Mary serves as pastor in Chicago, but she grew up in the South. A few years ago she shared her thoughts on southern hospitality. Southern women, she wrote, are Marthas and proud of it, and supper in a southern kitchen is a wonder to behold. Those who have traditional southern hospitality refined to an art never sit—they hover. At Martha’s table, plates are never allowed to go empty, and the serving dishes are passed around at least three times.

You know how it goes, “Some more iced tea? Have another yeast roll? Do try the jello salad, dear, it’s my aunt Rosie’s recipe, and the squash casserole is a favorite at every church potluck supper. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, and I never use the cheap crackers.”

The hostess keeps circling the table and shuttling between the kitchen and the dining room; she gives herself completely to serving her guests and misses all dinner conversation.

“When does the hostess eat?” Mary wonders. This remains one of the South’s eternal mysteries.^[1]

Then there’s the other Martha, you know, the queen of home and garden. She has a staff of nine in the kitchen behind the scenes, a small army of very talented, invisible minions.

This Martha greets the guests at the door as they arrive; her dress is unwrinkled, her make-up perfect, and the table is already set with the fine china, spotless crystal, and immaculate, starched napkins. Everyone admires the center piece she made herself, a creative arrangement of fruits and flowers from her own garden, in a basket she wove in an art class at the Appalachian Center for Craft last fall.

Martha smiles graciously at her guests’ compliments, she sits and enjoys the appetizers with them, sips the perfectly chilled chardonnay, and with her witty remarks she keeps the table conversation going. Then wonder woman excuses herself, disappears briefly in the kitchen, and returns with delicious food, beautifully presented. Everything is effortless. Martha is the embodiment of home-making perfection and hospitality – and she haunts many of her sisters in their dreams.

Luke’s Martha doesn’t have a staff. She has a house full of guests who didn’t call to let her know they were coming. She opened the door to her home and welcomed them in. She offered them basins, filled with fresh water, and towels, so they could wash their dusty feet. And she made sure they had plenty to drink before she disappeared in the kitchen.

Jesus sat with the disciples, telling stories about the kingdom and talking about his journey to Jerusalem. It was quiet in the room, except for the sound of his voice. No one noticed that the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen was growing steadily louder, but finally Martha, who had been making all the noise to get a little attention, could no longer contain her frustration. She stood in the door, wiping her hands on her apron, and said, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.”

Martha had a sister, Mary, and Mary sat with the other disciples, also showing hospitality to Jesus, but in a way that didn’t find her sister’s approval.

In a sonnett by Gioacchino Belli, the poet imagines Martha saying a few more choice words:

“I’m tied up day and night. I’ve never complained,
but I’m getting tired – I’m always on my feet;
you can’t find this painted doll of a saint
except, of course, when there’s something to eat.”

It’s easy to sit and listen, when somebody else is doing the cooking and the laundry and the cleaning, isn’t it?

I know the feeling and you do, too, don’t you? You do something just because it needs doing, and you don’t mind doing it, parts of it you even enjoy; but then you grow resentful when you realize that nobody seems to notice, that your work is just being taken for granted.

“Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.”

And the Lord answered, saying, “Martha, Martha,” scolding her like she was some little girl, “you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.”

And with that, the story in Luke just ends, like a good sister/bad sister story: You, Martha, are worried and distracted. Mary is the good girl, she has chosen the better part.

In Belli’s poem, Martha doesn’t just swallow it; she snaps back,

“So says you, but I know better.
Listen, if I sat around on my salvation
the way she does, who’d keep this house together?”^[2]

She has a point there, doesn’t she? Jesus taught that one does not live by bread alone (Luke 4:4), but he gratefully depended on the hospitality of many a Martha and their bread while teaching the word of God in the villages of Galilee and all the way to the city of Jerusalem.

And after Pentecost, believers gathered in homes for meals and worship, depending on the hospitality and leadership of those who opened their homes to the first congregations and to itinerant missionaries.

And today Martha is woman with a career, a wife and mother, and an Elder in the church, and everybody gladly depends on her to keep things together at home, at work, and at church.

Every time I sit with this story, sooner or later I write the same line in my notebook: Jesus needs to get into that kitchen. I like the image of all of them together, listening to Jesus and talking about the kingdom and the journey of discipleship, while peeling potatoes and chopping onions for dinner, blending flour, water, yeast and salt for the bread, setting the table, sharing the meal, attentive to each other’s needs and the needs of those not present, and eventually doing the dishes together.

Didn’t Jesus wash his disciples feet during a meal? A dish towel in his hands would make a great discipleship lesson, too.

I like the image of the church doing the things that need doing together while listening to the teachings of Jesus together. I don’t read this story as a story of sibling rivalry where Jesus takes the side of one against the other.

We know about being worried and distracted by many things, and Jesus reminds us that there is need of only one thing.What’s the one thing?

We know about working hard and giving ourselves to serving and resenting those who don’t. We know about endless expectations, and the voices that demand perfection, and schedules that make us sick. We know about being worried and distracted and way too busy, and Jesus reminds us that Mary has chosen the better part – the better part, but still only a part of the one thing necessary. What is the one thing?

Last Sunday we heard the story of the lawyer who asked Jesus, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” He already knew the one thing necessary: Loving God with your whole being and loving your neighbor as yourself. Jesus helped him to see that life doesn’t depend on knowing but on loving, and he told us the story of the Samaritan, the story of an outsider who became a neighbor to the victim lying by the side of the road. And then Jesus said, “Go and do likewise.”

It’s no coincidence that the story of Martha and Mary follows the story of the lawyer and the Samaritan. The two belong together and neither is complete without the other.

The lawyer was skilled in scripture, but he had trouble hearing the word of God as a claim on his life and seeing the need for active neighborliness and self-less, generous service.

Martha knew self-less service like no other, but she was so busy doing that she had trouble listening for the word of God.

In the first story Jesus says to us, “Go and do likewise.” And in the other he says, “Stop and sit likewise.” The two together are the one thing necessary.

As love of God and love of neighbor are two and one, so are listening and doing. Doing without listening turns into empty routine or breathless busyness. Listening without doing becomes lifeless knowledge, well-informed laziness. The one thing necessary is the integration of the two, the integration of our lives in welcoming the living Christ.

Jesus doesn’t envision a community of Marys and Marthas, a church where some listen and others work, some study and others serve, or some stand around the kitchen table and work while others sit around the dining room table and chat, or some grow frustrated and resentful and others continue to pretend that somebody else will clean up the kitchen. The faithful community is one where the privilege of listening to Jesus and the privilege of serving with Jesus go hand in hand, where listening and doing do not describe a division of labor but rather a balance of being.

I still like the picture of  Mary and Martha, Jesus and the other disciples together in the kitchen, then in the dining room, then back in the kitchen, moving effortlessly from one table to the other, talking about what it means to live as God’s people in the world. It doesn’t look like anything Martha Stewart would present on her show, but it looks real. It looks like something I want to be part of, and I hope you too.

[1] See Mary W. Anderson, “Hospitality Theology (Living by the Word),” The Christian Century, July 1-8, 1998, p. 643

[2] From a sonnett by Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli (1791-1863), translated by Miller Williams, in: Divine Inspiration: The Life of Jesus in World Poetry, ed. by Robert Atwan, George Dardress, and Peggy Rosenthal (New York, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 209; my emphasis



Our Jewish friends have a treasure of stories and legends about the great rabbinic sages of the past. Among the stories that have been passed down, Rabbi Hillel, who lived in the first century, is the one most remembered as a wise and patient teacher.

One story is about a young man at King Herod’s court who made a wager with his friends that he could make Rabbi Hillel angry. He had heard of Hillel and he wanted to see if he was really as wise and patient as everyone said. And so he went to the study house one day where Hillel was teaching a portion of the Torah.

“Rabbi, Rabbi!” he cried, interrupting the lesson, “Why do the Babylonians have round heads?”

Hillel turned to him and calmly said, “That is because their midwives are not properly trained,” and the young man left.

But the next day, he came back again and cried out in the middle of an intricate discussion of law, “Rabbi, Rabbi, why do the Egyptians have flat feet?”

And Hillel responded, “That is because they walk for miles along the marshlands of the Nile.” And with that, he returned to the discussion at hand.

But the young wasn’t ready to give up yet. He had wagered a lot of money with his friends that he could make Hillel angry, and he didn’t want to lose his bet. All night he stayed up, and finally he came up with a plan. The next day, he burst through the door of the study house, stood in front of Hillel, and started hopping up and down, saying, “Rabbi, Rabbi, can you teach me the whole of Torah while I stand on one foot?”

All of Hillel’s students looked up from the text they were reading and stared at the young man. Hopping up and down and repeating the question over and over, he looked like a stork flapping his wings and squawking. They whispered to one another, “We study the teachings of the Torah day in and day out! How can the rabbi give him an answer in just a few words?”

Rabbi Hillel remained perfectly composed. He looked straight into the young man’s eyes and said, “That which is hateful unto yourself, do it not unto your neighbor. That is the whole of Torah; the rest is commentary. Now go and learn.” [See While Standing on One Foot, p. 92-93]

People have questions and they turn to teachers for answers, and not every question is an honest request. Some questions are intended to anger or embarrass the questioned.

The lawyer in Luke’s story stands up to test Jesus. Has he also made a wager with his lawyer friends? Is he trying to shame the rabbi from Galilee by exposing a weakness in his teaching? Or does he simply want to see for himself if Jesus really has the kind of wisdom and insight people say he has?

“Rabbi,” the lawyer says, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

It’s a serious question; nothing silly like round heads and flat feet. To many people it is the question, the one worth asking, and we ask it in a variety of ways:

What must I do to walk through the door to heaven?

What must I do to hear my name being called when the book of life is opened?

What must I do to live a good, fulfilling life?

How do I know that the life I’m living is the one I’m supposed to live?

It’s a serious question, not a silly one designed to embarrass the teacher.

Jesus doesn’t give the man a tract with the four steps necessary for salvation—actually, he doesn’t seem interested in giving him any answer at all. He responds with two questions. “What is written in the law? What do you read there?” Jesus points the man to the things he has studied, to the things he knows, and asks, “What is written there? What do you read there?” And the funny thing is, now it’s the lawyer who is being tested, and everybody wonders if he knows his stuff.

He does; he answers well, quoting the two great commandments from the Torah, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.”

“You have given the right answer,” says Jesus, and he adds, “do this, and you will live.” The good teacher knows that giving the right answer may be enough to pass the test at the end of the year, but that life depends on doing. Love of God and neighbor is the right answer, but life depends on loving, not on right answers. The lawyer knows the answer, but the distance from a well-trained mind to an eloquent tongue is so much shorter than from knowing to doing with heart and soul and strength, with hand and feet.

Love God with your whole being and your neighbor as yourself, and you will live. The lawyer knows the answer, all that’s left to do for him is live it—but we all know that giving right answers is so much easier than living them.

The lawyer apparently can’t just go and do what he knows, do the best he can, succeed and fail and try to keep the course of love; he wants to stand there and debate how complex and complicated things really are, and that loving obedience is probably too simple an answer. “Who is my neighbor?” he asks.

Again Jesus doesn’t give him an answer; he tells him a story, a story we have heard so many times, it doesn’t really do much for us anymore, does it? O yeah, The Good Samaritan we say with a yawn. But the lawyer hears for the first time about the poor fellow on the road to Jericho who fell into the hand of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and left him half dead.

The lawyer can relate to the priest and Levite, religious experts who know the law and its application to specific cases. He knows how their minds work at the sight of a bloodied body lying by the road.

O my, that’s a naked man over there. Is he dead? What am I to do now? The law demands that I help those in need and show love to my  neighbor. If he had clothes on I’d be able to tell where he’s from. How am I supposed to know if he’s a fellow Jew? If he were conscious and calling for help, I could tell from his accent where he belongs. What if he’s dead? I can’t be expected to touch a corpse; I’d have to go through all these lengthy cleansing rituals afterward, and that is such an inconvenience. What if the thugs are still around?

The lawyer is right, the desire to obey God’s commandments can make life complicated and inconvenient. And not just that. Scripture can be used not only to challenge our attitudes and actions, but also to justify them. Scripture was quoted to justify slavery, bloody crusades, and the persecution of minorities, and in current debates around sexuality and ordination or marriage scripture is being quoted by all sides all the time.

“What is written?” sounds like a simple question, but the second question probes deeper, “What do you read there?”

How do I interpret what is written? What lenses do I wear when I read the ancient scriptures? Am I searching for proof texts to bolster my position and confirm what I already know? Am I fine-tuning my interpretive skills in order to boil it all down to the minimum requirements? Am I looking for ways to get away with what I’m doing?

Knowledge of the law is power, and even the law of God has loop holes that allow the well-informed to justify all sorts of dubious actions. You need reasons for seeing a naked man bleeding by the side of the road and passing by on the other side, reasons that will not crumble under rabbinical scrutiny? No problem, you couldn’t tell if he was a fellow Jew, if he really qualified as a neighbor.

So far the lawyer has been enjoying the story; this highway robbery is an interesting case. He also knows the laws of story-telling; he knows that there will be a third character who will bring the resolution. Who will be the hero?

The priest and the Levite passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity.

A Samaritan? The lawyer is shocked; repulsed may not be too strong a word.

Samaritans don’t know the law! They have bad bloodlines, their holy texts are insufficient, they have the wrong theology and the wrong temple. Samaritans are a bunch of dimwitted half-breeds!

But Jesus finishes his story. He describes in great detail the righteous actions of the despised and hated alien, how he was moved with compassion and went to the man, bandaged his wounds, put him on his animal, took him to an inn, and even paid the inn keeper to take care of the man.

Again the lawyer doesn’t get an answer from Jesus, but another question, “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”

“The one who showed him mercy.”

And Jesus says, “Go and do likewise.”

Learn from the despised and hated foreigner the meaning of love of neighbor. Don’t look for answers that will help you build a wall around yourself within which your religious obligation for loving applies. You say, ‘What must I do to inherit eternal life?’ and you are asking, ‘What are the limits of my responsibility?’ You ask, ‘Who is my neighbor?’and your question implies that there is a line beyond which the commandment no longer applies, that the law puts you in the middle of a circle and that somehow you can determine how far to push the boundaries of your obligation beyond yourself: is it your family, your friends, your tribe, your nation, your faith community, your generation?

Jesus teaches me that, yes, there is a circle, but it is not defined by me and my interpretation of who is neighbor. It is defined by the other whose need calls forth a neighbor’s loving response.

The Samaritan’s compassionate response is the answer to a question that doesn’t get asked nearly enough, "What must I do to be a neighbor to the person whose need I see?"

The story of Naaman is great dramatic material just waiting to be put on stage; it has colorful characters, vivid contrasts, and a surprise ending.

There’s Naaman, the great warrior, commander of the Aramean army; a man who has made a name for himself in many victorious battles.

There are two kings, one with a great deal of power thanks to his fine general, the other with very little power thanks to that same general.

The list of characters continues with Elisha, the man of God, a bit of a wild man like his mentor Elijah.

There’s Naaman’s wife; her role is crucial for the plot development but she doesn’t have a speaking part. We don’t know her by name, only as Naaman’s wife, always ready to play in a supporting role.

There are several slaves and servants who remain nameless as well, but without them, there would be no story. Without the anonymous slave girl who has compassion on her master, there would be no cure, no happy ending. Whoever writes the score for the movie, Naaman of Aram, needs to make sure that the theme, the melody line that ties everything together is introduced when her face first appears. She is the one whose compassion opens a window in a hopeless situation, and while we may never know her name, we will always remember the melody of grace she embodies.

The first scene opens with Naaman, commander of the army of the king of Aram, a great man in high favor with his master. This is an important man, a four-star general, highly decorated, somebody who knows the battlefield as well as the high art of talking to the press without stepping out of bounds. We are looking at a man of great accomplishments and considerable power, when the story takes an unexpected turn: this hero of many battles, this officer of superior strategic skill, used to being in charge, this man has a secret. No, he didn’t take bribes or tell his staff he was hiking the Appalachian trail. Hidden under layers of shiny armor and fine, expensive clothes is a terrible truth: the general has been rendered helpless by a disease that is blind to power, wealth and status. Underneath the surface of his public persona he’s just a suffering human being.

Now the second character enters the stage. She is a slave, a young foreign girl he brought home from one of their raids into Israel. She is as small as Naaman is big. She is an outsider as much as Naaman is an insider. Everything he is, she is not. She is not at home, nor is she free to go home. Her life is in his hands. She is property.

But she knows the one thing that the general on his many raids into Israel didn’t learn: she knows where hope and wholeness can be found. “If only my lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria,” she tells her mistress, “he would cure him of his leprosy.” Who knows why she cares about the man who carried her far away from her home, her family and her people? Who knows why she doesn’t act strategically and propose a deal to secure her freedom in exchange for the information? Who knows how she is able to see only a suffering human being and show compassion?

Naaman is desperate enough to listen to a slave girl. He goes to his lord to tell him what she said, and the king of Aram assumes that if there is any healing power in Israel it has to be at the king’s disposal. He gives his general a letter for the king of Israel, and Naaman departs with chests of gold and silver and bundles of priceless garments.

The king of Israel reads the memo from his powerful neighbor, and tearing his clothes he cries out, “Am I God, to give life or death that this man sends word to me to cure a man of his leprosy?” It is always good for a king to remember that he is not God, but what can he do when his well-armed neighbor tells him, “This is what I want, you make it happen,” asking for the impossible? Now the king of Israel is about as desperate as the general from Aram.

