World Communion Sunday 2009

World Communion Sunday is celebrated by congregations around the globe. The first Sunday of October has become a time when Christians in every culture break bread and pour the cup to remember and affirm Jesus Christ as the Head of the Church. On that day, Christians everywhere remember that we are part of the whole body of believers. With this unique focus on the Table and on Christian unity, it should not surprise us, that this day is one of the "High Holidays" of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). Whether the Table brings people together in a grand cathedral, a mud hut, outside on a hilltop, in a meetinghouse, or in a storefront, or whether the Table is made of wood or stone or represented by a blanket on the ground – God’s people around the globe gather in response to Christ’s invitation to give thanks for the gifts of God.

At Vine Street this year, we will celebrate World Communion Sunday with our friends from the Congo. Nouvelle Aliance has been worshiping on Fridays and Sundays in our chapel for several months now, and our worship committee and the leadership of Nouvelle Aliance decided to have our first joint worship service on this special day. We will sing familiar tunes with words in English, French, and Lingala. We will hear Scripture read in various languages as well, and our prayers will reflect the wonderful diversity of the body of Christ. All of us, no matter what journey has brought us to the table, no matter what language or culture has shaped us, all of us will come to the table with empty hands to receive the gifts of God for a hungry world, the gifts that make us whole.

It is no coincidence that in the afternoon of that day, we will have yet another celebration. In the fall of 1809, Thomas Campbell published a brief essay, Declaration and Address, a passionate call to Christian unity. That document became one of the key texts for the Stone-Campbell Movement and its vision of the church, and to this day it inspires the ministry of Christian Churches, Churches of Christ and the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ).

In celebration of the bicentennial of Thomas Campbell’s Declaration and Address Christians, congregations with roots in that movement will come together to celebrate the Lord’s Supper on Sunday October 4, 2009. Here in Nashville, we will meet at 4PM at the West End Church of Christ; our own T.J. McLaughlin will direct a unity choir. There won’t be any preaching, only a brief statement about the historical importance of the occasion – both two-hundred years ago and today – and an invitation to what Campbell called “that great ordinance of Unity and Love.”

Won't you be my neighbor?

I didn’t meet Mr. Rogers until I was well into my thirties – the Mister Rogers that is, the one with the cardigan and the warm smile and the song, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood…”

My colleague, Rochelle Stackhouse grew up with Mr. Rogers and his kind invitation to all children,

Since we’re together we might as well say:
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?

Rochelle remembers the first time she met Mr. Rogers in person ( see Lectionary Homiletics 20, No. 5, August/September 2009, p. 61). She was standing with a group of adults and several small children waiting for an elevator at Princeton Seminary. The doors opened, and to their great surprise, out stepped Fred Rogers. In case you’re wondering, “What on earth was he doing there?” – Mr. Rogers was a Presbyterian minister, and thus not completely out of place at Princeton. Anyway, he got off the elevator, and as the adults all spoke to him, he didn’t pay them any attention and instead stooped down to greet the children standing there first. Only after he had spoken to each one of them did he stand back up and speak to the taller people.

That was Mister Rogers. A tall man, he stooped to live, at least for a moment, in the world of the little ones. And with that small effort of attention he brought them in.

Do you remember having to climb up on the kitchen stool on which you simply sat down only a few years later? Do you remember being in a room with adults and they were all standing and chatting way up there while you were trying to find your way across the room through a forest of legs?

I remember sitting at the small table with the rest of the kids at every family gathering, and we would eat and talk and laugh and fight – and I remember how proud I was when I got to sit at the grown-up table for the first time. They had put one of the firm pillows on my chair to bring me up a couple of inches, so I could reach my glass and get a better view of my dinner plate. So there I sat, and I ate and I drank and I watched and I listened. At that table, I didn’t laugh much; the adults weren’t even half as hilarious as my cousins. I also didn’t say much, because my mom had been very clear that I was only to speak when spoken to, and who talks to a little boy when there’s a table full of grown-ups? I noticed that knocking over my glass of apple juice got everybody’s attention, but I also learned that the adults didn’t think peas in a puddle were nearly as funny as I thought.

We all have memories like that, memories of a world just beyond our reach, a world we can’t wait to belong to. Getting to the grown-up table is easy, all you have to do is get older. Getting to hang out with the cool people at high-school is a lot tougher, and getting a piece of the American Dream Pie even more so: you either have to figure out who’s doing the slicing and get yourself a seat at that table, or get a hold of the pie and a knife, or learn to bake.

From a very young age, we are encouraged to be ambitious and competitive, to set goals for ourselves and pursue them, to work hard and meet the right people.

The disciples had met Jesus. They had met the one who would set all things right. He had talked about going to Jerusalem, and they were ready for the challenge. They were still in Galilee, still preparing for the great journey south to the city of David. Jesus was still teaching them, talking again about being betrayed into human hands and being killed and after three days rising again.

They did not understand what he was saying, and they were afraid to ask him. Why do you think were they afraid to ask? Was it because they didn’t want to appear too slow for the race to the top? Was it because they had to make the others believe that they had it all together?

Instead of asking questions, they were jockeying for positions of influence and status. You know that at least two of them spoke with great conviction about sitting at Jesus’ right and left when he would come in glory. And one of them had to mention several times that he had been with Jesus the longest, and another that Jesus had already entrusted him with the office of treasurer. And while one touted his revolutionary zeal, another bragged about his connections in the business community.

When they got to the house, Jesus, never afraid to ask questions, said, “What were you arguing about on the way?” And suddenly they were silent, the whole chatty, ambitious bunch; no one said a word. Do you think they were embarrassed? I don’t know; had he asked them in private, individually, he may have heard statements like, “That Theophilus thinks he is the greatest” or “Bartholomew is dreaming about a seat on the supreme court.”

Three times in the gospel of Mark, Jesus talks about being rejected and betrayed, being handed over and condemned to death, being killed and rising again after three days. Three times, not just because this is disturbing news that doesn’t sink in easily, but because the meaning of discipleship is so tied up with that particular path. To follow this Messiah on his path is to let him turn our world, the world we and the generations before us have made of God’s creation, to let him turn that world upside down.

He sits down, calls the twelve, and says, “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” In the kingdoms of the world, those at the top of the ladder lord it over those at the bottom. But in the kingdom of God, earth and heaven touch not at the top, in the clouds of power where one hand washes the other, but at the bottom where Jesus stoops to wash our feet. On this path, greatness is defined not in terms of superiority but service.

It is easy to imagine at this point a new round of arguments among the disciples, only now we try to outperform one another in lowliness, now we strive to stand out, head and shoulders above the rest, with our perfect humility. “Look at me, Jesus, I’m the humblest.” But that’s not the path.

We all start out little. We all start out needing to be noticed, needing to be held, needing to be talked to and fed. We all start out needing to be welcomed despite our lack of status, knowledge, accomplishments and any measure of greatness. We we need somebody to see us simply because we are here, and we become human only through the eyes and hands and words of others.
I wonder how much our desire for greatness has to do with that deep need to be seen, to be noticed and recognized, and finally, finally welcomed.

Jesus took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

We are arguing about who is the greatest and worthy of recognition, and Jesus puts a child among us. We didn’t notice the child, did we? We were engaged in important conversations, making sure our voice would get through, our opinion would be heard, and our contribution recognized in its importance.

Jesus stoops and picks up a little child; not necessarily a precious, cuddly little sunshine, one of those fat-cheeked cherubs politicians like to pick up anytime cameras are around. Just a child, any child, and he says to us who want to follow him, “If you want to be great, notice the little ones and bring them in.” To be great is not to make yourself as big as possible just to be seen, but to shift your attention and notice the little ones. Welcome the one who has little or no status, who is not great by any measure, the one who is beyond the circle, who needs a welcome.

“Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.”

Welcome is woven through this teaching unlike any other verse of scripture. Welcome, welcome, welcome, welcome, as steady as the holy, holy, holy sung in heaven. Welcoming the little ones, those who are so easily overlooked at the tables where the grown-up conversations take place, we welcome Christ himself, and welcoming him, we welcome the One who sent him.

Much of our theological tradition has taught us to wonder, “What must I do, who do I have to be in order to be worthy to be received and welcomed by the holy God?” In Jesus’ teaching the perspective is turned around, and our attention is turned away from ourselves and our anxious obsession with our status. The challenge for a disciple of Jesus is not to be seen, but to see.

The little ones, those made invisible by our arrangements of power and importance, our patterns of inclusion and exclusion, are truly the embodiment of the invisible God who comes to us. Welcoming one such child, says Jesus, we welcome the Holy One whose powerful word created the heavens and the earth.

Since we’re together we might as well say:
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won’t you be my neighbor?

Those are lines worth remembering and repeating.

Audio of this post

homelessness : 360

why 360?

At Vine Street, we want to integrate what we do in education, advocacy, service, and worship; 360 is the sum of all angles, and a circle is a beautiful thing (especially when no one’s left out).

why homelessness?

Lack of housing makes all other problems worse; poverty is a systemic issue (and a challenge to any spirituality), and housing is a good point of entry into the complexities of loving and serving the poor among our neighbors. In the future, we will use the 360 concept to address other issues like hunger or immigration as well as our local and global neighborhood.

how?

On October 20, Campus for Human Development commission their new volunteers in a worship service at Vine Street.

