Abide in my Love
John 15:9-17
May 13, 2012
You all might know that I have a love for yoga—a love which borders on obsession. A couple of times a week I head up to a yoga studio in Mt. Airy for an hour of breathing, stretching and posing in various pretzel-like positions. Perhaps it seems like a strange way to spend my time, but it is a lifeline for me—a way to get through my busy week.
Unlike the other parts of my day, that hour is my most focused. I am not thinking about the sermon I’m working on, or the tasks on my “to do” list. I’m not distracted by the sound my phone or computer makes when I get an email or text message. The only think I’m thinking is “breathe.”
It’s when I’m not breathing properly that I get distracted. Breathing in yoga practice is different than regular breathing. In our daily life, our breath is usually shallow, using only a part of our lungs. Yoga breathing fills the belly, the lungs the shoulders—the entire chest cavity. The breath in is slow and full, and the breath out is as slow as the breath in. And with every breath, there is another movement—another yoga pose—connected with it.
This breathing and moving together creates a focus, a unity between the breath and the action, the body and the mind. And, somehow, it creates a space where distraction is a little less possible.
I used to joke that my hour of yoga was the only time in my day that I willingly obeyed anyone. I don’t joke about it anymore—It is a truth for me. I internally fight every instruction I’m given, every demand, every responsibility thrust on me—I think that is the curse of human nature. I whine and complain to myself about what I know I must do. But, in yoga, there’s no conflict, no back and forth. If you can’t do something that’s asked of you, you just get down on the mat and rest. And that rest is obedience to your body. It’s listening to your body’s demand to stop.
But that rest doesn’t mean that you are interrupting your yoga practice. That resting on the mat is active. There on the mat you regain your breath, you breathe deeply, staying present, remaining—abiding—in focus and in breath.
This morning’s text from the gospel of John is all about abiding—in love. This section of the gospel of John is part of Jesus’ farewell passages, his final words to the disciples before he leaves them bodily.
There are three key concepts in this passage we must address—love, obedience and sacrifice. And these are themes that keep coming up in the gospel of John.
Let’s start with what seems like the easiest one—love. Jesus says, “God has loved you, I love you. Remain, abide in my love. And this is how you’ll do that. Live on in my love by following my commandment. Just as I have lived on in God’s love and followed God’s commandment. And this is my commandment—and notice here that there is just one (unlike the 10 commandments, or the hundreds of laws in Leviticus)—love each other, in the same way I have loved you.”
Love and obedience are intertwined here. To love is to obey—to follow the commandment of Jesus. To obey is to love each other. These two things go hand in hand.
Jesus goes on to spell out what it means to love each other. Love is laying down your life for a friend. This is a new and subtle turn in Jesus’ theology in the gospel of John. In John 10, Jesus says this: “I am the good shepherd. A good shepherd would die for the sheep. The hired hand, who is neither shepherd or owner of the sheep, catches sight of the wolf coming and runs away…..I am the good shepherd. I know my sheep and my sheep know me…and for these sheep I will lay down my life.
Now, as Jesus prepared to leave to leave his disciples in John 15, he made the incarnation—the God with us and in us—the disciples’ responsibility too. “You are my friends, if you do what I command you. I no longer speak of you as subordinates (or sheep) because I have made known to you everything I have learned from Abba God.” You already know what I know. “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friend.” Jesus moves from talking about the disciples as sheep in chapter 10 (small, fluffly, mindless creatures), to talking about the disciples as dear friends and companions on the journey in chapter 15.
I have to admit—It’s kind of a disappointment to break down this text. Remain in my love, Abide in my love. It sounds so beautiful—romantic even—doesn’t it? So peaceful and tranquil. We don’t have to do anything except remain in love.
Except that when we break it down, love is active. Love is a verb. And more than being a verb, it is a commandment—our only one from Jesus in this passage from John. It requires that we give something of ourselves. It requires a sacrifice on our part.
This sacrificial love is not unlike the love that goes into bearing children and raising them. It’s a love that comes with physical and emotional pain. There’s the pain of childbirth, the pain of the unknown as you wait for your child in the adoption process, the pain of having your kids mad at you, watching them suffer, knowing that sometimes they have to experience life’s hard lessons without your guidance. And this is something we parents do willingly. Moms willingly allow their bodies to be distorted through pregnancy. Parents forego sleep in favor of feeding or comforting their child in the middle of the night. Parents sacrifice nice things, jobs with better pay, opportunities, and relationships because of this being they are raising up.
That is the same kind of sacrificial love God has for us. That’s the love of the good shepherd who would willingly give up her life for us. That’s the love of Jesus who allowed himself to be silenced in death by state execution. That’s the love Jesus is instructing us to have for each other.
Abide, remain, be fully present in a love that asks for everything, but brings us to a fuller, deeper understanding of God that—according to Jesus, is joy in its fullness. There is substance to this love. And it requires all of us. It requires us to follow, to live into the one thing Jesus asked us to do, the one thing on which Jesus was singularly focused—love.
But how do we get to this abiding in love state? How do we get to the place where we are following the command of Jesus to love, where we are being fully present in the love of God? It seems like an impossible state to obtain.
In my yoga practice, when I think at the beginning of class about getting myself into a half wheel position, I am sure I can’t do it. (Half wheel is a difficult position. It is where you are laying on your back with your knees bent, and you put your hands beside your ears, and push up into a rainbow shape.) In fact, if I was to try the position at the beginning of class, I wouldn’t be able to do it. I have to work myself into it. I have to practice breathing for an hour, I have to warm up my muscles, and I have to get into the rhythm of breathing deeply, of filling my lungs fully, then releasing the air slowly. I have to practice. But when, at the very end of class I get the chance to do a half wheel, I am focused and stretched, and it is pure joy to push my body into the air, and allow it to do the thing I never thought was possible for this out of shape body, that’s been distorted by childbirth.
So it is with abiding in God’s love—we have to keep practicing it. We have to practice loving God and loving each other. We have to breathe in the love of God fully into our spirit, and breathe out the love for our neighbors. These things must be a constant in our lives. And with practice, we can do together what we never thought was possible.
Looking across the room, we see our brothers and sisters in Christ. Some of you have worshipped with each other for a long time, some for not so long. Some people in this congregation may be easy for you to love, some take a little more practice, a few extra deep breaths, to help make that love possible.
Every Sunday we gather together for an hour or so of worship. We sing, we pray, we share our joys and sorrows, we eat. We practice abiding in love. This is our yoga studio, or our love studio. This is our chance to practice abiding in love, being fully present in love. But we don’t just sit and revel in it—this is an active love. It requires continued practice. So we take it with us when we walk out the doors of the church, and we practice this abiding in love with our neighbors. Even though they are too loud, or leave trash on their sidewalk, or their kids pick our flowers. We abide in the love of God and love each other. And when we can’t love any more, we rest on the mat, still breathing in God, regaining our focus, and we try again.
We are Easter people. We are resurrection people. This makes the commandment to love a little less terrifying because we have already begun to abide in love. We’ve read the stories of the witnesses to the resurrection. We’ve shared our own stories of hope and resurrection. We are abiding in love. We are working towards being fully present to the love of God as we love each other. As impossible as it might seem. We keep on breathing, we keep on loving…
AMEN.
Witnesses to the Resurrection
Luke 24:36b-48
April 22, 2012
This week I meet with some other ministers in Northwest Philadelphia. We gather every month to talk about what’s happening in our congregations, to reflect on our faith traditions, and share our stories. This week, we talked about a book that a local pastor had written about the story of Jonah. He talked about his process of researching the work of a 16th century reformer and this reformer’s understanding of the four chapter book of Jonah. One thing he stressed was that the way we understand words in the 21st century were not necessarily the way the 16th century reformers used the same words. The words of each generation are imbued with meaning, context, and their own stories. In reading words written 500 years ago, we must take that into consideration. That small but significant linguistic point, is—quite often—forgotten.