Enter Elisha, the man of God. He sends word to the king, “Why have you torn your clothes? Let him come to me, that he may learn that there is a prophet in Israel.” With that, the king drops out of the picture, and Naaman and his chariots and horses and gifts of gold and silver head to Elisha’s house.

In the next scene, the contrast is again stark. On one side, Elisha’s little house, made from mud bricks, a hole in the wall for a window, and on the other side there is Naaman with his entourage and his caravan of camels and horses carrying everything a superpower has to offer. For a moment the action just stops; the general is waiting, and you can tell he’s not used to waiting.

And Elisha doesn’t even come out of his house. He sends somebody with a message for the general, “Go, wash in the Jordan seven times, and your flesh shall be restored and you shall be clean.”

Well, Naaman isn’t used to this. He is somebody. He is accustomed to speaking with the king’s inner circle, not the receptionist. Who does this prophet think he is?

“I thought that for me he would surely come out, and stand and call on the name of the Lord his God, and would wave his hand over the spot, and cure the leprosy.” Doesn’t the esteemed general of the king of Aram deserve a personal audience with the prophet rather than some secondhand, servant-delivered prescription? And what kind of prescription is this, “wash in the Jordan seven times”? Are not the rivers of Damascus better than all the waters of Israel? I didn’t come all this way to wash in some river.

In a rage, the commander turns and goes away, angry enough to start another raid.

Now his servants approach him. They know how to speak to their master; years of experience have taught them how to reintroduce some reason into situations where arrogance and wounded pride have ratcheted up tensions. “Father, if the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more when all he said to you was, ‘Wash, and be clean?’”

He listens to their counsel. He gets off his horse, goes down to the river, and he steps into the water, not just knee-deep, he goes all the way down, immersing himself seven times according to the word of the man of God. And when he emerges from the water that seventh time, his skin is smooth and flawless like the skin of a young boy, and all is well for Naaman.

He was so sure he knew what he needed, he almost refused God’s gift of healing and wholeness. Almost, but God has servants who help move the story forward to its joyful conclusion. The word of hope comes from a complete outsider, a slave girl who dares to believe that the God of Israel desires life in fullness not just for her people, but for all. The wise counsel comes from servants who find a way around their master’s wounded pride and help him come down to the level of our shared humanity and trust in God’s word. It is the servants that move the story forward, not kings and armies.

Naaman made a name for himself in the kingdom of Aram, but in the kingdom of God he is remembered together with the slave girl whose faith and compassion opened a window for the power of God to be revealed. The path to wholeness crosses borders and makes unexpected turns, and it takes us all to the place where we listen for and dare to trust the word of God, not just knee-deep.

When Jesus came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, he went to the synagogue on the sabbath. He read from the book of the prophet Isaiah, and preached about good news to the poor and release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, and all were amazed at the gracious words that came from his mouth. But then he talked about the days of Elijah, when there was a severe famine over all the land. There were many widows in Israel, yet Elijah was sent to none of them except to a widow who lived across the border, in Sidon.

They didn’t like where that proclamation was going. Then he talked about how many lepers there were in Israel in the time of Elisha, and how non of them was cleansed except Naaman the Syrian.

He talked about the path of wholeness crossing borders and including the ones we habitually exclude, and they were ready to hurl him off the cliff.

The path to wholeness crosses borders and makes unexpected turns, and it takes us all to the place where we listen for and dare to trust the word of God, not just knee-deep. How long will it take to heal our prejudices and jealousies, our broken hopes and promises? About as long as it takes for a Syrian general to listen to an Israeli slave girl. About as long as it takes for a mighty man to get off of his horse and into the water of a river he’s never heard of. About as long as it takes you and me to realize that the path to wholeness is not ours but God’s.

Today we celebrate Independence Day and we hum the tunes of John Philip Sousa with pride and gratitude for the vision of freedom and justice, and the rule of law.

Today is also Sunday, and on Sunday we learn to hum the melody line we hear in the compassion of a slave girl and in the faithfulness of Jesus. I pray that we hum it until we know it by heart and sing all our songs to its simple, beautiful tune.



In his autobiography, With Head and Heart, the great American teacher and prophet, Howard Thurman, recalls a heartbreaking scene.

On one of our visits to Daytona Beach I was eager to show my daughters some of my early haunts. We sauntered down the long street from the church to the riverfront. This had been the path of the procession to the baptismal ceremony in the Halifax River, which I had often described to them. We stopped here and there and I noted the changes that had taken place since that far-off time. At length we passed the playground of one of the white public schools. As soon as Olive and Anne saw the swings, they jumped for joy. “Look, Daddy, let’s go over and swing!” This was the inescapable moment of truth that every black parent in America must face soon or late. What do you say to your child at the critical moment of primary encounter?

“You can’t swing in those swings.”

“Why?”

“When we get home and have some cold lemonade I will tell you.” When we were home again, and had had our lemonade, Anne pressed for the answer. “We are home now, Daddy. Tell us.”

I said, “It is against the law for us to use those swings, even though it is a public school. At present, only white children can play there. But it takes the state legislature, the courts, the sheriffs and policemen, the white churches, the mayors, the banks and businesses, and the majority of white people in the state of Florida – it takes all these to keep two little black girls from swinging on those swings. That is how important you are! Never forget, the estimate of your own importance and self-worth can be judged by how many weapons and how much power people are willing to use to control you and keep you in the place they have assigned to you. You are two very important little girls. Your presence can threaten the entire state of Florida.”

Howard Thurman, With Head and Heart: The Autobiography of Howard Thurman (Orlando, FL: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1979) p. 97

I wish I had half the wisdom and presence of mind this father showed in affirming his daughters’ worth and dignity in a society bent on robbing them of their full humanity.

He could have but he didn’t sneak them into the playground so they could pretend to be free for a few moments, swinging high with the tips of their shoes touching the clouds, and hoping that they wouldn’t get caught.

He could have but he didn’t make up a story that allowed him to avoid naming the ugly reality of racism. He didn’t tell them that they couldn’t swing on those swings because their mother was expecting them at home, or that he would build them a much better swing in the back yard.

He told them the truth, and he did it in a way that didn’t break their spirits or confine them to the role of victims in a demonic system of oppression. Olive and Anne learned how important they were by the amount of resources needed to keep them in the place those in control had assigned to them. Their dad didn’t tell them that they were his little princesses no matter what the rest of the world said; he told them the truth in a way that affirmed their humanity and allowed them to grow up strong in a world designed to keep them out and down. That design, of course, has nothing to do with the world God wants us to live in.

The story of Jesus we heard this morning is like a condensed version of the entire Gospel: God comes to free us from sin and restore life in fullness.

In this story, Jesus enters the land of the gentiles, the territory of those who are outside the land of promise. And there, on the far side of the lake, he meets a man of the city, and he meets him outside the city.

This man hasn’t worn clothes for a long time, and he hasn’t lived in a house but in the tombs—and to say that he was living naked in the tombs is to say that he was worse off than the dead, for the dead at least have their bodies wrapped in grave linens and they are at peace. This man doesn’t know peace.

To be human is to be part of a family, to be in community; to be human is to love and be loved, to know God and to know one’s name. And Jesus asks the man, “What is your name?” and he says, “Legion.”

That’s not a name, that’s a diagnosis. Legion means a few thousand. Legion means the man’s identity, his true self has disappeared amid the pull of thousands of demonic forces that possess him. His soul has been buried in desolation, under thousands of lies and oppressions, voices that slowly robbed him, saying,

You don’t count.

You don’t matter.

You’re not good enough.

You are ugly.

You are worthless.

You are nobody.

Jesus asks him, “What is your name?” And there is no name, only the thousandfold absence of what makes a human being a human being. There is no memory of knowing love and hope, no ability to imagine ever experiencing them again.

In the book of Psalms, a voice whispers in torment, The enemy pursues my soul, he has crushed my life to the ground; he has made me dwell in darkness like the dead, long forgotten. Therefore my spirit fails; my heart is numb within me (Psalm 143:3-4). But this man has no name, no memory or hope, not even a prayer.

This little story, however, this fragrant essence of the gospel boldly declares that all that keeps the man from living life as a human being created by God, that all the voices and powers cannot rule in the presence of Christ. They come out and enter a herd of swine and they finish their destructive work by destroying themselves in the depths of the sea. That is the end of all that keeps us from living life as God intended it from the beginning.

The people from the city find the man sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and his right mind. Perhaps you wonder where he found his new clothes so quickly, out among the graves. The Apostle Paul would suggest that the man had put on Christ, for in Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith. As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ (Galatians 3:26-27).

In Christ we are given our true identity as children of God, we are given our true name, and with it our true purpose. The world will call us names, but only God knows us fully and gives us Christ that we may come to know ourselves and one another as beloved by God.

And in Christ, there is no longer Jew or Gentile, only one humanity of God’s people.

There is no longer slave or free, only one humanity of free people serving God and one another.

There is no longer black or white or brown, only one humanity of many shades of beautiful.

There is no longer male and female, only men and women who know their true identities as God’s sons and daughters.

And with that new sense of identity, with that new name we are sent to declare what God in Christ has done for us. The call to mission and witness may take us halfway around the world, but more than likely it takes us back to our homes and our places of work and to the places where we and our children face the demons of our time.

The better we know who we are, who we really are, the better we will be able to encourage in our children a sense of self that isn’t determined by a thousand demanding voices, but by their dignity and importance as sons and daughters of God.

I began with a story of a father who gave his daughters the strength to know and resist the forces that would rob them of their humanity. I want to end with another story, one that comes to us by way of the Brothers Grimm, and it also addresses the fragile nature of our humanity.

There was once a very old man, whose eyes had become dim, his ears dull of hearing, his knees trembled, and when he sat at table he could hardly hold the spoon, and spilt the broth upon the table-cloth or let it run out of his mouth.

His son and his son’s wife were disgusted at this, so the old grandfather at last had to sit in the corner behind the stove, and they gave him his food in an earthenware bowl, and not even enough of it.

And he used to look towards the table with his eyes full of tears. Once, too, his trembling hands could not hold the bowl, and it fell to the ground and broke. The young wife scolded him, but he said nothing and only sighed. Then they bought him a wooden bowl for a few [pennies], out of which he had to eat.

They were once sitting thus when the little grandson of four years old began to gather together some bits of wood upon the ground.

“What are you doing there?” asked the father.

“I am making a little trough,” answered the child, “for father and mother to eat out of when I am big.”

The man and his wife looked at each other for a while, and presently began to cry. Then they took the old grandfather to the table, and henceforth always let him eat with them, and likewise said nothing if he did spill a little of anything.

The Old Man and his Grandson, by the Brothers Grimm, translated by Margaret Taylor (1884) 

Wherever we are in the long procession of generations, I wish us all a happy Father’s Day.

Naboth had a vineyard, and King Ahab had a palace in Samaria. The palace sat on a hill Ahab’s father had bought from a local for two talents of silver (1 Kings 16:24).

Naboth had a vineyard, and King Ahab had a dream of a vegetable garden near his palace. It all sounds innocent enough. The king made Naboth an offer, “I’ll give you a better vineyard for it, or money, whichever you prefer.” It was a reasonable offer, you might even say a generous one.

Wouldn’t you trade your vineyard on the Cumberland plateau for one in the Napa valley? You get better soil, better climate, better wine – and if the Napa valley is a little too far from home for you, name your price: it’s a seller’s market, the king really wants that piece of land! Why not make a deal? Strangely, Naboth didn’t even ask, “Let me sleep on it. I’ll get back with you tomorrow.”

Naboth said no, and he did so emphatically. “The Lord forbid...” he said, invoking God in what, for a moment, looked like a standard real estate proposal. “The Lord forbid that I should give you my ancestral inheritance.”

From Naboth’s point of view, the vineyard wasn’t a commodity to be bought and sold at will. That vineyard was land that had been in Naboth’s family for generations and would remain in his family for generations to come. Naboth remembered that the land wasn’t anybody’s personal property, but God’s. Naboth remembered that God’s people were tenants on God’s land, and that every clan in Israel had received a portion. According to God’s covenant, each family had a plot of land to farm and to enjoy the fruit of the earth. The intent was to allow every generation thrive and find peace in the shadow of their family’s vines and figtrees. The land was God’s, not a commodity.

“The Lord forbid that I should give you the land that has been in my family for generations and that will be a source of food and income for generations to come,” said Naboth. King Ahab didn’t like the answer. He went to one of his many rooms in the palace, lay on his bed, face to the wall, and pouted; he didn’t even come down for dinner. He really wanted that vineyard, and the queen was genuinely concerned—until she heard his story.

“Aren’t you the king around here?” she mocked him, “Do you want me to go and get that vineyard for you?” She was a Phoenician princess, she didn’t know how royalty in Israel were supposed to behave, or perhaps she did know and just didn’t care. “Get up, eat something, stop moping. I’ll give you the vineyard.”

She didn’t have the power to just take the land, but she had the power to play the system in her favor. She sent a couple of memos in the king’s name, and with bogus charges and the help of two scoundrels who were willing to testify anything for the right price, she had Naboth killed. Then she went to the king and said, “Go, take that vineyard, it’s yours. Naboth is dead.” And Ahab put on his straw hat, got a ball of twine and a few sticks, and went to lay out the beds in his vegetable garden.

I love this tale, and the only thing that bothers me is the tendency in biblical stories, starting with Adam and Eve, to put the blame on women when there’s plenty of blame to go around. Ahab got what he wanted, and he didn’t even bother to ask, “How did you do that, dear?”

How did the king get what he wanted?

You shall not covet your neighbor’s house or anything that belongs to your neighbor, the ten commandments declare, but the king really wanted that vineyard. And who wouldn’t agree that the king’s wish should be everybody’s command?

You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor, the ten commandments declare, but who says that kings and queens have neighbors – aren’t they all underlings?

You shall not steal, you shall not murder – but what are divine commandments when royal wishes have been made known?

In this tale, everything that keeps a society from drifting into chaos is corrupted by royal covetousness, and the king’s hankering after cucumbers, onions and leeks leads to death by judicial murder. It is ironic that the one person in the story who shows genuine reverence for God’s will is killed on a charge of blasphemy. And the king and queen get to wear the robes of righteousness in front of the public for putting down the blasphemers in Israel.

The systems of law, government, and religion not only fail to protect the innocent man’s life, they become tools in the hands of the powerful who manipulate them for their own purposes. But more is at stake here than the occasional abuse of the system by those in power to serve their own needs and desires.

In Israel’s imagination, the vineyard is a way of speaking of God’s people on God’s land; the vineyard is an image of the flourishing relationship between God and God’s people and the land. In contrast, Egypt, the land of Pharao, the land where the Hebrews served as slaves, is compared to a vegetable garden. The vineyard is planted on land watered by rain from the sky, land that God looks after, but the vegetable garden must be irrigated by foot, with hard labor ( Deuteronomy 11:8-12). The story suggests that if royal covetousness has its way, God’s people return to the house of slavery.

The story could end as it so often ends, with the vineyard gone and the king taking a walk in the royal vegetable garden. But is doesn’t.

Then the word of the Lord came to Elijah the Tishbite, saying: Go down to meet King Ahab of Israel, who rules in Samaria; he is now in the vineyard of Naboth.

Just when Israel began to look like Egypt, the word of the Lord came to one like Moses. Just when the royals thought nobody was paying attention to what they were doing, the word of the Lord came to Elijah:

Go to the vineyard of Naboth and tell King Ahab, “Thus says the Lord: In the place where dogs licked up the blood of Naboth, dogs will also lick up your blood.”

Elijah, the truth-teller, found the king and said, “You have sold yourself to do what is evil in the sight of the Lord.” He could have just said, “You have done what is evil in the sight of the Lord,” but he said, “You have sold yourself.” Naboth wouldn’t even sell a piece of land out of reverence for God’s covenants, but Ahab had sold himself. Sold himself to whom or what?

A few years ago, Bob Dylan sang an answer:

You may be an ambassador to England or France
You may like to gamble, you might like to dance

You may be a businessman or some high-degree thief
They may call you Doctor or they may call you Chief

You may be a preacher with your spiritual pride
You may be a city councilman taking bribes on the side
You might like to eat caviar, you might like to eat bread
You may be sleeping on the floor, sleeping in a king-sized bed:

But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
You’re gonna have to serve somebody.

That’s the kind of song Elijah sang to Ahab in the vineyard:

You may live in a palace or live on the street

You may own half of Samaria or just a vineyard

You may be the king or the king’s gardener

But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed

You’re gonna have to serve somebody

You sold yourself to idols that promise you your heart’s desire. You sold yourself to visions of power that promise you the world – as long as you give yourself to them. You have sold yourself. You imagine yourself to be free and sovereign in your refusal to serve the Lord who brought Israel out of Egypt, out of the house of slavery, but you’re gonna have to serve somebody.

You say you serve nobody but yourself? You are of all slaves most to be pitied, for you have sold yourself to serve the whims of your desires. You have sold yourself to do what is evil in the sight of the Lord.

What does that ancient story have to do with you and me, with our lives? We live in a culture that has gotten used to treating greed like a virtue, a culture that depends on covetousness for its flourishing. We surround ourselves with images that tell us we are kings and queens, when in truth we are selling ourselves to powers that promise us the world. We worship at the altars of the gods of consumerism, and we imagine we can grow our way out of every problem and crisis. We live as if the earth wasn’t the Lord’s but ours—and ours to do with as we please.