In the weeks to follow we address issues of homelessness through education events for adults, youth, and children – including tours, books, videos, and conversations.

Members of every Vine Street household engage in two weeks of prayer: every human being needs a home. Families and individuals have a little paper house – like a coin bank – to collect and offer some of their prayers in writing.

On November 8, Erik Cole gives the 2009 Roger T. Nooe Lecture on World Peace with a focus on homelessness in Nashville. Erik grew up at Vine Street, and he is known in the community for his work on the Metro Council, and specifically for his strong leadership on the Metro Homelessness Commission.

On November 15, individuals and families bring their “houses of prayer” to God’s house of prayer. The worship service celebrates God’s hospitality and challenges us to renewed commitment to participate in God’s mission of bringing all people home; part of that recommitment are our time&talent surveys. Our annual Thanksgiving luncheon adds to the festive character of the day; that night, Vine Street begins a week of hosting Room in the Inn.

Throughout the process, participants write about their experience at vinestreet.ning.com

Worship Forum 3

One wild and precious life

Mark 8:27-38 provides the context for this post

All the school supplies have been purchased and the first ball games of the new season have been lost and won. You have moved your beach bum and pool clothes to a different corner of the closet, perhaps to a different closet altogether. The garden, after weeks of lush fecundity, is dreaming of cold sabbath days of rest. And on the Osage Orange tree the leaves are already turning and falling. Summer is on its way out and fall is in the air.

I invite you to linger a little, to hold on to one of those summer moments when you could hear the crickets chirping, and the whole world smelled like grass and, by some wondrous magic, time stood still.

I want to read for you The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver. I connect with this poem because I too have sat in the grass, lost in wonder, watching some little detail of creation. I too have strolled through the fields, idle and blessed all day long, simply allowing views, smells, sounds, and questions to rise.

In Mary Oliver’s poem, the questions change from childlike curiosity and wonder, “Who made the world?“ to very grown-up responsibility,

Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Questions about life float easily into each other. Tell me, what will it profit you to gain the whole world and forfeit your one wild and precious life? Jesus teaches that the way to find life and save it is to give it away, to lose it for something. And nothing is more terrifying than the suspicion that you have given away your life, perhaps only one day of it, for too little or for the wrong currency.

I heard an interview with a New York stock broker on the radio last week. When the big brokerage houses went down fast last fall, he thought his job with a smaller firm was safe. He had a position on the trading floor, he had a function and he fulfilled it. And he fulfilled it with pride, because Frank – let’s call him Frank – was a certified member of the New York Stock Exchange like his father and grandfather before him, and they both had worked well beyond their 80th birthdays. Frank was looking forward to a few more good years before retirement.

In November he got the phone call, and the news hit him like a truck out of nowhere; somebody said something about streamlining and necessary adjustments to the overall cost structure. Frank hung up the phone and got on the subway back to New Jersey.

Frank is 52 years old, and his chances of ever working in the financial sector again are slim. He still gets up early in the morning, but instead of catching the subway to Wall Street at 6:30 AM, he now makes breakfast for his wife and youngest son. He’s noticed that the number of dads dropping off their kids at school in the morning has been going up, and at the end of the summer he went to his first parent-teacher-night in years. Frank lost a dream when he lost his job, but now he knows that in the pursuit of his dream he had given away his life for too little, and he is grateful that he noticed that before it was too late. Mercy comes in surprising ways.

In today’s Gospel lesson, the question, “What will it profit you to gain the whole world and forfeit your life?” is raised rather late. The first question of the dialogue is an easy one, the answer a simple matter of completing an informal poll and reporting the results.

“Who do people say that I am?” Jesus asks.

The disciples answer, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets. They look to you as a teacher and healer and a spiritual master.” It’s easy to talk about Jesus.

The second question is anything but easy.

“Who do you say that I am?”

They had been with him since the first days on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. They had followed him from town to town, village to village, farm to farm, and wherever he went, they had seen signs of God’s reign: he healed the sick, he drove out demons, and he gave bread to thousands. They had seen hope springing up among the poor; they had heard powerful words of forgiveness, and teachings that left the religious experts speechless.

“Who do you say that I am?”

Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” You are the Christ, you are God’s Anointed One, you are the One sent to save God’s people Israel. That’s a powerful response, but it is not as simple as it may seem.

The journey will go to Jerusalem, the City of David. They look down the path, and images of greatness rise in their minds: God’s Messiah waging war against the forces of evil and cleansing the land from all impurity; God’s Messiah driving out the foreign oppressors and establishing peace in Zion; God’s Messiah entering the city in glory and claiming his crown and throne and kingdom.

They look down the path and see it all very clearly: the words of the prophets – finally fulfilled; the glory of Zion – finally restored; the reign of God – finally established.

But Jesus doesn’t call for his horse and armor. He is not the answer to our questions. Jesus looks down the path and what he sees is very different from our expectations:

The Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again.

His suffering, his rejection and death are not unfortunate accidents, the regrettable but preventable results of particular political circumstances. Jesus must undergo great suffering and be killed because in faithfulness to God’s way he rejects our self-seeking, self-serving, power-building, and control-maintaining ways.

To say to Jesus, “You are the Messiah”is to let him break the mold of our expectations and follow him on the way. To say to Jesus, “You are the Christ”is to believe that the way to enter the reign of God is laid out not in our imagination, but in his way to the cross.

Peter took him aside and rebuked him. The glamour of following Jesus to the City of David was suddenly gone for him; he had a different map in mind, a different path and outcome. This wasn’t what he had planned to do with his one wild and precious life, so he quit following and became a voice of temptation until Jesus called him again.

At the center of Mark’s Gospel, the question is, Do we follow whom we need Jesus to be for us or Will we follow Jesus on his way?

Midway between Galilee and Jerusalem, Jesus calls us again to follow him, only this time we know what lies ahead:

If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.

He calls us to let ourselves be marked as Christ’s own and to follow him on the way where life is not measured in what we gain and pile up and secure, but in how we give ourselves away. We cannot possess this one wild and precious life, we can only live it in love with God and with each other. All our attempts to secure life by gaining control over the world and over others will only exhaust our souls in the effort; we will lose what we meant to save. He calls us to follow him on the way where we no longer try and save ourselves with all our formidable means of power, but let him be our Savior. He frees us from the incessant tyranny of doing more and walks us to a life of losing our petty obsessions and mistaken priorities for the love of God and neighbor.

Summer is almost over and our schedules are filling up fast. New routines quickly become old ones, and you already know that soon you will forget that summer day when you remembered,

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?

This question is a good one when it asks for more ways to live fully in relationship with God, and with loved ones, friends, neighbors, and strangers, and with this beautiful earth. This same question is a sad one when it is asked too late and with regret, because so many summer days, fall, winter, and spring days have come and gone with too little wonder, too little attention, and too little love.

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

For us the answer has everything to do with how we respond to Jesus’ question, Who do you say that I am?

Audio of this post

Worship Forum 2

A Tale of Two Houses

Jesus went away, far away from home; he went north to the region of Tyre, a city on the Mediterranean in what’s today southern Lebanon. Going there, he crossed the border in more than one sense, leaving behind the familiar Jewish and rural culture of Galilee for a port city infamous for its pagan ways. He went from where almost everybody was “one of us” to where almost everybody was “one of them” – Greek-speaking people who worshiped strange gods, ate strange foods, wore strange clothes, and observed strange customs.

This wasn’t the first time Jesus went away to be alone, but it was the first time he went so far. “He entered a house and did not want anyone to know he was there,” Mark writes, “yet he could not escape notice.” Word about him had travelled faster than he did, and a Gentile from the area, a mother whose little daughter had an unclean spirit immediately had heard about him. All by herself, she entered the house and bowed down at his feet, begging him to cast the demon out of her child.

It wasn’t proper for a woman to enter a house in order to approach a man who didn’t belong to her family for help. It was unthinkable for a Gentile woman to approach a Jewish man for help for a little girl, let alone a girl possessed by a demon.

She did it anyway. So much was wrong with that little scene, but she ignored every rule to get close to Jesus and beg for her child’s well-being. We may continue to wonder why Jesus crossed the border, but we know in our bones why she did. The walls of custom, language, gender, religion and ethnicity were high between her and the man from Nazareth, insurmountable, some might say, but her love for her child gave her wings. She left the house where her child lay bound by a demon, and she went to the house where Jesus was, a house built with walls of otherness and difference, but also one in which the promise of healing was hiding. She got through to Jesus, bowed down at his feet in a posture of complete surrender, and begged him to free her daughter.

It would be so easy to imagine how he took her by the hand and told her to get up and go home, saying that the demon had left her daughter and that all was well. But he didn’t. Instead he said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

If you were to write the script for a Jesus movie, that’s a scene you’d likely want to skip, unless you want to portray Jesus as a ranting radio talkshow host. This line about children and dogs just doesn’t sound like the kind of Jesus you’d want to introduce, does it? It’s like he’s sitting in this little house of exclusive concern for his own people, telling the rest of the world that we’ll just have to live with our demons. The kingdom of God has come near, but nearer to some than to others. “Let the children be fed first,” he said to her, telling her in no uncertain terms that at the table where the bread of life was broken and shared her little girl didn’t qualify as a child.

