Texts: Philippians 3 4-14 (press on towards the goal); John 12 1-8 (anointed for burial)
What does the phrase "the gospel" mean? What is "the good news" that we, as followers of Jesus Christ, proclaim in our worship, our service and our lives?
I thought of this question this week as I watched news coverage of the election of Pope Francis in Rome. On Monday, CBC's The National reported on the state of the Roman Catholic Church in Latin America's biggest country, Brazil.
Like many others in the media, the CBC was rightly guessing that for the first time, a cardinal from the Americas might be chosen as the new Pope, although like many others, it wrongly guessed he might come from the country with the largest number of Catholics in the world, Portuguese-speaking Brazil. The eventual winner, Pope Francis, is from Spanish-speaking Argentina just south of Brazil, a country of about 40 million people.
The CBC report noted that as late as 1980, 90% of Brazil's nearly 200 million people called themselves Roman Catholic. Today, it is only 60%. Many of Brazil's former Catholics have joined Pentecostal churches while others now profess no religion.
The report stated that many of the new Protestant churches in Brazil preach a different gospel from that of the Roman Catholic Church. Called The Prosperity Gospel, it says that individuals who profess faith in Jesus, lead moral lives, and make donations to the church will become wealthy. In a country like Brazil with a youthful and growing middle class, the reporter suggested that The Prosperity Gospel has greater appeal than the supposedly more difficult gospel of Catholicism, which is seen as one of suffering and sacrifice. But is either one the gospel of Jesus Christ?
Suffering and sacrifice are central in today's reading from St. Paul. He writes: "Whatever gains I had, I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that, I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ . . . I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I may attain the resurrection from the dead."
That doesn't sound like a prosperity gospel to me. Nor does today's reading from John. In that passage, Mary anoints Jesus with perfume on the eve of his entry into Jerusalem. While such an anointing is associated with the crowning of kings and is very costly, Jesus states that the perfume is for his burial, which he knows will come later in the week. As such, this reading seems to also aligns more with a gospel of suffering and sacrifice than it does with a prosperity gospel.
But how can suffering and sacrifice be considered good news?
Traditional church teachings about suffering and sacrifice have often fall short of the mark, in my opinion. Sometimes, the church has preached that the poor and oppressed should accept their poverty and oppression rather than organize for justice. It has sometimes preached that accepting the established order is how we can follow Jesus.
Argentina, the home country of Pope Francis, provides an example from the 1970s. In the first part of that decade, vigorous movements for social change and justice developed among students, trade unionists, and women. When some of these activists adopted violent tactics, the Argentine military staged a coup and began a seven year-long dictatorship marked by torture and mass murder.
Some in the Argentine Church criticized the social movements that had organized for justice in Argentina because they didn't show proper respect for authority. Some in the church supported the military regime, even though the dictatorship eventually murdered 30,000 people.
If a so-called gospel teaches that women should submit to men, that workers should accept exploitation by their bosses, and that authoritarian governments should be respected even when they abuse their own citizens, I could understand why we would reject it.
I can also understand the appeal of The Prosperity Gospel given how central money is to our lives and how it figures in our hopes and fears. I do believe, though, that it mistakes the Idol of money for the God who is Love.
I wondered about spirit and money on Wednesday as I spent time with the financial manager of Western Hyundai in Moose Jaw while she worked out the financing for my new car. She mentioned that the conversations she has with customers are sometimes difficult. In the context of a large purchase, they talk about taboo topics such as credit ratings and income. They also talk about death and disability benefits, which can really make people anxious. And so, I suggested to her that her role was a spiritual one and that her office might feel like a crucible for many of us.
I declined the insurance that would have covered my car payments if I were disabled and unable to work. I mentioned that I had death and disability benefits with my employer, the United Church of Canada. I also noted that there are a large number of ministers on long-term disability in the church at present. For some, this is because of physical sickness. But many others of us are on disability because of psychological distress.
Ministry can feel stressful, perhaps because of the life and death issues we often deal with. On the other hand, I told her that I hoped ministry could be its own cure. Much of the distress felt by ministers takes the form of a crisis of faith. I hope that if I ever feel burnt out or depressed, I might be able to preach my way out of it.
The good news that I try to preach involves an awareness of mortality and suffering. This awareness can free us from idols such as consumerism and allow us to work for our most sacred values of faith, hope and love. At the same time, an awareness of mortality and suffering need have nothing to do with accepting injustice.
Life on the road to the cross can be joyful. On the road to the cross, we have accepted God's help to face our fears and move beyond them. We accept that death is inevitable, and so we are freed to find new life in Christ. This new life is not about material success or power. It is about relying upon God. It is about learning that our individuality is an illusion; that we are dependent on God's Spirit in family and community; that we are dependent on God's Love, which is the ground of life; and that we are dependent on God in Christ, which is an undying flame within each one of us.
We often experience joy on the road to the cross, even if it is different from the happiness preached in The Prosperity Gospel. It is a joy that arises from putting aside our egos and their desires. But it is not a joy that bows down to arbitrary authority. It is a joy we feel in the collective struggle to love one another and to work for abundant life for all. It is a joy that comes when we rise, even if only for a moment, above the idols of authority and of personal wealth.
Government and church authority are human and always prone to corruption. Personal wealth and power are fleeting and don't give us the spiritual food that fuels the deep joy of life in Christ.
This is the good news that I try to preach to myself and to others. Of course, a person can only proclaim what has grasped him or her. Personally, I reject a gospel that preaches obedience to oppressive authority just as I reject one that tries to substitute wealth or pleasure for the God who is Love.
I try to find good news in the midst of lives of pain or fear. I look for moments in worship or everyday life in which we rise above fear and touch God's eternal life that is available to us on the road to the cross and beyond. I also try not to condemn too strongly those who know a different gospel than the one I have so far found.
I am glad that Pope Francis has a gospel that focuses on the poor. On Friday, he said his wants the Catholic Church be "a poor church for the world's poor." I am pleased that for the first time the Roman Catholic Church is led by a person born in the Americas. I am cheered that the former Cardinal Bergoglio has named himself after the humble Catholic saint, Francis of Assisi. St. Francis lived a simple life of poverty in the Middle Ages and worked for church reform and for the poor.
My first impression of Pope Francis is also favourable. So, despite his conservative views on issues like birth control and women and despite the controversies about his role as a church leader during the terrible years of military dictatorship in Argentina after 1976, I feel hopeful about the leadership of Pope Francis.
In the poverty of St. Francis; in the poverty of Jesus and his friends as they enter Jerusalem, and in the poverty of our own lives -- touched as they are by sickness, injustice and mental anguish -- may we all live into the good news of abundant life. This good news says that the death of both Jesus and of our own ambitions lead to Easter hope for a new life that is beyond the reach of injustice and personal ambition. It is a communal life of deep joy within the eternal Love of God.
Thanks be to God. Amen.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Sunday, March 10, 2013
A Parable, A Pope, and a Conclave of Pharisees
Text: Luke 15 (parable of the prodigal son)
Christianity sometimes seems like an odd religion to me. It is based upon the gospel accounts of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. In those accounts, Jesus consistently clashes with the religious leaders of his day. One might therefore expect Christians to be anti-religious and our churches to be humble gatherings of so-called sinners with no elites or hierarchies.
I experience some irony in saying this while wearing a Roman alb on a raised pulpit, two things that are designed to set me apart. As a minister, I am sensitive to Gospel readings in which Jesus provides a devastating response to the religious leaders of his time, as he does in today's famous Parable of the Prodigal Son.
Jesus tells the parable when he is criticized by Pharisees and other leaders. They are scandalized that Jesus welcomes and eats with sinners. In response, Jesus tells a tale about two brothers.
In the parable the prodigal son could take the role of the so-called sinners who are despised by the Pharisees; the Father could take the role of God in Christ who welcomes them; and the obedient older brother could take the role of the Pharisees.
In years past, I thought the central point of the parable was the repentance of the younger brother and his gracious acceptance by the Father. But now I find myself focusing more on the older brother.
Like the Pharisees, the older brother is quick to judge others as sinners. Like them, he thinks sinners should not be welcomed with gifts and parties. And like them, the older brother is angry at forgiveness and grace.
The younger brother gets into trouble because of his riotous living and his resulting poverty. But the older brother is in just as much trouble because of his moralism. In fact, since the older brother has yet to repent, he might actually be in a worse position than the prodigal.
Viewed this way, I see the parable as sharp attack on religion and its leaders. Jesus had nothing but contempt for the self-righteous moralists, law-givers, and law-abiders who infested his community in Palestine. This same religious elite were the driving force behind Jesus' arrest, trial, and execution.
So how did it happen that a church made up of followers of Jesus became one in which high and mighty rulers stringently policed the morality of the sinners in the pews and condemned those who didn't follow its narrow rules?
The role of Christian leadership will be front and centre in the news this week with the Conclave of Roman Catholic Cardinals who gather in Rome on Tuesday to elect a Pope to succeed Benedict XVI.
The media loves the spectacle of the election of a new Pope. Approximately 1 billion people -- 50% of all Christians -- are affiliated with the Roman Catholic Church. The next Pope will be elected by 115 elderly cardinals wearing red robes beneath the splendour of Michelangelo's paintings in the Sistine Chapel. The cardinals are all celibate, unmarried men, although the huge majority of people who attend Catholic mass are married women. Most of the cardinals are from Europe, although less than 25% of Catholics now live in Europe.
The cardinals all agree with the Catholic moral doctrines that have caused controversy for the church over the last 50 years: opposition to sex outside marriage, opposition to artificial birth control, opposition to abortion, opposition to homosexuality, and opposition to equality between men and women in the church.
None of the above positions would have raised eyebrows in 1958 when the cardinals elected Pope John XXIII. Back then, women were absent from the leadership of almost all institutions. Back then, homosexuality was rarely talked about and was illegal everywhere. And in 1958, artificial birth control was not available in many parts of the world.
But today, women hold leading roles in government, business, and many religious denominations. Today, homosexuality is legal in most democratic countries. Today, artificial birth control is the norm among almost all heterosexual couples, including the vast majority of Roman Catholic women.
The Catholic Church has declined in membership and influence in rich countries during these years. At the same time, the Catholic Church has grown in poor countries in Africa, Latin America and Asia. But as these latter countries undergo economic and social development -- which will inevitably lead to legal equality between men and women, human rights for gay people, and greater democracy -- it seems likely to me that the Church will decline there as well.
A church that only thrives in countries where women and gay people are violently oppressed and where democracy and the rule of law are absent is a church in big trouble, in my opinion.
I don't make these harsh criticisms of the Roman Catholic Church to steer us back to old-style Protestant attacks on the Pope. I am in favour of greater inter-church cooperation. I enjoy working with the Catholic parish and Father Andrew, and he is an important role model for me in how he has integrated into our communities.
I deliver this sermon because I believe that the prominence of the Roman Catholic Church in the media this week poses problems for all Christians. In Canada where the big majority of people no longer attend worship services, I fear that the publicity given to the election of the Pope this week will solidify the image of Christians as a bunch of modern-day Pharisees who are obsessed with sex, opposed to equality, and stuck with outdated doctrines.