We look at the disaster in the gulf and we can see the failure of systems of law and government to protect the lives and livelihoods of the most vulnerable families and of future generations. We can look at the mess and demand better oversight, better laws, better risk analysis, better engineering – and we should – but we’re missing the opportunity this moment of crisis presents, if we don’t hear the voice of Elijah, the voice of Jesus calling us to renewed covenant faithfulness.

We imagine ourselves to be free, when in truth we act like addicts who have sold ourselves to promises that aren’t God’s but the products of our own unbridled desires.

We’re gonna have to serve somebody, and we’re all better off if that somebody isn’t our respective myself. Moses, Elijah, and Jesus all point to the same alternative to royal covetousness and anxious selfishness: Life in covenant with the God who called Israel out of Egypt and who raised Jesus Christ from the dead. Life as free men and women who serve no one but the Lord of heaven and earth, and one another in neighborly love.

The story begins with Elijah of Tishbe in Gilead and king Ahab, the worst king Israel had known. One day, Elijah came to Ahab and said, “As the Lord the God of Israel lives, before whom I stand, there shall be neither dew nor rain these years, except by my word.”

The king was angry, very angry, and then the long drought began. God sent Elijah across the border, away from Ahab’s reach, to Zarephath, where a widow would take care of him. When he came to the gate of the town, he saw her. She was gathering sticks. Sticks for one last fire, as she told him, to cook her last handful of grain with a little oil, one last meal for her and her son. The drought on top of her already marginal existence as a widow meant that starvation was inevitable for her and her child. And Elijah, who had asked her for a little water to drink and a morsel of bread, said to her, “Go and do as you have said, but first…” First do this other thing, this rather odd thing to do on the verge of death, this radically generous and hospitable thing, first “make me a little cake of it and bring it to me, and afterwards make something for yourself and your son.” That last handful of grain, divide it by three instead of two, and feed me before you feed your child and yourself.

And then Elijah, the stranger from across the border added, “For thus says the Lord the God of Israel: The jar of meal will not be emptied and the jug of oil will not fail until the day that the Lord sends rain on the earth.”

And so it was. They didn’t die of starvation. They ate for many days, and the jar of meal was not emptied, neither did the jug of oil fail.

If this were a Hallmark movie, you’d see smiling faces, perhaps rain clouds on the horizon, and the closing credits with the sound of thunder in the background. But in the Bible the story continues. In a tragic turn of events, the widow’s son becomes ill, and the illness is so severe that there is no breath left in him. Death comes again very close, but God listens to the prayers of Elijah, and the boy is miraculously revived and returned to his mother.

The names of king Ahab and queen Jezebel are written in the royal archives and the chronicles of Israel, but nobody wrote down the names of the widow and her son. Their story is not for the history books, but for people who live in dry times. In dry times, we tend to look at our own meager resources, that last handful of grain, that spoon of olive oil at the bottom of the jug, and we go and gather sticks for that last fire. This story blows up our assumptions and reminds us that God’s possibilities go beyond what we can imagine. The woman’s radical hospitality and the prophet’s prayer open the gates through which life returns.

The cover of the current New Yorker shows a familiar scene, a congressional hearing. In the foreground, we see a man in a grey suit, standing behind a table, his right hand raised as he is being sworn in to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He faces a panel of committee members; they are the ones who ask the questions that will bring the truth to light. It is an unusual group of investigators, among them a pelican, a dolphin, a large fish, and a penguin.

Obviously, this isn’t a banking committee hearing, and the gentleman in the grey suit isn’t a hedge fund manager from Wall Street. More likely he’s Tony Hayward, C.E.O. of BP—and while we also have a number of questions we would like him to answer for us, in this hearing we are lined up behind him, and we can’t just sit in the audience. Before this panel, Mr. Hayward is not only answering for his company, but for all of us and our part in the disaster that is unfolding in the gulf and along the gulf coast. We must answer, because we have created a culture that interferes constantly with natural systems, and too often with very limited knowledge of the risks involved for other living things or future generations.

Last week the Boston Globe published a portfolio of pictures by A.P. photographer Charlie Riedel, pictures of pelicans and other sea birds drenched in oil, taken on East Grand Terre Island, one of several barrier islands on the Louisiana coast. They are pictures of agony and death, and almost too much to look at and allow in. It is hard to see these pictures, knowing that I can’t just point at Mr. Hayward and the senior management at BP and blame them for the deadly mess, knowing that the way I live my life has a lot to do with the death and suffering in the water and on land. It is like living through a different kind of drought, where it’s not rain that is lacking, but wisdom and care.

The story continues in Nain, a small town in Galilee. Jesus approached the gate of the town just when a man who had died was being carried out. A large crowd, probably the whole town, followed the bier with the body on it. Apparently the man had not been married; there was no young widow, no children – only his mother. A woman who had already lost her husband, and now her son, her only son. She carried more than the weight of her grief. Without a husband or a son to take care of her, her future looked grim. Most widows had to depend on the compassion of their husband’s family to survive, and many ended up sitting in the gate or by the road side together with the blind and the crippled, begging neighbors and strangers for a little mercy.

Death is a biological reality, and all living things eventually die. But death is also a social reality. Life expectancy is significantly higher for the rich than for the poor. In many places, child mortality rates among girls are higher than among boys. And in many societies, after the death of a spouse, life offers more opportunities to men than to women. Death is the great equalizer that ends every life, but it also invades our lives and prevents them from flourishing with different rules for men and women, for people born in poverty and wealth, for people with access to education and without. Death doesn’t just mark the end of life, it is a present reality that keeps it from thriving.

In a good funeral procession, people cry in their grief, but they also strengthen the ties of friendship between them, they share stories that make them smile, memories of the one whose body they accompany to its final resting place. In a good funeral procession, people travel in gratitude, with tears and smiles, carrying seeds of hope and joy and new life. But when people make that journey without a promise for tomorrow, they follow a bier in a procession of death. It’s a different kind of drought, where it’s not rain that is lacking, but hope and imagination.

So we see an old widow on the way to the cemetery to bury her only son and with him her own life. Traveling with her, the many women from areas where it hasn’t rained in years, gathering sticks for that last meal for themselves and their children. Traveling with them, the children born in cities of blatant inequality, the men and women whose hope disappeared like smoke from a snuffed candle. Traveling with them, fishermen with empty nets and people carrying the bodies of pelicans drenched in oil, dolphins and turtles. A long procession of those who know all the ways in which death invades life and sucks it dry.

They pass through the gate, and there, outside of town, coming toward them, is another procession. The two columns meet, and the Lord of life touches the bier on which the body lies, and he says, “Rise!” And it begins to rain—it rains hope and imagination, wisdom and care, it rains life and joy. The young man sits up and Jesus gives him to his mother and the crowd shouts and sings, praising God.

The procession of death stops, and it does not just stop temporarily, it ends here where the Lord of life says, “Rise!” The procession of death stops, because with Jesus the reign of God has invaded death’s dominion, and life restored in fullness begins to shine forth in glorious beauty. The procession of death stops, because it can go no further than to the cross, and at the cross God said “No!” to all that keeps life from flourishing, and “Rise!” to a new creation where sin and death are no more.

The Psalm for this Sunday praises the Lord, who made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them; who keeps faith forever (Psalm 146). And line after line unfolds how the Lord keeps faith,

executing justice for the oppressed

giving food to the hungry

setting the prisoners free

opening the eyes of the blind

lifting up those who are bowed down

loving the righteous and caring for the stranger

sustaining the poor but bringing to ruin the way of the wicked

The Lord keeps faith by paying close attention to those living on the margins. The Lord keeps faith through acts of judgment and redemption that bring to ruin the way of the wicked and stop the procession of death. The Lord keeps faith by calling us to follow Christ who leads the procession of life.

And we keep faith by doing the small things that never make the history books. Small things like sharing a meal with the stranger at the gate, because that is how we honor the Lord of life. Small things like paying attention to those living on the margins, even if they are seabirds and dolphins, or little wiggly things whose names we barely know – because that is how we honor the Lord of life. We keep faith by doing small things like not pointing the finger at one man, because we realize that three fingers are pointing back at us.

We are not the ones who stop the procession of death and say, “Rise!” But we follow the One who did just that, and he will always show us a way to continue the invasion of death’s dominion with hope and imagination, with wisdom, care, and new life.

No more exams for a while. No more tests. No more papers overdue or homework turned in late. School’s out. Summertime. It’s Meet-you-at-the-pool season. It’s “Off to camp, to the mountains, to the beach, to Italy and France” season. Summertime.

I don’t know if you noticed, but this year, after the final half-day of school was over and after the commencement speeches were delivered, the cry of relief wasn’t quite as euphoric and loud as in the past. Some of that lack of enthusiasm can be explained as post-flood soberness: we’re still working, still cleaning up, still trying to figure out what’s next, and we’re just not quite ready yet to go party or do our usual lazy-summer-stuff. Then there is the economic uncertainty where too many are still looking for work and too many are still worried they might lose their job if the markets don’t start humming again soon. And there is the hole in the bottom of the gulf with millions of gallons of crude spewing into the water – and who knows what this means for life in the ocean and on the coast, and for our demand for energy or our standard of living? It’s summertime, and we wish we could sing, ‘…and the living is easy,’ but we can’t because it isn’t.

My mom and my brother have been with us for a few precious days. Sometime last week, I took my mom to Green Hills Mall; she wanted to do some shopping. I dropped her off between Panera and Davis-Kidd, told her that Panera would be a good place for lunch, and off she went. She had a great morning; she loved Pottery Barn and Williams Sonoma, and especially Coldwater Creek.

When she got hungry, she started looking for a place to eat. More specifically, she started looking for the food court. Now, you all probably know that there is no food court at Green Hills Mall, but she kept looking for a while, wondering if she was on the right level or at the wrong end of the building. Eventually she decided to ask a couple for directions.

She could have said, “Excuse me, where is the food court?” or “Pardon me, can you recommend a restaurant in this mall?” Instead she began by telling them the reason for her quest. She said, “I am hungry.”

She meant to add, “Where can I get a sandwich here?” but never got there, because the lady immediately took a step back. When my mom told us the story, I started laughing and said, “Did she offer you a couple of dollars or a cookie from her purse?” No, she didn’t. With both hands raised in a defensive gesture she sought protection behind her husband’s back. She was afraid.

She wasn’t afraid of my mom, a slender woman without any of the traits you expect to see in the large women in a Wagner opera – No, the lady was afraid that real human need had intruded what was for her a safe place, a place where she could look at pretty things and forget the world for a while.

It’s summertime, and we wish we could sing, ‘… and the living is easy,’ but we can’t because it isn’t. Whether we care to admit it or not, there’s uncertainty in the air, even fear.

Don’t you wish Jesus were here? Don’t you wish he simply appeared in all the places where fear threatens to overwhelm hope? Don’t you wish he had sneaked into a commencement celebration somewhere and given the speech the whole world needed to hear right now?

We have these fantasies of God having created the world just a little different or of intervening now with one decisive action from on high to set things right. We have dreams of God sending a strong leader who won’t get corrupted by power or crushed between the wheels of interest groups. We wish Jesus were here.

Beginning with chapter 13, John tells the story of Jesus’ last night with his friends. They didn’t know it would be there last hours together. They didn’t know that he would be arrested, convicted, and crucified the very next day. They didn’t know what was coming next, but Jesus did [for this view of the “farewell discourse,” I follow Eugene Peterson, The Story Behind the Story, Journal for Preachers Vol. 26, No. 4, Pentecost 2003, pp. 4-8].

And so he spent that last night with them preparing them for what they couldn’t even begin to imagine: how to follow him without seeing him; how to do his works without him there to teach and admonish them; how to hear his voice in the noise of the world.

During supper, Jesus got up from the table, got a towel, poured water into a basin, and began to wash the disciples’ feet. And after he had washed their feet, he asked, “Do you know what I have done to you?”

And then he began to talk, and he talked for a long time – it’s more than three chapters, the longest conversation we know of between Jesus and his friends. It’s actually not much of a conversation, because the disciples listened the whole time, only occasionally did they throw in a comment or a question.

And after he had spoken, he prayed. He gathered up the life they had lived together and the life they would continue to live without him. He prayed his life and work and their life and work together into one – one life, one mission, one movement of God’s love to the world and in the world.

That is how he prepared them for the difficult transition. That is how he helped them move from seeing in his life who God is to letting others see in their own lives who God is.

He washed their feet, down on his knees before each of them, teaching them to do to each other what he had done to them, choosing the lowly task of a servant.

He prayed to the one he called Father that their mission and his would be one.

He worked and he prayed, and between those focal points of service and worship, he created a tapestry of images, promises, and commandments. Two things he said over and over again.

I am with you only a little longer (13:33).

Now I am going to him who sent me (16:5).

I am leaving the world and am going to the Father (16:28).

Fifteen times in this conversation, Jesus told his disciples, in one way or another, that he would be leaving them.

The second thing he said, and this also over and over again, was that he would send them the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of truth (14:16, 26; 15:26; 16:7).

Two things he said over and over again, “I am leaving…, I am sending…; I am leaving…, I am sending.” Jesus would leave, but he wouldn’t abandon them. He would no longer be with them, but the Holy Spirit would be in them and continue to connect their life and work with his.

The repetitions in these chapters may seem reduntant, but this speech isn’t just information about God, Jesus, the Spirit, and the church. The rhythms and patterns are themselves formative, and listening attentively and reading receptively become the very gates through which the Spirit comes and speaks.

We wish Jesus were here, but he isn’t. But in continuing to live the Jesus way, we are not left to our own strength and imagination. Jesus is sending the Spirit. “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now,” Jesus said. “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth.” Jesus’ words are not locked in the past, restricted to a particular period in history. The Spirit allows all generations to receive the word of Jesus in the changing circumstances of our lives, and not just to recall the life of Jesus but continue to live it.

There are words of Jesus that we need to hear to make sense of the church’s role in the current messes of the world, and it is the Spirit who helps us to remember faithfully what Jesus has said and receive obediently what Jesus is saying. We believe that the Spirit has been poured out on all flesh – men and women, young and old, poor and wealthy – and to me that means that we who long to hear the word of God for this day must be attentive to all flesh. Women and men, old and young, poor and rich, trust fund babies and undocumented immigrants. We must listen for the word of God not just in the reading of Scripture or the proclamation of the word, but in every word spoken, whispered, sung or censored among us. We must listen very carefully.

I keep thinking about the two women at the mall. One says, “I am hungry,” and the other is afraid. Of course it is just a simple misunderstanding. Of course it is one that can be easily resolved. And it is soo funny. But it is also true. There is much hunger among God’s children; hunger for bread, for justice, for meaning, hunger for community. And there is much fear; fear of strangers, of the unknown, of losing control, fear of moving down the ladder. I can hear the Spirit speaking: There is hunger and fear, and God wants to make us partners in addressing both, in the name of Jesus.

While he was blessing them, he withdrew from them and was carried up into heaven.

Many of you may have seen depictions of the Ascension – on a trip to the art museum, or in a stained glass window in a church. Most of them show Jesus floating upward in flowing robes, clouds around his feet, while the disciples look up, their faces expressing the whole range of emotions from wide-eyed wonder to the primal fear of abandonment. In one painting dating to the beginning of the 16^th century, the body of Jesus has all but disappeared, and we only see his feet, still bearing the marks of his crucifixion, and the hem of his robe. It looks like his toes would disappear any moment now, and then the disciples would be on their own again.

All the stories in the gospel that tell about encounters between the disciples and the Risen One reflect experiences of absence and sudden presence, of Jesus appearing and disappearing, of almost familiar physicality and a kind of bodily presence that you can’t quite put your finger on. Luke is very clear that coming to know Jesus as risen is not a simple matter of seeing, but of learning to see and struggling to understand. You could say that the fact that we celebrate seven Sundays of Easter, reflects this process: the resurrection of Christ is the truth that challenges our ways of seeing and thinking and knowing; it is a reality we cannot grasp, but are nevertheless invited to enter. And as the new reality takes time to sink in, we take time to enter it – not all at once, but Sunday by Sunday.

In the final lines of Luke’s narrative, the disciples are together, talking about their first encounters with the risen Jesus, when suddenly he stands among them. They are startled and terrified, some are convinced they are seeing a ghost – but a ghost doesn’t eat, and Jesus asks for something to eat and they give him a piece of broiled fish and watch him chew and swallow it.

Coming to know Jesus as risen is an emotional and intellectual roller coaster – fear and trembling one moment, joy and wonder the next; the finality of death one moment, the power of God to raise the dead the next. Too much to take in all at once. Who knows what all this means? Who knows how we can know?

In Luke’s story, Jesus himself told the disciples, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you, that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.” While I was still with you, he said, acknowledging that this new way of being with them was very different, not at all like it used to be.

Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures. Their minds needed opening, it wasn’t a simple matter of reading the right texts. And it wasn’t some teacher who helped them connect the dots or discover new meaning in ancient prophecies, it was Jesus himself, moving between absence and presence like there was no boundary between the two. And when the disciples had learned to see and read and understand in new ways, they received his commission to live as witnesses, and to proclaim the good news of repentance and forgiveness of sins to all, beginning from Jerusalem.

Stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from high.

