Luke 4:1-13
Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil. He ate nothing at all during those days, and when they were over, he was famished. The devil said to him, "If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become a loaf of bread." Jesus answered him, "It is written, "One does not live by bread alone.' " Then the devil led him up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And the devil said to him, "To you I will give their glory and all this authority; for it has been given over to me, and I give it to anyone I please. If you, then, will worship me, it will all be yours." Jesus answered him, "It is written, "Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.' " Then the devil took him to Jerusalem, and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, "He will command his angels concerning you, to protect you,' and "On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.' " Jesus answered him, "It is said, "Do not put the Lord your God to the test.' " When the devil had finished every test, he departed from him until an opportune time.
As I continued to think about that image from yesterday's Stone Mountain reflection, my Thursday chapel sermon began to form. I had been thinking over the temptation of Jesus passage for a few days, reading it, reading about it. I was struggling to find the message, though. But as I talked about that Easter journey idea, I started to think about Jesus and his ministry. The whole of Jesus' ministry took place while walking to Jerusalem. Granted, he made stops along the way, gathered people to him, taught, and healed, but that was all by way of walking to Jerusalem and ultimately the cross.
What does this have to do with the temptation passage, you may ask? Well, this story takes place before Jesus' ministry begins, before we know what his life and ministry will be all about. There were many expectations about who the Messiah would be, warrior, doer of miracles, political figure... And when Satan tempts Jesus, those are exactly the choices offered. His life could be about turning stones to bread, doing miracles. His life could be about political power, ruling over all the world. He could test God and distance himself from humanity. But Jesus said no to all these things. Jesus said, no, I won't do those things. Instead, I'll walk with the people.
Jesus' no to temptation was a holy and wonderful yes to us, to you and me. His walking ministry is recorded in scripture and stands as our great reference to how we can be more like Christ in our lives. Instead of being over and above humanity, Jesus chose walk alongside humanity, to be the God we can see and touch, the God we can know and by whom we can be known. It makes me thankful for the walk.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Remember that you are dust...
Lent 1:
I got up this morning very, very early. I left my house well before sunrise to get to the hospital to preside over a 6:30 am Ash Wednesday service. I rose early to begin my Lenten 40 days journey. It was very cold this morning, and dark, and it made me think of Easter morning a couple of years ago. Some of my seminary classmates and I decided it would be a good idea to attend the Stone Mountain Sunrise Service that year. We could not simply get up a few minutes before sunrise. No, we had to give ourselves time to climb a mountain and get situated before the sun came up. Not a big mountain, but still, quite a hike. I'm not sure what I was expecting that morning. I'd never been to this particular event, so I had no frame of reference. When we got to Stone Mountain Park, the parking lot was packed. We found a spot and when we got out of the car, we stepped into quite a crowd of people.
As we started the climb with hundreds and hundreds of people, it struck me that we were on a pilgrimage. And it nearly brought me to tears to have a visual understanding of not making that pilgrimage alone. There we were, among the body of Christ, climbing a mountain, almost literally towards Easter. The climb was easy at first. The base of the mountain is wide enough that you aren't fighting for walking room, and it's a gentle incline at the bottom. As you move on up further, it gets a little more crowded and foot paths are not quite as smooth. You have to climb over rocks and logs. You may stumble a little, but it's not terrible. But the closer you get to the top, the harder it gets. There is more in your way. The climb is steeper. Your legs are tired and you realize that you forgot to stretch before you started. I can tell you that even though Stone Mountain is not a beastly climb by any means, getting a sleepy body to the top before the sun has come up is not a simple task. There was a point that I thought to myself, why did I want to do this? But then I looked around, and I saw all the other people walking the journey with me and then I realized where I was going, and it got a lot easier. Lent, and the Christian life in general, is a little like that. We've never been promised an easy road. It's not all Alleluia (the forbidden word this time of year), all the time. It's not meant for pain and suffering either though. There will be some because pain is a side effect of growth, but its about growth.