Now if, by some miracle, the next Pope is a modernizer in the mold of Pope John XXIII, I will be thrilled. If the new Pope opens the door to female, gay and married priests, endorses artificial birth control as a moral and sensible choice, and democratizes the church, the world will be a better place.
If, as seems more likely, the new Pope continues the policies of Pope Benedict, then Christians who try to follow the path of welcoming so-called sinners will have a more difficult time getting a hearing from those beyond our doors, I believe.
Is there a route forward -- both for the younger and older brother in the parable and for prideful church leaders like the cardinals, or like me?
The parable shows God in the person of the Father offering radical grace to both brothers. However, it does not show us if either one accepts that grace. Both would need to overcome their judgement that the younger brother is a sinner in order to do so, I believe.
Repentance does not involve self-condemnation. It involves turning towards home, and the light of God's Love. The younger brother says "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son." The Father, however, does not agree. Not only does he still consider the prodigal to be his son; he celebrates his return with a great feast.
Jesus doesn't tell us the reaction of the younger brother, but what if his shame prevents him from accepting this welcome? What if he continues to feel unworthy because of his rebellion? If so, he would remain lost instead of found. He would remain dead instead of alive.
All of us rebel against our elders in one way or another. It is a normal part of life to leave home and head to the lights of the big city where we try to follow our desires and develop our lives and careers. This path is called sinful -- by the Pharisees, by the older brother, and eventually by the younger brother. But the Father does not do so. He has the wisdom to understand that in difficult lives, we all will engage in at least a little riotous living in order to discover our place in this crazy world.
If the younger son can accept the Father's welcome home, it might amplify the pain of his repentance; but it will also lead him to accept himself regardless of his past life and any future mistakes he might make. It will allow him to enter into a born-again life within God's Spirit.
The older brother remains obedient to social rules and to his father, but in doing so he succumbs to pride. From this prideful place, he then judges and condemns his prodigal brother.
Despite this pride, the Father also offers him radical love and acceptance. But can the son accepts this grace? To do so, he would have to climb off his high horse and agree that his obedience has not given him the right to judge his younger brother.
Not that any of us can avoid obedience either. Conforming to society is just as much a part of growing up as is rebelling. We may hate consumerism and the workings of the economy. But in order to make a living and raise families, we are all forced to make compromises and to live within a society of inequality and injustice. We can work to change those realities -- and I think we should -- but we have to get on with our lives as we do so.
When we conform, we might succumb to the trap of pride like the older brother. The grace offered to us by the Father leads us away from this pride. It allows us to look gently on both rebellion and conformity, just as the Father does. The Father welcomes both his sons with understanding, but without judgement.
So how can we stop judging? We seem to be always judging ourselves and others. For instance, the connection I have drawn today between the Catholic cardinals and the Pharisees is a judgement. Some here might not see or appreciate this connection, which would be OK by me, of course. My understanding of the Parable and my criticism of Catholic leaders is questionable, as is true of any judgement.
The good news is that God in Christ continues to offer us his welcome and his feast. With God's help, sometimes we soften our harsh judgements of self and others and so are able to rise into new life in Christ.
As the Cardinals gather in Rome on Tuesday, I pray that they will do so in a spirit of humility. I pray that the new Pope will help steer his Church away from self-righteousness and towards acceptance of all us so-called sinners who fall outside of its moral teachings. I pray that the new Pope will model the welcoming Father of today's parable and not the moralistic older brother.
As we move further in Lent, may we too soften our harsh judgements of ourselves and others. God calls us to turn away from human judgements and towards God's light. It shines strongest from beyond the darkness of the cross in which all of our human judgements are laid low.
The beauty and the brightness of God's light gives us the courage to throw off both moralism and self-indulgence. It allows us to return home to God in Christ. And it leads us all to the Father's great feast of welcome at Easter.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
Christianity sometimes seems like an odd religion to me. It is based upon the gospel accounts of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth. In those accounts, Jesus consistently clashes with the religious leaders of his day. One might therefore expect Christians to be anti-religious and our churches to be humble gatherings of so-called sinners with no elites or hierarchies.
I experience some irony in saying this while wearing a Roman alb on a raised pulpit, two things that are designed to set me apart. As a minister, I am sensitive to Gospel readings in which Jesus provides a devastating response to the religious leaders of his time, as he does in today's famous Parable of the Prodigal Son.
Jesus tells the parable when he is criticized by Pharisees and other leaders. They are scandalized that Jesus welcomes and eats with sinners. In response, Jesus tells a tale about two brothers.
In the parable the prodigal son could take the role of the so-called sinners who are despised by the Pharisees; the Father could take the role of God in Christ who welcomes them; and the obedient older brother could take the role of the Pharisees.
In years past, I thought the central point of the parable was the repentance of the younger brother and his gracious acceptance by the Father. But now I find myself focusing more on the older brother.
Like the Pharisees, the older brother is quick to judge others as sinners. Like them, he thinks sinners should not be welcomed with gifts and parties. And like them, the older brother is angry at forgiveness and grace.
The younger brother gets into trouble because of his riotous living and his resulting poverty. But the older brother is in just as much trouble because of his moralism. In fact, since the older brother has yet to repent, he might actually be in a worse position than the prodigal.
Viewed this way, I see the parable as sharp attack on religion and its leaders. Jesus had nothing but contempt for the self-righteous moralists, law-givers, and law-abiders who infested his community in Palestine. This same religious elite were the driving force behind Jesus' arrest, trial, and execution.
So how did it happen that a church made up of followers of Jesus became one in which high and mighty rulers stringently policed the morality of the sinners in the pews and condemned those who didn't follow its narrow rules?
The role of Christian leadership will be front and centre in the news this week with the Conclave of Roman Catholic Cardinals who gather in Rome on Tuesday to elect a Pope to succeed Benedict XVI.
The media loves the spectacle of the election of a new Pope. Approximately 1 billion people -- 50% of all Christians -- are affiliated with the Roman Catholic Church. The next Pope will be elected by 115 elderly cardinals wearing red robes beneath the splendour of Michelangelo's paintings in the Sistine Chapel. The cardinals are all celibate, unmarried men, although the huge majority of people who attend Catholic mass are married women. Most of the cardinals are from Europe, although less than 25% of Catholics now live in Europe.
The cardinals all agree with the Catholic moral doctrines that have caused controversy for the church over the last 50 years: opposition to sex outside marriage, opposition to artificial birth control, opposition to abortion, opposition to homosexuality, and opposition to equality between men and women in the church.
None of the above positions would have raised eyebrows in 1958 when the cardinals elected Pope John XXIII. Back then, women were absent from the leadership of almost all institutions. Back then, homosexuality was rarely talked about and was illegal everywhere. And in 1958, artificial birth control was not available in many parts of the world.
But today, women hold leading roles in government, business, and many religious denominations. Today, homosexuality is legal in most democratic countries. Today, artificial birth control is the norm among almost all heterosexual couples, including the vast majority of Roman Catholic women.
The Catholic Church has declined in membership and influence in rich countries during these years. At the same time, the Catholic Church has grown in poor countries in Africa, Latin America and Asia. But as these latter countries undergo economic and social development -- which will inevitably lead to legal equality between men and women, human rights for gay people, and greater democracy -- it seems likely to me that the Church will decline there as well.
A church that only thrives in countries where women and gay people are violently oppressed and where democracy and the rule of law are absent is a church in big trouble, in my opinion.
I don't make these harsh criticisms of the Roman Catholic Church to steer us back to old-style Protestant attacks on the Pope. I am in favour of greater inter-church cooperation. I enjoy working with the Catholic parish and Father Andrew, and he is an important role model for me in how he has integrated into our communities.
I deliver this sermon because I believe that the prominence of the Roman Catholic Church in the media this week poses problems for all Christians. In Canada where the big majority of people no longer attend worship services, I fear that the publicity given to the election of the Pope this week will solidify the image of Christians as a bunch of modern-day Pharisees who are obsessed with sex, opposed to equality, and stuck with outdated doctrines.
Now if, by some miracle, the next Pope is a modernizer in the mold of Pope John XXIII, I will be thrilled. If the new Pope opens the door to female, gay and married priests, endorses artificial birth control as a moral and sensible choice, and democratizes the church, the world will be a better place.
If, as seems more likely, the new Pope continues the policies of Pope Benedict, then Christians who try to follow the path of welcoming so-called sinners will have a more difficult time getting a hearing from those beyond our doors, I believe.
Is there a route forward -- both for the younger and older brother in the parable and for prideful church leaders like the cardinals, or like me?
The parable shows God in the person of the Father offering radical grace to both brothers. However, it does not show us if either one accepts that grace. Both would need to overcome their judgement that the younger brother is a sinner in order to do so, I believe.
Repentance does not involve self-condemnation. It involves turning towards home, and the light of God's Love. The younger brother says "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son." The Father, however, does not agree. Not only does he still consider the prodigal to be his son; he celebrates his return with a great feast.
Jesus doesn't tell us the reaction of the younger brother, but what if his shame prevents him from accepting this welcome? What if he continues to feel unworthy because of his rebellion? If so, he would remain lost instead of found. He would remain dead instead of alive.
All of us rebel against our elders in one way or another. It is a normal part of life to leave home and head to the lights of the big city where we try to follow our desires and develop our lives and careers. This path is called sinful -- by the Pharisees, by the older brother, and eventually by the younger brother. But the Father does not do so. He has the wisdom to understand that in difficult lives, we all will engage in at least a little riotous living in order to discover our place in this crazy world.
If the younger son can accept the Father's welcome home, it might amplify the pain of his repentance; but it will also lead him to accept himself regardless of his past life and any future mistakes he might make. It will allow him to enter into a born-again life within God's Spirit.
The older brother remains obedient to social rules and to his father, but in doing so he succumbs to pride. From this prideful place, he then judges and condemns his prodigal brother.
Despite this pride, the Father also offers him radical love and acceptance. But can the son accepts this grace? To do so, he would have to climb off his high horse and agree that his obedience has not given him the right to judge his younger brother.
Not that any of us can avoid obedience either. Conforming to society is just as much a part of growing up as is rebelling. We may hate consumerism and the workings of the economy. But in order to make a living and raise families, we are all forced to make compromises and to live within a society of inequality and injustice. We can work to change those realities -- and I think we should -- but we have to get on with our lives as we do so.
When we conform, we might succumb to the trap of pride like the older brother. The grace offered to us by the Father leads us away from this pride. It allows us to look gently on both rebellion and conformity, just as the Father does. The Father welcomes both his sons with understanding, but without judgement.
So how can we stop judging? We seem to be always judging ourselves and others. For instance, the connection I have drawn today between the Catholic cardinals and the Pharisees is a judgement. Some here might not see or appreciate this connection, which would be OK by me, of course. My understanding of the Parable and my criticism of Catholic leaders is questionable, as is true of any judgement.