What we call the ascension is the conclusion of Jesus’ earthly ministry and the bridge to a new way for disciples, including you and me, to follow and know Jesus.  I love that there are so many stories that reflect the disciples’ confusion and struggle, because that makes room for our own sense of ambiguity and for hope during times when our own certainties are in question. In recent years, I’ve started comparing this with wearing glasses.

I used to be able to pick up any book and read it – in bed, on the couch, at my desk, it didn’t matter – and then, about three years ago, things began to become blurry. I had to put a bit more distance between my eyes and the text to see more than just fuzzy lines of grey. Now I can still read road signs two blocks away, but I can’t see what’s on the menu without glasses. “Nothing that being under 45 wouldn’t fix,” the optometrist said when I asked him what was wrong with my eyes. It wasn’t the end of the world, but it was the end of how I used to live in the world.

When Jesus, in a complete collapse of justice, died on the cross, the whole world became blurry for those who followed him. Nothing made sense anymore, nothing fit together, unless they were willing to surrender to the notion that injustice, betrayal and violence, rather than love and forgiveness defined human existence. And then things became even blurrier when they heard talk of resurrection, and the fuzzy reality didn’t come into focus until the risen Christ put a new set of lenses in front of their eyes. The resurrection of Jesus changed everything, and they needed new ways of looking at the world in order to see clearly. Once they saw, they knew what to do: they would continue to follow Christ, proclaiming repentance and the forgiveness of sins in his name, clothed with power from on high.

Ascension is the hinge moment between Jesus’ resurrection and the mission of the church. Jesus withdraws and is carried up into heaven, but now it’s no longer a moment of loss and anguish, but of joy: Christ’s relationship with those who follow him is no longer restricted by the boundaries of time and space. Christ is now available to all people, all of the time through the work of the Holy Spirit.

Clap your hands, all you peoples; shout to God with loud songs of joy!

These are the opening words of Psalm 47, the psalm assigned for the celebration of the Ascension.

God has gone up with a shout, the Lord with the sound of a trumpet. Sing praises to God, sing praises!

You watch Jesus’ feet slipping out of sight, and you may want to say, “Wait a minute – we are shoveling mud out of our homes, and God has gone up?”

We are anxiously watching the beaches and marshes of the gulf coast, worried about the destruction the oil spill will cause, and God has gone up? With a shout? We can’t carry a bottle of shampoo on an airplane for fear of bombs, and God has gone up, with the sound of a trumpet? We are up to our knees in the messiness of the world, and God has gone up? Up and away? Away from the refugee camps in Sudan and the villages of Eastern Congo? Away from the the tent cities in Haiti and Nashville? Away from the gutted homes in over forty counties in Tennessee, and away from the path of death and destruction left by tornadoes in Oklahoma? Away from the violent clashes between religious and ethnic groups, away from the dead ends of our politics? Away from us? Christ is risen and gone to heaven and we have been abandoned at last, left to our own devices, up to our knees in this earthly mess.

Everything’s blurry, fuzzy, foggy – until we look at it through the lens of Jesus’ death and resurrection. Jesus has gone up, not away. Jesus has gone up to a place of powerful presence, not away. Our true hope in the messiness of life is that Jesus has gone up, not away. Jesus has gone up, bearing in his body the marks of human sin and human suffering. Jesus has gone up, bearing our deepest brokenness and taking it into the very heart of God.

The disciples returned to Jerusalem with great joy because Jesus has gone up, not away. He is present with us and with all, and the work of redemption continues: The proclamation of repentance and the forgiveness of sins continues in the power of the Spirit. The work of compassion and service continues in the power of the Spirit. The work of peacemaking and imagining life in fullness for all continues in the power of the Spirit.

We live up to our knees in the messiness of the world, and we all seek a way through. When we feel helpless and threatened, we are tempted to try and do anything, just to do something. But the word of the risen Christ is clear:

Stay here in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high.

Stay until you have been clothed with the power that inspired and empowered my work. Stay until my going up has been made complete in the powerful coming down of the Spirit. Don’t rush, but learn to rest in the movement of God in the world – for even now, in this time of deep anxiety, God is moving the whole creation toward redemption and fulfillment.

The movement of God is not away from the world, but ever closer to the world and deeper into its brokenness and pain in order to transform and heal it. Christ carries in his body the marks of our sin and the pain of creation, and he carries them into the heart of God, where brokenness is healed and forgiven, and life is renewed.

And out of the heart of God flows the Spirit like a healing river to inspire and empower us to participate in the movement of God in the world, healing, forgiving, reconciling, and serving in Christ’s name.

What are we going to do now? Now that we have journeyed through Lent, marked the days of Holy Week, reached the glorious summit of Easter morning – what are we going to do?

Some will say, thank goodness, baseball season has started, or I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Others will say, thank goodness, the rummage sale is coming up, it’s time to get all the stuff down from the attic and up from the basement and over to church. Again others already have plenty of dirt under their nails from preparing the garden, and all they are waiting for is overnight temperatures remaining in the 50’s so they can get their tomatoes in the ground.

With Easter behind us, what are we going to do now? I briefly considered as a topic for this sermon settling once and for all the profound question of how the Easter bunny got into Easter, and if said bunny is a rabbit or indeed a hare, but then, thank goodness, I remembered that Easter is more than an annual spring holiday. Easter is a festival of praise and joy, proclaiming the resurrection of Jesus from the dead, and the beginning of nothing less than a new creation.

So the question we must consider today, and in fact every day, is, “Now that Jesus is risen from the dead, what are we going to do?” Or with a slightly different angle, “Now that Jesus is risen from the dead, who are we going to be?” How will tomorrow be different from that dark Friday?

I’ll tell us a story that begins with the high priest.

The high priest slept well on Friday. Jerusalem was quiet again, after the many disruptions this Jesus had brought to the city and the temple. Now he was dead and buried, and the high priest wouldn’t have hesitated to call it a peaceful night.

The high priest slept well on Saturday. The Roman authorities had taken care of Jesus, and Jerusalem was quiet again. The unrest this Jesus had created in the city – it could have become a major crisis, especially during the holidays. Any kind of disturbance of the status quo bothered Rome – but now things were under control. The high priest was proud of himself – he had nipped the problem in the bud. He was done with Jesus, done with civil unrest and with excited crowds, Jerusalem was quiet again. The holy temple would once again be a place for orderly worship and proper sacrifices, with the established hierarchy in place to protect and preserve the sacred tradition.

The high priest slept well – until Sunday. On Sunday he began hearing reports of disturbing rumors; a handful of men and women, most of them, no doubt, Galileans, were making claims that they had seen Jesus, that he was indeed alive because God had raised him from the dead.

“Hello, insomnia,” the high-priest said to himself, “Rome will not be pleased.”

Very soon, he heard reports that Peter and John were in the temple just about every day, teaching people and healing the sick, and attracting large crowds. People were gathering not just from the city but even from the surrounding towns, bringing the sick and those tormented by demons, and they were all cured.

In the book of Acts, the church is presented as a movement of fearless witnesses whose presence and proclamation bring wholeness to the city; a movement that inevitably collides with settled authority in much the same way Jesus did. No wonder, the high priest was nervous; settled institutions – be they religious, political, or economic – settled institutions have a deep interest in keeping things as they are. Which means that any change, any transformation must only occur on their terms and under their control. Peter, John, and Mary and their companions didn’t meet those requirements; they acted with a different kind of authority.

Soon the temple leadership – chief priests, rulers, elders, scribes – assembled to discuss the matter with one another: “What will we do with them?” They called Peter and John, ordered them not to speak or teach at all in the name of Jesus, and released them.

Peter and John went to their friends, and they talked about what had happened at the council meeting. And then they prayed, “Lord, look at their threats, and grant your servants to speak your word with all boldness, while you stretch out your hand to heal, and signs and wonders are performed through the name of your holy servant Jesus.”

They prayed for courage to speak and act in the name of Jesus, and their prayers were answered. Their boldness gave the high priest a headache, and after yet another sleepless night he took action. This Jesus thing had to stop, whatever the cost. And so he had the apostles arrested and shut up in prison.

He slept well that night. But while he was dreaming of taking back control of the temple and the city, and of all that is and was and is to be, an angel of the Lord opened the prison doors, and before daybreak, the good news of Jesus’ resurrection was again being proclaimed in the temple and the streets of Jerusalem.

Again the high priest had them brought in and stand before the council for questioning.

“We gave you strict orders, didn’t we, not to teach in this name. Why have you defied the express directive of this council to desist this preaching?”

Peter and the apostles answered with disarming simplicity, “We must obey God rather than any human authority.”

It was human authority that killed Jesus to stop and silence him. It was human authority that resisted his authority to teach and heal, to forgive and invite. It was human authority that accused him and found him guilty, convicted and executed him. It was human authority that did all it could to put an end to Jesus in the name of religion and public order.

But God raised him up. God exalted him that he might continue to give repentance to Israel and forgiveness of sins. And we are witnesses to these things. You want to forbid us to witness? You might as well forbid us to breathe, or tell the wind to cease to blow! This is who we are, now that Jesus is risen from the dead, and this is what we do.

Who would have thought that one day Peter would speak like that? Who would have thought that Mary would take a stand like that? Who would have thought that they and the others would look human authority in the eye and defy it with bold grace? Who would have thought they could be so free?

The Gospel according to John shows us a different snapshot of the early church. In it, we see a terrified little band, huddled in a dark room with a chair braced against the door. The air is thick with fear, and nobody says anything. Christ is risen from the dead, but they are stuck in the tomb. Easter has dawned, but they still sit in Friday darkness with little hope and little courage. The gospel makes it very clear: this is a community that will have only one thing going for it – the risen Christ.

And he did not leave them orphaned. He came to them, spoke to them, showed them his hands and his side, and their fear melted away. It didn’t happen all at once, but they encountered the Crucified One alive in their midst and were transformed. The place in their hearts occupied by terror and anxiety became a dwelling place for the peace of Christ.

“As the Father has sent me, so I send you,” he said to them. Now they were a people with a mission. He breathed on them, saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit,” and gave them authority to forgive the sins of any.

They spoke with boldness, because the Spirit of Christ was alive in them. They acted with authority, not because they had made it to the top of the hierarchy, but because they obeyed the Risen One. They became recognizable as companions of Jesus not because of their bumper stickers, but because they claimed his authority to teach and heal, to forgive and invite.

Now that Jesus is risen from the dead, what are we going to do?

Now that Jesus is risen from the dead, who are we going to be?

As long as there are chief priests, rulers, scribes, and other authorities, and as long as most of them sleep way too well, every city needs disciples of the Risen Christ, ordinary men and women who make reconciliation and wholeness their business, in the name of Jesus.

As long as human authority dreams of complete control, the world needs disciples of the Risen Christ, ordinary men and women who surrender daily to God and become bold in their submission to the authority of no one but Jesus.

Christ is risen, and he continues to call us to repentance and new life. He continues to meet us in the tombs of our hopelessness, to breathe on us and send us out. He continues to break in on us and push through our timidity and our reservations. He continues to transform and equip us for his mission until God’s shalom fills all creation.

This is who we are, now that Jesus is risen from the dead, and this is what we do.

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb, and all she saw was that the stone had been removed from the tomb. She had spent the sabbath at home, but it had not been a good sabbath, not a day of holy rest and rejoicing in creation’s beauty and abundance. It was nothing but an endless stretch of grey time and numb silence, interrupted only by her sighs and moments when memories welled up and her tears just started flowing.

She was heartbroken and sad, angry at the world and the powers that ruled it violently. Only a little while ago, Jesus had dared her and his other followers to imagine a world where masters wash servants’ feet, where the blind see and the lame dance, where the hungry are fed, and all who mourn are comforted.

She had allowed this man to awaken hope in her, boundless, beautiful hope. Because of him, she had dared to believe in the possibility of forgiveness, the possibility of a community shaped by mutual love, the possibility of life abundant for all, young and old, friend and stranger, wolf and lamb.

And now he was dead; and with him, her hope had died. She found herself lost in a void that swallowed up light and life like a black hole. All she had were memories – and the place where Joseph and Nicodemus had laid Jesus’ body.

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb. She was by herself, she wanted to be alone, I suppose, or she could have asked one of her friends to come with her. She came to the garden and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. Talk about a black hole – this gaping mouth of death, it was all she saw. The body was gone.

Mary Magdalene had lost everything she loved, everything that had made her life an overflowing well of joy, and now even that last place of tangible connection with Jesus’ body had been violated. She ran back with the news and told the others, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” They – whoever they were – had managed not only to quench the light of his luminous presence in the world, but to make his absence unbearably complete.

She returned to the tomb; she stood outside, weeping.

“Woman, why are you weeping?” the angels asked her. Had she had any strength left in her, she would have asked them, “Why am I weeping? Why aren’t you? Haven’t you been paying attention? Don’t you see what is going on here? Don’t you see how they take away everything that is beautiful, destroy everything that is promising, and pile up ugliness and death on every side? How can you not weep? They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”

The angels had no comfort to offer. They just sat there, the silence of heaven in the face of human loss and pain. What do angels know about the brokenness of life? What do angels know about betrayal and denial? What do they know about abuse and torture in the name of political calculation and religious conviction? What does heaven know about them that turn the garden of life into a graveyard where our best hope has been buried?

Mary turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. You see, there was and is nothing obvious about the resurrection. There were no trumpets playing, high, bright, light, and clear, no timpani, no choirs of children and angels. Easter doesn’t so much burst forth with an eruption of light and sound as it creeps onto the scene, barely noticed, emerging from the darkness and the sorrow and confusion.

“Woman, why are you weeping?” the stranger asked, sounding just like one of the angels. “Whom are you looking for?”

And a third time she talked about her loss, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”

You almost want to step in and say, Mary, can’t you see?­ but there’s nothing obvious about the resurrection.

On the night before his arrest, Jesus told the disciples, “A little while, and you will no longer see me, and again a little while, and you will see me.” They said, “What does he mean by this ‘a little while?’” and he responded, “You will weep and mourn, you will have pain, but your pain will turn into joy. I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice” (John 16:16-20).

And there in the darkness before dawn he saw her, but she didn’t see him, or saw him but didn’t recognize him until he spoke her name. “Mary!” – and she turned, and light and life returned to the garden, and she sensed a joy no other had ever known. “Rabbouni!” she said, calling him what she had always called him, “My teacher!” She wanted to hold on to him, she was determined not to lose him again, but then she heard his call to turn once more and tell the disciples what she had seen and heard, and she left the garden.

“I have seen the Lord” she announced to them, beginning the church’s proclamation of the Risen One.

“A little while, and you will no longer see me, and again a little while, and you will see me.” These words describe not only the experience of the first disciples, but of all followers of Jesus. The vision of God’s reign awakens hope in us, but then the powers of this world destroy and bury that hope. We mourn, we weep, we seek to reconnect with what we once knew, wondering who has taken it away, wondering where we might go and find it. We seek answers from silent angels and all kinds of chatty experts, we run back and forth, and most of what we see is ambiguous, and for a while, like Peter and the other disciple, we may just go home – except that home without that hope isn’t much of a home.

And so we keep searching and wandering, until we hear the familiar voice calling us by name, and we see the One whom we didn’t recognize, and we dare to believe that death cannot destroy the love that makes us one with God and one another, the love that makes, redeems and completes all things.

Easter is not the triumphant return of what was. Easter is the glorious beginning of what shall be, the first day of a new creation, high, bright, light, and clear. That’s why we bring in the trumpets, roll in the timpani, and Julia pulls nearly all the stops on the organ.

The resurrection is not a turning back of the clock that somehow undoes the reality of injustice and suffering, the brutal reality of the crucifixion and of ultimate loss. The resurrection is the beginning of a new relationship between Jesus and his followers, between God and the world God loves. The resurrection is the beginning of new life in the midst of the old, the birth of hope for complete redemption.

When Jesus met his first followers, he said to them, “What are you looking for?” and he invited them to come and see (John 1:38-39). When Mary stood outside the tomb, mourning and weeping, he asked her, “Whom are you looking for?” and, calling her by name, he invited her again to come and see. Like them, like her, we listen for that call and we follow, we seek, we find, we lose, we see without recognizing, we hear our name, we want to hold on, and we let go for the promise of fulfillment beyond our imagining.

We hold on, not to the way in which we once knew Christ, but to the promise that he will not leave us orphaned in a world of our own making. A little while, and we can see nothing but the gaping mouth of death that swallows everything, and again a little while, and we see God present among us to abide with us. A little while, and we find ourselves alone in a god-forsaken world, and again a little while, and we find ourselves embraced by the God who will not let us go.

“What does he mean by this ‘a little while’?”

There is the moment he bowed his head and gave up his spirit, and the moment he breathed on his disciples, saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit” (John 19:30; 20:22), and there is the darkness between them – a little while.

There is the deep sadness of Mary’s words, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him,” and the deep joy of her witness, “I have seen the Lord!” and there is the daybreak between them – a little while.

There is our own loss of faith and hope in the face of what human beings are capable of doing to each other, and the renewal of our hope in the face of God’s unshakable faithfulness, and there is the resurrection between them – a little while.

The Risen One speaks our name, and the Friday darkness gives way to the light of the new day. The Risen One breathes on us, and the Spirit gathers us into the intimacy and joy of the divine life.

Easter doesn’t so much burst forth as it creeps onto the scene, silent as light, barely noticed, emerging from the darkness of death and the shadows of sorrow. In the place of our most profound loss, the Risen One calls us again by name and invites us to live as the body of Christ in the world.

