On Humbleness

Following my thoughts on Ezekiel, I started pondering humility, or humbleness. Remembering the gospel: For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.  

As I engage in ministry with others, it seems that so many people I encounter who are burned out appear to be so are because the word "humble" fell out of use in their life and spirituality.  Because, if we are honest with ourselves, engaging the Word and the sacraments is a humbling enterprise. Walking with people in their vulnerable times is humbling. Realizing that God and a community of believers have called you to be a disciple among them is humbling.  

And, in that humbleness there is a joy, a joy that keeps one alive, dedicated, attuned, and attentive. If I had to strive for one word in my spirituality, besides that of love, it would be humbleness. So, I did some digging, a word study on humbleness and gleaned the following suggestions:

                              

Thank Others

Make sure you take every opportunity you have to thank others for what they do and what they help you with. People don’t accomplish anything on their own and it always takes help from others. Thank them for this help. Whether its your boss, spouse, friends, or stranger, thank others for whatever you can. Being humble in other’s eyes means you don’t claim your own accomplishments, and instead, thank others for how they helped, what they did, how they encouraged or supported you, etc. 

Redirect Praise

Redirecting praise is useful to be more humble and modest. If you don’t accept praise outright and instead, redirect it to others who helped you, trained you or even allowed you to do something, you pass on that praise to others without taking the credit directly. 

You Don’t Have to Be Right

A humble person never tries to outdo someone else and make themselves look better or smarter. This includes having to be right. When you try to prove you are right, or even when you say something simple like "I know" you are showing dominance over the other person. Instead of wanting to be right, even if you know something already, simple say, "Interesting, thanks for that." 

It Wasn’t You Who Got You Here

People are constantly striving for success and they often feel very proud of themselves for getting to where they are at. Humble people are not proud and know that they didn’t get themselves here. They know that others helped them, encouraged them and assisted them to get to where they are now.  

Don’t Be First

First is not necessarily a bad thing, however being first can come across as competitive, self promoting or demoting of others. None of those things are common for a humble person. In a group or workplace, if you don’t be first to speak, participate or get involved, you give others a chance to be first. 

Appreciate Everything

So many things around us are not our doing, we often forget to see our own insignificance since we get so focused on our own lives and accomplishments. Well to be humble, its importance to recognize and appreciate all the wonderful things around us. Appreciate the place you live, the health, wealth and happiness you experience or have opportunity for. Appreciating things adds greatly to a person’s humility and knowing that we have so much to be thankful for builds on many of the other items in this list. 

Listen More Than You Speak

Similar to the item above, "Don’t Be First" it applies to listening in a more broad sense. Listening more than you speak can be very powerful and if you use this you can learn many things about others and practice humility in how you respond. It gives you time to think and provides time for others to share their own opinions. Listening more can be very respectful to others, and you can learn a lot more by listening to others than you can by speaking.

Don’t Judge Others

Last but not least, a very important aspect of being humble is to not judge others. Judgment is a dangerous thing and you can’t stay open minded, receptive to ideas, empathetic or appreciative of others if you are judging them or their ideas. 

A prayer from Walter Brueggemann:

Healing, sovereign God,

overmatch our resistant ears

with your transforming speech.

Penetrate our jadedness and fatigue.

Touch our yearnings by your words.

Through your out-loudness, draw us closer to you.

We are ready to listen.

Amen.

On Spinning Wheels

To play with the metaphor, I think we can say that Ezekiel knew a thing or two about spinning wheels or the spinning of our wheels.

I thought about this after many engaging conversations this week along with the reality of standing alongside those in deep grief. One of my favorite, go-to moments of scripture is when God asks Ezekiel: "mortal, can these dry bones live?"

Oh what an opportunity! Think of the answers that Ezekiel could have proudly given. Think of how he could have inserted his ideas for the future of Israel and just precisely how he hoped that God would restore and heal. Think of how he could have asked for petitions specific to his own well being and future.

But, he didn't. He was humble. Ezekiel said rightly, "Only you know, Lord, only you." Then he said to Ezekiel, Prophesy to these bones, and say to them: O dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus says the Lord God to these bones: I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live. I will lay sinews on you, and will cause flesh to come upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath in you, and you shall live; and you shall know that I am the Lord.

As I climbed into bed after a long day, I stumbled upon these words from Thomas Merton in my reading:  You are not big enough to accuse the whole age effectively, but let us say you are in dissent. You are in no position to issue commands, but you can speak words of hope. Shall this be the substance of your message? Be human in this most inhuman of ages; guard the image of man for it is the image of God. 

Is this our most basic call?  To be human in this most inhuman of ages? To speak hope? What does that mean in our lives and in our work? Merton goes on further: To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting concerns, to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone in everything is to succumb to violence. The frenzy of the activist neutralizes his or her work for peace.