Galilean peasants were not fond of city folk like this woman. Small farms produced most of the food for the urban populations, but the latter controlled the markets. People in the cities bought up and stored so much of the harvest for themselves each season that the country folk did not have enough, especially in times when supplies went down and prices went up. In the ears of poor Galilean farmers, Jesus told this rich lady to get in line and wait her turn. In God’s reign, the last would be first, and those rich, sophisticated, urban Gentiles who always managed to be first, those dogs would be last.

The little scene is explosive because this encounter in the border region brings to light powerful prejudices that have a real basis in the social, economic, and political relationships between two neighboring peoples. When Jesus refers to the woman and her daughter as dogs, he does not evoke an endearing image of happy puppies who sleep in their owners bed and eat better than half the world’s children; he insults her and her child with a familiar pejorative.

In Jesus’ time and culture, dogs were semi-wild animals that roamed the streets scavenging for food; they were not allowed inside the house. Jesus told the woman that the door was closed for her and her child. The time would come when those outside of the covenant would be welcome inside, but not yet, not now, not her. “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

But this unnamed mother was already in the house. If you want to call her a dog, call her a bulldog, for she won’t let go.

“In my house, Sir,” she says, “even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”

She takes the insult and reflects it back, and now the picture looks very different. In my house, she tells him, dogs don’t wait until the children are finished; dogs and children both eat at the same time. The dogs position themselves strategically around and under the table, their eyes focussed with undivided attention, their tails wagging in joyful expectation of a bit of bread dropped either by accident or by a child’s secret design.

In my house, she tells him, the children eat their fill and the dogs still get to feast on the crumbs. You can send me away, but not until you have tossed me a crumb-sized blessing. I’m not asking for a seat at the table; even a morsel of mercy will suffice to free my daughter from the chains of the demon that is holding her captive. There is no reason why the reign of God should be enclosed by the walls of this house; break the bread, feed the children, and let the dogs have a feast.

Jesus said to her, “For saying that, you may go—the demon has left your daughter.”

Seven short verses that can make your head spin. Did this woman, with her dogged persistence and her quick wit, driven by her love for her child, did she remind Jesus of the wideness of God’s mercy? Did she convince him that the time to open up the covenant was not sometime but now?

She left the house where he had hoped to remain invisible, and she left it with a blessing she had wrestled from him – or rather with a promise: “You may go, the demon has left your daughter.”

She still had to go from the house of promise to the house where her child was now free. She wouldn’t know with certainty that God’s reign was indeed open to all until she had returned. All she could do was to take Jesus at his word and leave for the long journey home. She had begged with desperate intensity, she had argued with wit and unbending resolve, but now she had to walk with trust. And she did; she stepped across the threshold and went home – with a morsel of a promise that meant more than the world to her.

In this scene of only seven verses, an unnamed Gentile mother dwells at the margins; she bumps up against walls of custom, language, gender, religion and ethnicity, walls that have the power to hide Jesus and the promise of God’s reign, walls that can exclude people from the abundance of God’s mercy.

In this scene she dwells at the margins, but in the gospel of Jesus Christ, this unnamed Gentile mother dwells at the center together with others who show us the meaning and power of faith. The word faith is never mentioned, but her actions embody it beautifully: her dogged determination fuelled by her love, her courage and perseverance in wrestling with the very Son of God, and her trust in the promise that the reign of God was indeed open for all.

She went home, found the child lying on the bed, and the demon gone. And more than one demon was gone. The equally threatening demon of prejudice, and of relationships destroyed by injustice, had been driven out as well. The miracle of Jesus’ power and a woman’s faith consisted not only in healing a child far away; the miracle also became manifest in the bridging of the divisive distance between nations and cultures, in the overcoming of the realities that separate us by the reality that brings us together. We sing a song about that miracle:

As Christ breaks bread and bids us share,
Each proud division ends.
The love that made us, makes us one,
And strangers now are friends.

The miracle continues wherever the power of God in Jesus Christ and the tenacity of our faith come together. The house of prejudice becomes the house of promise, and the house of bondage becomes the house of laughter. May God bless us with faith that won’t let go.

Audio of this post

Outside In and Inside Out

Wherever Jesus went during his ministry in Galilee, people gathered. Wherever he went, into villages or cities or farms, they brought the sick and begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed (see Mark 6:56). People wanted to get close to him because his presence was healing.

Others gathered, because Jesus’ presence was confusing, even disturbing. The Pharisees and some of the scribes from Jerusalem closely watched him, kept an eye on his followers and what they did, and what they saw didn’t mesh with their high expectations for proper piety:

• Tax collectors and sinners sat at table with him and his disciples.
• The disciples of John the Baptist and the disciples of the Pharisees fasted regularly, but his didn’t.
• On the sabbath, they plucked heads of grain while walking through the fields, and their master even cured a man with a withered hand in the synagogue on that holy day.

It was all a bit too much for the Pharisees. The Pharisees were a reform movement within Judaism with a passion for sanctifying every dimension of daily life. When God said to Moses, “You shall be for me a priestly kingdom and a holy nation” (Exodua 19:6), they heard a call to holy living modelled on priestly standards. God wanted Israel to be a priestly kingdom, and for the Pharisees that meant that the laws written for the priesthood and the Temple applied to all people and every aspect of daily home life.

To them every meal was a sacred ritual, every action an occasion for blessing the Lord. They opened their eyes in the morning praising God for the gift of light; they went about their daily work praising God for the gifts of their skills and strength; they opened a scroll of scripture blessing God for the gift of Torah; they broke bread giving thanks to God for the gifts of the earth and of human labor; they tucked in their sons and daughters at night praising God for the gift of children – a beautiful practice.

Yet Pharisees also stayed away from all things and all people that might have rendered them unclean. They did not eat with known sinners. They avoided interacting with strangers. And around the sick, they were careful not to touch or be touched.

Wherever Jesus went, people gathered.

Now when the Pharisees and some of the scribes who had come from Jerusalem gathered around him, they noticed that some of his disciples were eating with defiled hands, that is, without washing them (Mark 7:1-2).

Their concern was not personal hygiene, but piety and ritual purity. Ritual washing would remove any accidental impurity they might have acquired unknowingly while interacting with all kinds of people. A simple act like pouring a little water over one’s hands before a meal, recommended by wise teachers of the past, helped maintain the boundary between holiness and the common world.

Some of Jesus’ disciples did not observe that tradition, others apparently did; so the clash wasn’t just between Jesus and the Pharisees, but perhaps also between groups of Jesus’ own followers. In Mark’s account, however, perhaps for the sake of clarity, the lines are clearly drawn. He even adds an editorial comment saying, “all the Jews do not eat unless they wash their hands,” which is incorrect historically, but makes for great drama.

“Why do your disciples not live according to the tradition of the elders?” the Pharisees and the scribes from Jerusalem ask. Jesus calls them hypocrites who honor God outwardly, but whose hearts are far from God. He accuses them of teaching human precepts as doctrines while abandoning the commandment of God and holding on to human tradition.

If anyone asked you and me whether we will live by God’s word and commandment or by human tradition, we would obviously choose God’s word. But then it wouldn’t take us long to realize that God’s word is available to us only through human mediation, be it written or spoken or embodied. The word and command of God is not a voice from heaven or a book that fell from the sky, but a voice that speaks to us in the voice of Moses and the prophets, in the life of Jesus, in his death and resurrection, in the teachings of the apostles and the stories of the gospels. Before we can understand and obey, we must interpret the written and spoken words – and our interpretations will always differ.

The Pharisees heard the commandment of God, “You shall be holy to me; for I the Lord am holy, and I have separated you from the other peoples to be mine” (Leviticus 20:26). Who can blame them for wanting to maintain that separation in every dimension of daily life? Who can blame them for striving for holiness in all things? Who can blame them for sometimes losing sight of God’s mercy in their persistent attention on the line between the sacred and the profane and on not allowing it to get blurry?

In the conflict of interpretations, of course we identify our own traditions with the word of God and denigrate the viewpoints of our opponents as merely human tradition. Things will only get better when we learn to listen together to the many streams of our tradition. Things will only get better when we have men and women who teach us not only to understand and obey the word of God in our own tradition, but also to look at our own certainties from the perspective of those who question them.

The Pharisees gathered around Jesus when he ate with sinners; they saw that he crossed a line; what they didn’t see was that he crossed it to bring reconciliation.

The Pharisees gathered around Jesus when he cured a man on the sabbath; they saw that he crossed a line; what they didn’t see was that he crossed it to include the man in the peace and promise of sabbath by healing him.

The Pharisees gathered around Jesus when five-thousand had been fed with bread and fish and the baskets were overflowing – and all they could see was that some disciples hadn’t washed their hands.

Their passion was deep, their knowledge broad, but they could only see what their tradition allowed them to see. Like them, we will only see what our tradition allows us to see – unless we at least consider that sometimes the living word of God will say and do something unheard of.

“Listen to me,” says Jesus, “all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile. For it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come.”

I want to scribble in the margins, “Not so fast. There is plenty outside a person that by going in can defile. We are not born with our prejudices. We are not immune to the subtle messages that tell us that we are unworthy of love.” Like I said, if I had an inch or two of white margins in my Bible, I would have started listing the many ways in which words, ideas, attitudes, and reactions can defile a person’s innate sacredness and even snuff the light of hope in their heart.

But Jesus is speaking in the context of a tense debate over boundaries and how to maintain holiness, and he flips the Pharisees’ view on its head.