This conversation was on my mind as I read the gospel lesson this week. The text for this week is full of “spooky stuff.” Jesus is back—in resurrected form—and the disciples are pretty freaked out by it. The disciples were gathered in this week’s text, and they were talking about how they had just encountered Jesus in their travels. The disciples talked together about how they didn’t realize it was Jesus when they met him on the road, until he broke bread, blessed it, and shared it with them. Then their eyes were opened and they understood. And as they were talking, Jesus appeared to them and said, “Peace be with you.” And scared them about to death. The text says they were startled and terrified, as if they’d seen a ghost.
If you’ve ever had one of those moments where you think you’ve seen something that you are pretty sure is not there—it’s terrifying. And a little embarrassing. Because rational minds do not believe in the spooky stuff. To say that it happened to you, that you saw something you weren’t supposed to see, is to risk folks thinking that you are not all there. Or that you are terribly impressionable.
But all of them in that room saw Jesus just appear and heard him say those strange words of discomfort, “Peace be with you.”
Jesus must have sensed that the disciples were trying to decide if this was really happening to them, because Jesus said to them, “Look at my hands and feet—it’s really me! I’m not a ghost—I’m flesh and bones. This is really happening.”
And while the disciples were happy to see Jesus, they were still skeptical. So Jesus asked for something to eat, and he ate it in front of them, as if to prove that he was not a ghost. And he talked with them, and connected the dots. He told them why his death happened, and what it meant. He helped them understand.
Jesus finished up by saying “You are witnesses to these things.”
So many words have taken on new, unintended meanings in our culture. Sin, for example, has become a matter of personal piety—something, or someone to avoid—rather than communal failings. Sin has become more about law than relationship.
There are some words in this text that bother me. The last sentence is most troublesome. Jesus says, “You are witnesses to these things.” That last sentence sounds like I have to do something really uncomfortable —like hand out chic tracts on the street, like stand on a box in the middle of downtown Philadelphia and declare that everyone was going to hell unless they believe. Witness. Witnessing has come to mean that we must pound people over the head with the “good news”. At a certain point, after being pounded repeatedly on the head, the news is no longer good. The news hurts and is quite unwelcome. Witnessing does not speak to the person’s needs—I’ve seen the witness become hurtful and judgmental.
This is what “witness” has come to mean in the Church.
And because we progressives have seen the destructive results of that kind of witnessing in the church, we’ve decided to reject the whole notion. We’ve decided to not witness at all. Not tell the story. We’ve decided that we were going to stop doing anything that remotely looks or sounds like anything related to this bad thing—witnessing.
But this is not what Jesus is talking about. We are not taking our bibles and banging them against people heads. We are not insistent that we know the whole truth, or that “this is the way it is.” We are simply saying what we’ve seen. That is quite different from the certainty of street preachers and the condemnation of chic tracts.
So, what is it that we are seeing? What do we see that says to you—God is here. God has made God’s self known to us. Christ is alive!
On Good Friday, I attended an interfaith service commemorating all the victims of gun violence in Philadelphia this year. While we remembered the death of gun victims, we remembered the death of Jesus, who also died violently.
This is the second year I’ve gone to this service and I’ll confess that I do not it. It’s hard to go because there are always counter demonstrator that do all they can to break up the peaceful gathering. Last year, they hired an ice cream truck to come and play the ice cream truck music while we prayed and sang and mourned. It was very clever, I thought. But really distracting.
This year, the counter protestors decided to turn their car alarms on at the same time. It provided a difficult obstacle up against our meager sound system. But, in the distraction, and in the fear and anger towards the counter protesters, at some point in the gathering, I sensed a calm about our group. We were focused, prayerful, alert. It felt as if Jesus had breathed, “Peace be with you” on the community. We began a little spooked and nervous by what we were seeing around us, but as we prayed, we sensed calm, even as the counter demonstrators screamed and taunted us. We were empowered to witness to God’s holy peace in the world. We prayed for a day when God’s peace was fully known, and we began to hope together that it could happen.
Even on Good Friday, when we wondered why Jesus had to be killed at the hands of the empire, we had a sense of hope, a sense that we were seeing God at work, we had seen the possibilities of what could happen, should we all raise our voices together and witness to the hope we have in Christ.
Last week, I had an opportunity to speak at Princeton Seminary with John Linscheid and Randy Spaulding. We led seminarians and a few Germantown Mennoniters in singing together songs of hope—we sang some favorites—“My life flows on” and “Praise God from whom all Blessings flow” and “God of the Bible.” And Randy, John and I gave our testimony. We talked about the power of the story here at Germantown Mennonite, of being removed from conference, of being removed from the body of Christ. John and Randy talked about no longer having ministerial credentials because they decided to live their lives in the light.
I was a little nervous to speak—I have been intimately aquainted with these stories for so long that I forgot that they had power. I forgot that our stories were meaningful, that our witness meant something. But, that evening was a powerful reminder to me that we need to keep witnessing to the resurrection.
We need to keep pointing out those places where we see God at work, where we notice Jesus’ breath of peace on us, and God’s presence at work among us. We do not need to stand on street corners, or beat people over the head with our bibles. In fact, I’d recommend against it. But Jesus calls us to witness to these things, to testify, to point out, and to make known those places where we have seen Jesus.
This is truly what this season of Easter is all about. We witness to the resurrection. We identify the hope we have because of this story. We keep telling it. And telling it. And in doing that, we open each others eyes to more hope and more light and more signs of the reign of God all around us.
Being witnesses to these things—it’s like a muscle. We must keep using it, or the muscle becomes weak. Witnessing to these things is going to feel awkward and uncomfortable at first—perhaps because we are living by this false definition of “witness” that we have come to accept. But Jesus calls us to share our story, to remember, to be witnesses to what we have seen.
In a few weeks—on May 6th, we’ll have an opportunity in worship to share our own stories of hope and resurrection. I invite you to think about your own stories of hope and come ready to share them. There will be no sermon on May 6th—your stories are the sermon.
Let us together, during this Easter Season, resurrect our witness, redeem that word from those that seek to overpower with their certainty. Let us together, during this Easter season, witness with fresh eyes and confident loving voices, to the incredible ways God is being made known to us. AMEN.
Why We Need Each Other
Last evening, I had the privilege to speak with Randy Spaulding (former Pastor at Covenant Mennonite in Sarasota), and John Linscheid at Princeton Seminary for their Gay Straight Alliance (BGLASS) week. We three shared on why queer and straight allies need each other. The following are my words from last evening.
Hester Prynne and I have something in common. Hester, the main character of Nathanial Hawthorne’s classic novel, The Scarlet Letter, was forced to wear a scarlet A on her chest, a sign of her sins and of her tarnished reputation. I don’t wear a scarlet A, but I have joked in the past few years, while I was attending seminary and looking for a job in the Mennonite church, that I wore a scarlet GMC, a sign of my association with Germantown Mennonite church, the congregation I began attending in 1996, and have been pastoring since 2010.
I didn’t come to Germantown intending to be an ally, or to make any kind of political or theological stand. I came to Germantown Mennonite because I was angry and hurting, and needed a safe place to be. I wasn’t convinced that there was such a church, but I thought I’d give Germantown Mennonite a try, and see if I could stand to be there.
In 1996, my mom died of cancer at the age of 45. Her four year battle with cancer was my introduction to adulthood. Crises like this should not have to happen to a young adult—it really messes with one’s sense of identity, relationship to God and to the church.
When my mom was dying, I was asking “why is this happening” and the response from my home congregation and other Christians was one of utter certainty—“She didn’t have enough faith”, “Everything happens for a reason”, “God needed her in heaven.”