The good news is that God in Christ continues to offer us his welcome and his feast. With God's help, sometimes we soften our harsh judgements of self and others and so are able to rise into new life in Christ.
As the Cardinals gather in Rome on Tuesday, I pray that they will do so in a spirit of humility. I pray that the new Pope will help steer his Church away from self-righteousness and towards acceptance of all us so-called sinners who fall outside of its moral teachings. I pray that the new Pope will model the welcoming Father of today's parable and not the moralistic older brother.
As we move further in Lent, may we too soften our harsh judgements of ourselves and others. God calls us to turn away from human judgements and towards God's light. It shines strongest from beyond the darkness of the cross in which all of our human judgements are laid low.
The beauty and the brightness of God's light gives us the courage to throw off both moralism and self-indulgence. It allows us to return home to God in Christ. And it leads us all to the Father's great feast of welcome at Easter.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Repent or perish! Or is it crash and burn?
Texts: 1 Corinthians 10 1-13 (tested by God); Luke 13 1-9 (Repent or perish)
When "bad things" happen to people we judge to be evil, do these events reflect God's judgement? If so, why do bad things also happen to good people? These are two questions that leapt out for me from today's readings from Paul and Luke.
Paul writes about God's wrath towards the Hebrew slaves during their 40-year-long Exodus from Egypt in the desert. Despite having been led out of Egypt by Moses, the former slaves often behave in ways that anger God. In response, the Bible says that God kills thousands of them.
Jesus, however, seems to see things differently. When he discusses the execution of Galileans who have come to worship in Jerusalem and the death of others who were crushed by a falling tower, he states that these deaths did not result from the sins of the victims. Jesus does not believe that God uses the Roman state or a falling tower to strike people down for their sins.
Jesus' viewpoint seems more modern to me than Paul's. Today, we assume that all events have natural causes. We don't believe that God is either saving us or punishing us in life's ups and downs. Or do we?
As most of you know, my own "bad thing" happened last Sunday. While driving from Coronach to Fife Lake, I lost control of my car on a snow-covered section of Highway 18, slid into a field, and rolled the car twice before landing on my wheels. I was shaken up by this crash and I felt sad that my car was destroyed. But I was also relieved and surprised that I emerged almost completely unscathed. Other than a short-lived bump on my head and a sore wrist, I was fine physically. For the first few mornings afterwards, I awoke expecting stiff muscles or a headache, but they never materialized.
Several people told me that they thought it was not just luck or the design of the car that had spared me any physical repercussions from this crash. They believed that God had protected me. But while I appreciate the sentiment, I disagree with the theology contained in this idea.
To say that God intervenes in a moment like my accident to change natural consequences that would otherwise have left me injured or killed does not describe the God whom I seek to know. For one, if God worked this way, could he not have intervened earlier and prevented the snow from blowing onto the road in the first place? Or could he not have allowed me to regain control of the car before I slid into the field? Further, why would God have not intervened in millions of other such incidents where people were injured or killed? Why would he save me and not them? Personally, I cannot accept such notions.
Or if we view my car crash in the light of St. Paul's words about the Hebrew people during the Exodus, one might wonder if it was God's judgement against my driving ability. Or, perhaps God just didn't like last week's sermon and used the accident to prevent me from preaching it a second and third time! Perhaps. But I also find such notions of God incredible and untenable.
We live in fragile and mortal bodies that are prone to pain and injury. We try to trust life despite the fact that violence can disrupt our day-to-day routine at any moment.
My accident shocked me with its swift violence, but it is hardly unusual. How many millions of people alive today have survived serious car crashes? How many millions of us mourn the injury or loss of loved ones because of such crashes?
Untold numbers of other people have had their faith tested by an earthquake, a hurricane or a tornado. This week, the news media told us of a Florida man killed in his sleep when a huge sinkhole opened up beneath his bedroom. How can we find a trusting faith when such arbitrary violence can disrupt our lives at any moment?
Unfortunately, this is the human condition. We search for faith in lives that are punctuated by disease, natural disasters, or war.
This past autumn, I saw a documentary on CBC TV about Yellowstone Park in Montana. Scientists have ascertained that the park rests on a dormant super-volcano that erupts every 400,000 years or so. When it does erupt, the force is so great that it destroys a vast area and changes the world's climate for hundreds of years afterwards.
One expert said that we should all have emergency plans in place before the next eruption, which is now overdue. In Borderlands, we don't need to worry since we would all be killed within the first hour no matter what preparations we made. But he urged people further afield in Chicago, Toronto or Vancouver to be prepared to live in their basements for months afterwards as the ash settled and the climate started to stabilize.
Really? My thought was quite opposite to his. My emergency preparedness plan is quite simple. It consists of being ready and willing to die at any moment! I know that this attitude is probably easier for me to adopt than a person with young children. But it is still the truth that death is coming for us eventually. Also, the path of Christ is one towards death and the new life that lies beyond it.
Jesus consciously turns towards death when he takes the road to Jerusalem and the cross, and he calls us to follow him. Answering this call does not mean we must be foolhardy. From now on, I will take winter road conditions more seriously than I did before my accident. I will still keep a winter emergency kit in my trunk. And I will still say my prayers, despite not believing that God either intervenes to punish or save me when any particular incident is unfolding.
One might wonder, though, why we should pray if God does not punish us if we fail to repent or save us if we do. My answer is this: I pray to remind myself of what I most value: family, friends, and neighbours; life itself; and above all, the spiritual virtues of faith, hope, and love.
When I pray for someone who is sick, it is not in the hope that this will change the natural course of the disease. I pray to remind myself of my love for that person and to reassure myself that the sick person, like all of us, is enfolded in God's mercy; that God is with them no matter how the illness proceeds; and that they are safe regardless of the outcome.
In our Gospel reading today, Jesus says that unless we repent, we will perish. What might this mean, I wonder? Does repentance mean changing behaviour; asking for forgiveness; feeling bad? As for "perish," does it simply mean to die? But what would be the point in warning us about that? All individuals die.
For me, repentance means turning away from distractions and addictions and towards the light of reality – symbolized for Christians by the cross – despite its sometimes fearful nature. Repentance becomes possible when we accept God's help to face our fears and so rise to new life. Sometimes when we do so, we can trust in life and love despite disease, natural disasters, and death.
This is one reason why I appreciate the discipline of Lent. While I am sure that those who don't consciously turn towards the cross are still accepted by God's Love, I appreciate Jesus' explicit call to repent. Hearing his call each year helps me to find and trust Christ's companionship sooner rather than later.
In the light of the cross, our attempts to cling to life are shown to be vain. In the light of the cross, our pride in family, church, or nation dissolve into nothingness. In the light of the cross, our addictions to alcohol, TV or money are revealed as empty and meaningless. In the light of cross, we are freed to turn from our fears and addictions and rise to new life within the Spirit and Love of God.
In a few moments we will celebrate the sacrament of holy communion. It is a ritual in which we remember the ministry, death, and resurrection of the Christ. It is a ritual that makes plain that God lives in us and that we live in God. And it is a ritual that assures us that we are enfolded in God's mercy and love no matter what troubles beset us or how long or short a lifespan we have.
All are welcome at the Lord's table; sinners and saints alike. To partake of the bread of life and the cup of blessing, we don't have to believe anything; do anything; or achieve anything. We just have to be ourselves -- beloved children of God. Even if we have not repented, God will not strike us down or turn us away.
The message of God's Grace as remembered at the Lord's Table is the one we receive from the Bible as a whole, from the stories of Jesus as a whole, and from the best of our troubled and wonderful Christian tradition.
Repent or perish? God's love shines so brightly and with such beauty that, despite the violence of this world and the fragility of life, I am confident that everyone eventually turns towards His love.
All will turn. None will perish.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
When "bad things" happen to people we judge to be evil, do these events reflect God's judgement? If so, why do bad things also happen to good people? These are two questions that leapt out for me from today's readings from Paul and Luke.
Paul writes about God's wrath towards the Hebrew slaves during their 40-year-long Exodus from Egypt in the desert. Despite having been led out of Egypt by Moses, the former slaves often behave in ways that anger God. In response, the Bible says that God kills thousands of them.
Jesus, however, seems to see things differently. When he discusses the execution of Galileans who have come to worship in Jerusalem and the death of others who were crushed by a falling tower, he states that these deaths did not result from the sins of the victims. Jesus does not believe that God uses the Roman state or a falling tower to strike people down for their sins.
Jesus' viewpoint seems more modern to me than Paul's. Today, we assume that all events have natural causes. We don't believe that God is either saving us or punishing us in life's ups and downs. Or do we?
As most of you know, my own "bad thing" happened last Sunday. While driving from Coronach to Fife Lake, I lost control of my car on a snow-covered section of Highway 18, slid into a field, and rolled the car twice before landing on my wheels. I was shaken up by this crash and I felt sad that my car was destroyed. But I was also relieved and surprised that I emerged almost completely unscathed. Other than a short-lived bump on my head and a sore wrist, I was fine physically. For the first few mornings afterwards, I awoke expecting stiff muscles or a headache, but they never materialized.
Several people told me that they thought it was not just luck or the design of the car that had spared me any physical repercussions from this crash. They believed that God had protected me. But while I appreciate the sentiment, I disagree with the theology contained in this idea.
To say that God intervenes in a moment like my accident to change natural consequences that would otherwise have left me injured or killed does not describe the God whom I seek to know. For one, if God worked this way, could he not have intervened earlier and prevented the snow from blowing onto the road in the first place? Or could he not have allowed me to regain control of the car before I slid into the field? Further, why would God have not intervened in millions of other such incidents where people were injured or killed? Why would he save me and not them? Personally, I cannot accept such notions.
Or if we view my car crash in the light of St. Paul's words about the Hebrew people during the Exodus, one might wonder if it was God's judgement against my driving ability. Or, perhaps God just didn't like last week's sermon and used the accident to prevent me from preaching it a second and third time! Perhaps. But I also find such notions of God incredible and untenable.
We live in fragile and mortal bodies that are prone to pain and injury. We try to trust life despite the fact that violence can disrupt our day-to-day routine at any moment.
My accident shocked me with its swift violence, but it is hardly unusual. How many millions of people alive today have survived serious car crashes? How many millions of us mourn the injury or loss of loved ones because of such crashes?
Untold numbers of other people have had their faith tested by an earthquake, a hurricane or a tornado. This week, the news media told us of a Florida man killed in his sleep when a huge sinkhole opened up beneath his bedroom. How can we find a trusting faith when such arbitrary violence can disrupt our lives at any moment?
Unfortunately, this is the human condition. We search for faith in lives that are punctuated by disease, natural disasters, or war.
This past autumn, I saw a documentary on CBC TV about Yellowstone Park in Montana. Scientists have ascertained that the park rests on a dormant super-volcano that erupts every 400,000 years or so. When it does erupt, the force is so great that it destroys a vast area and changes the world's climate for hundreds of years afterwards.
One expert said that we should all have emergency plans in place before the next eruption, which is now overdue. In Borderlands, we don't need to worry since we would all be killed within the first hour no matter what preparations we made. But he urged people further afield in Chicago, Toronto or Vancouver to be prepared to live in their basements for months afterwards as the ash settled and the climate started to stabilize.