Pain and stretching and growth, those are pretty human ideas. And we begin Lent with Ash Wednesday. This is a day in which we truly confront the humanness of our faith. All pretense is stripped away. As I stand in the chapel and in patients' rooms today and staff, patients, and family allow me to touch their foreheads with the ashes which represent the dust from which we came and that to which we will return, I pause to think about what this season means to me. The dust and oil smeared across my forehead and the foreheads of so many others today reminds me that it is that same dust that the incarnate God shook off his sandals and the same oil he held in human hands. As I walk this 40 day journey, I do not walk it alone. I walk with those who are here, those who have come before, and those who are still to come.
I got up this morning very, very early. I left my house well before sunrise to get to the hospital to preside over a 6:30 am Ash Wednesday service. I rose early to begin my Lenten 40 days journey. It was very cold this morning, and dark, and it made me think of Easter morning a couple of years ago. Some of my seminary classmates and I decided it would be a good idea to attend the Stone Mountain Sunrise Service that year. We could not simply get up a few minutes before sunrise. No, we had to give ourselves time to climb a mountain and get situated before the sun came up. Not a big mountain, but still, quite a hike. I'm not sure what I was expecting that morning. I'd never been to this particular event, so I had no frame of reference. When we got to Stone Mountain Park, the parking lot was packed. We found a spot and when we got out of the car, we stepped into quite a crowd of people.
As we started the climb with hundreds and hundreds of people, it struck me that we were on a pilgrimage. And it nearly brought me to tears to have a visual understanding of not making that pilgrimage alone. There we were, among the body of Christ, climbing a mountain, almost literally towards Easter. The climb was easy at first. The base of the mountain is wide enough that you aren't fighting for walking room, and it's a gentle incline at the bottom. As you move on up further, it gets a little more crowded and foot paths are not quite as smooth. You have to climb over rocks and logs. You may stumble a little, but it's not terrible. But the closer you get to the top, the harder it gets. There is more in your way. The climb is steeper. Your legs are tired and you realize that you forgot to stretch before you started. I can tell you that even though Stone Mountain is not a beastly climb by any means, getting a sleepy body to the top before the sun has come up is not a simple task. There was a point that I thought to myself, why did I want to do this? But then I looked around, and I saw all the other people walking the journey with me and then I realized where I was going, and it got a lot easier. Lent, and the Christian life in general, is a little like that. We've never been promised an easy road. It's not all Alleluia (the forbidden word this time of year), all the time. It's not meant for pain and suffering either though. There will be some because pain is a side effect of growth, but its about growth.
Pain and stretching and growth, those are pretty human ideas. And we begin Lent with Ash Wednesday. This is a day in which we truly confront the humanness of our faith. All pretense is stripped away. As I stand in the chapel and in patients' rooms today and staff, patients, and family allow me to touch their foreheads with the ashes which represent the dust from which we came and that to which we will return, I pause to think about what this season means to me. The dust and oil smeared across my forehead and the foreheads of so many others today reminds me that it is that same dust that the incarnate God shook off his sandals and the same oil he held in human hands. As I walk this 40 day journey, I do not walk it alone. I walk with those who are here, those who have come before, and those who are still to come.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Shrove Tuesday
Well, today is Shrove Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, or whatever you want to call it. It is the day before Ash Wednesday, and thus the day before Lent begins. I have had my Shrove Tuesday meal, been indulgent and now feel geared up for Lent. My Shrove Tuesday meal was O'Charley's Prime Rib Pasta with a tall Sam Adams Boston Lager, in case you happened to be wondering. This came about when I told my supervisor that I was longing after some good pancakes. He said, "I'm staying in town tonight. We could go to IHOP" and after a moment, "Actually, I could really go for a big steak and a beer if we're going to be really indulgent about this whole Shrove Tuesday thing." So, that's what happened. We had metaphorical pancakes instead of real ones. If you happen to be reading this outside a liturgical tradition, you may be wondering about the pancakes. You may be aware of the tradition of "giving up" something for Lent, and there has been a long tradition of practicing some sort of fasting for the season. Once upon a time, making pancakes, doughnuts, and other pastries were a good way to use up the richer foods like eggs, milk, and sugar, so they didn't go to waste when the 40 day fast came the following day. Thus, the tradition of the Shrove Tuesday pancake supper. But I digress.