Seminarians, in case you haven’t learned this lesson yet, NEVER say these things to people that are dealing with tragedy and life altering experiences. You risk being punched in the face, or worse, you risk people never coming to church again.
Those responses from my ever certain church community did not work for me, and I was very happy to leave my home and move to Philadelphia. And when I arrived, I went looking for a church in Philadelphia that could handle me and my vast baggage.
I visited Germantown in June of 1996, and I had never been to a service like this before. There were no answers from the pulpit. There were questions, there was real feeling, real sharing. There was no veneer of social propriety—it was raw at Germantown Mennonite. This church embodied all that I was feeling. I felt safe to bring my questions and anger there.
When I started attending GMC, the congregation was in the process of being removed from their conference and—as a result—the denomination, because they were welcoming queer folks into membership. The end of that relationship was imminent, but people were still pretty hopeful that allies would stand up against the conservative wing of the church. I didn’t know much about the struggle when I started attending the church—and if I’m really honest with myself—I didn’t care. What I cared about was that I was finally in a safe space to be angry, to ask questions, and to cry. I didn’t have to worry about judgment from the congregation, because my questions were their questions.
Soon after I arrived, the congregation was indeed removed from the conference. By secret ballot—which was not in keeping with their polity. Conference ministers came down to share the official news with us. And because after a year with them, I was so bonded to the congregation, I could not stay away from this meeting. My friends—gay and straight—were hurting, and would be devastated by this news. I had to be there with them.
I went to this meeting, and cried tears of anger with my gay brothers. I watched with disbelief as Ken, a gay man in the congregation, insisted that these conference ministers finish what they started, and walk him out of the church. I watched as our pastor, a straight ally, demanded the same. If the conference was removing this congregation from fellowship, they would have to do it with more than words. They would have to show us what it meant. They would need to understand themselves what it meant to remove us from the body of Christ.
Being in that meeting on that terrible night bonded me forever to the people of Germantown Mennonite Church. You can’t hear the news of the vote, watch your queer and allied friends get walked out of the church and not be moved. You can’t cry with people in their pain, and not have an emotional connection to them.
After we heard the news, and the conference ministers left, we sat together, then did what Mennonites do—we sang. We turned to “My Life Flows On”, and ironic and poignant choice for the occasion.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I’m clinging
If love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?
I never would have imagined that night as a 23 year old woman, sitting in that room, singing and crying with my sisters and brothers from Germantown, that I would end up in seminary, called to pastoral ministry.
But it was the folks, and especially the gay men, from the congregation that said to me, many times, “Why aren’t you in seminary?” and “You know you are called, right?” They recognized in me the call to the ministry that I couldn’t—or rather didn’t want to—see. It was the people of GMC that gave me my letters, sent me out to seminary, and told me to wear them with pride.
When I entered seminary, it didn’t occur to me that it would be that difficult to find a job in the denomination. Even though Germantown was no longer a member of the Mennonite Church USA, we still considered ourselves Mennonite. I still consider myself Mennonite. But others within the denomination began to name for me the difficulty I would experience. One pastor I met said to me blatantly, “How in the hell do you ever expect to get a job in the Mennonite church with GMC on your resume?”
I could feel the scarlet GMC burning on my chest for the first time. I knew there was truth in what he said. My spirit was crushed. Could I get a job? Was I just throwing away money on this seminary degree I’d never be able to use?
This question gave me great anxiety. I’ll admit it was tempting to try to cover up the scarlet GMC, to hide where I came from, to downplay the people that nurtured me to new faith. But I just couldn’t do that. I couldn’t hide where I’d come from, even though I was advised by folks in the denomination to do so. This congregation was my community, my family, and because of the bonds we had and the gift they were to me, I couldn’t hide my status—I am an ally.
My status does come at a cost. Before interviewing at Germantown, I interviewed for a job at a little Mennonite church just outside of Philadelphia. And the main reason I didn’t get it is because they were worried I’d bring the queers with me. If they couldn’t handle the scarlet GMC, they were not ready for me to be their pastor.
By God’s grace I was called to Germantown Mennonite, as the pastor. I pastor at one of the few Mennonite congregations that can, at this point, handle my scarlet letters. I pastor the congregation that gave me the scarlet letters.
There is a cost to being an ally. There is a cost to associating with a congregation that had the audacity to baptize and welcome queer folks into membership, and that ordained a gay man (a graduate of Princeton, and former leader of BGLASS, I might add). It will limit your opportunities in ministry. It may cause you some discomfort, some awkward conversations with search committees.
But, when I look at what Randy Spaulding and John Linscheid have dealt with in their lives—coming out as pastors, losing their credentials, being shamed and condemned—I think a few awkward conversations, and some limited opportunities are well worth it. It is the least I can do, to say thank you.
As followers in the way of Jesus, we cannot forget that the path before us will not be easy. The things we choose to stand for will alienate us, and often times, they will put us at odds with our denomination. But we are not followers of the Presbyterians, or the Mennonite or the Espiscopals, or whatever denomination with which you align. We are followers of Jesus, who calls us to the margins, who calls us to remember, who calls us stand with our brothers and sisters, no matter what the cost.
This scarlet GMC, the label I’ve been given as an ally, comes at a cost. But, my friends, the benefit far outweighs the cost. The gift I’ve been given at Germantown Mennonite has saved me, given me hope, and has shown me the way of Jesus, a way I couldn’t see anywhere else.
Like Hester Prynne, I lovingly embroider my scarlet letters, embellish them with the beauty that has been shared with me in my congregation. I could choose, like the minister in the Scarlet Letter—Arthur Dimmsdale—to be silent about my associations. But, we know what happened to Dimmsdale. That kind of denial and silence can only result in death.
As resurrection people, we know the joy that comes in our true selves being fully in the light. Let us live this Easter season, fully in the light, our true selves and our true allegiances known before all. Let us live in the light, queer and allies together, no matter what the cost.
AMEN.
Blessed Disbelief
John 20:1-18
Blessed Unbelief
April 8, 2012—Easter Sunday
As people of the book, we believe in the power of stories. We have experienced the power of transformative stories in lent, as we talked about the cross, and as the cross became personal for many of us. We heard Jay Burkholder talk about the experience of making this cross, which showed up unexpectedly last week. We heard Ken White talk about the cross, with its embracing arms. Katie Ernst described the cross as a reminder of God’s familiarity with our pain—but she did not let God off the hook. She lingered with many doubts about God and God’s power.
Lent was a time for us to reflect on the cross, examine its meaning in our story. But, thankfully, with the stripping of the table and its new symbols in place, lent is over, and we are reminded that this story does not end with the cross. The cross was the confusing, low point in the story. Today, and for the next 50 days of Eastertide, we celebrate the empty tomb. We celebrate the resurrected Christ.
How do we get from the cross to the resurrection? I wish it were as easy as just switching around a few symbols. How do we get from death to life, from abandonment to hope? It’s hard to switch gears, to move from the reflective and the penitential to the rejoicing, praising, and boisterous song singing that we rightly do today.
In our story from the gospel of John, three characters made the transition—from the cross to the resurrection—in three very different ways. Mary came to the tomb early that morning to pay her respects, and when she discovered the tomb was empty, she ran to tell the other disciples. Later, after she returned to the tomb with two of the disciples, Mary sat by the Jesus’ grave, crying. When Jesus came to her, she didn’t even recognize him, until he called her by name. “Mary!” And then the a-ha moment, the moment of realization and recognition. “Rabbi!”
Peter and the other disciple, the disciple Jesus loved, heard the news from Mary and ran to the tomb. The other disciple got there first, but didn’t enter the tomb. When Peter arrived, he walked fearlessly into the tomb, saw the funeral clothing askew, but we don’t know what he thought about it. The other disciple came in after Peter, surveyed the scene and understood and believed immediately.