Really? My thought was quite opposite to his. My emergency preparedness plan is quite simple. It consists of being ready and willing to die at any moment! I know that this attitude is probably easier for me to adopt than a person with young children. But it is still the truth that death is coming for us eventually. Also, the path of Christ is one towards death and the new life that lies beyond it.
Jesus consciously turns towards death when he takes the road to Jerusalem and the cross, and he calls us to follow him. Answering this call does not mean we must be foolhardy. From now on, I will take winter road conditions more seriously than I did before my accident. I will still keep a winter emergency kit in my trunk. And I will still say my prayers, despite not believing that God either intervenes to punish or save me when any particular incident is unfolding.
One might wonder, though, why we should pray if God does not punish us if we fail to repent or save us if we do. My answer is this: I pray to remind myself of what I most value: family, friends, and neighbours; life itself; and above all, the spiritual virtues of faith, hope, and love.
When I pray for someone who is sick, it is not in the hope that this will change the natural course of the disease. I pray to remind myself of my love for that person and to reassure myself that the sick person, like all of us, is enfolded in God's mercy; that God is with them no matter how the illness proceeds; and that they are safe regardless of the outcome.
In our Gospel reading today, Jesus says that unless we repent, we will perish. What might this mean, I wonder? Does repentance mean changing behaviour; asking for forgiveness; feeling bad? As for "perish," does it simply mean to die? But what would be the point in warning us about that? All individuals die.
For me, repentance means turning away from distractions and addictions and towards the light of reality – symbolized for Christians by the cross – despite its sometimes fearful nature. Repentance becomes possible when we accept God's help to face our fears and so rise to new life. Sometimes when we do so, we can trust in life and love despite disease, natural disasters, and death.
This is one reason why I appreciate the discipline of Lent. While I am sure that those who don't consciously turn towards the cross are still accepted by God's Love, I appreciate Jesus' explicit call to repent. Hearing his call each year helps me to find and trust Christ's companionship sooner rather than later.
In the light of the cross, our attempts to cling to life are shown to be vain. In the light of the cross, our pride in family, church, or nation dissolve into nothingness. In the light of the cross, our addictions to alcohol, TV or money are revealed as empty and meaningless. In the light of cross, we are freed to turn from our fears and addictions and rise to new life within the Spirit and Love of God.
In a few moments we will celebrate the sacrament of holy communion. It is a ritual in which we remember the ministry, death, and resurrection of the Christ. It is a ritual that makes plain that God lives in us and that we live in God. And it is a ritual that assures us that we are enfolded in God's mercy and love no matter what troubles beset us or how long or short a lifespan we have.
All are welcome at the Lord's table; sinners and saints alike. To partake of the bread of life and the cup of blessing, we don't have to believe anything; do anything; or achieve anything. We just have to be ourselves -- beloved children of God. Even if we have not repented, God will not strike us down or turn us away.
The message of God's Grace as remembered at the Lord's Table is the one we receive from the Bible as a whole, from the stories of Jesus as a whole, and from the best of our troubled and wonderful Christian tradition.
Repent or perish? God's love shines so brightly and with such beauty that, despite the violence of this world and the fragility of life, I am confident that everyone eventually turns towards His love.
All will turn. None will perish.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
The Sacred and the desolate
Text: Luke 13 31-35 (Jesus sorrows over Jerusalem)
A few years ago, the church in which I grew up in Cornwall Ontario was torn down. The building of Knox United had been damaged in a 1940s earthquake. But other than a missing steeple pinnacle, the building seemed OK when I was growing up in Cornwall in the 60s and 70s.
Unfortunately, a recent inspection revealed that the structure was no longer safe, and so it was torn down. Knox United bought an unused church in the suburbs from the Roman Catholics, which is where Knox members now worship.
I was sad when I heard of the demolition of the church. I had loved its Gothic architecture, the weird layout of its halls, offices, corridors, and how the original building linked up with a newer Christian Education wing. When I was young, I remember discussing with my friends whether God lived in the sanctuary. At the very least, we considered the building sacred.
I thought of this old building as I prepared this sermon on Jerusalem. In a small way, the destruction of any sanctuary can resonate with the tragedies of wars and conquest that have seen countless holy cities and temples destroyed, including in that most Sacred of all cities, Jerusalem.
What is it about Jerusalem that makes it so special? Jerusalem is where King Solomon built the First Temple to the Hebrew God, Yahweh. 300 years later, the city and its Temple were destroyed by the Babylonians. When Jewish leaders rebuilt Jerusalem and its Temple 50 years later, worship started again, but this time without the lost Ark of the Covenant.
Christians revere Jerusalem as the place of Jesus' crucifixion and resurrection. When early Christians imagined what a restored heaven or earth would look like, they used the metaphor of a New Jerusalem.
Muslims revere Jerusalem as the place where The Prophet Mohammad ascended into heaven with the Angel Gabriel.
Jerusalem is sacred to all three of the religions of Abraham -- Judaism, Christianity, and Islam -- even as it is also known as a place of betrayal, death, and desolation.
The most famous Christian hymn about the city is called just that, "Jerusalem," based upon an 1804 poem by William Blake. The poem uses the symbol of Jerusalem to refer to "heaven on earth" -- the new age that began with the coming of Jesus.
I first learned the hymn "Jerusalem" in school when I was growing up in Cornwall. Cornwall is small industrial city on the St Lawrence River about an hour's drive west of Montreal. To me, it seems like a microcosm of Canada. 70% of the population is English-speaking, 30% French and there is a First Nations Mohawk reserve south of the city on an island that is half in Ontario and half in New York.
Perhaps the presence of French and First Nations people and the closeness of Quebec and the U.S. made English people in Cornwall especially conscious of our English roots -- and there is no more English hymn than "Jerusalem."
In fact, "Jerusalem" is the unofficial English national anthem. When the grandfather of Queen Elizabeth, King George V, first heard "Jerusalem," he said that he preferred it even to "God Save the King."
Blake's poem was put to music by Sir Hubert Parry in 1916 as a way to bolster English spirits during the horrors of World War I. There is irony in this because Blake was a radical who supported the French Revolution and was once tried for treason. Also, the hymn "Jerusalem" is not only popular with staunch monarchists and conservatives but also with socialists and trade unionists.
"Jerusalem" is the final song performed at "Last Night at the Proms" concerts. It is a staple in English schools, just as it was at my elementary school in Cornwall. And a line from the hymn inspired the title of the 1981 Academy Award Winning movie "Chariots of Fire," which ends with the singing of the hymn at a funeral service.
Here are the words of Blake's poem: "And did those feet in ancient time walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God on England's pleasant pastures seen? And did the Countenance Divine shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here among those dark Satanic mills?
"Bring me my bow of burning gold: bring me my arrows of desire: bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire! I will not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand till we have built Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land." The poem is packed with symbols and metaphors.
The Holy Lamb of God is a metaphor for Christ. But what does Blake mean by bows of burning gold, arrows of desire, and chariots of fire? The "dark Satanic mills" probably refer to cotton and flour mills, which Blake hated when he wrote the poem in 1804. The goal of building Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land symbolizes the fight to create heaven on earth.
Our Gospel passage today is also about Jerusalem; and like Blake's poem, it also contains many symbols and metaphors. Jesus calls King Herod a fox. He then makes an analogy between himself and a mothering hen that protects its chicks under her wings. He mentions "the third day," a symbol of his resurrection. He states that no prophet can die outside of Jerusalem. But since this is not literally the case, it must also be a metaphor for something or other. And when Jesus talks about the desolation of Jerusalem, this foreshadows the second destruction of Jerusalem in the year 70 by the Romans, 40 years after Jesus' death.
In the late 60s of the First Century, there was a Jewish revolt against Rome. After a three-year siege of Jerusalem, the Romans burned the city to the ground, killed 10s of thousands of Jews, and destroyed the Temple. Luke wrote his Gospel 15 to 20 years after this disaster.
Like us, the people who first heard Luke's Gospel would not have known Jesus and the disciples, so they might connect the story of the death of the Son of God to the destruction of God's Temple and his Holy City. The story of the resurrection would have assured them that God's Love lives on even though His Temple had been destroyed and Jerusalem was once again a ghost town.
It is a sad fact that the destruction of Jerusalem in the year 70 is not unusual. Jerusalem had been destroyed 600 years earlier by the Babylonians. After the Roman disaster in 70, Jews repopulated the city; but it was destroyed a third time by the Romans in 135. When the Roman emperors adopted Christianity as the state religion 200 years later, they rebuilt Jerusalem. Muslims then captured Jerusalem from the Greek survivors of Rome's fall in the 700s. The Muslims allowed the Christians to remain and also invited Jews to return. But 400 years later, European armies slaughtered all the Jews and Muslims in Jerusalem during the Crusades. Today, both the modern state of Israel and the hoped-for Palestinian state claim Jerusalem as their capital. Jerusalem is sacred but also continually troubled.
The sacred temples and cities of many other peoples have also been destroyed in conflict and war over the centuries.
Some sanctuaries are destroyed by invading armies. Some sanctuaries are weakened by earthquakes and later torn down. Some sanctuaries are abandoned because a community of faith has lost numbers, energy and money. What the Christ story reminds us is that the God who is Love, survives all these tragedies. Our temples and sacred cities, no matter how grand, are all subject to decay or attack. But God's Love is indestructible.
So this Lent, as we continue our walk with Jesus to Jerusalem and the cross, know that God grants us the strength to be present to both sides of Jerusalem: both its desolation and its new life. The path of Lent has two sides. It is a journey through death to new life with God in Christ.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
A few years ago, the church in which I grew up in Cornwall Ontario was torn down. The building of Knox United had been damaged in a 1940s earthquake. But other than a missing steeple pinnacle, the building seemed OK when I was growing up in Cornwall in the 60s and 70s.
Unfortunately, a recent inspection revealed that the structure was no longer safe, and so it was torn down. Knox United bought an unused church in the suburbs from the Roman Catholics, which is where Knox members now worship.
I was sad when I heard of the demolition of the church. I had loved its Gothic architecture, the weird layout of its halls, offices, corridors, and how the original building linked up with a newer Christian Education wing. When I was young, I remember discussing with my friends whether God lived in the sanctuary. At the very least, we considered the building sacred.
I thought of this old building as I prepared this sermon on Jerusalem. In a small way, the destruction of any sanctuary can resonate with the tragedies of wars and conquest that have seen countless holy cities and temples destroyed, including in that most Sacred of all cities, Jerusalem.
What is it about Jerusalem that makes it so special? Jerusalem is where King Solomon built the First Temple to the Hebrew God, Yahweh. 300 years later, the city and its Temple were destroyed by the Babylonians. When Jewish leaders rebuilt Jerusalem and its Temple 50 years later, worship started again, but this time without the lost Ark of the Covenant.
Christians revere Jerusalem as the place of Jesus' crucifixion and resurrection. When early Christians imagined what a restored heaven or earth would look like, they used the metaphor of a New Jerusalem.