Their focus on ritual purity leads to a desire for islands of holiness in the threatening sea of unholy chaos that is the world. In their view, the danger comes from outside, from others, from those whose only place in the sacred order of things is that of outsiders.

And Jesus says, “Evil things come from within. Evil intentions come from the human heart.” He draws my attention away from me as the possible victim of exposure to unholy and polluting influences. And he draws my attention back to me as the possible source of the very things that I’m afraid might touch me.

As long as I expect the threat to holy living only to come from outside, I’m more likely to develop patterns of avoidance, critical observation, and accusation of others. But as soon as I begin to look honestly at myself, I will learn patterns of self-knowledge, repentance, and humility. And the better I know my own heart, the deeper my compassion for others will be.

The God we serve is holy and calls us to be holy. The God we serve is in our midst not to erect new boundaries but to gather us into relationships and draw us into the holiness of Christ. And in his presence we realize that, yes, sin is strong, but forgiveness prevails. The world is not what it could and should be, but Christ is risen from the dead and a new world has begun. Our calling in that new world is to find windows in the walls, to reach across barriers of language and culture, and to push aside barricades of prejudice and fear.

Jesus was not afraid to touch the sick, the poor, the crazed, he wasn’t afraid to brush against those fallen from the public’s grace, he touched and healed and held and fed, and wherever he went, the people gathered. Because of him we know that God’s holiness is not the static quality of a distant deity, but a movement to the world, a loving fearlessness that leaps over walls to get to every single one of us, until all are one.

You know better than I where you can participate in that movement. You know better than I who might be waiting for a phone call from you. You know better than I where you can reach across the fences that still divide our community into insiders and outsiders.

• In the law of Moses, God commands God’s people, “Be holy, for I am holy” (Leviticus 11:45).
• In the gospel of Luke, Jesus commands, “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful” (Luke 6:36).
• In the gospel of Matthew, Jesus commands, “Be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect”(Matthew 5:48).

Once we begin to see that God’s holiness is God’s merciful movement to the world, all three speak of the same reality: God transforms our hearts that our lives may be sanctified by our daily participation in God’s mission, finding windows in the walls, reaching across barriers, and taking down barricades.

God Moments

There’s a brand-new feature on vinestreet.ning.com; it’s a microblog called God Moments.

It works very much like a community bulletin board. Members write brief paragraphs to share those unexpected moments in the course of a day when God becomes more real than anything or everything else around. They write about beautiful encounters that inspired them, or situations that shocked them into noticing the previously ignored. God Moments is about all kinds of daily encounters with the Divine.

Vine Street members and friends are familiar with a beautiful night ritual to lift up a day of work, play, and fellowship: one person asks, “Where did you see God today?”, and some or all members of the group respond by sharing their stories.

The microblog God Moments is very similar. The one thing that’s different is that the focus isn’t so much on seeing, but on being found. The opening question is, “How did God find you today?”

The God moments members share will appear at vinestreet.ning.com, Vine Street’s social network for members, as well as at Vine Street’s new website (will go live in early September). There, they will give online visitors an opportunity to see faces and hear voices that introduce them to the people of Vine Street (and not just to the staff and/or webmaster).

Give Me Jesus (Flesh and Blood)

One day, tired out by his journey, Jesus was sitting by a well around noon. When a woman came to draw water, he asked her for a drink. She thought that was strange, since he was a Jew and she was a Samaritan, and Jews didn’t share things in common with Samaritans.

He said to her, “If you knew who it is that asked you for a drink, you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.”

The woman pointed out that the well was deep and that he didn’t have a bucket. “Where do you get that living water?”

And he said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again, but those who drink of the water that I will give them will never be thirsty. The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up to eternal life.”

What else could she have said in reply but, “Sir, give me this water, so that I may never be thirsty”? -- John 4:5-15

We drink to replenish our bodies with water, lest we faint and shrivel up like raisins and die. We drink, and we get thirsty again. We eat, and we get hungry again. The fullness doesn’t last.

One day, Jesus was sitting by the lakeshore. When he looked up and saw the large crowd gathered around him, he gave thanks for a little boy’s lunch, broke the loaves and distributed them to all. They ate as much as they wanted, all five-thousand of them, and the left-over pieces of bread filled twelve baskets.

No wonder they came back the next day, looking for him, and he said to them, “Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life. The bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.”

What else could they have said in reply but, “Sir, give us this bread always”? --John 6:1-34

We eat in order to grow and to fuel our bodies for work and play, lest we faint and die. We eat, and we get hungry again. We drink, and we get thirsty again. Hunger and thirst are familiar rhythms of our life like waking and sleeping, work and rest, going out and coming in, breathing in and breathing out. The fullness doesn’t last.

When Martin Luther wrote his Small Catechism, he wanted to give children and their parents a resource to study the basics of the faith. In the chapter on the Lord’s Prayer, reflecting on the line, Give us this day our daily bread, he asks, "What, then, is meant by daily bread?”

And the answer follows,

Daily bread includes everything that we need for our bodily welfare, such as food and drink, clothing and shoes, house and home, land and cattle, money and goods, a godly spouse, godly children, godly workers, godly and faithful leaders, good government, good weather, peace and order, health, a good name, good friends, faithful neighbors, and the like.

Our prayer for bread is indeed our prayer for everything that we need for our bodily welfare. We say bread, because we don’t know a more beautiful word for the dailiness of our needs, the fragile nature of our lives, and our dependence on God, the earth, and one another.

Jesus offers us bread that stills our hunger not just for a while, but for good. He offers us water that quenches our thirst not just for a while, but for good. Some of you hear this, and you can’t help but think about one of those late-night infomercials where a salesman praises the benefits of this or that product that will change your life not just for a while, but for good: the pill that will make you both smart and sexy; the crème that will take twenty years of wrinkles off your face; the tonic that will give you your hair back and bring about world peace.

We’re on our guard because we think that somebody’s always trying to sell us something. Jesus isn’t selling anything.

Living water and living bread – this is no two-for-one with a free crystal cross thrown in for good measure, a $69 value for only $9.95 plus shipping and handling. No, Jesus isn’t selling anything. The world sells, but Jesus gives.

The merchants and the marketeers know every dimension of our hunger and our thirst, in ever more sophisticated consumer profiles and with offers tailored to our credit ratings, but the fulfillment never lasts. We drink, and we get thirsty again, and we drink more. We eat, and we get hungry again, and we eat more. We labor for that which does not satisfy, and spend our money for that which is not bread (Isaiah 55:2). And when the bubble bursts, we act surprised.

Jesus isn’t selling anything, he gives – living water, living bread. He gives what only God can give – life, and he gives it abundantly.

When the crowd came to him, he said to them, “You are looking for me, not because you know who I am, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.” In the presence of Jesus, bread was miraculously abundant. He gave them bread to eat, because he never taught people with empty stomachs that man and woman don’t live by bread alone. He gave them bread to eat until even the hungriest among the twelve-year olds said, ‘I’m kinda full’ – and he waited until the next day to teach them that fullness of life is not the same as a full stomach.

What do you eat when the desire behind your hunger is a gnawing hunger for life itself? What do you drink when the desire beneath your thirst is a craving for fullness that will last? We eat our daily bread knowing that we cannot live without it – and sometimes sensing that we cannot live by it alone.

To know and live life in fullness, we need the Word of God, and we need that Word in the flesh – visible, tangible, vulnerable, audible, and edible. We need the bread of life. We need the bread that comes down from heaven for the life of the world. We need the living bread: whoever eats of it will live forever. Fullness that will last.

Jesus points us away from the bakery and the vineyard, from the fields and the stores and the malls and the banks and the credit card bills and yes, from all labor and every broken promise, and he points to himself: I am the bread of life. I give what the world cannot give. I give you what no one on earth can grow or make or sell or buy. I myself am the food that gives life, not the loaves miraculously multiplied.

And the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.

Suddenly he’s done talking about bread and water, and now he talks about flesh and blood. We can handle talk of flesh and blood; we sometimes speak of our children as our flesh and blood. Jesus is done talking about bread and water, but he continues to talk about eating and drinking:

Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.

We’re not sure what to make of the associations this sets off in our imagination – surely, he doesn’t mean…?

Eating, drinking, and breathing refer to the most basic level of our being, the most fundamental necessities of food, water, and air. Jesus invites us, urges us to relate to him, and through him to God, at that most basic level of our need: Eat me. Drink me. Breathe me. Sleep in my arms. I want you to know me with your intellect and will, but also with your skin and bones. I want you to know me completely, the Word of God in flesh and blood. I want to be your first thought at dawn and your last thought before you go to sleep. And I want to be your daily bread, the light in your eyes, and the fire in your belly. Let me be your life, for I am the life of the world.

The fullness you seek is not more of what you have or what you work for; fullness is what I give – and I give myself. Eat me. Drink me. Know me completely, the Word of God in flesh and blood.

And what do you say in response to this offer of life-giving, life-restoring, life-fulfilling relationship? What can you say?

Give me Jesus; this one is all I need.
When I wake up in the morning – give me Jesus.
When I close my eyes at the end of the day – give me Jesus.
When I am alone – give me Jesus.
When my heart aches and I have no more tears left – give me Jesus.
When evildoers assail me to devour my flesh – give me Jesus.
When I listen to the news and and I can feel my soul drain through the bottom of my feet – give me Jesus.
When my courage shrinks in the freezing grip of fear – give me Jesus.
When I no longer know what a human being looks like for all the wolves in my life – give me Jesus.
When the face of God is nothing to me but a faded photograph from my childhood – give me Jesus.