I have indulged and now my mind is looking towards Lent. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Ash Wednesday is my most favorite day in all of the Christian calendar. It is the first day of Lent. It seems so odd at times when I think of how much I love Lent. Lent is so often associated with somber suffering, a collective commitment to gloom. But no, that's not what it's all about. Here is your history lesson. Lent is connected to the word "lengthen" (it occurs around the time of year that the days start getting longer, at least in the northern hemisphere) and the season is connected with the ideas of healing, growth, and strengthening.
At Lent, we are meant to be in preparation for Easter through prayer, fasting, and those other spiritual disciplines which bring us closer to God. The season is connected to the 40 days temptation of Christ, but it is more than suffering. It is growth. It is strengthening. So, in that spirit, I make this commitment. I will do better at reflection. I will be practicing a Lenten fast, but I will also be taking on the discipline of earnest reflection. I started this blog as a means of spiritual discipline and have failed miserably at keeping up with it. I have found that I will be better as a pastor and a person if I take time to think, to be intentional about what I do. For the next 40 days (not including Sunday "little Easters" for those new to Lenten discipline) I will commit to writing something here every day. I do this in hopes that I will walk a journey, not just towards the cross, but towards Easter, and perhaps someone will walk this journey with me and we may all be better for it.
I have indulged and now my mind is looking towards Lent. Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Ash Wednesday is my most favorite day in all of the Christian calendar. It is the first day of Lent. It seems so odd at times when I think of how much I love Lent. Lent is so often associated with somber suffering, a collective commitment to gloom. But no, that's not what it's all about. Here is your history lesson. Lent is connected to the word "lengthen" (it occurs around the time of year that the days start getting longer, at least in the northern hemisphere) and the season is connected with the ideas of healing, growth, and strengthening.
At Lent, we are meant to be in preparation for Easter through prayer, fasting, and those other spiritual disciplines which bring us closer to God. The season is connected to the 40 days temptation of Christ, but it is more than suffering. It is growth. It is strengthening. So, in that spirit, I make this commitment. I will do better at reflection. I will be practicing a Lenten fast, but I will also be taking on the discipline of earnest reflection. I started this blog as a means of spiritual discipline and have failed miserably at keeping up with it. I have found that I will be better as a pastor and a person if I take time to think, to be intentional about what I do. For the next 40 days (not including Sunday "little Easters" for those new to Lenten discipline) I will commit to writing something here every day. I do this in hopes that I will walk a journey, not just towards the cross, but towards Easter, and perhaps someone will walk this journey with me and we may all be better for it.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
I can't see through the dust...
For the last week, I have felt burdened by a heavy heart. I have felt fear--about nothing in particular--but fear nonetheless. Spending some time thinking about, I can point to the source the of these feelings. On Tuesday of last week, an earthquake killed thousands upon thousands upon thousands of people and left so many more homeless. I feel heavy-hearted as I pray for the people of Haiti, but the fear....that's because of what Haiti has done to me.
The shaking, shattering, and crumbling of structures in Haiti has resonated and shaken the part of my heart where faith lies. Tragedies have this affect on me, always have. For some reason, the "smaller" tragedies of life, those things that affect only a few people, are incidences of suffering that I can somehow get past and justify because its a fact of life. I don't condone this justification, but that's not the focus of reflection here. My focus here, if only because of how profoundly it has affected me, is how sheerly massive the crisis in Haiti is. It's so big that it doesn't have edges, thus I can't fit it into my faith. I haven't been able to really write any of this down until something I already knew was affirmed for me yesterday by Rev. Dr. Doug Dickens in a pastoral care seminar. While speaking about the importance of lament, Doug said, "We have been taught for far too long that we have to keep our faith clean." So, this isn't clean, I'm not able to get my mind or my heart around it, but I have to start somewhere.