As many may have concluded already, we live in an age of grief. And grief bears with it anger, fear, denial, and many emotions and questions we would rather avoid. I come back to Ezekiel as I try to embody not a posture of dissent, but of hope: "Only you know, Lord, only you."

A prayer from Walter Brueggemann:

We confess, when we ponder your large governance,

that our "chief end" is to

glorify you and enjoy you forever.

We confess that the purpose of our life, purposes twinned,

are your glory and our joy.  That is our true end!

But when we come to the end of our work together, and

the end of our text together,

It strikes us that we know less about "ends" than we imagine.

We sing our explanatory doxologies,

We reiterate our concluding slogan that

"thine is the kingdom and the glory and the power."

We add our confident, loud "Amen" to our best petitions.

But--truth to tell--

We cannot see the end;

when we do see the end, we do not know its meaning...

whether termination or transition.

And so, like our many fathers and mothers always,

We trust where we cannot see,

eating what we are fed,

taking what of recognition we can muster,

restless and present under a myriad of surveillances,

but finally ceding our end to you,

in our simple, final prayer:

Come Lord Jesus.

Come among us,

Come to your church in bewilderment,

Come to our state in its vexation,

Come to our world in its insomnia.

Grant us peace with justice,

peace with joy,

peace at the last,

peace on earth...and glory to you in the highest.

Amen.

On Trust

"Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase."-- Martin Luther King, Jr. 

Kathryn Greene-McCreight writes: at the center of our faith is, as we have seen, a relationship of trust and faithfulness before the presence of the Triune God in Jesus of Nazareth.  The Christian Gospel has to do with living faithfully at the foot of the Cross even in a world filled with pain, vulnerability, suffering and darkness. Who would not stand quaking in one's boots from time to time before the Holy One of Israel? Who does not at some point dwell in the Valley of the Shadow?

As I have engaged in difficult and challenging discussions this week, I am constantly reminded or jolted into the reality that life really is a leap of faith and it is quite fragile. At many times prior to my current spiritual journey as a pastor, I avoided anything that looked like a leap into the unknown.  After all, I come from good German and Irish heritage. We don't make leaps; instead, we plan, strategize, weigh, assess, debate, and then decide with care and precision. What if my life does not turn out neat and industrious?   

There was a time when such thoughts petrified me. But, I guess I grow more radical with age. Or, perhaps just simpler. And this whole notion of letting go and letting God makes more and more sense.  Now, I must confess that I have my anxiety filled moments. But, I do have an inner serenity that goes beyond the chaos or pressures of the moment.  I know to whom I belong.  I take great comfort in that like a child leaning into her parent. 

The life of faith calls for radical trust: there is no getting beyond that. And that very emotion and state of being is not one supported by the currents of our world. Like grace, love, and salvation it seems to be a gift that is given not earned. I think of the once-popular credit card commercial where they lay out a series of costs and then at the end say "but this one thing____is priceless."  Truly resting in the knowledge that God is in control is priceless.

In a sense, then, faith is like spiritual oxygen. As we allow faith to freely flow within us, it awakens and enlivens our spiritual senses. It breathes life into our very souls. As faith flows, we become sensitively attuned to the whisperings of the Spirit. Our minds are enlightened, our spiritual pulse quickens, our hearts are touched. Faith fuels hope. And hope changes our perspective; our vision becomes clearer. We begin to look for the best, not the worst, in life and in others. We gain a deeper sense of life's purpose and meaning. 

How can we, in Lent, cultivate a deeper style of breathing in this spiritual oxygen, this new and invigorated life that the Christ calls us to live? How can we be agents of hope, a people of trust and transformation, in a world that is despairing in so many ways?

Today as we bury one of our long-time members at church this poem from Walter Brueggemann seems apt to honor a life lived fully in the impulse of God's mercy and grace:

There is a time to be born and a time to die.

And this is a time to be born.

So we turn to you, God of our life,

God of all our years,

God of our beginning.

Our times are in your hand.

Hear us as we pray:

For those of us too much into obedience,

birth us to the freedom of the gospel.

For those of us too much into self-indulgence,

birth us to discipleship in your ministry.

For those too much into cynicism,

birth us to the innocence of the Christ child.

For those of us too much into cowardice,

birth us to the courage to stand before principalities and powers.

For those of us too much into guilt,

birth us into forgiveness worked in your generosity.

For those of us too much into despair,

birth us into the promises you make to your people.

For those of us too much into control,

birth us into the vulnerability of the cross.

For those of us too much into victimization,

birth us into the power of Easter.

For those of us too much into fatigue,

birth us into the energy of Pentecost.

We dare pray that you will do for us and among us and through us

what is needful for newness.

Give us the power to be receptive,

to take the newness you give,

to move from womb warmth to real life.