We don’t know what Peter thought when he surveyed the resurrection scene. But the other disciple understood—his eyes opened to the new reality. And Mary—her response was to assume that someone has taken away the body of Jesus. But it took Jesus calling her name for Mary to understand what had really happened.
I wonder what made it so easy for the beloved disciple to so readily believe, what made it so difficult for Mary, and I wonder why we have no response from Peter. Why such different reactions from these three disciples?
All throughout the gospel of John, Jesus encountered people that were at different places in their faith journeys. Nicodemus, that rich leader that came to Jesus in the night, had many questions for Jesus about what it meant to be born again. But Jesus did not judge Nicodemus. Jesus knew how hard it was for him. Jesus was simply present, explaining his presence, his light, in the world.
Later in John 20, Thomas told his fellow disciples “Unless I see the mark of his nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” And Jesus did not judge. He said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt, but believe.” There was no judgment there. Jesus met Thomas in his disbelief, and called him to belief, in whatever way Thomas could get there. Even if it meant that Thomas would put his hand in Jesus’ wounds.
All throughout the gospel of John, we meet characters that believe and do not, folks that find it easy to follow Jesus and believe his claims, and those that find it very difficult. And for all those that were truly seeking, really trying to understand, to believe, and to follow, Jesus showed compassion.
Jesus saved his venom for those that were sure they knew the truth, those that had made the law their idol, those that lacked compassion. Jesus saved his outrage, anger and vitriol for the religious leaders who had lost sight of belief in favor of perfection, in favor of the law.
But for Mary, Jesus saw her confusion, her disbelief, and he called her by name. Disbelieving Mary, unsure Mary—she was the one who was called to tell the disciples the good news. She was the first person that day to really see Jesus.
And for Peter who—for once—was silent, Jesus gave Peter a most important role. Peter became the rock of the church. The church was built on the denial of Peter, the questions and confusion of Peter, this loud and impulsive disciple.
So often, I long to be that disciple that Jesus loved, the one that came to the tomb, saw Jesus’ burial gowns eschew, and got it. I wish it were that easy for me. I wish I didn’t have the questions of Mary, the doubts of Thomas, and the silence of Peter. I wish I looked at the world every day and saw the resurrection, and saw the transforming power of God breaking into our world. Some days all I see is the cross, the brokenness of the world. And some days that is where the story of Jesus’ life ends for me.
I am encouraged today to know that God does not judge our unbelief, that God is not discouraged by our questions. Instead God keeps calling us and working with us. And according to this story, the more our unbelief, the more opportunities we have to serve, to follow, to be called.
Today we celebrate the resurrection—we rejoice that death could not hold Jesus in the cold tomb. Today we sing, and rightly so—Christ is alive, Up from the grave he arose, Lift your Glad voices in triumph on high. We sing because we believe in the resurrection. We sing, even though we have doubts. We sing and pray, through our questions, our wondering, our silence. And God honors that.
Blessed are you, people of the resurrection. Blessed are you in your doubts and questions, in your misgivings and confusion. Blessed are you, people of the resurrection. For in your doubts, God calls you by name. In your silence, God works with you. In your belief, God rejoices. Blessed are you, people of the resurrection. Rejoice and be glad! You are being transformed by this story! Christ is alive, and God will reveal God’s self to you, in your belief and in your unbelief. AMEN.
The Mystery of the Cross
Cross-posted at http://www.mennoworld.org/blog/2012/4/6/mystery-cross/
I walked into the sanctuary last Friday morning, and could not believe what was on the stage — a life-sized, 10-foot tall cross, complete with nails and a crown of thorns. I had no idea where it came from and, to be honest, it irritated me to find it there. I didn’t ask for it, and I didn’t want it there.
My initial irritation quickly turned to awe as I heard Jay’s story. Moved by our Lenten theme of “Cross Examinations,” Jay decided to make this cross. He searched for the right wood, and when he found it, measured it by laying on it. He carried that cross — alone — up the stairs to the sanctuary, and placed it on the stage.
Since the cross appeared in the sanctuary on Friday, it’s been on my mind. Most disturbing to me was my visceral reaction to it. How often do we find the cross of Christ an unwelcome sight, an unappreciated reminder of the messiness of faith, and the gritty inhumanity of Jesus’ assassination?
In recent history, our Christian tradition has dealt with the messiness of the cross by making it personal — Jesus had to die to save us from our sins, to get us to heaven, to save us from the wrath of God. This is something the early Christians certainly didn’t understand. It took the early church a few generations to even begin to make sense of Jesus’ death and suffering. In fact, there were letters and writings about the meaning of the cross before the story of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection had even been written down. People were trying to make sense of Jesus’ unexpected death before people knew the whole story of his life.
Today, the surprising and foreboding cross in the sanctuary represents much more than the traditional atonement themes. It represents the cross of suffering that our grieving and disabled members bear. It represents the cross of racism in the murder of Trayvon Martin. It recalls the crosses we are called to carry with our brothers and sisters who need people of faith to walk along with them. And the cross is one of embrace, for those who have suffered know they are not alone in their pain.
While my reaction to the cross was an embarrassing reminder of my own discomfort with this central symbol, it became a moment of transformation. When folks walked into the sanctuary on Sunday, and heard Jay share his personal experience with this life-sized cross, it changed the conversation. This cross was not a distant symbol; it was ours. We knew a little better of the suffering of Jesus, just as we know better the suffering of our neighbors when we risk to share deeply. We knew better of the complex meaning of the cross, because we could sit with it, touch it and recognize it. This cross — once an inconvenient symbol of Jesus’ humanity — became a personal, intimate symbol of our relationship to the resurrected Christ.
Under Suspicion
March 25, 2012
John 12: 20-33
Both of my kids like to wear hoodies. I’ve never really understood the hoodie thing—I’m more of a hat and scarf person myself. But they wear them like they are a uniform. In fact, because the winter was so mild, most days in the last few months, they’ve been able to wear hoodies without even a coat.
I’ve been glad for the beautiful and warm weather this week, but mostly glad to get rid of those hoodies. Not because I don’t like them, but because they have begun to represent the story of Trayvon Martin.
This 17 year old black child was walking to the home he was visiting on February 26th, after going to the store for a bag of skittles and a soda. On his way back, he was followed by a man. Trayvon was on the phone at the time, and told his friend that he was scared. She told him to run. He didn’t.
Trayvon was killed by George Zimmerman—a member of the neighborhood watch. George called 911 to report a person who looked suspicious—a kid in a hoodie. The authorities said they would take care of it, and told George not to follow this suspicious, hoodie wearing character. But George did not listen. George followed Trayvon, and confronted him.
Trayvon was shot and killed for looking suspicious.
I was talking to a friend this week who was lamenting that this case had become such a big deal. “There are plenty of kids who get shot on the streets of Philadelphia, because they are standing on drug corners,” he said. “When do we grieve them?” And while this is true, the harsh reality is that we see those kids on the corners as bad. They had weapons. They were selling drugs. They were mixed up with the wrong crowd. And we don’t say it like this but that kind of thinking leads us to: they deserved it.
What is so hard about this case of Trayvon Martin is that there is nothing to even indicate that he deserved it. He wasn’t doing drugs, selling drugs, he didn’t have a weapon (unless you consider a bag of skittles a weapon). He was a good kid, who looked suspicious to a renegade neighborhood watchman with a gun.
Our gospel text today comes from John. Jesus is talking to his disciples, Philip and Andrew, but just like last week’s text where Jesus talks to Nicodemus, it certainly feels like Jesus it talking more to all of us than to just Philip and Andrew.
There are some gospel accounts where Jesus seems a little clueless about what he is going to happen to him—that he will die at the hands of the powerful, the weapon-clad. Or in another gospel account, he seems like he is understanding it slowly over the course of his ministry. But here, in the gospel of John, Jesus seems pretty clear of his fate all along. He is living out his call to discipleship, and he knows it will kill him.