Baby powder.

All I have to do is say the word, and you remember the scent, don’t you? It’s clean and cuddly, light, a happy smell.

When we stick our nose into a fresh towel, we want to smell the equivalent of a spring morning with mist on the grass, the rising sun and chirping birds.

And when it comes to body wash, we seem to like the smell of grapefruit, but not banana – too much heavy sweetness, not enough citrus notes for balance, perhaps?

Smells are big business. The smell industry generates $20 billion a year globally, developing and selling the fragrances that go into our laundry detergents, soaps and shampoos, after shaves and perfumes, and a host of other aromatic products, including so-called air fresheners and new-car smell for your aging vehicle.

Luca Turin is a man whose nose has the olfactory equivalent of perfect pitch. He  can detect and name even the subtlest nuances in a bouquet of fragrances, and, not surprisingly, his hobby are perfumes. And he doesn’t just love to smell them, he writes about them as few others can. In 1992, he wrote the first-ever perfume guide, and he continues to write perfume reviews.

Turin can give raves to fragrances he likes, e.g. “Thanks to Rive Gauche, mortals can at last know the scent of the goddess Diana’s bath soap.” He also knows how to slam fragrances he hates, e.g. “57 for Her is a sad little thing, an incongruous dried-prunes note with a metallic edge that manages the rare feat of being at once cloying and harsh.” According to Turin, Gucci’s Rush “smells like an infant’s breath mixed with his mother’s hair spray,” and it is left to the reader to decide whether that is something she might want to wear or not.

It is not easy to describe an aroma or an odor, it is much easier to evoke memories in the minds of listeners and readers.

Baby powder. You know the smell. Moth balls. Shoe polish. Hot cinnamon buns.  Freshly brewed coffee.

In the gospel of John, there is a beautiful scene of Jesus appearing to the disciples after he was raised from the dead. They had been out fishing, and coming ashore, they saw a charcoal fire, with fish on it, and bread. And Jesus said to them, “Come, and have breakfast” (John 21:9-12). We don’t know what the scene looked like in detail, but we know very well the aroma surrounding that breakfast on the beach, that blend of smoke, grilled fish, and warm bread.

Today’s passage from John is more intentional in drawing our attention to the fragrance of the perfume that filled the house (John 12:3). The house belonged to Jesus’ friends, Mary, Martha, and Lazarus in Bethany, and Jesus stopped in for dinner the day before he entered Jerusalem for the last time.

Just a short time ago Jesus had brought life to their house. The sisters had sent him a message regarding Lazarus, saying, “Lord, he whom you love is ill,” and when he arrived, he found that his friend had already been in the tomb four days. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it.

Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to Jesus, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.”

Jesus said, “Take away the stone,” and then he shouted, “Lazarus, come out!” and he restored him to life.

In the gospel of John, there are only two smells, two instances where our attention is drawn to the scent surrounding the scene, and both happen in Bethany, in and around the house of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. There are only two smells, the stench of death and the fragrance of extravagant love, and the way John tells the story gives us a hint which one will fill the house in the end.

Jesus came to Bethany, just two miles outside of Jerusalem, knowing full well that his opponents in the city planned to put him to death. Death was closing in on him. He knew that this might well be their last supper together. Martha served, Lazarus was one of those at table with him, and no one had noticed that Mary had gone until she came back, holding a small jar in her hands.

Without a word she knelt at Jesus’ feet and poured the content of the jar on his feet, a pound of perfume made of pure nard – don’t you wish you knew the smell of nard? Don’t you wish you had words to describe the fragrance that filled the house at that moment of love poured out in the face of death?

Judas objected.

“Why was this ointment not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?”

It sounds like the voice of moral outrage, the voice of thrift and good stewardship, of advocacy and service to the poor – but Judas didn’t know what Mary knew.

“Leave her alone,” Jesus said, brushing all objections aside. “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.”

Death was closing in, and Mary knew it, and she responded with lavish love. She could have poured the fragrant oil on his head, anointing him king of Israel, preparing him for a triumphal procession into the city, but she knew where he was going. And so she dropped on her knees and poured the precious balm on his feet, preparing his body for burial.

“Leave her alone,” Jesus said to those who would have prevented her. “Leave her alone.”

Mary responded with lavish extravagance, pouring out her love and gratitude, because she knew the extravagance of God because of this man. She knew what lay ahead for him, she knew that he would hold nothing back, and she acted on it. And so her gesture of boundless generosity became a sign of his life poured out for all, a witness to the excessive nature of divine love and mercy.

Just as Jesus began his ministry with wine freely poured at a wedding when the wine gave out, so the ministry of his friends began with this lavish outpouring of love and caring. It was and remains the only appropriate response to God’s giving.

In the next chapter, John tells us about the last evening Jesus spent with his disciples in the city. It was during supper, in an act curiously reminiscent of Mary’s, that Jesus got up, took off his robe, tied a towel around himself, poured water into a basin, and began to wash the disciples’ feet and wipe them with the towel. Then he put on his robe and returned to the table.

“Do you know what I have done to you? I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet. You also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as have done to you. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”

Mary of Bethany was the first to live that new commandment, and she did it even before it was given, because she knew who Jesus was.

The house of Jesus’ friends, just outside the city where murderous plans were being plotted, the house of Jesus’ friends became a house of witness and worship. Those who lived there remembered the stench of death, but what lingered was the sweet aroma of love, a fragrance even more difficult to describe than nard.

When I think about the aroma of extravagant love, one of my favorite movies comes to mind, Babette’s Feast.

In a small town in 19^th century Denmark lived an old man and his two daughters. The man, called the Dean, was the leader of a small Lutheran sect, and he and his daughters led a puritanical life. After the Dean died, the sisters continued his legacy, keeping the church going and ministering to the poor. Now, many years later, the aging churchgoers are bickering and bringing up past wrongs.

One day, a ragged-looking woman appears on the sisters’ doorstep with a letter from a friend. He explains that this woman, Babette Hersant, has fled Paris for her life. He hopes that the sisters will be kind enough to take her in as a maid, as she has nowhere else to go, having lost her husband and son in an uprising. Babette assures the sisters that she will work as their maid and cook for nothing, and the sisters agree to the arrangement.

At first, they are wary of their new maid. She speaks only French, looks like a beggar, and she’s Catholic. As they get accustomed to her, however, they realize that she is strong and kind. They show her how to prepare the plain dishes to which they are accustomed, and Babette tweaks them just a little; the poor love her cooking.

One day Babette finds out she won the lottery in Paris just as the sisters are trying to plan a celebration of what would have been their father’s hundredth birthday. Babette asks that they allow her to prepare the meal for the occasion, and the sisters reluctantly agree.

Babette leaves for several days to purchase everything she needs, and after her return strange bottles, boxes, and ingredients begin arriving at the house.

Then the great day finally comes. The guests arrive, they chat and sing the Dean’s favorite hymns. And then they sit down to the meal. Course after course, they eat food they never tasted before, they drink the finest wine, and around the table, frozen faces begin to melt, hardness softens, and the men and women of the congregation begin to make amends for their recent bickering and grudges. Arguments are dropped. Past misdeeds are forgiven. They laugh and embrace. They step outside and, holding hands in a large circle, they sing under the stars.

After the guests have left, the sisters find Babette in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of dirty dishes, pots and pans. They thank her for the fine meal and for all of her work. She admits that she was once the chef at one of Paris’s finest restaurants, but when the sisters ask about her return to Paris now that she has money, she answers that she will never go back to Paris. The sisters are relieved but surprised. And then they learn that Babette has spent her entire lottery winnings on this one meal.

She has given it all away in one extravagant gesture of hospitality. What lingers is the sweet aroma of love – still difficult to describe, but the recipe is so easy to remember.

The story begins rather harmless. A man had two sons prepares us for a familiar story pattern, one that usually ends with the audience nodding in agreement: this one’s the good son, that one is not. This one did the right thing, that one did not. Such a story might go something like this:

A man had two sons; he went to the first and said, “Son, I want you to mow the yard today.” He answered, “I don’t think so,” but later he changed his mind and went. The father went to the second and said the same; and he answered, “Sure, Dad,” but he did not go. Which of the two did the will of his father?

We may think about it for a moment, perhaps we discuss it briefly, but in the end we will agree that actions speak louder than words, and so the first one gets the blue ribbon for being the good son.

Jesus’ story begins in the familiar way, but then it leaves us scratching our heads, “Which one’s the good child?” The younger is disrespectful, selfish, and reckless, the older is jealous, bitter, and self-righteous. Neither is a particularly attractive character, but we can also identify with them, and that complicates things even more.

There’s a part of us that can relate to the younger one who wants to leave home and see the world. Sure, he is reckless, but he is young and we admire his adventurous spirit. We identify with him, because once we were just like him, or perhaps we wish we could be more like him.

And there’s the part of us that can relate to the firstborn, the responsible one who works hard and takes care of the family business, and we’re willing to excuse his anger because we too make sacrifices every day that no one seems to notice, let alone appreciate or celebrate. Is it too much to ask to be treated fairly? The property had been divided, and each one had been given a fair share, and the younger chose to cash it all in and squander it. It may be good and right to give somebody a second chance after he’s shown signs of remorse and maturity; give him work to do, food to eat, and a roof over his head—but a party? That fatted calf they killed for the BBQ – whose herd did it come from? How’s that for irony?

The story begins in the familiar way, but it leaves us off balance because it doesn’t offer a simple good son / bad son moral. The father is a confusing character as well, perhaps the most confusing of all. Apparently he doesn’t consider that children who are old enough to go away should also be ready to live with the consequences of their choices. When the one who went away comes home – broke, humiliated, and hungry – dad is beside himself, acting like a fool. Forgetting all that is proper for a patriarch in that ancient culture, and ignoring most of what we would consider reasonable or wise, he runs down the road and throws his arms around the young man, shouting orders over his shoulder between kisses and hugs, “The robe—the best one—quickly—put it on him. The ring—bring it—put in on his finger. And sandals, bring sandals—only slaves go barefoot—this is my son! Kill the calf! Invite the whole town! Let us eat. Let us celebrate! This son of mine was dead and is alive again!”

Only Jesus could come up with a story like this. In our version of the story, the younger son would have some explaining to do. In our story, the father would be waiting in the house, sitting in his chair, arms folded, and with a stern expression on his face. He would listen to what the young man had to say for himself, and then, perhaps, he would look at him and say, “Well, I’m glad you’ve come to see the foolishness of your choices and the error of your ways; I hope you learned your lesson. Now I want you to go and help your brother in the field.” In our story, there wouldn’t be a party.

But it’s not our story.

Sinners felt at home in the company of Jesus; even notorious sinners who were shunned by everybody in town came near to listen to him, or just to be around him. He did not avoid them, nor did he turn them away; he even broke bread with them, openly. He didn’t mind being seen with them; he just welcomed them like he welcomed anyone who came to him, “Sit down, eat something.”

People with a deep concern for right and wrong were not pleased. They were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them. Why does he show so little respect for boundaries and rules? Doesn’t he know that righteousness must be protected? Couldn’t he at least wait until they have changed their ways?” They were confused, some perhaps angry, moving back and forth between wanting to understand and demanding an explanation.

In response, Jesus told them stories about the joy of heaven, God stories that would shed some light on who he was and what he was doing. He told them about a shepherd who lost one of his one hundred sheep, and worried out of his mind, went searching for it. And when at last he found it, he was overjoyed and called together his friends and neighbors, saying, “Rejoice with me for I have found my sheep that was lost” (Luke 15:4-6).

Then Jesus told them about a woman who had 10 silver coins and one of them got lost. How she got a lamp and a broom, and swept the house from top to bottom and searched carefully until she found it. And she called together her friends and neighbors, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.’ And he added, “Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents (Luke 15:8-10).”

And then Jesus told them the story about the father and his two sons. And when he got to the end where the elder son stands outside the house, light, music and laughter pouring through the windows, and the father pleading with him to come in, they didn’t know what to say. They felt left out. I guess they felt like Jesus was squandering what was rightfully theirs. Attention, recognition, grace.

The younger son woke up when he hit rock bottom. Feeding pigs and being so hungry that you find yourself wanting to eat from their trough – it doesn’t get any lower than that. He realized just how distant, lonely, and hungry he was, but no one gave him anything. He was at the end of his rope. That’s when he started thinking about home and bread; that’s when he started rehearsing his little speech about sin and unworthiness, and wanting to work in exchange for food; but he didn’t grasp the full extent of his hunger until he was welcomed and embraced with exuberant joy.

The elder son stood outside – distant, lonely, hungry, and resentful.

“Is that what do you have to do to get a party around here? Go off and burn through a bundle of cash and then come back to be embraced, and kissed, and assured that you belong? What about me?”

He refused to go in, but again the father came outside searching for one of his children, and began to plead with him. But the elder son interrupted him, “Listen, for all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back – you killed the fatted calf for him!”

He couldn’t speak his name, he called his own brother “this son of yours,” and nothing in his little speech indicated that he was talking to his father. The elder son was so alienated, so starved, he may as well have been feeding pigs in a distant country. He no longer had a brother or a father, both had become strangers to him.

The story, it turns out, isn’t about morality, about who is the good child and who is not; it is about estrangement and reconciliation. The father has lost both sons, and he’s outside searching for them, not to demand explanations or hand out blue ribbons, but to restore and bring together what belongs together.

“Child,” he says to the elder son, “you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”

The ministry of Jesus isn’t about morality, about who is good and who is not; it is about our estrangement and God’s gift of reconciliation. Our being children of God and our being each other’s brothers and sisters are two sides of the same reality, two sides of the one life. Our lives aren’t whole until we see that.

In the end, it doesn’t matter if we got lost wandering off to a distant country or if we got lost never leaving at all. What matters is that God is not only waiting for us, but out looking for us, pleading with us, and rejoicing over each precious one being found.

 “Child, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.”

These are words spoken not just to one child, but to every child of God. And every child of God has a seat at the table in the house of laughter and light. Because the joy in heaven and on earth will not be complete until the brothers embrace and the sisters kiss, and all children of God sit at the banquet.

Our sanctuary is filled with pictures this morning. There are photographs on every pillar and wall, pictures of rabbits, goats and chickens, corn and beans, bananas and tomatoes, tortillas and mango juice, heavy melons and tender seedlings, pictures of children, men, and women.

Tallu Schuyler took close to ten thousand pictures last year, while working in Nicaragua with a number of food security projects. Church World Service and its partner organizations in Nicaragua are supporting small scale farming to help improve nutrition and encourage community development through local markets.

Why did we ask Tallu to hang all those pictures in the sanctuary? Why did we quite literally surround ourselves with images of food and the people who grow, produce, prepare and sell it, people hungry for life as we are?

The exhibit is part of our hunger:360 ministry project. During Lent this year, we take time to approach hunger from as many angles as we can:

• We prepare  and serve food for Nashville’s homeless and working poor.
• We learn about the work of organizations like Second Harvest Food Bank, Mobile Loaves and Fishes, and Church World Service.
• We are reading a book by Sara Miles who argues convincingly that the bread of the Lord’s Table and the food given away in any soup kitchen or food pantry is the same bread.
• We will participate in the CROP Walk to raise money and awareness for the fight against hunger around the block and around the world.
• Next week, we’ll start Mapping the Pantry to visualize where the food in our pantries and refrigerators is coming from.
• Just this morning, we learned what hunger does to human bodies as well as societies.

We fast and pray, we listen and watch, we walk and study and wonder. hunger:360 is a way to approach and address a human experience from as many angles as possible and to grow as followers of Jesus Christ.

Half of the stories Jesus told about the reign of God speak of seeds and farmers, barns and banquets, fields and vineyards, figs and grapes.

Jesus told Peter, “Feed my sheep,” and to his disciples who wanted to send a crowd of people away because they were hungry, he said, “You give them something to eat.”

When Jesus instructed the disciples about prayer, he taught us that we need forgiveness like we need bread, daily. And on the night before he died, he spoke of his body while breaking a loaf of bread and giving it away to those who would betray, forsake, and deny him. We do indeed need forgiveness like we need bread, daily.

This morning, we come to Jesus waving the newspaper, reciting last week’s headlines, parched thirsty and hungry for answers:

Chile Earthquake Aftershocks Cause Panic

Suicide Attacks Kill at Least 32 in Baquba

With Haitian Schools in Ruins, Children Are in Limbo

We get in line behind those who told Jesus about the Galileans whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. They too are hungry for answers, they want Jesus to explain to them the bloody violence in the Temple.

Was it the Galileans’ fault? Did they provoke the Roman guards with anti-Roman slogans? Galileans were known for that kind of thing. Or was it Pilate’s fault? Was he unable to control his own military, or was he himself behind this blasphemous act? Or did they die in this way because somehow they deserved it?

Jesus asked them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans?” We hunger for meaning, for knowledge or wisdom that makes sense of  the inexplicable. “Or those eighteen who were killed when the tower of Siloam fell on them – do you think that they were worse offenders than all the others living in Jerusalem?”

Or those hundreds of thousands who were buried in collapsing buildings when the earth quaked under Port-au-Prince and Concepción – do you think that they somehow deserved to die that way—and you, somehow, did not? Do you think that the fact that you are still among the living in a world where lives are cut short daily and violently by droughts and famines, hurricanes and earthquakes, crimes and tyranny – do you think you are alive because you are good and righteous? Do you think you can just step back and explain the world’s brokenness and the tragedies of life with a concept of divine justice that somehow spared you?