We make this prayer not only for ourselves, but

for the church at the edge of life,

for our city waiting for newness,

for your whole creation, 

with which we yearn in eager longing.

There is a time to be born, and it is now.

We sense the pangs and groans of your newness.

Come here now in the name of Jesus.

Amen.

There is Need of Only One Thing

I had a good conversation yesterday about the impulse in religious circles to be consumers vs. citizens in God's Kingdom. The illumination above reads "there is need of only one thing."  As you may remember, the rest of the verse says "Mary has chosen the better part which will not be taken away from her."

Yes, poor Martha may have gotten a bad rap in that story.  But, what is the better part?  The need we have of only one thing?

It seems in reading Diana Butler-Bass' book that her idea of what is needed is a new and deeper appreciation of our relationships: with the world, with our neighbors, with our families, with our church, with our God. No doubt that is a tall order.

As Butler-Bass shares, one of the oldest meanings of the world religion is "to bind together."  It is that which connects us with God and each other.  She insists, over and over, that this meaning has become lost on us and that the term 'religion' has fallen on hard times. According to Butler-Bass, contemporary people tend to define religion as a structure, organization, or institution and they become purveyors or consumers of goods. Those who want to speak of lively faith, holy connection, and of finding God in the world often call themselves spiritual instead.

Butler-Bass suggests that we have abandoned our prophetic and creative vision for our common life in favor of an individual quest to get to heaven. And, in the process, community has become isolated behind the walls of buildings where worship corresponds to members' tastes and preferences. Is that what happened to Martha?  Did she get lost in her busyness, her desire to please, or was she simply living into the discipline of hospitality?  

I don't think that Jesus was trying to chastise Martha, just wake her up. The contrast Jesus makes is not between activity and inactivity. He points out Martha's worry and distractions, what she chose to focus on. Mary was attentive and open to God, seeking God and listening. Brother Lawrence called this practicing the presence of God. 

Where is our focus? Are we seeking first God's kingdom, being attentive to it and expressing it; or are we just busy? There is need of only one thing. If we are going to provide Christian hospitality and not just an empty shell of hospitality, it comes from being attentive to God — focused on our mission — focused on love consistently — not just "when we have time." And, God is always, always interrupting our time, trying to call us back, the Hound of Heaven who is after our hearts, our whole life and being.

A prayer from Walter Brueggemann:

We confess you to be the God who calls,

who wills,

who summons,

who had concrete intentions

for your creation,

and addresses human agents

who do your will.

We imagine ourselves called by you...

Yet a strange lot:

called but cowardly,

obedient but self-indulgent,

devoted to you, but otherwise preoccupied.

In our strange mix and answering and refusing,

We give thanks for your call.

We pray this day,

for ourselves, fresh vision;

for our friends, great courage,

for those who search for you

in places more dangerous than ours,

deep freedom.

As we seek to answer your call, may we be haunted

by your large purposes,

We pray in the name of the utterly called Jesus.

Amen.

On Sacred Cows

In reading our books this Lent, I made a loose correlation with a term I heard over and over again at the local Diocesan Convention: we need to give up our sacred cows.  Of course, it seems this reference reaches back in some way to the Golden Calf, the idol that the Israelites chose to worship instead of God.  They were impatient, restless, and not quite sure what the great I AM was going to do with and among them.

In our Lenten introspection we have to admit that we are not much different.  We still have our 'sacred cows' in church and in our call as disciples. What are they? A reading of Hezekiah's story reminded me of some of the sacred cows that may be still grazing and roaming among us.

Hezekiah is affirmed in Scripture as doing “what was right in the Lord’s sight” (2 Kings 18:3). The next verse details what Hezekiah did: “He removed the high places, shattered the sacred pillars and cut down the Asherah poles. He broke into pieces the bronze snake that Moses made, for the Israelites burned incense to it up to that time.”

Surely the people understood a strong, spiritual leader removing the idols that grabbed the hearts of the people and stole worship from the Lord?  Or did they? What Hezekiah did next must have been really unexpected and really controversial. He broke into pieces the bronze snake Moses made—intentionally. Not by accident. Not “I was carrying it and it fell.” And, you can imagine, to break bronze took some effort.

Eliminating pagan idols is one thing, but the people recoiled: “that was the snake Moses made!” It was the bronze snake God told Moses to make, the one people looked at to be delivered from their snakebites (Numbers 21).

Hezekiah broke the snake because the people were burning incense to it. They were worshiping a bronze snake. 

Tools for transformation can become objects of worship. We can make an idol of just about anything and we tend to make idols of things that are important to us. Thus, a bronze snake that God used to bring healing, held by the leader of God’s people during their liberation from slavery, became an object of worship.