And here in the gospel of John, Jesus is also pretty clear that he will not be asking to be saved from his fate. Jesus says in this passage of John, “Now my soul is troubled. And what should I say—Abba, save me from this hour? No. It is for this reason that I have come to this hour. Abba, glorify your name.”
Unlike other gospels where Jesus asks God to spare him from death and suffering, Jesus in the gospel of John is clear. Jesus was born human, and will die, human. Jesus does not expect that God will save him from his humanity.
Jesus’ death is because the word became flesh and dwelt among us. Just like all flesh, there is a time for it to die. “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”
It feels to me like Jesus has an awful lot of faith in humanity. More than I can muster most days. Jesus believes here—without hesitation or pause—that his death will cultivate the earth and bear fruit, his death will matter, that his death will bear fruit that will feed and sustain others.
After the story of Trayvon Martin hit the news these last few weeks, my friend, Chaz Howard, the African American chaplain at the University of Pennsylvania, shared his experience of growing up black and under suspicion. He writes this in a recent Huffington Post article:
As a high school student driving with my friends in the predominantly white neighborhood our school was in, we were pulled over because we “looked suspicious.” Walking around the university in which I was enrolled, I was stopped by the police there because I “looked suspicious.” Perhaps most painfully, while I was enrolled in seminary studying for the ministry, I was walking back to campus one evening when a local policeman stopped me, made me put my hands on my head and kneel on the ground because “there had been a lot of car thefts lately and I “looked suspicious.”
I am Trayvon Martin. And anyone who has been stopped, profiled and questioned because they didn’t seem to belong in an area or they looked like they might be planning to do something illegal — when they were not — is Trayvon Martin too.
I feel such anger about the death of Trayvon. I’m angry that my friend, Chaz—one of the most compassionate and kind people I know, experienced the same fear that Trayvon did.
This is why people have worn their hoodies this week. It’s a tricky protest for many of us—we are mostly white and educated folk. Wearing hoodies doesn’t quite help us understand the fear that Trayvon experienced the day of his shooting. Wearing a hoodie doesn’t mean we relate to the fear of coming under suspicion, that Chaz and so many other man of color have experienced. But, it is an act of solidarity, heading towards empathy.
The experience of Trayvon and others is something that Jesus understood. He knew what it was like to be under suspicion, he knew that his life would end in tragedy. He knew that he be killed, and that his death would be supported by law.
And because Jesus understood the tragedy of being human—that our humanity results in death—from that place we too stand in solidarity with Jesus, with Trayvon, with Chaz, and with all other people of color that face suspicion and death. Just for being themselves. Just for being the people God made them to be.
This season of lent, this cross represents the suffering of Christ, the inevitability of his death. But it also represents the suffering and death of so many other people throughout history. This cross of suffering represents Trayvon Martin. It represents an intersection for us as well. When met with the intersection of tragedy and death, we can be changed by it. That seed, planted in the ground can bear fruit. Jesus fully expected that the tragedy of his death would make a change in our hearts and actions. In fact, he staked his life on that belief.
We meet the intersection of tragedy and death again in 2012—with Trayvon Martin’s fear filled death, with the death of hundreds of people on the streets of Philadelphia, victims of handgun violence in our city of Brotherly love. The victims of these tragedies could not be saved. Many didn’t even have time to ask to be spared.
Jesus bet his life on the cross, that it would break us open, and cause us to see anew. But we can’t let that breaking open stop at the cross of Jesus. The cross of the holocaust must break our hearts. The suffering and death of so many young black men, lynched in this country, must break us open. The death of every victim at the hands of the state should make us ache. And the death of Trayvon Martin, an innocent, young, hopeful black teenager should devastate us.
As followers in the way of Jesus, we follow because we see the world differently. Jesus and the cross did that for us. The words and actions of Jesus—everything from his healings, to his conversations with outsiders, to his death and resurrection—have begun to change our focus, our understanding of the world.
A new understanding of the world means nothing if we do not do something with what we see. Discipleship means acting on this new world view, given to us by Jesus through his death at the hands of the empire, and through his resurrection, born in hope and impossibility.
As we move closer to Good Friday and closer to the cross, let us remember those who, like Jesus, were under suspicion. Let us be broken open by their stories, by their victimization and death. And from the brokenness, may new life spring forth and bear fruit. AMEN.
The Unraveling Cross
John 3: 14-21
March 21, 2012
The cross is unraveling.
This cross behind me is literally falling apart. Colin, along with Julia and Willem, worked really hard to get geometric origami cross together as our worship focus. We wanted to put it up without tape or clips—just a little fishing wire. How naive we were! After hoisting this cross up with fishing wire we realized that the cross was coming apart. There were places on this structure that could not hold the weight of the rest of the structure. So, we tried to hold it together with a little clear tape.
But when I came in on the first Sunday morning of lent the cross had slid down the fishing line, so I tried to hoist it back up, but when I did, the straining paper structure began to unravel. It seemed like every time I put tape on something, another piece would come apart.
So I finally stopped trying. Colin and I got it to a certain place a few weeks ago, and decided that we weren’t going to tape any more. If it unraveled, it unraveled.
This pastel cross—our Lenten focus–has become a metaphor for me. This cross, so lovingly handmade by people in the congregation is just coming apart, as are our ideas about what the cross means. Perhaps, as we delve into one of the most well known scriptures out there, we’ll see this cross completely unravel right in front of us.
These verses—particularly the famous John 3:16 have become mocked by society, especially because of the one guy at every football games that holds up the “John 3:16” sign. I still don’t understand how that helps to promote the gospel, that guy is pretty convinced that by holding the sign, he is saving souls—that when people see his sign, they’ll google this verse, and saying it out loud, their salvation procured—just like that.
This year, John 3:16, got some added press from football quarterback, Tim Tebow. He’s been known to write “John 3:16” on the black stuff football players put under their eyes. And this year, in a football game against the Steelers, the Bronco’s Quarterback ran 316 yards, and averaged 31.6 yards in completion. Now I don’t know what any of that means, but it meant something to Tebow and his fans. His football celebrity was a way to get the gospel out there.
This verse alone carries a lot of heaviness and guilt with it. For God so loved the world that God gave us Jesus, God’s only son, so that whoever might believe in Jesus will have eternal life. Implied in that verse for some is the suffering and death of Jesus, and the threat that not believing might make Jesus’ death a waste.
In fact, intrinsic in Mel Gibson’s recent movie, The Passion of the Christ, is this same message. Jesus did all this for you. You have to believe. Or else. Or else…darkness, death, hell.
In looking again this week at this famous verse, I looked for signs of God’s judgement and anger in this passage, and I couldn’t find it. All I could find was my own baggage around this verse, and perhaps some residual cultural baggage.
And to focus soley on John 3:16 misses some of the most beautiful, elegant and grace-filled parts of this John passage.
So, let’s look at John 3, Verses 16 and 17—together, they go like this: “God so loved the world as to give the only Begotten One, that whoever believes may not die, but have eternal life. God sent the Only Begotten into the world, not to condemn the world, but that through the Only Begotten the world might be saved.”
Martin Luther once said, “If I were the Lord…and these vile people as disobedient as they now be, I would knock the world into pieces.”
Thankfully God chose Love. And thankfully Martin Luther was not God. God loves humanity. God loves us in our imperfection, our destructive tendencies, our idiocy. God loves us enough to give up a piece of God’s self. God loves us enough to try to understand us better.
Notice here that it does not say, God loves us enough to kill Jesus. That’s not the sacrifice John is talking about here—instead God loves us enough to try to get closer to us, to try to relate to us more personally, to break down the barriers between us and God.
And God did this so we can have eternal life—this eternal life, according to language scholars, isn’t so much about duration. It’s about quality rather than quantity. It’s not about the length of one’s life, but the kind of life one chooses. It is both present and future. It is the reign of God, the here and not yet.