Give me Jesus; this one is all I need. Good as bread. One loaf for the life of the world. The Word of God in flesh and blood.

Audio of this post

Vine Street Worship Forum I

mission explorers

We are in the planning stages of a new project. With Tallu being in Nicaragua for a year, working in several community development programs (thanks to Church World Service and Week of Compassion), we want to explore possibilities of an ongoing relationship between Vine Street and Tallu's partners in Nicaragua.

After Christmas, we will send a group of approximately seven women and men (youth and adult) to meet some of the people Tallu has been working with, to listen, look, and learn.

I can't tell you how excited I am about this project and its promise.

Ponyo

Life in Fullness

John 6:1-21

This is kingdom math: A crowd of five thousand, a boy’s lunch, and all ate as much as they wanted until they were satisfied. Then the disciples went around picking up the left over pieces, and they filled twelve baskets. No wonder this was a favorite story among the first Christians; Jesus feeding the five thousand is the one miracle that found its way into each of the four gospels.

Five plus two, divided by 5000 equals fullness for all and baskets of leftovers. This is kingdom math. What’s missing in this simple equation, though, is the most crucial element; whether our focus is on the overwhelming number of people or on the meager resources the disciples were able to identify, the story draws your eyes to the hands of Jesus: Jesus took the loaves, he offered thanks, and he distributed the food.

The first Christians loved this story because it pointed to the meal they celebrated every time they gathered on the Lord’s day. The same abundant grace that welcomed and fed the multitude by the sea, they remembered and encountered at the table.

We love this story because it shows us how grace flows freely from the source of life, the heart of God, the hands of Jesus, into our hands, our hearts, our lives. This is kingdom math: grace flows freely, and those who receive it discover life in fullness.

The first Christians also loved this story because it points back to the great story of the Exodus; it points to God’s mighty act of liberation when God’s people left the house of slavery and journeyed to the land of fullness, a land flowing with milk and honey.

We get a little hint right at the beginning, "Now the Passover, the festival of the Jews, was near."

Very near indeed, and not just on the calendar, but in the events about to unfold. Passover was near in the person of Jesus. Liberation and the promise of fullness were present in the person of Jesus.

When he saw a large crowd coming toward him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?”

We get another hint: he said this to test him. Philip didn’t know it was a test, and so he quickly did the math he knew, “Six months’ wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.”

But it wasn’t a math test, nor was it an employment test for the position of Director of Procurement and Purchasing. The test is for us: are we who are following Jesus on the way, both in the course of the story and in our lives as witnesses, are we beginning to see who he is?

Jesus’ question sounds very similar to one raised by Moses in the wilderness, when the Israelites were tired and hungry, and began to remember the house of slavery as a land of fleshpots.
“If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish we used to eat in Egypt for nothing, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic.”

And Moses turned to God and said, “Where am I to get meat to give to all this people? (…)Are there enough fish in the sea to catch for them(Numbers 11:4-5, 13, 22)?”

Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” and Andrew pointed out that two fish were barely worth mentioning.

With Moses and Israel in the wilderness, the question was, ‘Are the promises of the Lord trustworthy?’

With Jesus and the disciples and the crowd by the sea, the question is, ‘Are we beginning to see who Jesus is?’

Jesus was about to do another sign. “Make the people sit down,” he said.

Then he took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted.

Grace flowed, food abounded until all were satisfied. None were asked if they were Gentile, Jew, or Samaritan. Male and female, young and old, rich and poor, wise and foolish – all ate until they were full. The fragments left over filled twelve baskets – enough for every tribe in the nation; enough for every month of the year, or perhaps simply enough. Whether it is wine at a wedding or bread at a picnic by the sea, there is enough for all to be filled until they want no more. This is more than kingdom math; this is life in fullness.

“Who do people say that I am?” The question doesn’t get asked here, but it is the one lingering in the background; and the people themselves give the answer.

When the people saw the sign that he had done, they began to say, “This is indeed the prophet who is to come into the world.”

They had tasted life in abundance, and they began to draw their conclusions. Within the framework of their experience and knowledge, they tried to identify the place where Jesus would fit in, and called him the prophet. And when Jesus realized that they were about to come and take him to make him king, he withdrew.

Why did he withdraw? Why didn’t he let them crown him? He healed people, so obviously he knew how to make healthcare affordable and accessible. He fed people, so obviously he knew a thing or two about the economy. He taught people, so obviously he had a passion for education. His character was flawless; not even a hint of corruption. Some people may have questioned his positions on gun control or divorce – but still, wasn’t he the best man for the job? Why did he withdraw? Why did he withdraw at the precise moment when he was about to be confirmed as king by public acclamation?

You may have read the question somewhere on a church marquee, “If God seems far away, who moved?” The question implies that if God seems distant, God isn’t necessarily the one responsible. In this story, however, it is clearly Jesus who moved away, and the people who were left wondering where he went. Jesus withdrew to the mountain by himself.

Withdrawing Jesus showed that he would give what he had to give without claiming worldly power; that he would bring fullness of life only on his own terms, not by being pressed into the crowd’s mold of expectations. The miracle of bread and fish provided them with a glimpse of who he was, and they immediately tried to take his grace and twist it to conform to their purposes and the existing systems of power.

We get a glimpse of Jesus, and we immediately want him to be who we need him to be; but he only gives himself as who he is. As soon as we cast him into the mold of our expectations for a make-over in the image of our desires, he withdraws.

Grace is utterly free, and the path of our knowledge of God is littered with disappointed expectations and broken idols. Jesus is indeed prophet and king, teacher and healer, but he redefines all these terms in the mold of his life and mission. To follow him is to trust him enough to let him dismantle our illusions of fullness; and in their place we receive the fullness of grace and truth he embodies and reveals.

When evening came, his disciples went down to the sea, got into a boat, and started across the sea toward Capernaum. It was now dark, and Jesus had not yet come to them.

There is the darkness of night fall when the sun slowly sinks behind the horizon, and there is the darkness that spreads when Jesus withdraws. This darkness is the frightening reality of his absence, and at the same time it is the darkness in which the light shines.

The sea is rough, the winds are strong, and the disciples are alone in the boat. Then they see him, walking on the sea as on solid ground, and they are terrified.

Listen to these lines from Psalm 77.

When the waters saw you, O God,
when the waters saw you,
they were afraid; the very deep trembled.
Your way was through the sea,
your path, through the mighty waters;
yet your footprints were unseen.
You led your people like a flock
by the hand of Moses and Aaron.

Passover was near indeed. The One who made a path through the mighty waters of the sea so Israel would be free to live as God’s people, was near in Jesus. The One who said to Moses by the burning bush, “I am who I am,” was near, saying, “I am I, do not be afraid.” They saw who he was; they saw the glory of God in Jesus.

Then they wanted to take him into the boat, and immediately the boat reached the land toward which they were going.

John loves to play with multiple layers of meaning; his passion isn’t so much for kingdom math as it is for kingdom poetry.

On one level, the land toward which the they were going was of course Capernaum, the town on the other side of the lake, just another stop on the way.

On another level, though, the land toward which they were going was the land of God’s promise, the land of life in fullness.

The moment they saw Jesus – the moment they saw who he was and is and always will be – they arrived. May God bless us that we too may see as they have seen.

Audio file of this post

Come Away

Summertime, and the living is easy…

The smell of the season is a blend of peaches, tomatoes, and watermelon, hot dogs and fresh corn on the grill, and just a hint of sunscreen lotion wafting through the air. The sound of summer is a mix of children laughing by the pool, the faint thunder of a distant storm, and the raucous choir of crickets and treefrogs at night. The dress code is simple: barefoot, shorts and t-shirt; shaving is optional.

David Johnson, our camp manager at Bethany Hills, saw me after Nancy, Miles and I had spent a great week on the beach in Alabama, and he captured the experience perfectly in a little drawing: a preacher on the beach, with a sign next to his chair, “no shirt, no shoes, no service.”

Summertime – and blessed are those who can sit in the sun and watch the waves rolling up on the beach. You get up when you feel like getting up, and you go to bed when you’re tired. It’s a different rhythm, a different beat, and most would agree a better one than the relentless ticking of the clock driving you from one task or appointment to another.

“Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves,” says Jesus, “and rest a while.” What a sweet commandment, and what a pleasure to keep it.

I love getting up early in the morning to make my coffee and sit on the back porch. Sometimes I take a book and read, sometimes I just sit and listen to the world waking up. Early morning is really the only time of day other than the night hours to enjoy the quiet and safely avoid the curse of the suburbs: anytime you sit outside or settle into the comfort of your hammock under a tree, at least one of the neighbors decides to mow their yard. Yet another great benefit of going to the beach: no one feels tempted to bring along a lawn tractor.

“Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves,” says Jesus, “and rest a while.” We had arrived on Sunday afternoon, and on Monday morning I got up, made some coffee, grabbed my book and my readers, and sat on the deck. From my chair I could see Mobile Bay on one side and the gulf on the other; I could hear the waves, a few seagulls, and the soft voices of a couple of joggers running past the house. I watched brown pelicans fishing for breakfast as the sun slowly climbed above the pine trees. It was a moment of great beauty and peace – until a horrible sound pierced the morning air—a leaf blower.