Today is not altogether different. God’s people still struggle with taking tools for transformation and making them objects of worship. As we dialogued at the Diocesan Convention, three sacred cows kept being mentioned:

1. The Place

Because the Lord does a great work in the hearts of His people when they gather, the places of gathering can move from a tool for transformation to an object of worship. Thus, if a leader mentions “relocation,” the leader is essentially threatening to cut a bronze snake into pieces. We are reminded that the building is not the church, that God's people are the church. God does not live in the place where we gather; God lives in the hearts of His people.

2. The Past

Because the Lord worked in amazing ways in the past, the past can become an idol where people long for the past more than they long for the Lord. Being grateful for the past is one thing, and worshiping it is quite another. If “former days” were great, they were only great because of the Lord.

3. The Programs

Because God changed lives through a program or event, people can elevate a program to an unhealthy place. Programs can become ends in themselves and not tools used in a church’s discipleship process. When this happens, they exist as modern-day bronze snakes.

How can we remove our modern-day bronze snakes?

As mentioned before, we are called to be like John the Baptist and his bony finger: we must constantly point to the person of Jesus. Only He is worthy of our worship and only He can transform hearts. When we help people see the greatness of Jesus, idols look less attractive. As we turn our eyes on Jesus and look full in His wonderful face, the things of this world (place, past and programs) grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace.

We also have to be reminded of the purpose of the church. A church exists to make disciples. When a church embraces the mission of making disciples, programs are viewed as tools and not as ends in themselves. When making disciples is what a church is all about, the place is rightly seen as merely a place to help make disciples.

In what ways can we do this more heartily now in this Lenten season and as we turn from our sacred cows and back to God's will?

A prayer from Walter Bruggemann:

God of all truth, we give thanks for your 

faithful utterance of reality.

In your truthfulness, you have called the world "very good."

In your truthfulness, you have promised,

"I have loved you with an everlasting love."

In your truthfulness, you have assured,

"This is my beloved Son."

In your truthfulness, you have voiced, "Fear not, I am with you."

In your truthfulness, you have guaranteed that

"Nothing shall separate us from your love in Jesus Christ."

It is by your truthfulness that we love.

And yet, we live in a world phony down deep,

in which we participate at a slant.

Ours is a seduced world,

where we call evil good and good evil,

where we put darkness for light and light for darkness,

where we call bitter sweet and sweet bitter,

where we call war peace and peace war,

so that rarely we see the truth of the matter.

Give us courage to depart the pretend world of euphemism,

to call things by their right name,

to use things by their right name,

to use things for their right use,

to love our neighbors as you love us.

Overwhelm our fearful need to distort,

that we may fall back into your truth-telling about us,

that we may be tellers of truth and practitioners of truth.

We pray in the name of the One whom you have filled

with "grace and truth." Amen.

The Outpost in the Storm

After last night's storms, this parable from Bishop Michael Curry's book, Crazy Christians, seems appropriate for us to consider.

"A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the [disciples’] boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But [Jesus] was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” (Mark 4: 37–39) 

The Rev. Canon Theodore Wedel, former warden of the College of Preachers at the Washington Cathedral, tells a parable that begins with these words: “On a dangerous sea coast where shipwrecks often occur, there was a crude little lifesaving station. The building was just a hut, and there was only one boat, but the few devoted members kept a constant watch over the sea, and with no thought for themselves they went out day and night tirelessly searching for the lost.”  

As the parable develops, the lifesaving crew members become known for their bravery and commitment. Others join them in the mission. The lifesaving station starts to grow. Then some supporters become concerned about the dilapidated appearance of the station building and the lifesaving boats. They redecorate and spruce things up. They buy modern new boats. 

As time goes by, the emphasis of the mission begins to change. They start referring to the lifesaving station as the lifesaving society. Instead of going on rescue missions themselves, members of the society hire specialized rescue crews to actually go out to sea. To keep the redecorated station decent and clean, they build another building to house the people who have been rescued. 

After a while, most have forgotten that lifesaving once was the community’s core activity. Those few who do remember—or care—install a symbolic lifeboat in the room where they hold initiation ceremonies for new members. Other lifesaving stations spring up along the coast, but the same things happen—each one, after a while, becomes a lifesaving society. 

Canon Wedel ends the parable with these words: “Shipwrecks are still frequent in those waters, but now most of the people drown.” 

Are we allowing people to drown from the safety of our clean, neatly decorated buildings?  Have we "symobolized" our mission?  These are tough questions to ask ourselves in Lent but necessary ones.  

A prayer from Walter Brueggemann:

God of heaven and lord of earth,

Tamer of heaven, lover of earth,

sovereign over the waters that surge,

provider for birds, beast, and fish,

chooser of Israel and commander of all humanity.

Your vistas remind us

of how close and small we keep our horizons,

how much we blink at your power, and wince from your justice,

how much we waver in the face of your commanding mercy.