Essentially, God gave up a piece of God’s self for relationship. With us. And in return we have an opportunity to see God’s reign—God’s presence—in a new way.
The giving of God’s child—God’s Only Begotten—to humanity, was not an act of condemnation but of salvation. It is an opportunity to see God breaking into the world, not an opportunity for God to judge us and condemn us.
This text comes to us from the Gospel of John, a gospel that I’ve always found to be harsh and not so easy on the ears. But here, John’s Jesus speaks lovingly and truthfully about God’s relationship to humanity. This text has nothing to do with a punishing cross and a tortured Jesus, but about a loving God.
This week, I ran across a book in my library. There are very few words in this book—it is mostly images of the crucifixion throughout history. I was surprised to learn that the first depictions of the crucifixion scene in history did not appear until the early 5th century. We did not see images of Jesus on the cross until 400 years after his death. And these earliest images were of Jesus on the cross—eyes wide open. Alert and alive. Fully present. By the 7th and 8th century, the images change to mostly images of Jesus on the cross with eyes closed, presumably dead.
The first image in the book of the crucified Jesus, carved in ivory was the most shocking. Jesus is on the cross—eyes open and face strong—and surrounded by bewildered, distraught followers. Meanwhile Judas hangs in a nearby tree—eyes closed, body lifeless, 30 coins laying beneath him. This was not the gruesome scene of mideaval Christian art. This was a juxtaposition between eternal life—the life Jesus was living, even on the cross—and the death of Judas. This was an image of John 3.
This is the choice we have too. I hate to put it in such stark terms, but this is how the Gospel of John puts it, so I’m going to go with it. We have the choice to live the way of death and darkness, with our actions hidden from view. Or we can follow the way of Jesus, taking up our crosses, with our eyes wide open to the presence of God around us. Both sound rather terrifying to me at first glance. Do I really want to live my life in secrecy, concerned only about myself? If I am to be really truthful with myself and with you, I do answer “yes” to that some days.
But this week, in light of the unusually bright and warm weather, I have felt drawn to the light—both the light of the warm sunshine as I’ve discovered new paths in the Wissahickon park, and the light of eternal life, as I’ve longed to see the presence of God in this screwed up, broken world.
It is hard for us to imagine choosing the cross, choosing the way of eternal life. Each of us has known a bit of suffering in our lives, but relative to the rest of the world, we do not know suffering. So, we face the same struggles as Nichodemus, the rich religious scholar Jesus spoke with in our John text. It is hard for us to comprehend suffering, and terrifying to imagine that it is what we are asked to choose.
But it is the choice we are given. Choose the way of Jesus, and expect to see suffering, to experience pain, to have your eyes opened to the suffering of your neighbors, and be called to bear that pain with them. But choose the way the Jesus chose, and see God at work. See God make a way when there was no way. Feel the empowering presence of God. Watch as God breaks open our world, and reveals something new and beautiful.
The cross is unraveling. Here I thought this cross was a gruesome reminder of the suffering, death, and ultimate resurrection of Jesus. But, perhaps it is a symbol of the choice we must make. God sent Jesus to be in deeper relationship with us. Jesus asks us in the Gospel of John if we will choose to accept that relationship, if we will choose to see both the suffering of our neighbors and the reign of God. This choice—ironic as it is—is the eternal life God has promised us. AMEN.
The Cross of Hope
February 26th
I Peter 1:18-22
When Reba was three, and I was just starting back to school, I took her to the seminary where she saw for the first time, a large, graphic sculpture of Jesus, hanging on the cross. She pointed in horror, and said, “Who is that?”
“It’s Jesus, honey.”
She replied emphatically, “No, mommy. That is not Jesus. Jesus is the baby in the manger.”
Then, when she realized I was serious about this man hanging in on the cross, she looked at Jesus with great sadness and empathy, and said, “Poor Jesus. He needs a doctor.”
It is a funny story that I like to tell about my girl, but it also reminds me of my own discomfort with this part of the story of Jesus. The image of an infant Jesus, a healing Jesus, a teaching Jesus, or even an angry Jesus in the temple is preferable to the part of the story where Jesus hangs on the cross, in agony, the tragic and unexpected consequence of following God’s call on his life.
I don’t think my discomfort is especially unusual. As Mennonites, we don’t tend to focus on the agony of the cross. We look at the life and teachings of Jesus, and sometimes the resurrection. But it’s those 24 hours between the last supper and the burial of Jesus that really mystify us. What do we do with this cross?
Much of the difficulty with the cross comes from what many of us were taught about the meaning of the cross. I don’t care if you we were raise Mennonite, Baptist, Catholic or Episcopalian or agnostic—you probably know a little cross theology. Many of us grew up being told that Jesus suffered and died to save us from the fires of hell.So, in order to make Jesus’ death have meaning, we must accept the violence, we must carry that weight, that burden of Jesus death.
It’s a heavy way to approach the cross, and the suffering of Jesus.
The other thing many of us heard was that God required this sacrifice. Jesus, God’s only Son, had to die to satisfy God’s anger and disgust with humanity. This makes God seem violent, angry, and mean, spiteful, even detached.
These interpretations of the cross and suffering of Jesus make our Anabaptist values feels….murky. As people of peace, who follow the God of peace, what do we do with what we’ve been told about God, and God’s violence? What do we do about God that demands sacrifice in the death of God’s only son, and how has that influenced the way we have looked at the relationship between God and Jesus, and between God and us?
I hope you are not here today thinking that this Lenten series on the cross is going to wrap this issue up with a big bow, and we’ll figure it all out. Oh, I pray that it does, but I’ve been looking at this for a few years, theologians have been studying this for centuries, and this question of Jesus’ death by Roman execution continues to confound the Church. In fact, if this symbol doesn’t leave you with questions, or cause you to squirm, I would be worried.
The problem of Jesus’ death has not been resolved.
It took the early Church a few generations to even begin to make sense of Jesus’ death and suffering. In fact, there were letters and writings about the meaning of the cross, before the story of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, had even been written down. People were trying to make sense of Jesus’ unexpected death before people knew the whole story of his life.
And we continue—two millinia later—to struggle with the meaning of this cross. Reba was more right than a 3 year old should be when she looked at Jesus, hanging on the cross, and said he needed a doctor. The image of Jesus has been tarnished, even beaten down, by these destructive ideas of what his death means. We must continue to heal the wounds of centuries of shame-laden theology about this cross that have been put on our Christian ancestors. So today, we’ll start with our text in 1 Peter, written to the Church in Asia Minor.
The church in Asia Minor was suffering. This multi-ethnic congregation, attended by both slaves and free people, rich and poor, men and women, were experiencing persecution for their beliefs in this executed and resurrected Jesus. This letter to the church in Asia Minor was a word of encouragement, hope and strength, in the midst of discrimination and persecution. This letter was written to let this church know that they were not alone.
First Peter has been described as a baptism liturgy, a worshipful, thoughtful approach to this decision we publicly make to follow in the way of Jesus. This letter called the struggling community to continue to live a holy, ordered life, even in the midst of persecution.
And this is the author’s take on Jesus’ death, even before the first gospel account had been written down. “For Christ also suffered for sins. Once. For all. The righteous for the unrighteous. In order to bring you to God.” The author packs a lot of dangling phrases into that one sentence, as is pretty common in the greek language. But, it’s an English major’s worst nightmare. “For Christ also suffered for sins. Once. For all. The righteous for the unrighteous, in order to bring you to God.”
Christ did indeed suffer for sins. We know this to be true, from all of the gospel accounts. Jesus suffered for the sins of silence, of commission, of complacency, of fear, of the empire’s stranglehold on society. Jesus suffered because the religious and political leaders were afraid and threatened, and the people that loved Jesus did not speak up in his defense. The goodness, the rightness of Jesus suffered for all those who could not see what God called Jesus to do. They could not see God’s reign breaking in.