I will not repeat the words that came across my lips on that first morning; let me just say that they felt highly appropriate at the time. First I thought that the curse of the suburbs had followed us nine hours south and that not even the early morning hours were safe from disrupting intrusions anymore. Then I saw him. The noise came from the house across the road; a house just like ours, sitting about nine feet above ground on pylons, with two vehicles parked underneath on the concrete slab, and wooden steps leading up to the deck and the entrance. Our neighbor, just as pale as myself and dressed in red shorts – clearly a very recent arrival – was blowing sand from the carport. The house was practically sitting on the beach, but he seemed determined to keep the sand where it belonged.

“I just hope this isn’t part of your daily routine, buddy,” I said to myself, wondering if their house came with a leaf blower or if he had brought it all the way from home. It takes a while to get used to the different rhythm of life by the ocean, I told myself. He probably woke up before everyone else in the house, and he was so used to doing stuff and staying busy, he just had to find something to do until the rest of the family got out of bed, I told myself. The rest of the week, thank God, the leaf blower remained silent.

“Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while,” Jesus said to the disciples. They had just returned from their first mission trip. He had sent them out two by two, empowered to proclaim repentance, and bring wholeness by casting out demons and anointing the sick. They were no longer just followers, pupils, students or disciples – Mark refers to them here for the first and only time as apostles, that is, sent ones. They had been hearers of the new, authoritative word, and now they had become its bearers.

These emissaries, these newly-named apostles of the Lord gathered around Jesus, two by two, to tell him what they had done and taught. On their mission they had discovered, to their surprise, that they could do much of what they had observed Jesus do; that his authority and power became manifest in their own words and actions. They had stories to tell; yes, they were tired, but they were also wound up like children who cannot possibly go to sleep until they have shared every wondrous moment of their day.

“Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while,” Jesus said to his excited and exhausted missionaries who had no leisure even to eat. There were people everywhere; people driven by curiosity and drawn by the promise of wholeness. People came to wherever they heard he was. So they went away in the boat to a deserted place by themselves, to a place with the promise of soul-nourishing solitude.

Just to be out on the water in the boat was great.

They pulled away from the shore, away from the daily demands, away from the needs and the noise.

Soon they heard nothing but the sound of the bow cutting through the swells and water dripping from the oars.

It didn’t last, though. When they pulled up on the other shore, they discovered that a crowd had followed them on land. It was as if there was simply no getting away from it all.

They could feel how the care and compassion in their bones was slowly turning into resentment, and they hated it.

They didn’t tell each other because they felt ashamed for what they could only describe as a profound lack of love and presence.

We’re all in that boat, disciples of Jesus, sent to proclaim good news and bring wholeness. But how do we respond when we feel emotionally and physically drained by the brokenness we encounter constantly? Compassion fatigue is a modern expression, but the men and women in that boat have known the reality it describes for centuries. Our emotional capacity to perceive, let alone respond to the demand made on us by human suffering is limited.
Jesus, thou art all compassion, pure, unbounded love thou art, we sing with Charles Wesley, and the song reminds us that we cannot depend on our own wells to draw strength for the great work of loving the world. God alone is all compassion, God alone is unbounded love, and we must learn to draw from the wells that never go dry.

The scene in Mark is so short, you have to intentionally slow down to not miss an important little detail.

As he went ashore, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd; and he began to teach them many things.

We are so eager to know what it was he taught them, that we almost miss what he is teaching us. We are so eager to know what it was he taught them, that we almost miss the fact that we are part of them. He looks at us and has compassion for us, because without him, we are like sheep without a shepherd. And then he goes ashore. And he does the teaching. And we stay in the boat and listen; we receive his gifts.

Some of us hear the word that forgives and renews, equips and sends, and we get up and go. Others hear the sound of the waves lapping gently against the shore, until we doze off, rocked to sleep like babies in a cradle. And when we awake, we rub our eyes and realize that the world turned without us.

We follow Jesus because in his presence we experience a conversion to a depth of life we did not know existed. We follow Jesus because in his presence our heart and mind and strength are transformed. We follow Jesus so we may live as those sent by him, drawing compassion from no other wells but his boundless love for God and the world.

In our mission work of teaching and healing we learn that our small words and actions can make the compassion of Christ manifest.

And when he calls us away to rest a while we learn that the same compassion can be at work without us; that can be a humbling experience for newly-named apostles, but ultimately it’s the most liberating experience for a disciple of Jesus Christ. Enjoy the summer.

Crossing Over

On Thursday I went to the maternity ward to meet Quinn Moseley, who was a just a little more than one day old then. I walked into the darkened room, greeted his parents, and there he was, all wrapped up, sound asleep, a perfect picture of peace.

The only thing I like better than looking at babies is holding them. Earlier this month, I drove to Lebanon to meet Jack McLaughlin, and I got to hold him because he was waking up anyway. I also got to hear him, because something was bothering him and he made it known.

Little Jack made me wonder what we do when something is bothering us before we are born – we cant scream in the womb. Little Quinn suggested that, in the womb, nothing can bother us – food comes to us, steady as our mother’s heartbeat; all other noises are muffled, the temperature is always right, we just curl up in the water and float in complete happiness – until the water breaks, that is. Then it’s gravity and bright lights, cold air, strange sounds and voices, and – very soon – hunger. But being born also means being welcomed by parents who hold us, feed us, whisper in our ears, keep us safe and warm, and respond to our presence with love and care.

It may well be the fact that we spend the first weeks and months of our existence immersed in water like fish in the ocean, that we have this life-long attraction to water. There’s nothing like soaking in a hot tub when your muscles are sore – or your soul. You just float in memories of complete happiness, and the tensions melt, the muscles relax, and your soul sings songs of joy and peace.

We love water; the pleasure of splashing and swimming and jumping in puddles; the satisfaction of a drink of cold water on a hot day; the calming sound of rain on the roof; the fun of water slides and snorkeling; the beauty of rivers, lakes, and water falls; the sound of waves rolling up on the beach; the fragrance of the earth after a gentle summer rain. We love water – it flows through our bodies, it freshens our tired spirits and revives our souls.

Jesus was baptized in a river, and he did much of his teaching by the lake, the Sea of Galilee. When the crowds who gathered to hear him got larger and larger, he asked his disciples to have a boat ready for him, so he could pull away from the shore and teach from the boat.

People heard his parables with the sound of water in the background, little waves lapping up onto the pebbles and rocks. People listened to his teaching while looking at the vast, open stretch of sea and sky. I don’t know if it was as beautiful a scene as I imagine it, but to me sitting by the water’s edge and listening to Jesus are two of my favorite things.

On that day, when evening had come, Jesus said to the disciples, “Let us go across to the other side,” and leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was.

Most of the people on the beach had gone home, they had things to do, meals to prepare, the kids had to get ready for bed; but some stayed and watched the boat go east.

“What business does he have going over there,” they wondered, “it’s all Gentiles on the other side, it’s unclean, full of unholy spirits. It’s not our people over there, not his people, what business does he have going over there?” Dark clouds were moving in, casting deep shadows on what had been a beautiful day on the beach.

Meanwhile, in the boat, the disciples were enjoying the evening breeze and quiet. It had been a long day, they were tired, and the gentle rocking of the boat almost put them to sleep.

But then the wind picked up; dark clouds began to build up behind them, and soon the storm broke lose. The waves beat into the boat, and it was being swamped. Some of the disciples were fishermen; they were accustomed to wind and waves, but nothing like this. Chaos had been unleashed, the raging wind whipping the water into a frenzy of waves and whirls – their little boat nothing but a nutshell.

The disciples got to see water’s other side, they saw that which makes us build fences around our pools, and wear life jackets in our boats, and stay close when our little ones are in the tub, long after they have learned to sit on their own. There’s danger in the water, and we better learn to respect it, because the moment we learn to breathe, we can drown.

The disciples knew that, they knew the danger of capsizing and going down into the deep. But they didn’t know Jesus. They saw him, curled up on a cushion, sleeping like a baby, a perfect picture of peace in the midst of the storm. They woke him, saying, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”

Now why do you think they woke their teacher? Did they want to hear one last story before the boat went down? That seems unlikely. Did they need him to help them get the water out of the boat or hold the rudder? If they did, why didn’t they say so or hand him a pail? To me it sounds like they were anxious and they couldn’t stand that he didn’t seem to be the least bit troubled. “Do you not care that this little boat is going down and all of us with it?” They were frantic and the fact that he wasn’t made it worse.

Jesus woke up; Mark doesn’t even mention if he got up from the cushion. He woke up and rebuked the wind and the sea.

“Quiet! Be still!”

And it was so.

He spoke and it came to be.

He made the storm be still, and the waves of the sea were hushed.

Dead calm.

Can you see the disciples? They are sitting down, wide-eyed, barely breathing, their hands clenching the wall of the boat with white knuckles. Before, they were anxious, now they are afraid.

Jesus said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

There is a popular reading of this story where Jesus isn’t rebuking the wind and the waves, but the disciples for being afraid in the storm. According to that reading, we ought to always remember, no matter how high the waves, how violent the winds, that Jesus is in the boat with us – and that we shouldn’t be afraid, and if we had faith, we wouldn’t be afraid. According to that reading, we ought to tie ourselves to the mast of the cross with ropes of faith and laugh at the storm.