You, you, you only, you, God of heaven and lord of earth.

Comes the rain upon our parade,

and the floods upon our nations,

and the winds upon our personal configurations,

Comes your shattering and your reconfiguring

in ways we doubt or we fear.

We discover yet again, how sandy we are,

with quaking of our foundations

and our fantasized firmaments.

We are filled with trembling and nightmares that disturb.

And then you-rock-solid-stable-reliable-sure

You rock against our sand,

You rock of ages,

You rock that is higher than us treading water,

You rock of compassion--

be compassionate even for us, our loved ones

and all our needy neighbors.

You rock of abidingness for our sick,

and for those long loved, lingering memories,

dead and in your care,

You rock of justice for the nations,

fed up with our hate,

exhausted by our greed of our several tribes,

You rock of communion in our loneliness,

rock of graciousness in our many modes of gracelessness.

Come be present even here and there, and there and there,

Move us from our sandy certitudes to your grace-filled risk,

Move us to become more rock-like

in compassion and abidingness and justice,

Move us to be more like you in our neighborliness

and in our self-regard.

Yes, yes, yes--move us that we may finally 

stand on solid rock, no more sinking sand.

God of heaven, Lord of earth, 

hear our resolve, heal our unresolve,

that we may finish in sure trust and in glad obedience.

We already know what to do by our careful pondering of you.

Amen.

On Questions

In Kathryn Greene-McCreight's discussion of "Our Address to God" she points out several instances in scripture where people question God. In the case of Elijah we find that he requests God to take away the burden of his life and God responds by turning the questions back on Elijah. The dialogue ensues and ends with a command to Elijah--"Go!"

As Greene-McCreight points out, God often answers questions with questions in return as in the case of Job.  What is important to note is that our questions to God, our complaints and accusations, often tell us more about ourselves than they do about God.  It is even true that our questions about God's relationship to us in our suffering often get turned back on us.  Like the disciples in the boat during the wild storm on the sea we ask: "Do you not care that we are perishing?" And in this our relationship to God is revealed; we want to know how God is going to be good for us, rescue us, or please us.

In our faith journey and in the wilderness of Lent we often learn that our identity is in our willingness to love God in spite of what is set before us.  In my walk as a pastor, I have encountered many people who are afraid to question God, be angry, or raw with God. I try to encourage them that this is part of a maturing faith and that God can handle it and will respond. It may not be what you, we want to hear; but it will be what we need to hear.  And, if we have trust, it is spoken by a God who calls us to be His children, His beloved disciples and apostles.

What questions do we have burning down deep in our soul?  What questions are we afraid to speak aloud?  How has God answered us in our moments of darkness or struggle?

A prayer from Walter Brueggemann:

We come to your presence haunted by an old question:

The question is posed by your presence,

for we would not ask it otherwise.

The question is an old one,

asked by our mothers and fathers forever.

Haunted because we do not know...and we must know.

So now yet again, like all our predecessors,

We ask again,

Is there a balm...in Gilead or anywhere?

Is there medicine for what ails us?

Is there healthcare with you, so absent everywhere else?

Is there a drug to deal with our infection?

Is there a heavy dose for our pathology?

We ask, linger for your answer, but do not know.

We ask, then rush to lesser remedies, to quack physicians,

to secret recipes,

all the while thinking

to heal ourselves.

But then back to you, still needing your answer.

We suspect a 'yes' from you,

We ponder the way you healed old slaveries,

the way you sent Jesus

among the disabled,

the way your spirit has surged to heal.

We crave a "yes" from you and wait.

We wait...midst our disabilities of fear and anxiety;

We wait...aware of our pathologies of hate and rage and greed;

We wait...knowing too well our complicity in violence

we need not see...

We cut below that...

We wait in weariness, in doubt, in loneliness.

And we pray: say the word and we will be healed;

say the word and our bodies will move to joy;

say the word and our body politic will function again;

say the word that you have fleshed in Jesus;

say the word...we will wait for your healing "yes."

And while we wait, we will "yes" you with our trusting obedience.

Amen.

Re-visioning

It seems to me that I am hearing the cry for a re-visioning of church in many sectors and certainly in our readings this Lent.  It is not a re-visioning like what is happening in our marketplace as corporations downsize and cut positions.  It is a true re-seeing, re-thinking, and renewing.  

Sometimes I hear the call in the voice of a teenager who finds an inauthenticity to what has been construed as church.  Other times it comes from the voice of a wise elder who realizes that the bells and whistles of the previous generation are no longer heard by the current generation.  Today I saw it in the faces of those grieving the loss of a huge persona in our faith community.

Where do we go from here?  This seems to be the immediate question and one that every generation must ask itself as it wrestles with the Word and our injunction to be disciples in a changing world.