Muslims revere Jerusalem as the place where The Prophet Mohammad ascended into heaven with the Angel Gabriel.
Jerusalem is sacred to all three of the religions of Abraham -- Judaism, Christianity, and Islam -- even as it is also known as a place of betrayal, death, and desolation.
The most famous Christian hymn about the city is called just that, "Jerusalem," based upon an 1804 poem by William Blake. The poem uses the symbol of Jerusalem to refer to "heaven on earth" -- the new age that began with the coming of Jesus.
I first learned the hymn "Jerusalem" in school when I was growing up in Cornwall. Cornwall is small industrial city on the St Lawrence River about an hour's drive west of Montreal. To me, it seems like a microcosm of Canada. 70% of the population is English-speaking, 30% French and there is a First Nations Mohawk reserve south of the city on an island that is half in Ontario and half in New York.
Perhaps the presence of French and First Nations people and the closeness of Quebec and the U.S. made English people in Cornwall especially conscious of our English roots -- and there is no more English hymn than "Jerusalem."
In fact, "Jerusalem" is the unofficial English national anthem. When the grandfather of Queen Elizabeth, King George V, first heard "Jerusalem," he said that he preferred it even to "God Save the King."
Blake's poem was put to music by Sir Hubert Parry in 1916 as a way to bolster English spirits during the horrors of World War I. There is irony in this because Blake was a radical who supported the French Revolution and was once tried for treason. Also, the hymn "Jerusalem" is not only popular with staunch monarchists and conservatives but also with socialists and trade unionists.
"Jerusalem" is the final song performed at "Last Night at the Proms" concerts. It is a staple in English schools, just as it was at my elementary school in Cornwall. And a line from the hymn inspired the title of the 1981 Academy Award Winning movie "Chariots of Fire," which ends with the singing of the hymn at a funeral service.
Here are the words of Blake's poem: "And did those feet in ancient time walk upon England's mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God on England's pleasant pastures seen? And did the Countenance Divine shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here among those dark Satanic mills?
"Bring me my bow of burning gold: bring me my arrows of desire: bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire! I will not cease from mental fight, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand till we have built Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land." The poem is packed with symbols and metaphors.
The Holy Lamb of God is a metaphor for Christ. But what does Blake mean by bows of burning gold, arrows of desire, and chariots of fire? The "dark Satanic mills" probably refer to cotton and flour mills, which Blake hated when he wrote the poem in 1804. The goal of building Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land symbolizes the fight to create heaven on earth.
Our Gospel passage today is also about Jerusalem; and like Blake's poem, it also contains many symbols and metaphors. Jesus calls King Herod a fox. He then makes an analogy between himself and a mothering hen that protects its chicks under her wings. He mentions "the third day," a symbol of his resurrection. He states that no prophet can die outside of Jerusalem. But since this is not literally the case, it must also be a metaphor for something or other. And when Jesus talks about the desolation of Jerusalem, this foreshadows the second destruction of Jerusalem in the year 70 by the Romans, 40 years after Jesus' death.
In the late 60s of the First Century, there was a Jewish revolt against Rome. After a three-year siege of Jerusalem, the Romans burned the city to the ground, killed 10s of thousands of Jews, and destroyed the Temple. Luke wrote his Gospel 15 to 20 years after this disaster.
Like us, the people who first heard Luke's Gospel would not have known Jesus and the disciples, so they might connect the story of the death of the Son of God to the destruction of God's Temple and his Holy City. The story of the resurrection would have assured them that God's Love lives on even though His Temple had been destroyed and Jerusalem was once again a ghost town.
It is a sad fact that the destruction of Jerusalem in the year 70 is not unusual. Jerusalem had been destroyed 600 years earlier by the Babylonians. After the Roman disaster in 70, Jews repopulated the city; but it was destroyed a third time by the Romans in 135. When the Roman emperors adopted Christianity as the state religion 200 years later, they rebuilt Jerusalem. Muslims then captured Jerusalem from the Greek survivors of Rome's fall in the 700s. The Muslims allowed the Christians to remain and also invited Jews to return. But 400 years later, European armies slaughtered all the Jews and Muslims in Jerusalem during the Crusades. Today, both the modern state of Israel and the hoped-for Palestinian state claim Jerusalem as their capital. Jerusalem is sacred but also continually troubled.
The sacred temples and cities of many other peoples have also been destroyed in conflict and war over the centuries.
Some sanctuaries are destroyed by invading armies. Some sanctuaries are weakened by earthquakes and later torn down. Some sanctuaries are abandoned because a community of faith has lost numbers, energy and money. What the Christ story reminds us is that the God who is Love, survives all these tragedies. Our temples and sacred cities, no matter how grand, are all subject to decay or attack. But God's Love is indestructible.
So this Lent, as we continue our walk with Jesus to Jerusalem and the cross, know that God grants us the strength to be present to both sides of Jerusalem: both its desolation and its new life. The path of Lent has two sides. It is a journey through death to new life with God in Christ.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Temptations in wilderness and in abundance
Text: Luke 4 1-13 (Jesus tempted in the wilderness)
On this first of the six Sundays in the Season of Lent, the theme of our Gospel reading is temptation in the desert.
Despite today's snow, we live in an dry region that sometimes seems like a desert to me. Last summer's drought was like nothing I have ever experienced. I was especially struck by how the relative humidity kept dropping day after day as the sloughs dried up and the harvest continued.
But conditions for many of us in a rich country like Canada are more like feast than famine. And so today, I look at temptation in conditions of material abundance in the hope that this will help us orient our hearts and minds to the journey to Jerusalem with Jesus that is the Season of Lent.
When I was on vacation last month in Toronto, I succumbed to a temptation that is common to many of us. I went on my first ever Caribbean vacation, and I quite enjoyed spending five days in Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic.
The ocean was warm, the swimming pools were inviting, and the palm trees waved serenely in the sunshine. The food and drink was all-included, the pace was relaxed, and the cost seemed obscenely cheap. It felt like a little slice of paradise wedged between a few damp and cold weeks in and around Toronto.
Part of my enjoyment was getting an up-close-and-personal look at the winter-escape travel industry. Given how inexpensive Caribbean travel has become, I understand why so many of us now make the trip south each winter. Getting on the plane in Toronto seemed no more glamourous than getting on Bernie's bus for a trip to the Mud Bog at Rockin' Beach. I ran into a married couple from the Toronto church I used to attend as we waited for our plane. It was their third trip to Punta Cana, which seemed like a good endorsement.
I was impressed by the large number of people being efficiently processed through customs at the Punta Cana airport. Nor were we just North Americans, but also people from Eastern and Western Europe, Asia and other parts of Latin America. When I realized that Punta Cana is just one of scores -- or is it hundreds? -- of similar resort areas in the Caribbean, the Gulf of Mexico, and the Pacific, the scale began to stagger the imagination.
I read somewhere recently that on any given day, there are now approximately 100,000 passenger jet flights. This marks at least a hundred-fold increase in my lifetime. Will another 50 years see a similar increase, to the point where 10 million flights take off and land safely every day?!
Of course, not every vacation ends with no more serious incidents than a sunburn or a few hangovers. For instance, there is this week's story of the 4,000 people stranded for five miserable days on the disabled cruise liner Carnival Triumph in the Gulf of Mexico. And yet several hundred thousand people are still cruising in the Gulf, the Caribbean, and the Mediterranean.
Recreational travel seems to be both a blessing and a curse. I am sure that I will enjoy more winter escapes in the years to come, at least until the melting polar icecaps raise the ocean level and drown ocean-side resorts. But the amount of travel most middle class people now experience is also related to massive releases of carbon and other pollutants. This pollution is exacerbated by the fact that the world's middle class has expanded by hundreds of millions of people in poor parts of the world during the last few decades.
Unfortunately, I see no force that can stop the continued increase in human consumption of resources. I used to hope that the prophets of "Peak Oil" would be proven right and price of oil would soar in the 21st century and thus slow climate change. But technological developments like fracking mean that oil and gas production will likely continue to ramp up for at least as long as it takes our economy to completely dislocate the climate.
No one is in charge; not President Obama; not the United Nations; not the universal church. Competitive pressures between companies, economic sectors and nations will ensure that economic development -- including ever-more wondrous travel options -- will continue apace without any controls on the side effects.
So, does my participation in this seemining insanity-- including my trip to the Caribbean, or my use of a car, or my enjoyment of an energy-intensive TV cable-box and DVR combo, or my many junked computers -- mean that I have succumbed to the devil's temptations and given up my right to consider myself a disciple of Christ on his joyous, painful and always austere journey to Jerusalem this Lent?
I don't think so. I disagree with environmentalists who argue that change in individual behaviour is the best way to effect social change. I have nothing against recycling, voluntary simplicity, trying to eat local, and so on. But not if this is the basis for self-righteousness, for hectoring friends and neighbours, or for illusions that such actions can make a dent in the destruction of the natural world caused by an ever-growing economy and population.
On the other hand, individual lifestyle choices can help orient our hearts and minds to what we most value: a trusting faith, hope in the midst of darkness, and above all, love. Lifestyle choices can sometimes help remind us of the living Christ burning brightly within each of our hearts.
When I was in the Caribbean resort, I easily could have succumbed to the lures of too much food, too much alcohol, too much sun, and too much mindless use of my time. Perhaps some of that happened for me, but by worshipping at the Catholic service that was offered the Sunday we were there; by becoming friends with a soon-to-be-retired couple from London Ontario that we met at worship; by reading one of the books I had brought with me; and by letting moderation be a guiding principle, I liked my time at the resort.
Still, the highlight of my four weeks off occurred not during my three weeks of vacation, but at a men's retreat I attended at the United Church's Five Oaks Centre west of Toronto on the final week. This was the seventh time I have attended this event over the last 11 years, and I appreciate it more each time.
The first times I attended, there was a theme to our discussions: fathers and sons; ageing; native spirituality; and so on. But in recent years, there is no longer a theme or leadership. Instead, men gather for three days and nights to spend time in a sharing circle in which we pass a talking stone between us and listen to what is on each others' hearts and minds.
This year, I was one of 13 men, 10 of whom were ordained ministers. I knew about half the participants, but all of us had participated in the event before, so we were able to get into the spirit of the event quickly.
Unlike the week in the Caribbean, this was a modest affair. We stayed in simple and austere rooms. We sat in a circle around a hearth with a roaring fire and looked out over the beauty of the grounds of Five Oaks that is situated on the banks of the Grand River near Brantford. We used drums or sang hymns to start most of our time in the circle.
The deep sharing and listening of our time together felt to me like love at its best. I learned more about ministry by listening to these men and by trying to articulate my own experiences than I did in any course I took at seminary. I felt enriched by the painful and joyous stories of the other men, even though we are all so different from each other. I wondered if such sharing circles are all that we need in worship? This is a theme to which I will return in the next year as we journey together as a church.