But this is where it gets really uncomfortable for us—the author of 1 Peter says that Jesus died to bring you to God. Forget for a moment how difficult it is for you to hear this—imagine what it meant for this persecuted community to hear this word. This is a community that may never have heard about Jesus, if it were not for his death and resurrection.
This is a community that probably understood the call of discipleship more clearly and more personally because Jesus died. Because of Jesus’ death, these followers of Jesus knew without a doubt that their decision in baptism and confession of faith meant that they too may face the same consequence. They may also be killed. They may also suffer. But they do not do so alone. The spirit of Jesus was alive and present in this Christian community. It was inspiring this fledgling church to be strong, to live into the commitment they made at baptism, to follow in the way of Jesus.
How ironic that a symbol of the empire’s attempt to squash Jesus’ message is a symbol of hope for this persecuted community, a reminder that Jesus was “put to death in the flesh, but made alive in the spirit.”
What I hear in this text from I Peter—in this early interpretation of the cross—is not a message of guilt to this struggling community. They are doing the hard work of discipleship already. They are suffering for what they believe. They do not need guilt. They need hope. And the author takes this cross—a symbol of empire power to destroy—and turns it upside down. This is not a symbol of fear, but of hope. Jesus may have died, but his spirit lives on, and continues to inspire these believers. And in their baptism, they accept the possibility that this too could happen to them.
In 1961, a group of young college students, called the freedom riders—seven black and six white—got on a bus leaving from Washington DC. Their plan was to ride through Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, ending in New Orleans, Louisiana where a civil rights rally was planned.
The Freedom Riders’ tactics for their journey were to have at least one interracial pair sitting in adjoining seats and at least one black rider sitting up front, where seats under segregation had been reserved for white customers by local custom throughout the South. The rest would sit scattered throughout the rest of the bus. One rider would abide by the South’s segregation rules in order to avoid arrest and to contact their supporters back home and arrange bail for those who were arrested.
They had some trouble on their journey, but the worst awaited them in Birmingham. There the freedom riders were attacked and beaten. The bus managed to escape the depot, but not before the tires on the bus were slashed. The bus made it a few miles out of town, where it finally had to stop. There the bus was firebombed.Those freedom riders that were injured were taken to the hospital, but were mostly refused treatment.
This is a terrible story of suffering and persecution for the right to ride an unsegregated bus. But what is incredible to me about this story is this: Before the tragic incident, where the freedom riders were beaten and nearly killed, the organizers of this event had a hard time getting volunteers. No one wanted to go on this ride. After this event, though things were no safer for anyone, it was much easier to get volunteers for the next freedom ride.
Why was that? Perhaps it was not unlike what was happening to the church in Asia minor. Though they were persecuted, though they were afraid, they a spirit of hope surrounding them. In the firebombing and beatings, the civil rights movement knew there was hope there, and that moved them on to continue the work of equality and righteousness.
This is a difficult symbol for us to face. The suffering of Christ is not something we glory in—it pains us to know that Jesus died. But this cross can by a symbol of hope, a representation of Christ’s presence with us, calling us to our baptismal vows, to following the way of Jesus, to be fully the people God called us to be, even in the face of violence, persecution, and oppression. AMEN.
To Touch and to Heal
My friend, Carrie, had a bad year. In 2011, two of her family members died, one after a long battle with cancer, and one relative died quite unexpectedly. She also lost her job and could not find a new one. She was struggling emotionally, economically and spiritually.
And, as if this were not enough, she couldn’t eat.
She tried, but her stomach would not tolerate it. The only thing she could keep down was liquids. And some days even that was a stretch—some days it was all she could do to get 20 ounces of fluid down.
Carrie’s doctor was concerned and suggested a round of tests on her stomach. But she knew her stomach was not the issue. And she wasn’t too anxious to pay out of pocket for the tests—being unemployed meant she had no insurance and no way to pay for the expensive tests.
As a last resort, and if led by the Spirit, Carrie went to a massage therapist her friend had been talking about for years. Up until the moment Carrie got onto the massage table, she would have called healing massage “hocus pocus.”
And then the massage began. Carrie began to relax into it, and as she relaxed, she began to cry.
The massage therapist pointed out things to Carrie about her body. She noted that Carrie was holding a lot of pain in certain parts of her body, and began to work on them. And Carrie continued to cry, releasing all the pain and sadness she held on to from her terrible year. And from that day on—after that kathartic massage–Carrie was able to eat.
I cried with Carrie when she told me this story. It was truly unbelievable, miraculous. Carrie said she would have never believed it herself, except that it happened to her. She was healed on the massage table. Now, this doesn’t mean that she still doesn’t grieve her awful 2011, and this doesn’t mean that doesn’t have any work to do. But she saw that healing massage as a turning point. All because she was willing to let this woman touch her and notice her pain. She opened herself to the possibility that healing could happen, and it did.
I have been thinking about Carrie’s story as I’ve been reading this story from Mark this week. How powerful it was for Jesus to touch people, to speak directly to them, and to heal them. How powerful it was for Carrie to let someone touch her, to be open to healing. And how incredible it was that Simon’s mother in law–sick with a fever that they feared would kill her–was able return to her work immediately after a touch by Jesus.
The story of salvation—the good news Jesus was declaring in the first chapter of Mark—was not just an intellectual message. “The reign of God is here—change your hearts and minds and believe the good news!” This is not simply something that creates a shift in perception—although it does—it’s more than that. Jesus impacted the emotional, intellectual, spiritual and physical lives of the people he encountered.
In our text last week, Jesus declared in the temple that the reign of God is here. And then, as if to give us a visual demonstration of the reign of God, Jesus cast out the demon, he cast out fear. Jesus silenced fear so that the reign of God could be more fully visible.
In this week’s text, after the unclean spirit was cast out of the synagogue, Jesus immediately went to the house of Simon and Andrew, and gave us exhibit B of the reign of God—he healed Simon and Andrew’s mother in law.
He put out his hand, she took it, he helped her up, and she went back to work. Her fever was gone.
We have two examples in the first chapter of Mark of what it means for the reign of God to be here—Fear is cast out, and people are healed. In fact, after Simon’s mother in law was healed, it says that people brought to Jesus those who were sick and possessed, and he healed the sick and cast out the unclean spirits. The healing and casting out got mixed up together into one messy group of people, sitting together in awe of what God could do.
This week, when I was picking up my daughter after school, I ran into someone who had a question about church. He asked me, “What does it mean to worship? Why do we do it?” The standard, pat answer is “we worship to glorify God, to say thanks”. But, there are other reasons too—particularly in the way we see the text as Mennonites. As followers of Christ, we see God in each other. The chairs face towards each other, so that we can hear the harmony in our singing, so that we can see the face of God in each other. We come to offer strength and healing and hope when we have some to spare, and we come to seek healing and hope as we need it. We come to give and we come to receive. We come to bear one another’s burdens. And as we leave this place, we go out to serve God, renewed and refreshed. That’s the ideal at least.
The people that Jesus healed in his ministry became the church. Those that had been healed, who had fear cast out of them, they gathered together to follow Jesus, to live the life that God had called them to live. And those that had been healed—like Simon and Andrew’s mother in law—in response to their healing, went out to serve.
As our congregation grows, being church to each other—taking care of each other, and being present to each other’s needs—this can get challenging. We don’t know everyone here. The size of the group on a given Sunday can sometimes discourage folks from disclosing their joys and pain in our sharing time. Sometimes we worry that our pain and joy may seem small in comparison to the others, and we hold back.
As a newer person, it can be intimidating to join in, to participate in the life of the church, when we don’t know everyone’s names and stories. And for a person that has been her for a while, new folks means new names and stories to learn too.