Brennan Manning has written eloquently about this: If we maintain the open-mindedness of children, we challenge fixed ideas and established structures, including our own. We listen to people in other denominations and religions. We don't find demons in those with whom we disagree. We don't cozy up to people who mouth our jargon. If we are open, we rarely resort to either-or: liberty or law, sacred or secular, Beethoven or Madonna. We focus on both-and, fully aware that God's truth cannot be imprisoned in a small definition. 

One of the resounding themes present in our Diocesan Convention was that Christians are to be a people of joy.  I think we struggle with this as we are challenged or even shepherded "beyond our wants, beyond our needs, beyond our fears, from death into life" as the hymn "Shepherd Me" intones.  In order to obtain this joyful and trusting posture in our hearts, perhaps some sense of detachment is involved.

Johannes Eckhart von Hocheim, the medieval Dominican friar and respected theologian and philosopher, was a mystic whose writings and sermons were all centered on God and detachment from all that is not God. He plumbed the depths of his 'spirituality of subtraction' to the point that he wrote in his discourse About Disinterest: Keep in mind: to be full of things is to be empty of God, while to be empty of things is to be full of God.  This is directly related to the Pauline emphasis on the Greek notion of kenosis--the self-emptying conversion of being that comes in the grace of faith, the reality of being made new creation in Christ.

Where is our joy in this Lenten season? Of what do we need to be emptied in order to know this joy? How do we care for it, nurture it and share it with others?

A prayer from Walter Bruggemann:

Light from light

Creation from chaos

Life from death

Joy from sorrow

Hope from despair

Peace from hate

All your gifts, all your love, all your power.

All from your word, fresh from your word, all gifts of your speech.

We give thanks for your world-forming speech.

Thanks as well for our speech back to you,

the speech of mothers and fathers

who dared to speak

in faith and unfaith

in trust and distrust

in grateful memory and in high hurt.

We cherish this speech as we trust yours.

Listen this day for the groans and yearnings of your world,

listen to our own songs of joy and our own drudges of death,

and in the midst of our stammering,

speak your clear word of life

in the name of your word come flesh.

Amen.

On Listening and Pointing

In the illumination above, Jesus tells Mary Magdalene not to hold on to him because he has not yet ascended to the Father.  This story always reminds me of how we want to hold on, to remain fixed, to avoid the messy flow of a living discipleship.  We are not always attuned to God's plans and vision.

The Episcopal Diocesan Convention has occupied my mind and body for the last three days.  It was one of the best conventions I have ever attended in terms of spirit, enthusiasm, and genuinely promoting the idea that we need to be listening to one another and God.  In essence that sounds simple, even basic.  But in many ways we have failed because we want to hold on to what has been rather than be open to what can be.

This reality reminded me of a quote from Bonhoeffer in Life Together: The first service one owes to others in community involves listening to them. Just as our love for God begins with listening to God's Word, the beginning of love for other Christians is learning to listen to them …. Christians who can no longer listen to one another will soon no longer be listening to God either; they will always be talking even in the presence of God. The death of the spiritual life starts here, and in the end there is nothing left but empty spiritual chatter and clerical condescension which chokes on pious words.

I appreciated in our convention that Bishop Kendrick invited us to dig deeper, dialogue and listen.  We spent our second day focused on these table talks. In our participation at tables, I saw a genuinely humble posture emerge like that of John the Baptist: we need more of God, less of us.  This in turn reminded me of my pastoral care seminary professor who had this painting displayed in every class.

It is not the style of art I am drawn to naturally.  But, it became a powerful symbol and reminder of who we are as disciples in God's Kingdom.

As we were told, the theologian Karl Barth had this painting by Matthias Grunewald in the wall of his study. In the painting there is an image of John the Baptist with his extra long, "bony finger” raised in a way so it is directing and pointing the onlooker to the cross of Jesus in the center of the painting. The story indicates that when Barth would talk with a visitor about his work (writing and theology), he would direct them to John the Baptist in the painting, and he would say, “I want to be that finger.” "I want to be a sign pointing to the victory of Christ."

We've all done some form of finger pointing in our lives; unfortunately it probably came when we had failed to listen, didn't get our way, or did not want to take responsibility.  We could all in this Lenten season stand to commit ourselves to being that "bony finger" in new and more faithful ways.  

Our Gospel lesson this week, ironically, refers to Jesus as a mother hen gathering her chicks and sheltering them under her wings. As comforting as that is (or as challenging as that is for those who wanted a warrior Messiah), we are still called to be signs of God's Kingdom breaking in, of the beauty that is possible in God's transforming grace. We don’t wait for the world to change or for everyone else to change first. We can go ahead and be changed, be transformed. We can point others to Christ, to abundant life in community now, today. 