I believe this is dangerous nonsense, because the next time your little boat gets hit by a storm, and you know it will, you’ll be afraid, and on top of everthing else, you’ll feel guilty for being afraid. As if fear wasn’t enough.

Jesus didn’t rebuke the disciples, he commanded the wind and the waves to be still. He spoke, and the violent force of chaos was tamed.

Remember, the whole trip was his idea, “Let us go across to the other side,” he said. This was no evening cruise to a restaurant on the other side of the bay. He took them out to sea, away from the familiar coast, away from the land they knew, to the land of the Gentiles. Why? Because demons ruled on the other side and Jesus invaded their territory to proclaim and bring the kingdom of God. Because sin and death ruled on the other side and Jesus crossed over to bring forgiveness, healing, and wholeness to life. This was no pleasure cruise, this was D-day. Little wonder the forces of chaos tried to stop them with waves bucking like bulls and wind gusts strong enough to break everything in their path.

Jesus’ life and mission is one dangerous crossing after another. His presence, his teaching, his actions lead to confrontation between entrenched powers and the reign of God; confrontation between the way things are and the way they are to be. The truth is, when Jesus is near, the storms aren’t far.

But when Jesus speaks, the eternal word that spoke light and life into being is present. When Jesus speaks, we hear the One who shut in the sea with doors when it burst out from the womb; who made the clouds its garment, and thick darkness its swaddling bands;who prescribed bounds for it, and set bars and doors, and said, “Thus far shall you come, and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stopped.”

The truth is, the disciples in the boat were not half as afraid of the storm as they were of Jesus’ authority to tame its power. They were afraid because it finally dawned on them that they hadn’t taken him into the boat with them; Jesus had taken them into the boat with him, and this ride to the other side was the invasion of enemy territory by the forces of grace, forgiveness, healing and wholeness.

“Why are you afraid?” he asked, “Have you still no faith?”

Our Bible translation is very kind, saying, “They were filled with great awe,” when the words can also be translated, “they feared with great fear.”

They were afraid because they began to see that this boat was going to keep crossing to the other side, and that neither death nor life, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor anything else in all creation would be able to stop it before its journey was complete.

“Who then is this,” they said to one another, “that even the wind and the sea obey him?”

They stayed in the boat with him, as they were, with their great fear and their little faith, and they sailed all the way to Easter, all the way to the shore where life in fullness is at home.

Audio of this post

Common as Mustard

“With what can we compare the kingdom of God?” Jesus asks. With a garden perhaps, where the weather is perpetually mild and lovely things grow, and creatures great and small live together in peace? Or can we compare it with a city of great splendor, through whose open gates the nations of the world enter, carrying their gifts to celebrate the feast of life?

Can we compare the kingdom of God to nature in its awesome grandeur minus the things that frighten us, or to a global culture where the injustice and pain of history have been redeemed? With what can we compare the kingdom of God?

The task before a small committee, meeting for the first time on a July afternoon in 1776, was much smaller. The thirteen colonies had just declared their independence from Britain, and now these United States needed an official national seal. Three men met to select a design, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams and Benjamin Franklin. “With what can we compare this revolutionary adventure, or what parable will we use for it?” the three patriots asked, and they had very different ideas. After much discussion, they agreed on a drawing of lady Liberty holding a shield to represent the thirteen states.

Lady Liberty would later have a long career in France, but the members of Congress were not inspired by the committee report. And so more committees met, and eventually, in 1782 Congress adopted a seal designed by William Barton, with just one small but significant change: the golden eagle in Barton’s design was replaced with the bald eagle, because the golden eagle also flew over European nations.

To this day, the great seal shows a bald eagle with a shield covering its breast, holding in its talons a bundle of thirteen arrows on the left, and a thirteen-leaf olive branch on the right. The new nation was still at war with England at the time, and the fierce-looking bird seemed to be an appropriate emblem.

Benjamin Franklin, though, famously frowned at it. In a letter from Paris in 1784 to his daughter he wrote,

For my part, I wish the eagle had not been chosen as the representative of this country. He is a bird of bad moral character; he does not get his living honestly. You may have seen him perched in some dead tree where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the labor of the fishing hawk and, when that diligent bird has at length taken a fish and is bearing it to his nest for his young ones, the bald eagle pursues him and takes the fish. With all this injustice, he is never in good case; but like those among men who live by sharping and robbing, he is generally poor, and often very lousy. Besides, he is a rank coward; the little kingbird, no bigger than a sparrow, attacks him boldly and drives him out of the district.

Franklin argued that eagles could be found in all countries, and that “a true native of America” and “a much more respectable bird,” the turkey, would have been a more appropriate symbol. He conceded that the turkey was “a little vain and silly,” but maintained that it was nevertheless a “bird of courage” that “would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards, who should presume to invade his farm yard with a red coat on.”

I don’t know much about the moral character of birds, but Franklin obviously preferred a bird that might be perceived as a little vain and silly over one that might be perceived as lazy and lousy.

“With what can we compare the kingdom of God,” Jesus asks, “or what parable will we use for it?” People in first-century Judea were familiar with images from nature to represent nations and kingdoms; a very common symbol for royal power was the tree. There’s a particularly beautiful example in the book of Ezekiel:

Mortal, say to Pharaoh king of Egypt and to his hordes: Whom are you like in your greatness? Consider Assyria, a cedar of Lebanon, with fair branches and forest shade, and of great height, its top among the clouds. The waters nourished it, the deep made it grow tall, making its rivers flow around the place it was planted, sending forth its streams to all the trees of the field. So it towered high above all the trees of the field; its boughs grew large and its branches long, from abundant water in its shoots. All the birds of the air made their nests in its boughs; under its branches all the animals of the field gave birth to their young; and in its shade all great nations lived. It was beautiful in its greatness, in the length of its branches; for its roots went down to abundant water. The cedars in the garden of God could not rival it, nor the fir trees equal its boughs; the plane trees were as nothing compared with its branches; no tree in the garden of God was like it in beauty. Ezekiel 31:2-8

But Assyria, a cedar of Lebanon, was cut down and fell. All the people of the earth went away from its shade and left it. The birds settled on its broken trunk, and among its fallen boughs all the wild animals lodged.

In the book of Daniel we read about a dream the mighty king Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon had.

Upon my bed this is what I saw; there was a tree at the center of the earth, and its height was great. The tree grew great and strong, its top reached to heaven, and it was visible to the ends of the whole earth. Its foliage was beautiful, its fruit abundant, and it provided food for all. The animals of the field found shade under it, the birds of the air nested in its branches, and from it all living beings were fed. Daniel 4:10-12

But Nebuchadnezzar’s dream of greatness and power ends with a frightening announcement.

Cut down the tree and chop off its branches, strip off its foliage and scatter its fruit. Let the animals flee from beneath it and the birds from its branches. Daniel 4:14

Israel’s experience with royal power was that it comes and goes, that kingdoms rise and fall. Israel’s hope was that one day God would plant a tender shoot on the mountain height of Israel, a sprig that would become a noble cedar that would never fall.

When Jesus asks, “With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it?” it is easy to imagine a tree; a mighty tree whose branches extend to the ends of the earth; the tallest, the most magnificent tree of all, forever defining the center of the world; with its top in the heavens and its roots in the depths of the earth; with beautiful foliage and abundant fruit; with shade and food and peace for all living beings.

And then Jesus tells us his parable. He leaves the lofty cedars on the mountain height of our imagination, and goes to the field just outside the village where you work every day.

"The kingdom of God," he says, "is like a mustard seed, which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth."

Oh yes, it’s a tiny seed, but we know the potential of a seed: one acorn has in it not just one oak, but an entire forest, mighty oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord, taller than the cedars of Egypt, Assyria, Babylon or Rome.

Except that in this parable, the lowly mustard seed doesn’t grow into a tree but merely becomes the greatest of all shrubs.

Now if you expect God’s reign to powerfully transform nature and history, and to bring creation to its fulfillment, a scrawny mustard shrub of about 4-5 feet is hardly an appropriate emblem, is it?

If you prefer to keep the tree in the picture, you can read the story in Matthew, where the mustard seed “is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree”(Matthew 13:32).

Or you can go to Luke, where the kingdom is like a mustard seed “that someone took and sowed in the garden; and it grew and became a tree, and the birds of the air made nests in its branches” (Luke 13:19).

According to Matthew and Luke, the ancient hope for an empire where God alone is Sovereign and the nations find peace, begins to be fulfilled in the story of Jesus and his followers. According to Mark, the story of Jesus rewrites the ancient hope for an empire to end all empires from the bottom up.

At the end of Nebuchadnezzar’s dream in Daniel, the great king arrives at a difficult insight.

The Most High is sovereign over the kingdom of mortals; he gives it to whom he will and sets over it the lowliest of human beings. Daniel 4:17

The lowliest of human beings.

The parable of the mighty tree announces a restoration of the Davidic kingdom among the kingdoms of the earth. Other kingdoms will dry up, while that of David will flourish and outlast them.

In contrast, the parable of the mustard shrub speaks of a kingdom which, for all its miraculous extension, remains lowly; there’s nothing mighty or majestic about it.

It grows everywhere, not just on the hights of Lebanon or the seven hills of Rome or by the great rivers of Egypt or Babylon, or wherever the centers of power happen to be.