I don't begrudge the trip to the Caribbean, nor do I feel guilty for "wasting" oil and other resources in this lovely indulgence. But I know that what we most crave in the dark winters of our souls are not warm breezes or free drinks. What we most crave are things like acceptance, sharing of our individual experiences of life, and the ability to love and be loved.
Jesus, by resisting the devil's temptations in his forty days and nights in the wilderness models for us this deeper path, I think -- the path that looks to God and his ever-present Love more than it looks to material comfort or political power.
This Lent and in this community of faith, may we offer each other companionship on Jesus' path of deep sharing and love. It is a path that leads us to the darkness of Good Friday and on to the light of new life at Easter.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
On this first of the six Sundays in the Season of Lent, the theme of our Gospel reading is temptation in the desert.
Despite today's snow, we live in an dry region that sometimes seems like a desert to me. Last summer's drought was like nothing I have ever experienced. I was especially struck by how the relative humidity kept dropping day after day as the sloughs dried up and the harvest continued.
But conditions for many of us in a rich country like Canada are more like feast than famine. And so today, I look at temptation in conditions of material abundance in the hope that this will help us orient our hearts and minds to the journey to Jerusalem with Jesus that is the Season of Lent.
When I was on vacation last month in Toronto, I succumbed to a temptation that is common to many of us. I went on my first ever Caribbean vacation, and I quite enjoyed spending five days in Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic.
The ocean was warm, the swimming pools were inviting, and the palm trees waved serenely in the sunshine. The food and drink was all-included, the pace was relaxed, and the cost seemed obscenely cheap. It felt like a little slice of paradise wedged between a few damp and cold weeks in and around Toronto.
Part of my enjoyment was getting an up-close-and-personal look at the winter-escape travel industry. Given how inexpensive Caribbean travel has become, I understand why so many of us now make the trip south each winter. Getting on the plane in Toronto seemed no more glamourous than getting on Bernie's bus for a trip to the Mud Bog at Rockin' Beach. I ran into a married couple from the Toronto church I used to attend as we waited for our plane. It was their third trip to Punta Cana, which seemed like a good endorsement.
I was impressed by the large number of people being efficiently processed through customs at the Punta Cana airport. Nor were we just North Americans, but also people from Eastern and Western Europe, Asia and other parts of Latin America. When I realized that Punta Cana is just one of scores -- or is it hundreds? -- of similar resort areas in the Caribbean, the Gulf of Mexico, and the Pacific, the scale began to stagger the imagination.
I read somewhere recently that on any given day, there are now approximately 100,000 passenger jet flights. This marks at least a hundred-fold increase in my lifetime. Will another 50 years see a similar increase, to the point where 10 million flights take off and land safely every day?!
Of course, not every vacation ends with no more serious incidents than a sunburn or a few hangovers. For instance, there is this week's story of the 4,000 people stranded for five miserable days on the disabled cruise liner Carnival Triumph in the Gulf of Mexico. And yet several hundred thousand people are still cruising in the Gulf, the Caribbean, and the Mediterranean.
Recreational travel seems to be both a blessing and a curse. I am sure that I will enjoy more winter escapes in the years to come, at least until the melting polar icecaps raise the ocean level and drown ocean-side resorts. But the amount of travel most middle class people now experience is also related to massive releases of carbon and other pollutants. This pollution is exacerbated by the fact that the world's middle class has expanded by hundreds of millions of people in poor parts of the world during the last few decades.
Unfortunately, I see no force that can stop the continued increase in human consumption of resources. I used to hope that the prophets of "Peak Oil" would be proven right and price of oil would soar in the 21st century and thus slow climate change. But technological developments like fracking mean that oil and gas production will likely continue to ramp up for at least as long as it takes our economy to completely dislocate the climate.
No one is in charge; not President Obama; not the United Nations; not the universal church. Competitive pressures between companies, economic sectors and nations will ensure that economic development -- including ever-more wondrous travel options -- will continue apace without any controls on the side effects.
So, does my participation in this seemining insanity-- including my trip to the Caribbean, or my use of a car, or my enjoyment of an energy-intensive TV cable-box and DVR combo, or my many junked computers -- mean that I have succumbed to the devil's temptations and given up my right to consider myself a disciple of Christ on his joyous, painful and always austere journey to Jerusalem this Lent?
I don't think so. I disagree with environmentalists who argue that change in individual behaviour is the best way to effect social change. I have nothing against recycling, voluntary simplicity, trying to eat local, and so on. But not if this is the basis for self-righteousness, for hectoring friends and neighbours, or for illusions that such actions can make a dent in the destruction of the natural world caused by an ever-growing economy and population.
On the other hand, individual lifestyle choices can help orient our hearts and minds to what we most value: a trusting faith, hope in the midst of darkness, and above all, love. Lifestyle choices can sometimes help remind us of the living Christ burning brightly within each of our hearts.
When I was in the Caribbean resort, I easily could have succumbed to the lures of too much food, too much alcohol, too much sun, and too much mindless use of my time. Perhaps some of that happened for me, but by worshipping at the Catholic service that was offered the Sunday we were there; by becoming friends with a soon-to-be-retired couple from London Ontario that we met at worship; by reading one of the books I had brought with me; and by letting moderation be a guiding principle, I liked my time at the resort.
Still, the highlight of my four weeks off occurred not during my three weeks of vacation, but at a men's retreat I attended at the United Church's Five Oaks Centre west of Toronto on the final week. This was the seventh time I have attended this event over the last 11 years, and I appreciate it more each time.
The first times I attended, there was a theme to our discussions: fathers and sons; ageing; native spirituality; and so on. But in recent years, there is no longer a theme or leadership. Instead, men gather for three days and nights to spend time in a sharing circle in which we pass a talking stone between us and listen to what is on each others' hearts and minds.
This year, I was one of 13 men, 10 of whom were ordained ministers. I knew about half the participants, but all of us had participated in the event before, so we were able to get into the spirit of the event quickly.
Unlike the week in the Caribbean, this was a modest affair. We stayed in simple and austere rooms. We sat in a circle around a hearth with a roaring fire and looked out over the beauty of the grounds of Five Oaks that is situated on the banks of the Grand River near Brantford. We used drums or sang hymns to start most of our time in the circle.
The deep sharing and listening of our time together felt to me like love at its best. I learned more about ministry by listening to these men and by trying to articulate my own experiences than I did in any course I took at seminary. I felt enriched by the painful and joyous stories of the other men, even though we are all so different from each other. I wondered if such sharing circles are all that we need in worship? This is a theme to which I will return in the next year as we journey together as a church.
I don't begrudge the trip to the Caribbean, nor do I feel guilty for "wasting" oil and other resources in this lovely indulgence. But I know that what we most crave in the dark winters of our souls are not warm breezes or free drinks. What we most crave are things like acceptance, sharing of our individual experiences of life, and the ability to love and be loved.
Jesus, by resisting the devil's temptations in his forty days and nights in the wilderness models for us this deeper path, I think -- the path that looks to God and his ever-present Love more than it looks to material comfort or political power.
This Lent and in this community of faith, may we offer each other companionship on Jesus' path of deep sharing and love. It is a path that leads us to the darkness of Good Friday and on to the light of new life at Easter.
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Waiting for the Spirit
Texts: Act 8 5-25 (receiving the Spirit); Luke 3 15-22 (Jesus is baptized)
How would you describe our spirits as a congregation this new year? Are they high or low? Healthy or ailing? In or out of line with God's Holy Spirit? These are some questions that come to my mind in relationship to our Scripture readings today.
In today's Gospel reading, Jesus is baptized in the Jordan River by his cousin John. But unlike the other Gospel accounts of his baptism, Luke's version does not show Jesus receiving the blessing of the Holy Spirit at the time of his baptism. That comes later, after all the people have been baptized and after John has been arrested by Herod. Luke says it is only then, at a moment when Jesus is praying, that "the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon [Jesus] in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, 'You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.'"
Something similar happens in today's reading from Acts. We hear of a group of Samaritans who are converted and baptized by Philip in the months immediately after Jesus' death and resurrection. But they too do not receive the Holy Spirit at the moment of their baptism. This comes later when Peter and John visit the region, pray, and lay their hands on the new converts.
The text does not show us what receiving the Holy Spirit means for these new Christians. But it does say that the action of Peter and John so impress a local magician, Simon, that he offers them money to show him how to do this trick. Other parts of the book of Acts show us why Simon might be impressed by the ability to bestow the Spirit.
At the Festival of the Pentecost, 50 days after the first Easter, the Holy Spirit comes to Jesus' disciples in Jerusalem as wind and tongues of fire. It enables them to speak to all the Jews assembled in the city for the Festival in their own native languages and to convert them to faith in Jesus as the Christ.
The Spirit-filled disciples also heal sick people, cast out demons, and even raise a few dead people to renewed life. Clearly, the Holy Spirit has enormous power, even if we don't know exactly how and when it gets bestowed.
Christian denominations like the Pentecostals take the Holy Spirit more seriously than do most United Churches. Does this mean that we are a dispirited church? Should we perhaps try to follow the Pentecostals down the strange roads opened up by the Spirit as portrayed by Luke in the Book of Acts?
I was impressed by a Spirit-filled church three years ago in San Francisco. This was the year when I was a student supply minister in Didsbury Alberta. I took a week's vacation after Easter 2010, and since I had never been to California before, I used that opportunity to spend a week in San Francisco.
A tourist guide book spoke highly of a church near where I was staying in the downtown core -- Glide Memorial United Methodist Church. So on the Sunday of that week, I worshipped at that church, and I was amazed by what I experienced.
Despite pouring rain, despite the fact that it was the second of two morning services, despite the fact that it was the "low Sunday" after Easter, and despite the fact that the church's famous Black pastor was away and the preacher that day was a newly ordained White lesbian woman who had come from that church but who was now a minister in a rural part of Arizona, the sanctuary was packed. And the service felt as much like a rock concert to me as it did a worship service.
We were led by a 100-voice Gospel choir. Its members were equal parts men and women; people of European, African, Latin American and Asian descent; and queer and straight people. When they sang, we all got up and swayed and danced along.
The congregation seemed just as diverse as the choir. Two Black women, who seemed to be impoverished, sat on one side of me; on my other side was a prosperous White couple from the suburbs. All of us sang and danced as one.
Although the service included moments familiar to me -- times of confession and lament as well as of praise and joy -- it seemed mostly upbeat to me. I am not sure that I would like this style of worship each week. But one thing evident in the service was Spirit -- lots and lots of Spirit.
The Holy Spirit denotes some of the more mysterious and powerful aspects of God. God the Father is often seen as remote: the source of all life and judge of the universe. God the Son becomes dear to us in the stories of Jesus of Nazareth. At baptism, we receive Jesus as the Christ into our hearts.
The Holy Spirit was promised to us by Jesus. The book of Acts details the power of the Spirit. I believe that the miracles portrayed there don't need to be understood as literal facts. Instead, I see them as ways to describe the power and joy that can be part of a community that is filled with God's Spirit.
The tough news is that living a life in the Spirit can be difficult to sustain over time -- whether in our worship and mission work, in a marriage, in a job or career, or in the struggle for justice.