On Thursday of last week, I had my assigned chapel duties and as the hour for chapel approached, I still could not gather words for a sermon or meditation or reflection of any sort. I had this nice sermon about Samuel hearing God's voice in the temple written, but it did not take me long to realize that needed to be thrown out. I kept thinking of a lecture in Tom Long's preaching course in which he said simply, "If you have a worship service right after a tragedy or crisis and you don't preach about it, then you have done a great disservice to the body of Christ." But as I tried to gather my thoughts, I asked the question, "Where is God in all this?" My answer was, I have no idea. And if I had no idea, what was I then to say. So when I stood up in front of the chapel that morning, I talked about the South African concept of ubuntu, meaning that a person is a person through other persons. I talked about how I don't know why natural disasters come and destroy lives and structures and how I don't know why cancer strikes and hearts fail. I talked about how what I do know is that communities come together and reach out and identify. I guess what I was getting at was something like what JFK meant in West Berlin when he uttered "Ich bin ein Berliner." I sought to highlight the interconnectedness of humanity. But this wasn't enough for me because it didn't answer the question of where God was last Tuesday, and I said that in the chapel to the few who'd come for worship. (I realize I speak here in this entry just following an entry in which I wrote a sermon that spoke to the importance of community after natural disasters. It's harder when you're going through it.)
After chapel on Thursday, one of my fellow chaplains called me into his office to talk to me about what I'd said in chapel. The conversation went something like this:
Him: I understand you when you say you don't know why these things happen, but really, where do you see God in all this?
Me: I really don't know.
Him: By your own admission, you said you see God in the world community that is coming together to help out. Do you think that God caused the earthquake so we could then see him in the community?
Me: I think the Earth's crust shifted and that caused the quakes.
Him: But isn't the Earth's crust part of God's creation?
Me: Yes, but I'm not comfortable with that.
The conversation went on for a while more but the long and short of it was that I told my colleague that I am uncomfortable with a God who needs to bring about destruction to be seen. Because just the opposite has really happened for me. A lyric keeps coming to mind (as they so often do when I'm working through stuff. It is my great sadness that music stirs so much in me but I have no discernible musical ability). "Who do you believe when you can't get through smoke..." Seeing through the smoke and dust and rubble is what I'm trying to do. This reflection in some ways feels like a letdown for myself because I don't have an answer. I haven't come to some great conclusion. I haven't heard any responses that made me feel better. Probably because there aren't any.
But what I have come to is that I haven't changed my mind in seeing God in the aftermath. I don't know what causes brokenness, but I know what God does with brokenness. God takes the broken body, God's own broken body in Christ, and makes that body for us a symbol of redemption and resurrection. An earthquake broke us and through our brokenness great things will happen. We are all the body of Christ, the broken body of Christ, and God specializes in using the broken and doing a new thing.
I pray for Haiti, I pray for Haiti's people, and I pray for all the lives affected beyond those in Port-au-Prince. I pray to God who makes all things new, even though I don't understand how it works.
The shaking, shattering, and crumbling of structures in Haiti has resonated and shaken the part of my heart where faith lies. Tragedies have this affect on me, always have. For some reason, the "smaller" tragedies of life, those things that affect only a few people, are incidences of suffering that I can somehow get past and justify because its a fact of life. I don't condone this justification, but that's not the focus of reflection here. My focus here, if only because of how profoundly it has affected me, is how sheerly massive the crisis in Haiti is. It's so big that it doesn't have edges, thus I can't fit it into my faith. I haven't been able to really write any of this down until something I already knew was affirmed for me yesterday by Rev. Dr. Doug Dickens in a pastoral care seminar. While speaking about the importance of lament, Doug said, "We have been taught for far too long that we have to keep our faith clean." So, this isn't clean, I'm not able to get my mind or my heart around it, but I have to start somewhere.