No. The answers you crave are found only by turning around. Turning around is another way of saying repentance. Repentance means you begin with yourself.

Let me tell you a story. A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?”

That’s one way to think about the fruit of righteousness and divine justice; three strikes and you’re cut. You had Moses to teach you. You had the prophets to remind you. You had John the Baptist to warn you: “Even now the ax is lying at the root of the trees; every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” You know he wasn’t talking about figs and olives. Plenty of  teaching, of pleading and warning, but no fruit to be found on the tree. Why should it be wasting the soil?

The story could end there. The story could end with the gardener going to the shed to get the ax. But the gardener hasn’t left yet. Standing beside the fruitless tree, or perhaps kneeling beside it in the dirt the gardener says, “Let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good, but if not you can cut it down.” Or perhaps the gardener says, “... but if not you can cut it down – because I won’t”? And the story ends with the gardener going to the shed to get the cultivator. That’s another way to think about the fruit of righteousness and the work of God.

We can pretend that we are spectators looking over the wall into the vineyard and speculating about the fate of that tree, but in truth we are that tree. We long to live lush and fruitful lives, but the soil is hard and dry. The soil is so packed down that the rain cannot penetrate it and the water cannot get to the roots and we remain thirsty and dry, despite our desire and good intentions.

John the Baptist points to the ax to remind us of the urgency of change and taps into our fear to motivate us to action. Jesus reminds us that we are not alone in our hope for fruitful lives by pointing to the gardener who works with dedication and patience to break and soften the soil.

But we got to let the gardener do some digging. We got to let the gardener break the dry soil in which we are trying to grow roots. When an earthquake buries thousands of people in just a few seconds, there is a moment, just before we start stepping back, distancing ourselves to explain or find blame, there is a moment of pain and truth, a moment when we feel just how fragile life is.

We usually run from that moment. We step back and pretend to be observers who can control the chaos by explaining it. Or we jump into a action to get a sense that we have done something to push the chaos back behind boundaries.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with trying to understand. There’s nothing wrong at all with responding to tragedy with acts of compassion. But we shouldn’t run too quickly from that moment where we know life as vulnerable, threatened, and in question. We shouldn’t run because that moment is a place where we meet the God who knows and bears our pain. That moment is a dry place where the gardener pours out grace to soften the ground. That moment is a holy place where healing water finds its way to our parched roots. It is in that moment that we come to know our real thirst and say, “O God, you are my God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.”

They say that in the southwestern United States, where the humidity is low, you may be thirsty and not even know it. It can be extremely hot, but your perspiration evaporates so quickly, you don’t even get a wet spot in your arm pit. You are becoming dehydrated and you don’t have a clue. In Grand Canyon National Park they have signs strategically placed along the trails that say, “Stop! Drink water. You are thirsty, whether you realize it or not.” [Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary: Year B, Vol. 2, 2008, p. 74]

Do you find it hard to imagine that you could be thirsty without realizing it? How about getting so settled into routines that keep you busy and distracted that you can’t tell whether it’s your heart and soul that are hungry, or your stomach? We have a hunger for God and a thirst for life, but we get lost in a culture of insatiable appetites and false promises of fullness and fulfillment.

Isaiah asks just the right question, “Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy?” The prophet reminded God’s people in exile and reminds us, that we are people of a different bread, bread not from the Babylonian bakery, but from God’s kitchen.

Isaiah shouts with urgency, inviting any within earshot to God’s banquet, to the feast where all are fed simply because all are hungry.

“Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters; and you that have no money, come, buy and eat! Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good, and delight yourselves in rich food.”

When we listen, we are given a word as delightful as the richest food. And we have a piece of bread placed in our hands, bread that speaks of God’s faithfulness and mercy like nothing we have ever tasted.

In many ways, Lent is a persistent invitation to get to know our real hunger and to eat the bread of life.

"Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you,” they warned him. It was Herod Jr. they were talking about.

Herod Sr.’s claim to Biblical fame was the massacre in and around Bethlehem, when at the time of Jesus’ birth he had all children under the age of two killed (Mt 2:16-18) just to make sure he got rid of a potential contender for his throne, he thought.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Herod Jr. was nervous because of reports that people were flocking to this rabbi from Nazareth. He was nervous because it was said by some that John had been raised from the dead, by others that one of the ancient prophets had arisen. Herod read the briefs by his intelligence people, and all he could say was, “John I beheaded; but who is this about whom I hear such things?” (Lk 9:7-9)

People knew that Herod wanted to see Jesus, but they also knew that his curiosity was dangerous, and some of the Pharisees warned Jesus to get out of Galilee.

There was something about Jesus that attracted the attention of men in power, although there is no sign of Jesus ever having made any overt political threat to the ruling authorities. He had no interest in Herod’s throne or Pilate’s, he didn’t play by the rules of their game, and that may have been what made him such a threat.

He was fearless, and a man who knows no fear cannot be manipulated.

I imagine Jesus laughing dismissively when he replied to their warning, “Go and tell that fox for me, listen, I do what I do, and I finish my work. I must be on my way.”

He called Herod a fox, a metaphor that paints the ruler as sly and cunning, but also several sizes smaller than a lion or a wolf. Only Jesus didn’t portray himself as a lion or a wolf either, nor as an eagle or a hawk. Instead he spoke of a hen gathering her brood under her wings – and fox and hen make an interesting pair.

I find it curious how we identify human traits and intentions with certain animals, and I wonder what fables and stories animals would tell about us if they could – but that’ll have to wait.

Jesus called Herod a fox and compared his own work to a mother hen’s desire to protect her chicks. Don’t call him a chicken, though, unless you know how far a hen is willing to go in order to protect her young from danger. If you haven’t seen The Natural History of the Chicken on PBS yet, I recommend that you do.  After you’ve watched the last ten minutes of that delightful video essay, you’ll never look at chickens the same way again.  In those ten minutes you meet Eliza, a fluffy Silkie Bantam hen, who literally throws herself between a handful of chicks and a hawk, protecting them with her own body.

Like I said, don’t call Jesus a chicken, unless you know how far a hen is willing to go to protect her young from the hawk or the fox.

Jesus did leave Galilee, but he didn’t leave to escape death. He didn’t turn west and spend a couple of weeks on the beach to give Herod a chance to relax or to allow tensions to cool. He was already on the way to Jerusalem where political and religious power resided, and where he knew he would die.

Jesus didn’t choose death, though. He chose to live the life he was given, and that makes a world of difference. He chose to live in God’s reign, he chose to live a life of compassion and truth, he chose to share his life with all, and he refused to trade it in for mere survival in Herod’s little world, or Pilate’s, or Caesar’s, or whatever their names may be who sit on their thrones, afraid to lose their power, afraid to lose control over their little kingdoms.

Jesus was fearless because he knew who he was; he knew in his bones that he was God’s beloved; and he knew that nothing in the universe is more real than the love of God for God’s creation.
When he had the friendly Pharisees tell Herod, “I must be on my way,” it wasn’t geography he was talking about or the pressures of a crowded schedule. He was talking about his faithfulness to God’s way with God’s people, he was talking about fierce, courageous love.

One moment Jesus was laughing at Herod, and then his voice changed from easy defiance to anguished, divine lament.

Jerusalem. Jerusalem! The city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it. How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!

Jesus gave voice to God’s desire, and more than voice. He embodied God’s desire to gather us closer in God’s embrace, and he bore in his body the wounds of our unwillingness, the wounds of our desire to be human without God.

Week of Compassion has been on our minds quite often recently, particularly in the context of our response to the devastation caused by the earthquake in Haiti. Just yesterday, barely more than 24 hours ago, there was news about another earthquake, this one in Chile, causing death and destruction, and terror as far away as Asia. We may not yet know the full scale of devastation, but we do know that our partners have been at work on the ground literally within minutes.

We call it Week of Compassion because this ministry began with a week-long special offering after W.W. II; it was a gesture of courage as well as compassion to reach out to former enemies and find reconciliation by building peace together.

We know it’s more than a week of compassion; it’s a way of being in the world. Courageous compassion is Jesus’ way of being in the world. It is what brought him to Jerusalem. Courageous compassion is one of the names we give to God’s desire to be with us and gather us in.

Through Week of Compassion we have the privilege of embodying that desire, that love that holds all things, in places of great suffering, places that many would call God-forsaken. We have the privilege of being present through search and rescue workers, medical professionals, counselors, civil engineers, pastors and teachers and farmers and the many who follow Jesus on the way to the place where life has been shattered and hope is in short supply.

Jesus lived fearlessly and with extravagant love, and he calls us to follow him, to enter the life of God’s reign. Courageous compassion is not foolishness in the face of danger, but the courage to trust, more than anything else, the love that raised Jesus from the dead.

The psalm for this Sunday is Psalm 27, and a few verses are printed in today’s bulletin.

The Lord is my light and my salvation;
whom then shall I fear?
The Lord is the strength of my life;
of whom then shall I be afraid?
When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh—
my adversaries and foes— they shall stumble and fall.
Though an army should encamp against me,
my heart shall not fear;
though war should rise up against me,
yet I will trust in the Lord.
One thing I have asked of the Lord, one thing I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life,
to behold the fair beauty of the Lord, to seek God in the temple.

I cannot say these words without hesitating; they haven’t yet become fully my own. The only way I can say them without feeling like I’m reading somebody else’s prayer journal, is by saying them with Jesus, by listening to him saying them, and repeating after him.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear?

Those words are his, and I follow him.

The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid?

Those words are his, and I follow him.

Though an army should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear.

Those words are his, and my voice trembles.

Though war should rise up against me, yet I will trust in the Lord.

Those words are his, and I seek shelter in his faith like a chick under the wings of a mother hen.

One thing I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life.

Those words are his, and I follow him to dwell where he dwells.

Jesus is the fearless one who laughs at Herod. Jesus is the compassionate one who cries in anguish over Jerusalem. We are the ones whose desire is to follow him, to serve him and work with him, to pray with him, to rest and be at home with him. And so we repeat and rehearse the lines and the steps, again and again, repeat and rehearse compassionate presence and attentiveness, repeat and rehearse, repeat and rehearse until God’s extravagant love has driven out all fear.

Every day and everywhere, the gift of life is in question in some way.

Every day and everywhere, there is a need for witnesses who will follow Jesus in the struggle against all that threatens, weakens, and corrupts life.

Every day and everywhere, there is a need for courageous compassion in the face of tragedy or injustice.

Every day and everywhere, there is a need for some who practice with Jesus how to laugh at Herod, how to laugh at fear, and how to hold on to a vision of the city that truly is the city of God.

Friday night, I watched the opening ceremony for the Olympic winter games in Vancouver. I was mesmerized by the play of light and sound, celebrating Canada’s cultures and regions.

I watched with awe as ice turned into water, and I saw whales gliding across the bottom of the stadium – as if we all sat in a giant glass bottom space ship hovering above the sea.

I saw a boy flying like Peter Pan, carried by the wind, across the undulating prairie. I saw mountains rising from the plains, giant trees dwarfing the men and women dancing around their trunks. I saw towers of glass, athletes on snow and ice, I saw thousands of flickering lights and faces reflecting the wonder.

I heard drums and fiddles, poetry and chant, songs and hymns – it was amazing, beautiful, deeply moving, and I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to call it a spiritual experience.

NBC, however, made sure I didn’t get too carried away. Whenever I got close to jumping up from the couch and joining the dance or whenever I was being pulled in so completely that I started to forget where I was—they cut to commercials.

In the blink of an eye, I found myself transported from the heights of imagination and creativity back to the van with the two guys at Sonic discussing the benefits of the value menu.

Friday night was the first time I remember that I got angry at actors in a commercial for completely ruining the moment. It was just like you and your sweetheart enjoying a romantic dinner at home; across the flames of the candles you are looking into each other’s eyes, and the moment is filled with all your happiest memories and your sweetest dreams. And then the phone rings, and you do let the machine get it, but you can still hear the voice of some stranger eager to talk with you about something that’s missing in your life – when the only thing missing is the beauty of the moment that abruptly ended just seconds ago, the moment you wanted to last, the moment you hoped would take you away like a ride on a magic carpet.

Two obvious lessons:

One – turn off all phones and stick a sock in the door bell before you light the candles tonight.

Two – don’t count on tv to take you anywhere without trying to convince you that fulfillment awaits those who purchase more stuff.

We are near the beginning of Lent, only three days away from Ash Wednesday, and during Lent we practice and proclaim the Christian counter argument to our culture of consumption: Fulfillment awaits those who know God, and that knowledge is acquired in an entirely different way.

In the middle of Luke’s narrative of the gospel there is this mountain; it simply appears, without name or introduction:

Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray.

Not a mountain, but the mountain. What mountain was that? I don’t believe it’s a matter of geography. Just like the river in the song, As I went down in the river to pray, any river can be the river – and ultimately, prayer itself is the river. Any mountain can be the mountain, because ultimately prayer itself is the mountain.

Jesus went up and the three went with him, with sore feet and weary legs. They had been working long hours bringing the good news to villages in Galilee and curing diseases everywhere, setting food before thousands and gathering the left over pieces into baskets. They were tired. When Jesus went up on the mountain, they stumbled along behind him.

And while Jesus was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes were shining like the sun was rising inside of them. Everything the three looked at was bathed in that dazzling light; they were weighed down with sleep, but they saw Jesus, talking with Moses and Elijah. They saw their master and friend in glory, talking with the lawgiver and the prophet.

What were they talking about? Moses, Elijah and Jesus were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. They were in fact talking about his death on that hill outside of Jerusalem, at the end of the way he was on, but they did not use the word death. And they did not speak of it as something that would happen to him, but something he would accomplish. The word translated as departure is the Greek exodos, and with Moses right there, no other hint was needed.

Jesus would go to Jerusalem to set God’s people free, leading them from bondage to freedom. This time the great opponent wasn’t pharaoh, it wasn’t even caesar; the struggle was against sin and death and all the powers that cut off God’s creatures from abundant life, that keep God’s people from entering the joy of the kingdom and from knowing fulfillment in the presence of God. It would be another exodus, with Jesus laying down his own body to part the waters and the Risen One being the first on the other side.

Elijah was the ancient prophet whose reappearance meant that redemption was near, that the Messiah was due, and there was Elijah talking to Jesus; everything was coming together perfectly.

The light they saw was the glory of God illuminating the way of Christ and confirming it to be the way of God. They were only watching, but it was awesome and holy, and they wanted it to last; everything was beautiful and clear, bathed in heavenly light. They knew God like they hadn’t known God before, and all they could think of was, abide.

“Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.” Master, don’t let this end; abide, and let us behold this beauty for good.

Prayer has the power to mediate divine presence; the mountain can be any mountain, the river can be any river. God’s glory can erupt anytime and anywhere, and when it does we can mark the spot with a rock like Jacob who saw a stairway set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven, and the angels of God ascending and descending on it. “How awesome is this place!” he said. “Surely the Lord is in this place—and I did not know it,” and he called it Beth-El, house of God.

We can mark the spot with a cairn or a rock or a temple or three dwellings or a sanctuary, but God’s glory will not abide in our dwellings, God’s glory will not stay on our map.

On the mountain, a cloud came and overshadowed them, and they were terrified. In that darkness nothing dazzled, nothing shone, all they could see was the absence of all things visible. Whereas before everything had been exceedingly clear and orderly, now they were completely in the dark without any sense of place or direction. It was as if they had fallen from the heights of holy awe to the depths of trembling fear. And that’s when they heard the voice.

"This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him."

Just one commandment for the road ahead. Just one commandment for the search for the glory of God in the lowlands of life.

They didn’t say a word about what they had seen. They followed Jesus down from the mountain, down to where the needy crowd was waiting, down to the lowlands of life. And there, at the foot of the mountain, the silence was broken by a father who cried out, “Teacher, I beg you to look at my son; he is my only child.”

His cry was like the echo of the voice they had heard on the top of the mountain, only here it was filled with pain and helplessness in the face of shrieking, unrelenting demons that maul and abuse us.

This is where we long to see transfiguration, down here in the valleys and plains where demons need to be cast out and children wait for healing. This is where we work and watch and pray for the transfiguration that illumines all the earth with the light of heaven. Down here is where we encounter God’s Chosen One, who teaches us to pray and watch and work, always trusting in God’s presence and promise. Down here is where we listen to the One who embodies God’s boundless grace and unceasing compassion. This is where we hear him, calling us to repentance and challenging us to follow him all the way to the cross and to Easter in our search for the glory of God.

The mountain is there so we can climb to the summit and catch a more complete vision of the valleys and plains below and the land beyond. The mountain is there for us not to settle down on it but to come down from it.

In her novel, Gilead Marilynne Robinson tells the story of John Ames, a minister in a little town called Gilead in Iowa. The novel takes the form of a letter that this old man begins to write in 1956 to his young son, and just before the letter ends and the novel closes, the author has John Ames write,

It has seemed to me sometimes as though the Lord breathes on this poor gray ember of creation and it turns to radiance for a moment or a year or the span of a life and then it sinks back into itself again and to look at it no one would know it had anything to do with fire or light. (…) But the Lord is more constant and far more extravagant than it seems to imply. Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see [Marilynne Robinson, Gilead (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2004), p. 245]

That little willingness to see is what we nurture during Lent with simple disciplines like turning off the phone for thirty minutes of prayer every day; or leaving work early twice a week for a walk through the neighborhood; or trading tv time for reading time; or preparing food for strangers.