Our Scripture readings give us some clues as to what we can do when we suffer from the absence of God's Spirit. We can wait. We can pray. And we can trust. Then when God's Spirit does come again into our hearts or fills our worship or mission, we can give thanks and praise the Spirit's awesome power.
At Glide Memorial church in San Francisco, I got a sense of how the Holy Spirit informed their life. Their Spirit-filled worship fed into the huge amount of outreach they did to the homeless, addicted, and desperate people who live in the neighbourhood around the church. In turn, their outreach to the poor and their focus on justice fed into their worship life. It seemed to be a relationship that blessed both the poor people who came to their soup kitchens and health clinics and all the people -- rich and poor, gay and straight, white people and people of colour -- who came to their packed Sunday worship services.
I don't find it easy to create this kind of powerful relationship between outreach, justice and worship. I raise the example of Glide Memorial here today simply as a reminder to myself and a pointer to us all of how life in the Body of Christ can be a life filled to overflowing with the power of God's Spirit.
In today's Idle No More movement among First Nations youth across Canada, we see the Spirit lifting people out of despair towards hope and out of apathy towards activism. It is a movement that challenges the very basis of Canada as a state founded on war, conquest and colonialism. I am glad that this movement has developed and that it includes the wisdom of elders, the rhythm of ceremonial drums, and the joy of round dancing.
Who knows why such a movement suddenly erupts and catches fire? Four women in Saskatchewan were angry that an omnibus Budget Bill of the federal government had changed environmental protections guaranteed by treaties without any consultation with First Nations. They spread word about protest actions using a Twitter hashtag #idlenomore. Since then, innumerable young natives have put themselves under their banner. But no matter why this movement has taken off unlike others, I pray that it will maintain and develop its spirited momentum.
The Spirit is said to be like breath, wind and flame. Sometimes it can feel as powerful as a blizzard or grass fire that races across a vast prairie. At other times, it can feel like the small still whisper of God's voice on a spring morning or like a little candle burning at a Christmas Eve service.
In worship, I usually prefer the gentle promptings of the Spirit over its awesome and fiery manifestations, which is why I chose they hymn "Spirit of Life" as our hymn of response. But no matter what form it takes, today as we wait for God's Spirit, pray for it, and trust that it will burst into our lives and communities at unexpected moments, we can raise our eyes to God in heaven and to the Risen Christ within our beating hearts and say again . . .
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
How would you describe our spirits as a congregation this new year? Are they high or low? Healthy or ailing? In or out of line with God's Holy Spirit? These are some questions that come to my mind in relationship to our Scripture readings today.
In today's Gospel reading, Jesus is baptized in the Jordan River by his cousin John. But unlike the other Gospel accounts of his baptism, Luke's version does not show Jesus receiving the blessing of the Holy Spirit at the time of his baptism. That comes later, after all the people have been baptized and after John has been arrested by Herod. Luke says it is only then, at a moment when Jesus is praying, that "the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon [Jesus] in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, 'You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.'"
Something similar happens in today's reading from Acts. We hear of a group of Samaritans who are converted and baptized by Philip in the months immediately after Jesus' death and resurrection. But they too do not receive the Holy Spirit at the moment of their baptism. This comes later when Peter and John visit the region, pray, and lay their hands on the new converts.
The text does not show us what receiving the Holy Spirit means for these new Christians. But it does say that the action of Peter and John so impress a local magician, Simon, that he offers them money to show him how to do this trick. Other parts of the book of Acts show us why Simon might be impressed by the ability to bestow the Spirit.
At the Festival of the Pentecost, 50 days after the first Easter, the Holy Spirit comes to Jesus' disciples in Jerusalem as wind and tongues of fire. It enables them to speak to all the Jews assembled in the city for the Festival in their own native languages and to convert them to faith in Jesus as the Christ.
The Spirit-filled disciples also heal sick people, cast out demons, and even raise a few dead people to renewed life. Clearly, the Holy Spirit has enormous power, even if we don't know exactly how and when it gets bestowed.
Christian denominations like the Pentecostals take the Holy Spirit more seriously than do most United Churches. Does this mean that we are a dispirited church? Should we perhaps try to follow the Pentecostals down the strange roads opened up by the Spirit as portrayed by Luke in the Book of Acts?
I was impressed by a Spirit-filled church three years ago in San Francisco. This was the year when I was a student supply minister in Didsbury Alberta. I took a week's vacation after Easter 2010, and since I had never been to California before, I used that opportunity to spend a week in San Francisco.
A tourist guide book spoke highly of a church near where I was staying in the downtown core -- Glide Memorial United Methodist Church. So on the Sunday of that week, I worshipped at that church, and I was amazed by what I experienced.
Despite pouring rain, despite the fact that it was the second of two morning services, despite the fact that it was the "low Sunday" after Easter, and despite the fact that the church's famous Black pastor was away and the preacher that day was a newly ordained White lesbian woman who had come from that church but who was now a minister in a rural part of Arizona, the sanctuary was packed. And the service felt as much like a rock concert to me as it did a worship service.
We were led by a 100-voice Gospel choir. Its members were equal parts men and women; people of European, African, Latin American and Asian descent; and queer and straight people. When they sang, we all got up and swayed and danced along.
The congregation seemed just as diverse as the choir. Two Black women, who seemed to be impoverished, sat on one side of me; on my other side was a prosperous White couple from the suburbs. All of us sang and danced as one.
Although the service included moments familiar to me -- times of confession and lament as well as of praise and joy -- it seemed mostly upbeat to me. I am not sure that I would like this style of worship each week. But one thing evident in the service was Spirit -- lots and lots of Spirit.
The Holy Spirit denotes some of the more mysterious and powerful aspects of God. God the Father is often seen as remote: the source of all life and judge of the universe. God the Son becomes dear to us in the stories of Jesus of Nazareth. At baptism, we receive Jesus as the Christ into our hearts.
The Holy Spirit was promised to us by Jesus. The book of Acts details the power of the Spirit. I believe that the miracles portrayed there don't need to be understood as literal facts. Instead, I see them as ways to describe the power and joy that can be part of a community that is filled with God's Spirit.
The tough news is that living a life in the Spirit can be difficult to sustain over time -- whether in our worship and mission work, in a marriage, in a job or career, or in the struggle for justice.
Our Scripture readings give us some clues as to what we can do when we suffer from the absence of God's Spirit. We can wait. We can pray. And we can trust. Then when God's Spirit does come again into our hearts or fills our worship or mission, we can give thanks and praise the Spirit's awesome power.
At Glide Memorial church in San Francisco, I got a sense of how the Holy Spirit informed their life. Their Spirit-filled worship fed into the huge amount of outreach they did to the homeless, addicted, and desperate people who live in the neighbourhood around the church. In turn, their outreach to the poor and their focus on justice fed into their worship life. It seemed to be a relationship that blessed both the poor people who came to their soup kitchens and health clinics and all the people -- rich and poor, gay and straight, white people and people of colour -- who came to their packed Sunday worship services.
I don't find it easy to create this kind of powerful relationship between outreach, justice and worship. I raise the example of Glide Memorial here today simply as a reminder to myself and a pointer to us all of how life in the Body of Christ can be a life filled to overflowing with the power of God's Spirit.
In today's Idle No More movement among First Nations youth across Canada, we see the Spirit lifting people out of despair towards hope and out of apathy towards activism. It is a movement that challenges the very basis of Canada as a state founded on war, conquest and colonialism. I am glad that this movement has developed and that it includes the wisdom of elders, the rhythm of ceremonial drums, and the joy of round dancing.
Who knows why such a movement suddenly erupts and catches fire? Four women in Saskatchewan were angry that an omnibus Budget Bill of the federal government had changed environmental protections guaranteed by treaties without any consultation with First Nations. They spread word about protest actions using a Twitter hashtag #idlenomore. Since then, innumerable young natives have put themselves under their banner. But no matter why this movement has taken off unlike others, I pray that it will maintain and develop its spirited momentum.
The Spirit is said to be like breath, wind and flame. Sometimes it can feel as powerful as a blizzard or grass fire that races across a vast prairie. At other times, it can feel like the small still whisper of God's voice on a spring morning or like a little candle burning at a Christmas Eve service.
In worship, I usually prefer the gentle promptings of the Spirit over its awesome and fiery manifestations, which is why I chose they hymn "Spirit of Life" as our hymn of response. But no matter what form it takes, today as we wait for God's Spirit, pray for it, and trust that it will burst into our lives and communities at unexpected moments, we can raise our eyes to God in heaven and to the Risen Christ within our beating hearts and say again . . .
Thanks be to God.
Amen.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord"
Text: Luke 2 21-40 (Jesus presented at the Temple) -- why not Matthew?
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."
This line, taken from the anti-slavery anthem "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," was the last sentence of the last speech given by the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. 45 years ago in 1968. As I thought about today's Gospel passage from Luke, I also thought of King's famous speech from April 1968.
Both Simeon in our reading and Martin Luther King Jr. had a vision of salvation; and this vision in and of itself seemed to heal them. Today, I put their visions side by side.
In our reading from Luke, an old man named Simeon is prompted by the Spirit to go to the Temple in Jerusalem right after the first Christmas. When he gets there, he meets the infant Jesus. Simeon picks Jesus up, cradles him in his arms, and claims that in this baby he has seen Israel's Messiah and the world's salvation. Having finally met the Messiah, Simeon says that he can now die in peace. This is a remarkable thing to say after seeing a baby, wouldn't you agree?
The Messiah (which is a Hebrew word), or Christ (which is its Greek translation), or Anointed One (which is its English translation) was to be the long-awaited King of Israel. The Messiah would bring Israel back to the glory of its days under God's Anointed, King David. And yet Simeon somehow is able to say that in the baby Jesus he has seen this Messiah. And further, this Messiah is not just to be the ruler of Israel, but will also be a light of revelation to the rest of the world.
While Simeon's vision is healing, it also contains the shadow of the cross. Simeon blesses Mary and Joseph and then says to Mary, "This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed -- and a sword will pierce your own soul too." Simeon's blessing is one that comes with a cost!
In a nutshell, Simeon has laid out the entire Gospel. The good news says that all of us are blessed by the coming of the Christ, but that a sword will pierce our souls and that his coming will lead to the falling and rising of many. The falling is the cross and the rising is new life in Christ.
Somehow, in holding this newborn baby in his arms, Simeon experiences salvation in an instant. This salvation involves dying to an old way of life, which can feel like a piercing sword. The good news is that after dying to our old way of life, we are free to rise to a new one, which is a life in which we are healed.
Imagine cradling a newborn baby in your arms, looking down at it, and seeing the Christ there. In really looking at a newborn baby, we sometimes forget about our worries and cares. We stop centring our attention on our small selves, and instead see life as it should be: whole and divine. The baby lacks power, but it contains infinite potential. The baby bears the image of God and will grow within a family, neighbourhood, and global culture. In seeing the divine in a baby, we might also be reminded of our own fragile but divine status as well. When we receive the grace to see like this, we touch salvation.