On Thursday of last week, I had my assigned chapel duties and as the hour for chapel approached, I still could not gather words for a sermon or meditation or reflection of any sort. I had this nice sermon about Samuel hearing God's voice in the temple written, but it did not take me long to realize that needed to be thrown out. I kept thinking of a lecture in Tom Long's preaching course in which he said simply, "If you have a worship service right after a tragedy or crisis and you don't preach about it, then you have done a great disservice to the body of Christ." But as I tried to gather my thoughts, I asked the question, "Where is God in all this?" My answer was, I have no idea. And if I had no idea, what was I then to say. So when I stood up in front of the chapel that morning, I talked about the South African concept of ubuntu, meaning that a person is a person through other persons. I talked about how I don't know why natural disasters come and destroy lives and structures and how I don't know why cancer strikes and hearts fail. I talked about how what I do know is that communities come together and reach out and identify. I guess what I was getting at was something like what JFK meant in West Berlin when he uttered "Ich bin ein Berliner." I sought to highlight the interconnectedness of humanity. But this wasn't enough for me because it didn't answer the question of where God was last Tuesday, and I said that in the chapel to the few who'd come for worship. (I realize I speak here in this entry just following an entry in which I wrote a sermon that spoke to the importance of community after natural disasters. It's harder when you're going through it.)
After chapel on Thursday, one of my fellow chaplains called me into his office to talk to me about what I'd said in chapel. The conversation went something like this:
Him: I understand you when you say you don't know why these things happen, but really, where do you see God in all this?
Me: I really don't know.
Him: By your own admission, you said you see God in the world community that is coming together to help out. Do you think that God caused the earthquake so we could then see him in the community?
Me: I think the Earth's crust shifted and that caused the quakes.
Him: But isn't the Earth's crust part of God's creation?
Me: Yes, but I'm not comfortable with that.
The conversation went on for a while more but the long and short of it was that I told my colleague that I am uncomfortable with a God who needs to bring about destruction to be seen. Because just the opposite has really happened for me. A lyric keeps coming to mind (as they so often do when I'm working through stuff. It is my great sadness that music stirs so much in me but I have no discernible musical ability). "Who do you believe when you can't get through smoke..." Seeing through the smoke and dust and rubble is what I'm trying to do. This reflection in some ways feels like a letdown for myself because I don't have an answer. I haven't come to some great conclusion. I haven't heard any responses that made me feel better. Probably because there aren't any.
But what I have come to is that I haven't changed my mind in seeing God in the aftermath. I don't know what causes brokenness, but I know what God does with brokenness. God takes the broken body, God's own broken body in Christ, and makes that body for us a symbol of redemption and resurrection. An earthquake broke us and through our brokenness great things will happen. We are all the body of Christ, the broken body of Christ, and God specializes in using the broken and doing a new thing.
I pray for Haiti, I pray for Haiti's people, and I pray for all the lives affected beyond those in Port-au-Prince. I pray to God who makes all things new, even though I don't understand how it works.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
After the Waters Dry
This is the sermon I gave this morning at the church I attend. It's not my finest. I know the transitions are sloppy and I jump around a bit, but a lot of thought went into it.
Luke 3:15-17, 21-22
The people were waiting expectantly and were all wondering in their hearts if John might possibly be the Christ. John answered them all, "I baptize you with water. But one more powerful than I will come, the thongs of whose sandals I am not worthy to untie. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his barn, but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire."
When all the people were being baptized, Jesus was baptized too. And as he was praying, heaven was opened and the Holy Spirit descended on him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven: "You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased."