Sharing our stories, sharing our hope and healing, can be a challenge in a larger group. There are no simple answers to the challenges of a growing and evolving congregation. But just as Carrie sought healing and a sign of hope in the hands of a healing massage therapist, we seek healing and hope here. We seek to be touched by our brothers and sisters in Christ, to find support and encouragement, to name those things that give us pain and to cast them out.
And as we are being healed, we offer that healing hope to others. We follow in the way of Christ, who lived fully the life God called him to.
Let us offer our hands to those around us, to lift them up, to share their burdens. Let us together—with God’s help and guidance–cast out fear. AMEN.
(Dis)Possessed
Mark 1:21-28
January 29, 2012
When I was a teenager, I was introduced to a Christian novel series by author Frank Peretti—the series was all about demons and evil forces in the world. It captivated Christians because it dealt with the matter of spiritual warfare. In the small town of Aschton—the town where the series was set—a reporter discovered that the local New Age society had conceived a plot to take over the town, while at the same time a local pastor discovered that the town was full of demons. The reporter and pastor met by chance, compared notes, and discovered that something truly sinister was going on.
The plot sounds rather silly to us post-modern progressive Christians. But, this book sold millions of copies. People loved it, because it explained in story form this thing that Christians wonder about. Possession. Demon Possession.
What are we to make of demon possession and exorcism? Does this really happen today? Do people really become possessed by demons, a la Linda Blair in the Exorcist? Is that possible?
Or do we have a more sophisticated way to understand this? Perhaps it’s a form of schizophrenia manifest in a pre-psychiatric world? It could be, considering what little people knew about mental illness centuries ago.
But, to go down this road—to try to understand what exorcism is—would feel like it was losing sight of the story, I think. As entertaining as it may be to go think about demon possession, what it meant then, and what it means now, I think we miss the point of the story to do this.
So let’s get a better sense of the context of this story by starting at the beginning. The beginning of Mark.
Mark begins with the words of Isaiah—I send my messenger before you to prepare your way, a herald’s voice in the desert, crying, “Make ready the way to our God. Clear a straight path.”
Jesus is being set up as the one sent by God.
Following this proclamation, John the Baptizer arrived from out of the desert and baptized Jesus, and immediately the Holy Spirit showed up, and descended on Jesus in dove form.
That same holy spirit, after blessing Jesus, sent him immediately into the desert to be tempted.
After the desert, Jesus went to Galilee, proclaiming, “This is the time of fulfillment. The reign of God is here. Change your hearts and minds and believe this Good news!” And then Jesus called the disciples and they went—without questions or debate.
Next, Jesus went to the temple in Capernaum and taught the people—“This is the time of fulfillment. The reign of God is here. Change your hearts and minds and believe!” And the people were astonished—a combination of fascination and outrage. But, Jesus taught with authority. It was like nothing they’d ever heard.
It’s with all this background—the Isaiah passage, the baptism, the desert, the declaration that the reign of God is here, the calling of the disciples, and the teaching in the temple—that we meet the demon, or the unclean spirit.
This unclean spirit recognized Jesus and freaked out—“What do you want from us, Jesus? Are you here to destroy us?”
Reading this story sequentially and contextually, there’s a stark difference between the holy spirit, that called Jesus to share the good news, and sent him out, and the unclean spirit who was so afraid of what Jesus might do.
Rather than Frank Perretti-izing this story—making it about spiritual warfare—and rather than making this story about mental illness, I’d like to think about possession and this unclean spirit as something more universal—Fear.
This unclean spirit said to Jesus in the temple, “I know who you are. Are you here to destroy us?”
Notice how the pronoun changes. I know who you are. Are you here to destroy US? This unclean spirit is worried not only about himself, but about the whole group gathered there in the temple that day. Perhaps even the whole people of Israel.
The good news that Jesus came to the synagogue to share—that was terrifying to people. “The reign of God is here. Change your hearts and believe the good news.”
What is so terrifying about the good news to the unclean spirit?
What is Jesus offering the people that evokes such fear?
You need not look any further than the beginning of the story to see why this unclean spirit might be afraid. Jesus said yes to the call on his life, was baptized by John the Baptizer, and then the holy spirit showed up, blessed Jesus, and sent him out to the desert. This does not seem like a good thing. This could not possibly be a blessing.
From the desert Jesus went to Galilee to call the disciples. The disciples believed and followed, and left their lives behind. And then Jesus showed up in that temple in caperneum, preaching the message of liberation, freedom, and hope. Isn’t it a little ironic that after spending all that time in the desert, Jesus’ message is about liberation?
It sounds strange at first that this unclean spirit would oppose the message of hope, and freedom and liberation. What does fear have to lose?
Perhaps this unclean spirit was worried that believing in God’s reign would mean that he would be sent into the desert too. That perhaps—if he accepted this good news—that God might ask something of him, and of the people of Israel?
Belief, salvation, conversion—this is scary stuff.
My favorite story of conversion comes from Sara Miles in her memoir Take this Bread. This is what she writes:
“Early one morning, when I was 46, I walked in to a church, ate a piece of bread, and took a sip of wine. A routine Sunday activity for tens of millions of Americans—except that up until that moment, I’d led a thoroughly secular life. This was my first communion. It changed everything. Eating Jesus, as I did that day to my great astonishment, led me against all my expectations to a faith I’d scorned and work I’d never imagined.”
Sara went on to organize food pantries all over her city of San Franscico, recruiting thousands of volunteers to help her.
She said of her new call, “(it) didn’t turn out to be as simple as going to church on Sundays, folding my hands in the pews and declaring myself ‘saved.’ Nor did my volunteer church word mean talking kindly to poor folks and handing them a sandwich from a sanctified distance…I had to struggle with my atheist family, my doubting friends, and the prejudices and traditions of my newfound church…I met thieves, child abusers, millionaires, day laborers, politicians, schzophrenics, gangsters and bishops—all blown into my life through the restless power of a call to feed people, widening what I though of as my ‘community’ in ways that were exhilarating, confusing, often scary.”
“This is my belief: that at the heart of Christianity is a power that continues to speak to and transform us. As I found to my surprise and alarm, it could speak even to me: not in the sappy, Jesus-and-cookies tone of mild-mannered liberal Christianity, or the blustering hellfire of the religious right. What I heard, and continue to hear, is a voice that can crack religious and political convictions open, that advocates for the least qualified, least official, least likely; that upsets the established order and makes a joke of certainty. It proclaims against reason that the hungry will be fed, that those cast down will be raised up, that all things, including my own faulures, are being made new….It doesn’t promise to solve or erase suffering, but to transform it, pledging that by loving one another, even through pain, we will find new life. And it insists that by opening ourselves to strangers…we will see more and more of the holy, since, without exception, all people are one body: Gods.”
Sara Miles’ story is compelling, partly because she breaks all the rules, partly because she can name what happened to her. But, most profoundly she can name the salvation, the liberation that is brought about by following in the way of Jesus.
When we believe this message of liberation, it is taking the place of fear, of that unclean spirit that is part of all of us. With God’s reign fully present, we don’t need to hold on to the fear any more. Something better and more sustaining is exorcising that spirit.
And when we believe, we know that letting go of that fear is a journey we take, on a path which we do not see clearly. It leads us to the waters of baptism, and from there—who knows. Perhaps the desert, perhaps the church. Maybe to the food pantry, or to the street, or to our neighbors. There is no certainty, but there is the holy presence of God, leading and sustaining us.
When we lay down the fear, those demons—unclean spirits—whatever you want to call them—can be exorcised, and we experience the terrifying liberation of Christ.
I understand what scared that unclean spirit that day in the temple. This journey of discipleship is not safe or clear nor does it make a lot of sense. Holding on to the fear can feel safe than jumping into the unknown. But we hold onto the promises today that love is stronger than fear, and that discipleship is freedom.
AMEN.