And we nurture more than just a little willingness to see.

We nurture our courage to trust that the Lord never ceases to breathe on this poor gray ember of creation.

We nurture our desire to be present when the Spirit blows away the ashes to show us the glory in the gray. [ With thanks to George MacLeod for the beautiful expression, “Show us the glory in the grey.”]

Hope and I hauled three large boxes to the post office last week. They contained about one hundred plastic bags, each filled with a small towel, a wash cloth, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, a comb, a nail clipper, and six band aids. We assembled those hygiene kits for Church World Service, whose warehouse in Maryland was emptied in response to the great need in Haiti.

When we set up the tables for putting together those hygiene kits last Sunday, there was a moment when I said to myself, “What good are band aids to bodies bruised and broken by an earthquake?”

But then I remembered that those little sticky strips are magic. Our little ones come running to us, crying inconsolably, or so it seems, pointing to their elbow or their knee. What do we do? We look with careful attention, we acknowledge their pain, we kiss the scratch, and before we’re finished asking, “Would you like a band aid?” they are ready to go and play again. One small gesture of love, and the whole world has changed for them.

Band Aid has become a way of labeling our response to the needs of others as inadequate, as nowhere near the level of relief and support that is needed to really make a difference. We call it Band Aid when our actions only treat surface issues rather than the underlying causes of a crisis.

But when I think about the mother who will have a bright orange band aid to put on her child’s knee, I know we are doing something right, especially since it’s not all we do.

And when I watched our own children assembling those kits last Sunday, knowing that their help was needed and that they could do their part to bring comfort and healing to another family, I knew we were doing the right thing.

I like to think that one of our kids perhaps smuggled a crayon or two into the bag, knowing intuitively that we need not just food and water, shelter and a bath at the end of the day, but also pictures, stories, and songs.

And more than anything we need to know that we are not alone.

The church has responded to the needs of the survivors with shipments of food, tents, and blankets, water purification systems, baby kits, hygiene kits, medical supplies and personnel, and we continue to respond.

Amy Gopp, the Director of Week of Compassion, was in Nashville last week and we got together for a cup of coffee before she had to go to the airport. We talked about disaster relief, refugee assistance, and community development, the three columns of Week of Compassion.

We talked about how in each of those three areas our work is always coordinated with other churches, whether internationally, nationally, or on the ground in Haiti and elsewhere. We talked about the reality of the body of Christ in the world, where individual members don’t just do what they feel called to do, but are in constant communication about the demands of our faith, challenging each other’s assumptions, discussing goals and methods, praying and worshipping together, learning from each other, embodying the love of Christ in the world.

And Amy and I talked about how in those encounters and in that work the church is not presbyterian, lutheran, methodist, pentecostal, baptist, or anglican, let alone American, Norwegian, Haitian, or Indonesian – the church is the church, the church is one.

I read Job after the earthquake.

Job had a great life; it says in the very first verse that he was blameless and upright. He had seven sons and three daughters, and his wealth was considerable.

And then he lost everything. Oxen, donkeys, sheep and camels, thousands of them, all in one day. Servants came, one after another, to deliver the messages of death and loss, each of them ending their report with the same refrain, “I alone have escaped to tell you.”

And then another servant came with word about Job’s children. They had all been together at a party in the house of his firstborn when the house collapsed on them and they were all killed.

I thought about Job when I heard the story of a man in Port-au-Prince who stood outside the morgue wailing, “Just let me see her body!” and they couldn’t let him in because there were too many bodies and too many husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters looking for the bodies of loved ones.

I thought about Job when I read about the teacher looking at what was left of the school, knowing that her students had been in the building when the earthquake struck.

I thought about Job when I read about the missionary who talked to a girl trapped under big chunks of concrete, encouraging her to pray and not give up hope, telling her that he would come back with help – and when he came back and called her name there was no response.

I read Job after the earthquake.

I wondered if he got to see and hold his children one last time before they were buried, or if there was only a mass grave for them and all who had died that day.

Job had three friends, and when they heard of his tragic loss, they came to console and comfort him. Only what could they possibly say or do?

They sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great (2:13).

I sense a deep reverence and respect for a friend’s loss in that response. They didn’t stop by and whitewash his pain with talk show chatter. They sat with him, not off in the distance discussing and explaining what had happened to him and why. They let him know that he was not alone, and they didn’t say a word until he spoke [and after the first round of conversation, he told them, "If you would only keep silent, that would be your wisdom (13:5)."]

It doesn’t say that their presence was a comfort to him, but I imagine it was. Sitting with him on the ground for seven days and nights was a gesture of friendship and solidarity. There are times when silence is not only an expression of wisdom, but of love.

I thought and prayed about bodies these last two weeks. Bodies in collapsed buildings; bodies lying in streets; bodies hastily buried.

Living, breathing, vulnerable bodies that need water and food and shelter.

The body of the little five-year-old boy pulled alive from the rubble on Thursday, with people laughing and singing in wonder and joy.

I was surprised at how physical my reaction has been. My heart was heavy with sadness; I cried reading blogs and newspapers, and listening to the radio; I felt a wave of joy wash over me when I saw pictures of little children playing and singing in villages just outside the city; and at night I lay awake in bed not just thinking how fortunate I was to be with my family and to have a roof over our heads, but knowing gratitude in my body like a layer under my skin and the pulse in my veines.

I don’t know how many times I have heard or read Paul’s letter to the Corinthians and how often I have spoken about the church as the body of Christ and the variety of gifts among its members.

In these past two weeks the knowledge of this reality once again travelled from my head down to my bones.

Last Sunday we sang, “And we, though many throughout the earth, we are one body in this one Lord,” and it is true.

Today we heard, "In the one Spirit we were all baptized into one body—Jews or Greeks, slaves or free—and we were all made to drink of one Spirit. (…) If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it."

This is true – not an idea, not a concept, but an embodied reality.

We come from a variety of religious and ethnic backgrounds, and our social and economic status varies, both within and between congregations, but in Christ all those differences are relative.

In Christ, we are all parts of one body, and members one of another. Our individuality is honored in that we each serve the body in a distinct and essential way, even the littlest among us, but we are no longer just a multitude of bodies, stories, and voices. We are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another.

It is the body of Christ that was buried in the ruins of Port-au-Prince, and the body of Christ that began digging with bare hands;

it is the body of Christ that longs for freedom, and the body of Christ that brings good news to the poor and freedom to the oppressed;

it is the body of Christ that suffers, and the body of Christ that sits in silence for seven days and nights;

it is the body of Christ that hurts and hungers and thirsts, and the body of Christ that holds and feeds and comforts;

the truth of Christ is not an idea or a set of beliefs, but the embodied reality of love and mercy.

We cannot say to one another, “I don’t need you,” because we have each been given to another. The eye cannot say to the hand, “I have no need of you,” nor again the head to the feet, “I have no need of you.”

But the hand can say to the eye, “Tell me what you see,” and the eye to the hand, “Help me look deeper.” The feet can say to the head, “Help me understand,” and the head to the feet, “Help me get there.”

God has knit us together in one body, fearfully and wonderfully made.

Very soon after you were born, you were given a name. There was a time when your parents and their families and anyone who knew about you referred to you solely as the baby. They spoke with joy, anticipation and hope, but still, you were just the baby; in those days they may not even have known if you were a boy or a girl, or if there were two or three of you.

Very likely your parents started compiling lists of possible names at some point during their pregnancy; two columns, one if it’s a girl, another if  it’s a boy. Names of moms and dads, aunts and uncles, best friends and movie stars, names that wouldn’t attract cruel teasing in the school yard one day, names that go well with the family name, names that start with the same letter as your parents’ or your siblings’ first names, names that capture kindness, strength, beauty or other characteristics – long lists of names for the baby.

As the due date drew closer, the list got shorter. And at some point they looked at you and they just knew what your name was going to be, and they called you by your name. You were no longer just the baby, but somebody.

There is power in a name. It sets us apart in our individuality and our sacred personhood. It is our name that captures who we are, not our Social Security Number or some other PIN assigned to us.

In the village where my mother was born and grew up, and where her parents and siblings still lived when I was little, I noticed a peculiar custom. When a grown-up would see me at church or at a store, and my mother or grandmother wasn’t  with me, they would inquire who I was, only they didn’t ask, “What’s your name?” but, “To whom do you belong?”

Grown-ups would also refer to each other by their last name first. My grandmother’s name was Elizabeth Simon, and everybody called her Lisa, but when her name came up in conversation, people referred to her as Simon’s Lisa; my grandfather was Simon’s Georg, my uncle, Simon’s Hans. Last names came first because apparently what family one belonged to was considered very important.

I must have been born with a strong independent streak. I was only three or four years old, when someone asked me, “To whom do you belong?” – and I remember putting my foot down, “I belong to nobody. I am Thomas.” I remember that moment vividly, and how strongly I felt about being recognized as a person and not just as a member of a family or clan, let alone somebody else’s possession.

As a teenager, I went to catechism class. In preparation for our confirmation, we learned the meaning of our baptism and how to live as followers of Jesus and people of God. The catechism we studied was (and still is) a collection of questions and answers about the Christian faith, and the first question has been, ever since the days of the Reformation, “What is your only comfort, in life and in death?”

Not the kind of question you’d ask a fourteen-year-old, is it? We weren’t expected to come up with our own answers, but we were encouraged to know the church’s answer to that question and to grow into it.

“What is your only comfort, in life and in death?”

“That I belong – body and soul, in life and in death – not to myself but to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ.” Heidelberg Catechism

I was fourteen years old; I believed that I belonged to nobody but myself – and the church wanted me to find comfort in the thought that I did indeed not belong to myself. The church urged me to question my most sacred assumptions: my independence, my autonomy, my radical self-realization, and my immortality.

I learned to repeat the answer, that I belong – body and soul, in life and in death – not to myself but to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ. I learned to repeat the answer, but I didn’t believe it. I wanted to be myself and belong to myself.

I liked the passage from Isaiah where the prophet says,

Now thus says the LORD, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.

I liked that promise and I made it my own without blinking, never mind that it was a promise given to God’s people. I liked that promise, because I knew that life could be overwhelming at times and frightening, and I liked the thought that my name was written in the palm of God’s hand. What I didn’t hear, not really, was the part where God says, “I have redeemed you, I have called you by name, you are mine.”

Today I know no greater comfort than that Christ Jesus has made me his own.   

Today I know that the radical independence of my adolescent imagination was not only the rejection of any authority but my own, but also the unknowing surrender to other powers and authorities that had trained me well to play by their script and call it freedom.

It took me years to realize how much I was a child of the times, and how much my thoughts and actions had been shaped by my need to conform and fit in and fulfill expectations.

Today all I want is to live as a child of God.

When Jesus was about thirty years old, he came to the Jordan river, and he heard John the Baptist proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. When John warned the crowds of the wrath to come, Jesus was there. When the crowds asked John, “What then should we do?”, Jesus was there. When even tax collectors and soldiers came to be baptized and make commitments to lives of greater faithfulness, Jesus was there. And when all the people were baptized, Jesus was there and he was washed in the river along with us. He stepped into our place, so we would be in his.

Luke is very careful to note that Jesus was praying when the heaven was opened and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. Jesus didn’t listen to the crowd or the expectations of his family and friends or anyone else, he prayed. And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”

This is how his ministry began. Not with a commission to go and save the world, but with this beautiful statement of relationship, love, and delight.

In Luke’s gospel, the scene is followed by a long genealogy, name after name, generation after generation – but Jesus’ true identity, his true name was spoken by the water: You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.

Jesus stood in our place, so we would stand in his and hear our true name, and know the relationship that defines us more profoundly than our human ancestry or our past. Together we stand in the river and the voice from heaven declares, “You are my children, my loved ones, my people, my delight; you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you; you are my sons and my daughters, called by my name, created for my glory.”

Who we are is not determined by the accidents of history or by our choices, good or bad, but by this voice from heaven declaring God’s delight in us.

The gospel reading for this Sunday skips a few lines in Luke’s narrative, and who knows why. In those verses we are told how Herod didn’t appreciate the good news John the Baptist proclaimed to the people. In particular, Herod didn’t appreciate how John rebuked him “because of all the evil things” he had done.

When God’s claim on us and on the world is given voice, the rulers get nervous. Herod gets nervous. The fourteen-year-old whom the church urges to question his assumptions of independence and autonomy, gets nervous. The little kid who doesn’t want to belong to anyone, gets nervous.

And what do rulers do when they get nervous about that preaching and baptizing down by the river?

Luke tells us.

Herod, with all the evil things that he had done, added to them all by shutting up John in prison.

Those disruptive voices reminding us of God’s claim on us and on the world? Lock them up, lock them in, lock them out—who cares! As long as they remain shut up and silent, all is well in the little throne rooms of the world.

What happens when the call to repentance and renewal is silenced and shut up?

Luke tells us.

Where Jesus stands, the heavens open and the truth is spoken.

Herod wants to shut up objection and judgment. Herod wants to run things his own way and so he wants to shut up the call to prepare for God’s coming, he wants to shut up the demand for the re-ordering of the world, he wants to shut up the voice in the wilderness – but where Jesus stands, the heavens open and the voice of God is heard.

Every time we baptize a disciple in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, we renounce those rulers and powers that wish to shut up the reign of God and the renewal of the world.

Every time we gather by the water we renounce those voices that drown out the truth by telling us that we must work or shop or eat and drink or cheat our way to fullness of life.

And every time we baptize a disciple we affirm the opening of heaven, the coming of God’s redeeming power into the world, and the new creation where we know ourselves and each other by our true name as God’s sons and daughters.

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.

The other morning, in the shower, I thought about the curious fact that the church calendar begins at the end of November. Long before January 1st, when much of the world wakes up late to a new year, the church begins the Christian year on the first Sunday of Advent. We may plan our programs and ministries following the school year, and our fiscal year may begin January 1st or July 1st, but we count time from Advent to Advent. Long before we make our most well-intentioned (and usually short-lived) new-year’s-resolutions, we are already immersed in God’s time. We begin with promise and hope because God already has done great things for us. God’s time is ahead of the world’s. Long before we begin another round around the sun, God has already made a new beginning with us. And because that is so, the new year isn’t just a continuation of the old, or its merciless consequence, but comes with the possibility of true newness.

In Advent we remember that our future is not closed. Our future is not bound by our past, nor defined by our tired routines or unshakable inertia. The future is open for genuine newness from God. So this is the spring season of the church year, and in this season our hope is rekindled for God’s coming and for possibilities beyond our calculations and prognostications. When January 1st comes around, we will have already sung the songs of redemption with the prophets, songs of exuberant praise with Zechariah and Mary, songs of glory and joy with the angels and the shepherds. God’s time is ahead of the world’s. When January 1st comes around with the relentless tick-tock of the clock, we are already living in God’s time, to the rhythm of grace and gratitude, and to the tune of promise and faithfulness.

During Advent, we learn to sing the songs and tell the stories that proclaim how God has come to us in the past, and the singing and telling expand the horizon of our hope, preparing us for God’s advent now and in the future. And who wouldn’t agree that our hope needs expanding.

Many of us struggle with the slow recovery of the economy and the uncertainty of how long it will take before businesses will start hiring again.

Many of us struggle with the impression that the disparity of wealth in our country also represents a disparity of voice and influence in the political process.

Many of us struggle with the reality of a global climate conference that produced little except more hot air.

The world doesn’t offer a lot of reasons to begin the new year with expectancy and hope – but we are already immersed in God’s time.

On this fourth Sunday of Advent, Luke paints a picture for us. We see Mary entering a house and greeting her cousin Elizabeth. Elizabeth had been waiting her whole life for a child.

“Years of trying to have a child of our own was like having to drink bitter waters from a poisoned well month after month,” a man who wanted to be a father wrote a few years ago, reflecting on the experience of infertility.

“Nothing could break the sinister hold of barrenness on our lives, not strict adherence to whatever expert advice we could get, not prayer, not the latest fertility techniques, not fasting, nothing. One hundred months’ worth of hopes, all dashed against the stubborn realities of bodies that just wouldn’t produce offspring. … Every time we would go to worship, the laughter and boisterous-ness of the little ones milling around … would remind me of unfulfilled dreams. The season of Advent was the worst. ‘For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given,’ I would hear read or sung in hundreds of different variations. But from me a child was withheld.” [Miroslav Volf, The Gift of Infertility, The Christian Century, June 14, 2005, p. 33]

Elizabeth had been waiting her whole life for a child. Her womb had remained barren, and she and her husband were getting on in years. Elizabeth stands in the line of Sarah, Rachel, and Hannah, the great mothers of our faith who had their barren hopelessness transformed by God, and her story is a new variation on that ancient theme. In the picture Luke paints for us today, Elizabeth is in the sixth month of her pregnancy.

Mary, on the other hand, is just entering her childbearing years, a young teenager, engaged but not yet married, and she is pregnant, too. “How can this be?” she said to the angel who made the announcement, and we can imagine why she went with haste from Nazareth in Galilee to the Judean hill country to see her cousin. She enters the house, and the two women meet. Mary speaks a greeting, and the child in Elizabeth’s womb leaps for joy.