There is a Celtic Blessing that captures the message. It goes like this: "May the Christ who walks on wounded feet, walk with you on the road, May the Christ who serves with wounded hands, stretch out your hands to serve. May the Christ who loves with a wounded heart open your hearts to love. And may you see the face of Christ in everyone you meet, and may everyone you meet see the face of Christ in you."
Simeon looks at the newborn Jesus and has the grace to see there the face of Christ. And I believe that when Simeon looks up at Mary and Joseph, they also see the face of Christ in Simeon. Because in this moment, Simeon's old life has fallen away. He is living in the new life of Christ, which is a life freed from fear. Feeling blessed in that moment, and no longer afraid, Simeon says that he can now die. It is not that he needs to die, even though he is an old man; just that he no longer fears death. He is "in the moment;" he is following the prompting of the Spirit; he is free.
Simeon does not need to live another 30 years to see what the adult Jesus will do, to puzzle at his parables, or to experience Jesus' death and resurrection. For Simeon, it has all happened in an instant when he sees salvation in the face of a baby.
Simeon's epiphany is also ours, that in the face of Jesus we see God and meet our own salvation. This is an epiphany that we can experience each time we look at one another with love.
But the salvation found in the face of Jesus might also disappoint. God has come in Jesus, but as a helpless baby. Even thirty years later, when Jesus has grown to be a charismatic teacher and healer with a large following, he is powerless in the face of the might of the Roman Empire. He is killed.
Nevertheless, the dream of a new king David refuses to die. Jesus promises to come a second time. The next time, he says he will come "in clouds and with great power and glory." This is also the vision captured in the "Battle Hymn of the Republic," which looks at the Civil War in the United States of 150 years ago through the lens of the Day of Judgement. At the Second Coming, Jesus will be carrying what the Hymn calls "a terrible swift sword." However, almost 2000 years after Jesus' death and resurrection, we are still waiting for this terrible and glorious event.
I prefer the epiphany of Simeon and Martin Luther King Jr., that salvation can happen long before Jesus' terrible swift sword brings justice to the earth. It is not that I am opposed to justice, especially if God magically makes it happen. Rather, the brief moments of healing we sometimes experience tell us that we do not have to wait for the final vindication of God's power. Healing is always here for us, graciously offered by God in everyone we meet and love.
It might be easiest to see divinity in a baby. But we also see the face of Christ in seniors, in mid-lifers, in youth, and in children. Simeon saw it, I see it, and you see it. At worship each week, we remind ourselves of this reality and we celebrate the divine Love that flames inside each and every one of us.
And so we read again the story of Simeon and Jesus in the Temple. It is about babies and salvation; piercing swords and crosses; a fearful old way of life and a trusting new way. All this might seem like a lot to find in a short Scripture reading. But I think that the truths packed into that story from Luke can also be seen in our modern-day Simeon -- the African-American civil rights activist, Baptist minister, and cultural hero, Martin Luther King Jr.
Closing with a story about King and his struggle for civil rights for black Americans might also make us mindful of some current struggles for justice: for the rights of girls in Pakistan to attend school, led by 15-year-old Malala Yousafzai, who continues to recover from an assassination attempt; for an end to violence against women in India; and the Idle No More movement among First Nations people here in Canada. May the participants in all these struggles feel the same inspiration that Dr. King felt 50 years ago and have his same insight that healing is found in the struggle as well as in any of the successes of the movement.
In the spring of 1968, King was in Memphis Tennessee supporting a group of public works employees who were on strike. On the day before his murder, King delivered what became his final speech in the Mason Temple of the Church of God in Christ.
It is called the "Mountaintop Speech" because King says that he has been the top of the mountain and has seen the Promised Land. His vision is of a world without racism and a world of peace and justice. King realizes that he may not get to the Promised Land. But just as it was with Simeon -- for whom it was sufficient to see the promise of the Messiah -- for Martin Luther King, the vision is enough. In fighting for this vision and believing in it, he has been healed and freed.
So I close this sermon with the end of King's speech from that night 45 years ago:
"I got to Memphis. And some talk about the threats that are out there. Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land. So I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."
Amen.
Why not Matthew? For this Epiphany, I avoided the assigned reading from Matthew 2 (the Star, the Magi from the East, Jerusalem, and King Herod) because this is Year C in the Lectionary, the Year of Luke. Next year, when we are in Year A, the Year of Matthew, I will probably tackle the Magi and the Star.
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."
This line, taken from the anti-slavery anthem "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," was the last sentence of the last speech given by the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. 45 years ago in 1968. As I thought about today's Gospel passage from Luke, I also thought of King's famous speech from April 1968.
Both Simeon in our reading and Martin Luther King Jr. had a vision of salvation; and this vision in and of itself seemed to heal them. Today, I put their visions side by side.
In our reading from Luke, an old man named Simeon is prompted by the Spirit to go to the Temple in Jerusalem right after the first Christmas. When he gets there, he meets the infant Jesus. Simeon picks Jesus up, cradles him in his arms, and claims that in this baby he has seen Israel's Messiah and the world's salvation. Having finally met the Messiah, Simeon says that he can now die in peace. This is a remarkable thing to say after seeing a baby, wouldn't you agree?
The Messiah (which is a Hebrew word), or Christ (which is its Greek translation), or Anointed One (which is its English translation) was to be the long-awaited King of Israel. The Messiah would bring Israel back to the glory of its days under God's Anointed, King David. And yet Simeon somehow is able to say that in the baby Jesus he has seen this Messiah. And further, this Messiah is not just to be the ruler of Israel, but will also be a light of revelation to the rest of the world.
While Simeon's vision is healing, it also contains the shadow of the cross. Simeon blesses Mary and Joseph and then says to Mary, "This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed -- and a sword will pierce your own soul too." Simeon's blessing is one that comes with a cost!
In a nutshell, Simeon has laid out the entire Gospel. The good news says that all of us are blessed by the coming of the Christ, but that a sword will pierce our souls and that his coming will lead to the falling and rising of many. The falling is the cross and the rising is new life in Christ.
Somehow, in holding this newborn baby in his arms, Simeon experiences salvation in an instant. This salvation involves dying to an old way of life, which can feel like a piercing sword. The good news is that after dying to our old way of life, we are free to rise to a new one, which is a life in which we are healed.
Imagine cradling a newborn baby in your arms, looking down at it, and seeing the Christ there. In really looking at a newborn baby, we sometimes forget about our worries and cares. We stop centring our attention on our small selves, and instead see life as it should be: whole and divine. The baby lacks power, but it contains infinite potential. The baby bears the image of God and will grow within a family, neighbourhood, and global culture. In seeing the divine in a baby, we might also be reminded of our own fragile but divine status as well. When we receive the grace to see like this, we touch salvation.
There is a Celtic Blessing that captures the message. It goes like this: "May the Christ who walks on wounded feet, walk with you on the road, May the Christ who serves with wounded hands, stretch out your hands to serve. May the Christ who loves with a wounded heart open your hearts to love. And may you see the face of Christ in everyone you meet, and may everyone you meet see the face of Christ in you."
Simeon looks at the newborn Jesus and has the grace to see there the face of Christ. And I believe that when Simeon looks up at Mary and Joseph, they also see the face of Christ in Simeon. Because in this moment, Simeon's old life has fallen away. He is living in the new life of Christ, which is a life freed from fear. Feeling blessed in that moment, and no longer afraid, Simeon says that he can now die. It is not that he needs to die, even though he is an old man; just that he no longer fears death. He is "in the moment;" he is following the prompting of the Spirit; he is free.
Simeon does not need to live another 30 years to see what the adult Jesus will do, to puzzle at his parables, or to experience Jesus' death and resurrection. For Simeon, it has all happened in an instant when he sees salvation in the face of a baby.
Simeon's epiphany is also ours, that in the face of Jesus we see God and meet our own salvation. This is an epiphany that we can experience each time we look at one another with love.
But the salvation found in the face of Jesus might also disappoint. God has come in Jesus, but as a helpless baby. Even thirty years later, when Jesus has grown to be a charismatic teacher and healer with a large following, he is powerless in the face of the might of the Roman Empire. He is killed.
Nevertheless, the dream of a new king David refuses to die. Jesus promises to come a second time. The next time, he says he will come "in clouds and with great power and glory." This is also the vision captured in the "Battle Hymn of the Republic," which looks at the Civil War in the United States of 150 years ago through the lens of the Day of Judgement. At the Second Coming, Jesus will be carrying what the Hymn calls "a terrible swift sword." However, almost 2000 years after Jesus' death and resurrection, we are still waiting for this terrible and glorious event.
I prefer the epiphany of Simeon and Martin Luther King Jr., that salvation can happen long before Jesus' terrible swift sword brings justice to the earth. It is not that I am opposed to justice, especially if God magically makes it happen. Rather, the brief moments of healing we sometimes experience tell us that we do not have to wait for the final vindication of God's power. Healing is always here for us, graciously offered by God in everyone we meet and love.
It might be easiest to see divinity in a baby. But we also see the face of Christ in seniors, in mid-lifers, in youth, and in children. Simeon saw it, I see it, and you see it. At worship each week, we remind ourselves of this reality and we celebrate the divine Love that flames inside each and every one of us.
And so we read again the story of Simeon and Jesus in the Temple. It is about babies and salvation; piercing swords and crosses; a fearful old way of life and a trusting new way. All this might seem like a lot to find in a short Scripture reading. But I think that the truths packed into that story from Luke can also be seen in our modern-day Simeon -- the African-American civil rights activist, Baptist minister, and cultural hero, Martin Luther King Jr.
Closing with a story about King and his struggle for civil rights for black Americans might also make us mindful of some current struggles for justice: for the rights of girls in Pakistan to attend school, led by 15-year-old Malala Yousafzai, who continues to recover from an assassination attempt; for an end to violence against women in India; and the Idle No More movement among First Nations people here in Canada. May the participants in all these struggles feel the same inspiration that Dr. King felt 50 years ago and have his same insight that healing is found in the struggle as well as in any of the successes of the movement.
In the spring of 1968, King was in Memphis Tennessee supporting a group of public works employees who were on strike. On the day before his murder, King delivered what became his final speech in the Mason Temple of the Church of God in Christ.
It is called the "Mountaintop Speech" because King says that he has been the top of the mountain and has seen the Promised Land. His vision is of a world without racism and a world of peace and justice. King realizes that he may not get to the Promised Land. But just as it was with Simeon -- for whom it was sufficient to see the promise of the Messiah -- for Martin Luther King, the vision is enough. In fighting for this vision and believing in it, he has been healed and freed.
So I close this sermon with the end of King's speech from that night 45 years ago:
"I got to Memphis. And some talk about the threats that are out there. Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land. So I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."
Amen.
Why not Matthew? For this Epiphany, I avoided the assigned reading from Matthew 2 (the Star, the Magi from the East, Jerusalem, and King Herod) because this is Year C in the Lectionary, the Year of Luke. Next year, when we are in Year A, the Year of Matthew, I will probably tackle the Magi and the Star.
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