You know, I’ve been reading this text over and over and thinking about it, praying about it, all week long. When preparing for a sermon, I reflect on words in the text and concepts associated with the text. I’ve meditated on John the Baptist’s words and I’ve meditated on water because of baptism. And all week, I’ve had this song stuck in my head, a song called “Washed by the Water.” It was written after Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans and in the refrain, the singer repeats over and over again, “We’re washed by the water. The water can’t wash us away.” It’s been playing in my head all week so naturally, I’ve been thinking about the hurricane. I’ve been remembering some of the remarks made after the storm about why such devastation had occurred, the remarks that sought to ascribe meaning to tragedy. I remember the fundamentalists like Pat Robertson who said God sent the wind and the water as punishment for sins and calling for repentance. If I’m being perfectly honest, I’ll admit that theories such as these don’t work for me and I can’t find any reason whatsoever for such a thing to have happened. In my own experience, I remember Hurricane Hugo. Now, believe me, I understand the risk of using such an illustration because some of you will surely ask, “How old were you then? Do you even remember Hugo?” You’d be right, I was 6 years old in 1989 and I don’t really remember much of the danger of the storm. I remember my parents boarding up windows. I remember going to town to stay with my aunt and uncle because at least they didn’t have trees surrounding their house like we did. I vaguely remember going outside holding my mom’s hand in the eye of the storm for the brief moment of calm. I remember all of that, but what I remember absolutely most, is what happened after the storm. After the rains stopped and the wind died down, I remember neighbors helping neighbors. I remember all the strangers coming into town and eating meals at church. I remember my Nana standing out by her swimming pool talking to the people who arrived in crowds with buckets wishing to fill them up with pool water so they could get cleaned up and flush their toilets. The conversations were almost always about how much damage they’d seen, whether or not they lost their roof, was anyone hurt, and if we can do anything, let us know. I didn’t know it then, but when I look back and reflect on those memories with what I know now, I know spirit of our rural community in Berkeley County. the spirit was in communities coming together, people helping people, after the water. I don’t know why such devastation occurred, whether in New Orleans or Charleston or any of the other places who know the destructive forces of wind and water, but I know what happened after and I know how it changed people, people with water on their minds and in their hearts.
The Christian calendar sets aside this Sunday as the day in which we celebrate the Baptism of Jesus. I find Gospel accounts of Jesus’ baptism intriguing because if you read them closely, you can practically hear the authors’ anxiety about reporting it. There is anxiety, and maybe even embarrassment about Jesus having been baptized because the Gospel writers’ understanding of baptism doesn’t quite sync up with who they understand Jesus to be, that is, God incarnate, sinless and therefore not needing baptism. John, in fact, doesn’t even talk about the baptism at all but only sort of maybe alludes to it having happened. Luke is no exception. Luke doesn’t even tell about the baptism itself, but picks up the story just afterwards. “Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” The account doesn’t even seem to support the fact the John the Baptist was the one to have baptized Jesus. I got to thinking about that, and researching it a little, and what I found was this: Luke wants to convey a particular message about the event. Throughout Luke’s Gospel, Jesus is proclaimed Messiah, son of God, and Luke would want some distance between Jesus and John because John’s agenda was baptism for repentance. You see, John the Baptist was set on preparing the way of the Lord and renewing the covenant between God and God’s people. John believed, rightfully, that it was not God who failed in the covenant relationship, but that it was the people who had broken covenant law and therefore needed to repent and be cleansed in the water as a symbol of that repentance. This being the case, it’s not too hard to see why the gospel writers are a little embarrassed about Jesus getting down in the Jordan with the sinners. In her published sermon “The River of Life,” Barbara Brown Taylor writes: “Even if Jesus were innocent, even if his intentions were nothing but good, it was ruinous to his reputation. Who was going to believe that he was there just because he cared about those people and refused to separate himself from them? Gossip being what it was, who was not going to think that he had just a few teeny-weeny things to get off his conscience before he went into public ministry?” So all that to say, Luke doesn’t understand Jesus’ baptism all that well, doesn’t understand it’s necessity, so he focuses on what happens after, what happens when the baptized has water on his mind and in his heart.
After Jesus’ baptism, Luke tells us that Jesus was praying and the heavens opened up and the Spirit descended upon him in bodily form, then empowering him for his public ministry that was ahead of him. You see, Luke emphasizes that in Christ, the spirit and the body are joined together, that the Spirit dwelt within the body of Jesus.
Have you ever wondered why it is that when the pastor baptizes someone, be it a child or otherwise, that there are questions for the congregation? It’s not a private act for the family and the pastor. It’s a community act. It’s a symbol not necessary for salvation, but it is a means of God’s grace and a sign of our being called by God into God’s great story. It is for us a moment that we can point to and remember as a symbol of God’s relationship with us. And sometimes we can’t remember the actual moment, but that’s one of the great things about it not being a personal experience, but one of a gathered community. The community is witness to that moment and participates in all the moments thereafter.
