’s people. God has already proven God’s care and concern for this people by bringing them out of slavery. But God knows that this people can have no idea how to live together in freedom. And so God is giving them another demonstration of God’s love for them: a vision statement, a way of living together in community that will help them live life fully and well.
This is not to say that these 10 words are not law. They are, rather, the foundation of the law, the vision on which the law is based. They are the guidepost that points us toward how to understand and to live the law. They are God’s instruction on how to live in relationship with and for God, in relationship with and for our neighbor. The mistake that we so often make is that we apply the wisdom of the world to these words of God, this vision of God. We begin to believe that by following this we somehow earn relationship with God, earn God’s love, earn even our very salvation. But, as Paul says, God’s foolishness is wiser than the wisdom of the world. The foolishness of God turns our worldly wisdom on its head. The foolishness of God loves us before we even hear these words in Exodus, or any of the commandments of the law that follow them. The foolishness of God is that God is a fool for love, for relationship, for reconciliation. So much is God a fool for us, that God took these words, and made them flesh. Jesus, God’s Word made flesh, is another way that God shows us God’s vision for our lives. He is the incarnation of God’s mission statement, of God’s vision for our freedom, of God’s word. In Jesus’ life and in his death, he showed God’s concern for us, and he demonstrated abundant life, lived for the sake of our neighbor. God turned the wisdom of the world, the wisdom that would send a man to death on a cross for the sake of political convenience; God turned that wisdom around, chose the way of folly, and used it to overcome death, to overcome sin, to bring us to reconciliation.
We can still work on our mission statements, and we can still look at them as guides for our decisions. But let’s hope that they grow out of God’s foolishness, and not the world’s wisdom; out of our baptismal calling to love and serve our neighbor, not out of our desire to succeed according to the world’s financial and political standards. Christ Church Lutheran’s mission statement is about living out God’s vision as this particular community, in this particular place, at this particular time. We have seen where the world’s wisdom gets us, as our financial markets crumble and economic ruin threatens. Now is an opportunity for us to speak out, to hold God’s foolishness as the heart of our vision, and to ask what God is calling us to do in the face of such a crisis. We have the chance to act according to this grand vision for community, for relationship, for freedom from the world’s wisdom, that God has placed before us as the basis of all the law. And we do so, not in order to earn God’s love or our own salvation, but because God has first loved us, all the way to the point of foolishness.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
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