A prayer from Walter Brueggemann:

We are your people and mostly we don't mind,

except that you do not fit any of our categories.

We keep pushing

and pulling 

and twisting

and turning,

trying to make you fit the God we would rather have,

and every time we distort you that way

we end up with an idol more congenial to us.

In our more honest moments of grief and pain

we are very glad that you are who you are,

and that you are toward us in all your freedom

what you have been toward us.

So be your faithful self

and by your very engagement in the suffering of the world,

transform the world even as you are being changed.

We pray in the name of Jesus,

who is the sign of your suffering love.

Amen.

On Finding Love for People

Inspired by an article in the Christian Century many years ago, I found this reflection on loving people to be a good engagement for Lent.  It touches on what it means to be in community, to be the priesthood of all believers and to allow God to widen our hearts beyond our own comfort. It also addresses the themes and challenges we are addressing at the regional Episcopal Diocesan Convention.

First, each and every one of us must decide that the people of his or her congregation truly matter—that they are worth the personal energy expended on their behalf. This is more than putting up with people who consider the church their second home. It asks for the gift of compassion and a keenly observant eye for noticing. Just as a sailor reads the wind or a surfer reads the surf, we must be willing to read the contours of individual lives within a congregation. 

We might ask ourselves, for example, "Am I interested in the complications that go with the daily routines of these people in my circle of life? Do I really want to get to know them in more than a superficial way? Can I imagine the very different worlds they inhabit and tune into those worlds when I'm with them? Am I willing to care personally for them in the midst of all that might preoccupy their minds, worry their hearts or delight their souls?" If we can answer these questions in the affirmative then we are on the road to a meaningful partnership in ministry. In loving others we do not merely give of ourselves; we also receive energy and insight for living our own lives more fully. 

Second, we need to love people as they are, not as we wish they were. None of this "if only" stuff in community life. "If only she would buy into the strategic plan." "If only he would open his wallet more freely." Conditional love is not biblical love. Toleration of another is not the warmth of affection. If the ministry of a church is alive and vibrant, the members within it will always be in the process of becoming more than they presently are. This is its own delight. Those who enjoy a loving identification with their people will find themselves putting the joys and interests of these people ahead of their own. Everyone comes out on top when there is this "priority for the other." It sounds rather Jesus-like, come to think of it.

Third, we should not confuse the gift of interpersonal skills or fellowship with having a Godly heart for people. Fellowship is fun, but it is no substitute for the reverence that goes with casting one's lot among this strange menagerie of people called a congregation. The art of embracing other people, including individuals very much unlike ourselves, cannot be reduced to any singular event. It is part of one's character, formed by the grace of God's love and molded through daily prayer.

Fourth, love is its own reward. It is not a means to an end. Love must never be exercised to get somebody to do something. We need to see people for the depth of their humanity, for the colorful surprise that God has tucked into their breath, and not for their perceived value to the church's ministry or to us personally. 

Fifth, love grows in depth over time. Just as those in a marriage enrich the texture of their togetherness with each new experience of their shared life, so we in the church discover the full meaning of our love for one another only over the course of time. If I say, "I love you," to another human being, I cannot really say this in a way that suggests I've perfected that love. Rather, the words remind both of us that there is yet more love to be discovered through our precious bond.

Finally, cherishing the people of a congregation requires a deep inner desire if it is to be a priority. Loving a body of people does not happen automatically or mechanically. There may be many days when one feels little love. We cannot order an emotion anymore than we can learn one from a textbook. 

So what do we do? The best forms of love are always driven by a thirst or a longing to know and care about another human being. Where our soul may not feel a longing for God or for other people, there is always another option. We can "desire the desire" or, as Meister Eckhart once put it, "long for the longing." 

Every congregation must find a relational path through challenge and hardship, through exhilaration and meaning. A certain complexity seems to accompany every love. 

Can we come to such an engagement, commitment, and sense of communal love this Lent?  

All will be well...

One of the more humbling "attitude adjustments" we can assent to in Lent is God's question to Job in chapter 38: Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation? Tell me, if you understand. Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know! Who stretched a measuring line across it? On what were its footings set, or who laid its cornerstone—while the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy?

We are so often tempted to think that we have access to Divine Providence or at least that we should.  We long to provide answers to questions that cannot be answered (suffering) and to have some sense of mastery over our lives.  This phenomenon was not unique to Job's questioning.  Remember Elijah.  God told Elijah: get off your hind quarters and come out of hiding, do something in spite of your fear.

We are still called to speak with prophetic voices in this day and age.  It is just that a prophet's voice is almost never welcomed.  It turns our comfortable worlds upside down and conveys some indictment from God.  In so many ways, when we read of exile and despair in scripture, people have forgotten who they are and whose they are.  Forgetting leads to exile.