You know I have no idea what I’m talking about. I don’t know what it’s like to be pregnant. I don’t know what it means to live with a new life inside of me, let alone how it feels when the child leaps for joy. The closest I ever got was when I put my hands on my wife’s belly and I could feel the baby kicking or boxing or whatever it was he was doing in there.

Little John jumped for joy in Elizabeth’s womb when the promise of Jesus entered the house. It was the dance of ancient hope upon the arrival of fresh fulfillment.

We look at the beautiful scene Luke has painted, and we see two of the great mothers of our faith. To Elizabeth God has given that which she always wanted to carry and hold, but had long despaired of ever receiving. To Mary God has given the entirely unexpected gift that goes way beyond anything she could have imagined. Surprised by God’s advent into their lives, the two shout blessings and sing.

In our stories, barrenness is a powerful metaphor for a reality drained of life, promise and hope. However, barrenness is too quick a description for the suffocating reality of pain, blame, and shame that infertility can cast over a life and a relationship. Miroslav Volf, the man who wanted to be a father, gets closer to that reality when he writes about the bitter waters his wife Judy and he had to drink from a poisonous well month after month. After nine long years of waiting, they adopted two children, and he was surprised by what he discovered then.

“During those nine years of infertility, I wasn’t waiting for a child who stubbornly refused to come, though that’s what I thought at the time. In fact, I was waiting for the two boys I now have, Nathanael and Aaron. I love them, and I want them …, not children in general of which they happened to be exemplars. Then it dawned on me: Fertility would have robbed me of my boys… Infertility was the condition for the possibility of these two indescribable gifts. And understanding that changed my attitude toward infertility. Since it gave me what I now can’t imagine living without, poison was transmuted into a gift, God’s strange gift. The pain of it remains, of course. But the poison is gone. Nine years of desperate trying were like one long painful childbirth, the purpose of which was to give us Nathanael and Aaron.”

Elizabeth was given what she had wanted all her adult life. Judy and Miroslav were given what they wanted, but in a way they never expected. And Mary was given a gift she didn’t dream of wanting at the time, but she agreed to let her life be turned upside down in order to serve the purposes of God.

Barrenness is a powerful metaphor for a reality drained of life, promise and hope. Mary wasn’t barren, and yet, the child she carried put an end to the world’s barrenness. The child she carried continues to bring life, forgiveness, healing, hope, and love to the world’s dead ends, to our barren places and our fruitless debates.

We count time from Advent to Advent. We remember that into the empty greyness at the end of our rope, echoing with impossibility, God comes. We celebrate that into the traps we have built for ourselves with our sinful actions and lack of action, God comes. We sing with Mary that into the world as it is – vulnerable and violent, pulsing with life and groaning in pain, fragmented and yet one – into this world as it is, God comes with the gift of fulfillment and new beginning.

Mary sings, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.” Lowliness isn’t all humility and meekness. Lowliness describes social reality. Mary is poor—worse, she is poor, pregnant and unmarried. But she sings with all her heart and soul and voice because the God who brings down the powerful from their thrones and lifts up the lowly, has lifted her up. She sings because what is happening with her and through her is like rain on the dry and barren land. She sings because she knows in her womb the advent of divine possibility, the advent of mercy and justice and hope that brings to an end the world’s barrenness. She sings because she is the mother of our redeemer.

We sing with her because we too are beginning to know that whatever is proud in us and powerful is being brought down by God’s coming. And whatever is poor in us is being lifted up. We sing with her because we are beginning to taste and see how our hunger is being stilled by God’s coming, and our need to control is being sent away empty. We sing with Mary because we have come to know that fullness of life and true humanity are waiting to be born in us.

Again, this may sound like a guy talking about being pregnant; what I mean is, her song is an invitation to us not just to sing along, but to come along. She agreed to let her life be turned upside down in order to receive the gift and serve the purposes of God, and she invites us to do the same. She is the angel sent to us to remind us that we too have found favor with God, and that nothing will be impossible with God. And like the angel who was sent to her didn’t depart until she said, “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word,” she is waiting for our response. Our faithful, courageous, and world-changing response. What will it be?

Update on Wednesday, December 23, 2009 at 11:15AM by Thomas Kleinert

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Our God makes a way where there is no way. In the gospel according to Luke, the story begins with the birth of two boys, John and Jesus. One is the son of an old couple, well beyond child-bearing age, the other the child of a virgin. Both boys are called by a name given by an angel. John’s name means the Lord is gracious, and Jesus’ name means the Lord saves.

When John was born, his father, Zechariah, who had been mute throughout the pregnancy, sang a prophecy, praising God for remembering the promise of redemption for God’s people. Both boys, one not even born yet, would live to fulfill God’s saving purposesfor Israel and the world.

You, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give knowledge of salvation to his people by the forgiveness of their sins.

Our God makes a way where there is no way. There had been a long silence, one lasting much longer than Elizabeth’s pregnancy.

From the day that Israel’s ancestors had come out of the land of Egypt, God had sent prophets, day after day, and they spoke God’s word to God’s people. Beginning with Moses and Miriam, there had been an unbroken chain of men and women, who were paying attention, generation after generation. They knew how to read their culture, and at the same time they were like lightning rods, ready to receive a word from God like a bolt of truth too hot and too bright for hearts unaccustomed to divine speech. They paid attention to the world in which they lived, with hearts fine-tuned to the voice of God.

The last of the prophets had been Malachi, sometime after the end of the Babylonian exile. Had God stopped speaking or was no one there whose heart was ready to listen?

Many generations after Malachi, in the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas – something happened.

We listen to the roll call of all these big names of men of importance and considerable power, and we are prepared to hear something equally important and powerful. We are ready for the kind of report usually introduced by, “We are interrupting our regular programming for this breaking news…”

Something had happened, something big, somewhere in one of the global centers of power, we assume. What had happened?

The word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness.

You know not a single station interrupted their regular programming for that. CNN didn’t report it, nor did Fox or MSNBC. They are busy making sure everybody knows every detail about Tiger Woods’s short drive to the fire hydrant. Something had happened, something whose magnitude doesn’t register on the scales of our cable news.

The word of God came – not to Caesar or one of the governors or rulers or high priests, not to one of the ones used to journalists taking notes whenever they open their mouths, but to John son of Zechariah – and not in Rome or Jerusalem or New York or Hollywood, but in the wilderness. After a long silence, the word of God came to a man on the margins of might and importance, on the periphery of reality as defined by rulers and pollsters and talk show hosts.

The word of God came to John (whose name means the Lord is gracious) son of Zechariah (whose name means the Lord remembers) and John began to speak of repentance and the forgiveness of sins. John didn’t make the evening news or the morning papers, but the word of God came into the world, this world of palaces and temples, of tent cities and food stamps. It wasn’t a particularly promising time – it never is – but it became a time of promise when the word of God came as it once came to Moses, to Elijah, to Amos and Isaiah. The word of God came and the wilderness became once again a place of hope and transformation.

Our God makes a way where there is no way. When Israel was in captivity in Egypt, the word of God came to Moses, and the people, weighed down by the yoke of oppression and exhausted by years of toil, stood and raised their heads, because their redemption was drawing near. In the wilderness, the prophet declared, the Lord would make a way and lead them to freedom. And against Pharao’s stiff-necked resistance, the Hebrew slaves followed God’s call through the desert and the sea to the land of promise; in the great exodus they became God’s covenant people.

Generations later, Israel was again in captivity in Babylon, and the word of God came to Isaiah. The prophet declared that the Lord would end their exile, gather the displaced, and bring them home in a procession of great joy on a highway through the wilderness. Sounding like the foreman of a road building crew the prophet shouted, “Make a road for the Lord, and make it straight. Fill in every gulley, every pot hole, and grade the land until it is level. Where it’s crooked, make it straight. Where it’s rough, make it smooth. This is the road to freedom, this is the way home.” And once again the people followed God’s call to the land where they would be free to serve God without fear.

Generations later, in the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar, the land of promise occupied by Roman legions, the word of God came to John in the wilderness. It wasn’t a call to get ready to leave, nor was it a call to arms – it was a call to repentance, and John sounded just like Isaiah: Prepare the way of the Lord.

Another exodus was in the making, and those who heard the call crossed through the water as their ancestors did when they first entered the land. It was a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. Those who passed through the water didn’t change where they lived, but the transition was no less dramatic, because they changed how they lived.

The world was still governed by Tiberius, Herod, and Pontius Pilate, but the reign of God was drawing near. John called them to lean into that nearness and begin to live there. His father had sung at his birth,

By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.

Now is the dawn, now is the time to lean into the daybreak and begin to live in its light. John calls us to repent – not just to look back and feel sorry for what we have done or left undone, but to turn and look in the direction of sunrise – people, look east, the day is near! The Savior is coming – lean into the advent of God’s reign and begin to live there!

Prepare the way of the Lord. Does God need us to prepare a way for God to get through to us? No, God has a way of making a way where there is no way. Does God need us to prepare a way for God to get through to others? No, God has a way of making a way where there is no way. We are the ones in need when it comes to preparing the way of the Lord.

On Christmas we celebrate the birth of Jesus, whose name means the Lord saves. It doesn’t mean the Lord comes to visit us in our exile and make it a bit more bearable. God in Jesus comes to us calling us to follow Jesus on the way from oppression to freedom, from sin to righteousness, from violence to peace, from the long shadow of death to the gates of life. Jesus comes to us to be for us the way into God’s future, and to be with us on the way.

Our preparing the way of the Lord is not a seasonal exercise like decorating the house for Christmas. Preparing the way of the Lord is our daily discipline:

What must I do to recognize the road blocks that keep me from following Jesus?
What must I do to notice the deep ditches that separate me from others?
And what must I do to direct my feet to the bridge of reconciliation Jesus has built for us?
What must I do to hear the word of God in the hustle and bustle of my days?
What must I do to keep my eyes on Jesus when so many other things compete for my attention?

Preparing the way of the Lord is not a seasonal exercise; it’s a daily discipline.

My life is pretty cluttered these days, and I know I’m not the only one.

What I hear John saying is, “Brother, you gotta prepare the way of the Lord, because if you don’t, you’re preparing a way you don’t want to be on.”

I have carried an image with me these past couple of weeks, and I know it’s for a reason. I’ve been looking at a manger with so much junk in it, there’s no room for a baby. It’s an image of my cluttered heart. It’s the image of a life that is no longer leaning into the breaking dawn.

I keep hearing John, “You gotta prepare the way of the Lord, or chances are you’re working in pharao’s brick yard or in Caesar’s circus. You gotta prepare the way of the Lord, because if you don’t, you’re preparing a way you don’t want to be on.”

I’m grateful he got through to me. His words are like fire indeed, refiner’s fire. May it burn.

Advent is one of the most magical words I know. It is a word that triggers images of a wreath on a table and candles, carefully lit when the darkness outside sinks early. Advent comes with the fragrance of cinnamon and ginger, nutmeg and orange, hazelnut and pine. Advent makes me want to go home early and bake.

Advent makes we want to put thick socks on my feet and honey and cream in my tea. Advent makes me want to change all the songs on my ipod to carols from every country under heaven. All it takes is a handful of longing notes – O come, o come, Emmanuel – and the gates open and my heart is ready.

Advent triggers childhood memories  of counting the days and trying to imagine the wonder of Christmas. Advent wakes in me a longing that I know all year, that I can talk about and preach with hundreds and thousands of words, but that is always, always better sung.

“Hope,” Emily Dickinson wrote many years ago, “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.”

The words change, the tune remains the same – composed of the voices of Jeremiah and Isaiah, Moses and Hannah, Maria and Paul. Advent is magical in weaving together memory and hope, promise and fulfillment, and teaching us to sing along and to live to that tune.

During Advent, we go back in time – to cherished family traditions, to customs lovingly preserved year after year, to worn tree ornaments that each hold a story – we go back to the days when we first heard how God became little like us in order to free us. We go back in time, way back to the days when the prophets first spoke of God’s judgment and mercy, and God’s people first affirmed that all the paths of the Lord are steadfast love and faithfulness (Psalm 25:10).

Advent doesn’t begin with Mary weaving a blanket for the baby and Joseph building a cradle, nor does it begin with an angel’s visit – it begins with the promises of God and the courage of those who dare to live in their light.

During Advent we go back in time to remember the tune of God’s future for us.

The days are surely coming, says the Lord, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and house of Judah. In those days (…) I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land (Jeremiah 33:14-15).

Justice and righteousness in the land, and the meek shall inherit the earth.

Tom Wright woke up one early morning form a powerful and interesting dream. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember what it was about. He had a flash of it as he woke up, enough to make him think how extraordinary and meaningful it was, but then it was gone. Tom wonders if our dreams of justice and righteousness are like that. We have a flash of a world at one,  a world where things work out, not just for some, but for all, a world where societies function fairly and effectively, a world where we not only know what we ought to do but actually do it. And then we wake up in the world as it is, and we can’t get back into the dream.

Wright wonders where that kind of dream might come from.

"What are we hearing when we’re dreaming that dream? It’s as though we can hear, not perhaps a voice itself, but the echo of a voice: a voice speaking with calm, healing authority, speaking about justice, about things being put to rights, about peace and hope and prosperity for all (Simply Christian, p. 3)."

For some, this echo of a voice is only a fantasy, a wishful projection that has nothing to do with the way things really are. They say that this is a world of naked power and grabbing what you can get, and that we must stop dreaming and toughen up to live in it.

Others say that it is a voice from a different world, a world into which we can escape in our dreams, and hope to escape one day for good. For them, this world is run by unscrupulous bullies and that’s that; all we can do is seek some consolation in the thought that there’s another world where things are better.

But there is a third possibility, and it is the one people of faith have embraced for generations. “The reason we think we have heard a voice is because we have.” The reason we have these dreams of justice and righteousness, the reason we have a sense of a memory of the echo of a voice, is that there is someone speaking to us; someone who cares very much about this world and all who live in it; someone who has made us and the world for a purpose which will indeed involve justice, and wholeness, and life in fullness (see Simply Christian, pp. 9-10).  

Advent begins with the ancient echoes of a voice in our soul, promising to heal the wounds of creation, promising to make right what has gone wrong. Advent begins with the promises of God and the songs of past fulfillments that nourish our courage to trust.

I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and house of Judah. (…) I will cause a righteous Branch to spring up for David; and he shall execute justice and righteousness in the land (Jeremiah 33:14-15).

During Advent we go back in time, remembering the promises to Abraham, to Moses and the prophets, and how they have been fulfilled in ever new ways, generation after generation. We look back in time, remembering the birth of Jesus, the righteous Branch God caused to spring up for David; Jesus the King born in a manger; Jesus the ruler who overruled our concepts of power with his grace and obedience; Jesus the teacher who continues to stretch our imagination; Jesus the judge who was executed like a criminal, but who sits in glory at the right hand of God; Jesus who will return to execute justice and righteousness in the land – a land stretching from east of the sun to west of the moon, a land where nothing but the purposes of God rule all creation.

On this first Sunday of Advent, the first day of the church year, we hear the ancient promises renewed.
Jesus says, “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken (Luke 21:25-26).”

What is he telling us? Sun and moon and stars are symbols of cosmic order. They represent the reliable succession of day and night, of seed time and harvest, of tides and seasons. The orderliness of the lunar cycle and the earth year represent the orderliness of natural systems and human society.

In the days of Jesus and Luke, signs in the heavens weren’t just interesting astronomical phenomena, but indicators that things on earth were out of order. Signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars reflected a disintegration of social and natural order into chaos – something like creation backwards.

We may find the “sun and moon and stars” language foreign, but we are familiar with “fear and foreboding.” We don’t look to the sky for signs, but we don’t have to search the reports of scientists and journalists for very long to read about ecosystems stressed to the point of collapse or disintegrating social structures. Movies like “2012” find deep resonance in our culture because they connect with our fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world. The fact that an international climate conference is being referred to as “Hopenhagen” speaks not only of the advertising industry’s creativity, but is a sign of deep anxiety among many about the future, a sign that for many the very powers of the heavens are shaken.

Why do we hear these words in Advent?

We can’t let Christmas get completely romanticized, dwelling on the babe in the manger, forgetting that we stand this side of that event – we know who this child is. We live with our eyes focussed not solely on the rearview mirror, but on the road ahead. We begin the season of Advent with a look forward because the babe in the manger grew up to inaugurate the reign of justice and righteousness on earth. We begin with a look forward because we celebrate the birth of the redeemer of history, and we cannot celebrate Christmas properly without looking forward to God's promised future.

This season bids us not only to celebrate the Christ who has come to us, but to look to the day when he will come and bring about the redemption of the world.

Jesus isn’t talking about signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars to scare us, but to assure us that even when the powers of the heavens are shaken, we are to stand up and raise our heads – because what is drawing near is redemption. He urges us to stay alert and faithful in prayer, to be on guard so that our hearts are not weighed down with worries but lifted up with courage. When all around us people are fainting from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, we are to stand knowing who is coming.

Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near (Luke 21:27-28).

How can we stand? Not because present economic, cultural, or political trends give us reason to hope, but because God is true to God’s promises.

Because generation after generation, men and women have added their voices to the choir of witnesses singing of God’s faithfulness.

Because Jesus has given fresh power to the echo of a voice we hear in our soul every time the prophets speak.

Advent bids us to stand erect, confident and hopeful, because all time, past, present and future, is entwined with the past, present and future of Christ.

Advent is magical in weaving together our best memory and our boldest hope, and teaching us to sing along with the tune God is humming, and to live to that tune.