It grows dependably wherever there’s just enough soil for the tiniest of seeds to take root.

Perhaps the most beautiful detail about the mustard shrub is that it is an annual plant. It doesn’t just sit there and simply get bigger and bigger with the years. The mustard shrub depends on renewed sowing and its perennial promise lies in the fruitfulness of the seed and the faithfulness of the sower.

God’s kingdom is no divine empire, but faithful followers who continue to sow the seed of God’s grace and truth.

We do small things: small acts of compassion, tiny steps toward greater justice, a kind word to the cashier at the check-out line who just got barked at by an unhappy customer – small things that seem utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of human history and cosmic time, but Jesus reminds us that God’s reign grows everywhere and from the tiniest of seeds.

We do small things in lots of small places, things as common as mustard, and God’s reign spreads and grows and nothing can stop it.

With what can we compare the kingdom of God? It is like sowers who scatter seed on the ground, and the seed sprouts and grows and they don’t know how, and their lives bear fruit.

Audio of this post

Midweek Sabbath

It's Sunday morning on Vine Street, and the church buildings are full of people of all ages. There's chatter and laughter on the steps and in the hallways, singing, prayer, and music in the sanctuary - lots of energy, from early in the morning until the last after-worship conversation over coffee has ended. Sunday is a day of worship and learning, nurturing relationships and making new friends, a day of celebration and sabbath rest.

A few weeks ago the Elders created a sanctuary of a different kind, a window to sabbath rest in the middle of the week. We used to use our chapel only for worship on Sunday morning and on occasion for a small wedding or funeral. Now we gather there every Wednesday evening at 5:30 p.m. for Evening Prayer, led by one of our Elders.

The chapel is especially beautiful at that time of day. The sun is low, and the mild light pours through the windows, bathing the entire space in a warm glow. It is wonderful to just sit there and enjoy the peaceful silence.

Evening Prayer is a brief service, lasting only about thirty minutes, of responsive readings from the book of psalms, a reading from scripture or a short meditation, the Magnificat, a. k. a. the song of Mary from Luke 1:47-55, prayers of intercession, and the Lord's Prayer.

You could wait for a particularly hurried week to come by the chapel on Wednesday evening to immerse yourself in the peace of God, or you could just come next Wednesday to sit and rest, to pray for the church and the world.

Sometimes I cannot participate in this midweek Evening Prayer, but whenever I do, I leave enveloped by that light, and with a sense of deep joy.

Signs

There was a funeral on Saturday in Wichita, Kansas. Dr. George Tiller had been shot last Sunday in the foyer of Reformation Lutheran Church as he handed out bulletins before worship. For years, Dr. Tiller and his family had lived in a gated community, he drove a bullet proof car, and he wore a bullet proof vest – he had been shot before, and his office had been bombed. Dr. Tiller was murdered because he performed abortions.

Security was tight at the funeral service, with dozens of uniformed and plainclothes officers mingling among the mourners inside and outside the sanctuary. A few blocks from the church a dozen or so protesters gathered in a holding area, one holding a sign, “God Sent the Shooter.”

Inside the church, near the end of the service, Mrs. Tiller rose and, standing in the chancel, sang “The Lord’s Prayer” in a clear, strong, unwavering voice. I am glad that hundreds stood with her and only a handful with the person outside holding up a sign with a lie.

I carried with me this week a passage from the gospel of John reminding us that God does not send shooters.

For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life. Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved trough him.—John 3:16-17

Throughout the week I questioned if these words had any strength left in them, if John 3:16 could be anything but a slogan, tattered and worn out by too many bumper stickers, t-shirts, and posters held high during ball games. The words have become a cliché, an empty formula, little more than a password for a tribe – but no matter how ragged and frayed they appear, they are true: God sent the Son, not the shooter.

The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world, and to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.—John 1:9, 12-13

Nicodemus had seen things he didn’t understand, strange and wonderful things, signs whose significance he did not know.

There was a wedding feast, and Jesus was there. When the wine gave out, he told the servants to fill large jars with water; and when the chief steward tasted it, it was the best wine.

One day Jesus went to the temple, and he drove out sheep and cattle, poured out the coins of the money changers, overturned their tables, and said, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.”

These actions raised a lot of eye brows and questions, but many believed in his name because they saw the signs that we was doing. Nicodemus had seen the signs, but he didn’t know what to make of them, or what to make of Jesus. He had seen what Jesus did, and he thought that God was connected, somehow, but he didn’t know how. He was in the dark.

Nicodemus came to Jesus by night and said, “We know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.”

We know, he said, like someone who has studied long and hard, taken his time to observe, and carefully drawn his conclusions. We know, he said, speaking for more than himself. Did he represent the Pharisees? Maybe. Did he speak for the religious leadership in general? Possibly. Does he stand at the beginning of a long line of many who are in the dark about Jesus, yet are drawn to his light? Certainly. Nicodemus speaks for all whose souls thirst for the living God, all who long to learn about and live the life of the Spirit, all who are attracted to Jesus, recognizing something extraordinary in him but not yet believing. Nicodemus speaks for all who come to Jesus with our considerable knowledge, our well-established certainties, and our questions.

We know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.—John 3:2

We have seen the signs, we have drawn our conclusions, and now we come for more. And Jesus responds, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”

This is very confusing to Nicodemus who knows his religion and knows it well. He is a learned man, steeped in scholarship—and now Jesus is telling him that in order to know the life of the Spirit in the kingdom of God he must be born anew, a second time. How can this be?

How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?—John 3:4

Brian Williams took a large crew of reporters and videographers to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue to document a day inside the Obama White House; some of you may have seen the program. At one point he talked with Vice President Joe Biden about saying things off the cuff that the White House staff had to carefully rephrase or creatively interpret afterwards. And Joe Biden’s reply was basically, “Look, you don’t teach an old dog new tricks. I am who I am, and some things I just can’t change.”

Old age and new beginnings just don’t go together. It’s not like you can just go back and start over and undo who you have become. Nevertheless, Jesus speaks of birth.

Jesus tells Nicodemus, tells you and me that seeing the kingdom, entering the dominion of God is a birth.

Do you know what you did in order to be born?

Nothing. Exactly. You didn’t choose your parents or your birthday. All you did was listen to your mother’s heartbeat and suck your little thumb. And on your birthday, surprised, you submitted to the force that pushed you down the birth canal, you squinted at the light, and you cried until somebody held you close and tight and warm. Your birth was an awesome and exhausting event, but it wasn’t your doing.

“Do not be astonished,” Jesus tells us, “that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above.’ The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the spirit.”

Nicodemus comes to Jesus to find out where the man from Galilee fits in the framework of his knowledge and experience, and Jesus talks about two of the most uncontrollable, uncontainable of human experiences, birth and wind. He tells him that the life eternal is a mystery beyond human knowledge and control.

Nicodemus has come no closer to understanding Jesus. He is confused by this talk of wind and spirit, water and birth. He cannot fit Jesus into his knowledge of God and the traditions he has followed for many years. He cannot fit Jesus into his life and who he has become. The thought of birth confuses him because there’s nothing for him to do—no books to read, no papers to write, no exams to take.

The only thing birth requires of you is to relax and rest in the labor of God. To be born again, to be born from above is an adventure in trust.

An adventure in trust, not control. Nicodemus has so many questions and he can’t just give himself to the life Jesus offers. At the end, though, he does not argue with Jesus or depart in protest. He simply throws up his hands, asking somewhat helplessly, “How can anyone be born after having grown old? How can these things be?”

It doesn’t end there. In chapter 7 we read that it was Nicodemus who publicly spoke up on behalf of Jesus when the religious leadership accused him without giving him a hearing (John 7:50-52).

Then after Jesus’ death on the cross, Joseph of Arimathea, who was a disciple of Jesus, and Nicodemus came to prepare Jesus’ body for burial—Nicodemus bringing a hundred pounds of fragrant myrrh and aloes (John 19:38-42).

In the end, Nicodemus didn’t participate in the world’s hatred against Jesus. Instead, his actions reflected neither confusion nor fear, but boldness, generosity, and most of all, love. John doesn’t tell us that Nicodemus had become a believer, but he shows us a man who loves fearlessly and extravagantly.

The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the spirit.—John 3:8

I cannot shake the suspicion that the hands that at the funeral held the sign, “God sent the shooter,” on other occasions have held a sign, “John 3:16.” I am troubled by the air of certitude and knowing that surrounds these signs. I am troubled by views that can see the world solely in black and white, ignoring the colors that love paints between them. I am troubled by the portrait of a God who is an enforcer of texts, rather than the lover of the world.

When I look at the cross, I see a different picture. I see the light that shines in the darkness. I see the face of God who comes not to condemn but to save. And I hear the call I believe Nicodemus heard: to participate in what God is doing, which is to love the world.

Audio of this post.

The Adventure of Life

Miles and I joined the Mission Trip to Nashville group last night to watch "UP."

It's a great animated movie, and if animation makes you think, "Hm, kid stuff," you're on the wrong track.

This is great story telling, great animation (with amazing attention to detail), and great fun.

The journey to Paradise Falls (the name alone is a lovely variation on an ancient theme) is a beautiful meditation on the things that give us the courage to live.

Go and see this movie. Borrow somebody's kid if you need an excuse.