As Kathryn Greene-McCreight points out, we wander in exile from God and even from ourselves.  We forget to give thanks for God's blessings and graciousness because we prefer to see these things as though they were mere coincidences. Gifts call for thankfulness. Coincidences can be ignored.

Where in this season of Lent have we settled for coincidental thinking rather than that of gift? Where and when have we questioned God when we have not gotten our way, received the healing we had prayed and hoped for?  Gift, healing, or blessing is often not what we imagine it to be.  It is a surrender to God to whom we ask to order our steps that we might humble ourselves before His will.  Easy?  By no means.

Healing, release from exile, is seldom relief from the immediacy of pain or separateness.  As the English mystic, Julian of Norwich assures, "All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well." This is no smoothing over of the rough patches of our lives. Here we are pointed to the reality that St. Paul's speaks of in 1 Corinthians:  death is the last enemy.  Death stings in the present.  But death will be swallowed up in victory at that last day.

In some sense we are called to surrender to this path, the path of the Cross and suffering, with a call for trust, hope, and endurance.  As much as we resist, it is there before us.  I knelt by the bedside of one suffering, perhaps dying last night.  Though he could not speak much, as though by sheer grace, as I prayed he started singing "It is well with my soul." May it be well with ours whatever may come.

A prayer from Walter Brueggemann:

We have heard of your wondrous power,

the ways in which you make newness,

the ways in which you defeat death,

the ways in which you give life.

We trust you in the night while we sleep;

we rise early in the morn to find you alert, active, engaged.

You dazzle us day and night.

Yet...we notice the place where

you are curbed,

you are fringed,

you are held.

Your newness we do not see...so we wait.

Keep us easy at night in our wait.

Keep us vigilant in day while we wait.

Keep our wait fixed on you,

you alone,

you and none other...and we will rejoice.

Amen.

On Finding Home

Diana Butler Bass begins her chapter on "Home" by quoting a favorite author of mine, Maya Angelou:  The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.

It seems for many in this modern or post-modern era there is a homesickness, a dis-ease with the way we move and live in the world.  Often, in meeting new people, we ask "where do you live" not only as a social indicator but as a way of revealing values. Butler-Bass says that our home is more than a house.  It is a sacred location, a place of aspiration and dreams, of learning and habit, of relationships and heart.  "Home is the geography of our souls."

Yet, in our modern world, she points out that we live amidst large numbers of people who are dislocated by war, famine, conflict, religious migration, climate change, economic hardship, or cultural curiosity. Thus, to some extent, many are "out of place" and become comfortable with a transient lifestyle.

This itineracy is nothing new to the persons we find in scripture, always struggling for a home, for peace, and for place where one could practice faith without persecution.  Taking that concept further, Butler-Bass points to John Wesley's discussion of holy habits: He went on to teach that men and women must practice holy habits in mutually supportive homes and communities in order to know God and create a more just society; and a more just society would naturally foster habits leading people to a deeper spiritual awareness.  Habit and habitat went together.

In Lent we speak of being tossed into the wilderness where we reevaluate our habits of heart and home. In what ways are we living incompatibly with ourselves, with God, and with our neighbors? Jesus often made statements such as "I am the door" or "I am the gate." A door is the place of coming and going, of safety, protection and welcome. Have we entered doors other than the one Jesus opens and knocks upon?

Have we found ourselves going through the narrow gate or plodding along the wide road which leads to destruction (Matthew 7:13)?  In what ways have we divorced habit and habitat such that we have lost our sense of stewardship with creation and with our own resources?

Archbishop Desmond Tutu has spoken eloquently of our need to reconsider our relationships with one another and the world.  He writes, "the first law of our being is that we are set in a delicate network of interdependence with our fellow human beings and with the rest of God's creation."  Related to this thinking is the African concept of Ubuntu--I am because you are.  I have always thought of this concept in relation to the Jewish impulse regarding salvation: it is not about me and "my" salvation, it is always about "us" and our salvation.

How might we live more fully and faithfully, find our home, while realizing that life on earth cannot be reduced; it is an ever-folding mystery that defies prediction?

A prayer from Walter Brueggemann:

The pushing and shoving of the world is endless.

We are pushed and shoved.

And we do our fair share of pushing and shoving

in our great anxiety.

And in the middle of that

you have set down your beloved suffering son

who was like a sheep led to slaughter

who opened not his mouth.

We seem not able,

so we ask you to create the spaces in our life

where we may ponder his suffering

and your summons for us to suffer with him,

suspecting that suffering is the only way to come to newness.

So we pray for your church in these Lenten days,

when we are driven to denial--

not to notice the suffering,

not to engage it,

not to acknowledge it.

So be that way of truth of among us

that we should not deceive ourselves.

That we shall see that loss is indeed our gain.

We give you thanks for that mystery from which we live.

Amen.