For a long time after Hurricane Hugo, my mom would get a little on edge at every storm that came up on the weather map. For years, she did the typical stocking up that you see when storms threaten the coast. She’d call the whole family and make sure we knew to be cautious wherever we were. When my sister would tell her to relax and that everything was fine, Mom would say, “But you just don’t remember how bad it was after Hugo. You don’t remember bathing in the lake and not having power for so long.” But in recent years, she hasn’t done that so much anymore. And I think that’s because she’s forgotten the water. It’s not as fresh on her mind and in her heart anymore.
That’s why we celebrate our baptism together. Because when Jesus prayed and the heavens opened up, the spirit descended upon the body of Christ. We are the body of Christ for one another. We worship, we fellowship, and we pray together. In an interview for a magazine, Barbara Brown Taylor talks a bit more about baptism in general (and if you haven’t noticed, I like her writing) She says, “Our baptisms are our ordinations, the moments at which we are set apart as God’s people to share Christ’s ministry, whether or not we ever wear clerical collars around our necks. The instant we rise from the dripping waters of baptism we are marked as Christ’s own forever.” If we, as we do, understand ourselves to be living as Christ’s and after the example of Christ, it would be a grave mistake for us to forget what followed Jesus’ baptism. The passage we’ve read tells us that it was in that moment that the Spirit came upon Jesus. If we skip ahead and read Luke’s 4th chapter, beginning with the 14th verse, we hear these words. “Then Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee, and a report about him spread through all the surrounding country. He began to teach in their synagogues and was praised by everyone.” After Jesus was baptized and filled with the Spirit, he was sent out. In his ministry, he went out teaching and preaching, feeding the hungry, healing the sick, caring for the suffering. As individuals, sometimes we lose sight of God’s call on our lives, lose sight of what it means to be Christ’s own people, called by God into God’s story and sent forth as the body of Christ. As individuals, sometimes we forget, but as a community, we remember our shared story, we gather and support one another, and we remind each other what it means to washed by the water, filled with the Spirit, and empowered to do Christ’s important work.
Luke 3:15-17, 21-22
The people were waiting expectantly and were all wondering in their hearts if John might possibly be the Christ. John answered them all, "I baptize you with water. But one more powerful than I will come, the thongs of whose sandals I am not worthy to untie. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his barn, but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire."
When all the people were being baptized, Jesus was baptized too. And as he was praying, heaven was opened and the Holy Spirit descended on him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven: "You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased."
You know, I’ve been reading this text over and over and thinking about it, praying about it, all week long. When preparing for a sermon, I reflect on words in the text and concepts associated with the text. I’ve meditated on John the Baptist’s words and I’ve meditated on water because of baptism. And all week, I’ve had this song stuck in my head, a song called “Washed by the Water.” It was written after Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans and in the refrain, the singer repeats over and over again, “We’re washed by the water. The water can’t wash us away.” It’s been playing in my head all week so naturally, I’ve been thinking about the hurricane. I’ve been remembering some of the remarks made after the storm about why such devastation had occurred, the remarks that sought to ascribe meaning to tragedy. I remember the fundamentalists like Pat Robertson who said God sent the wind and the water as punishment for sins and calling for repentance. If I’m being perfectly honest, I’ll admit that theories such as these don’t work for me and I can’t find any reason whatsoever for such a thing to have happened. In my own experience, I remember Hurricane Hugo. Now, believe me, I understand the risk of using such an illustration because some of you will surely ask, “How old were you then? Do you even remember Hugo?” You’d be right, I was 6 years old in 1989 and I don’t really remember much of the danger of the storm. I remember my parents boarding up windows. I remember going to town to stay with my aunt and uncle because at least they didn’t have trees surrounding their house like we did. I vaguely remember going outside holding my mom’s hand in the eye of the storm for the brief moment of calm. I remember all of that, but what I remember absolutely most, is what happened after the storm. After the rains stopped and the wind died down, I remember neighbors helping neighbors. I remember all the strangers coming into town and eating meals at church. I remember my Nana standing out by her swimming pool talking to the people who arrived in crowds with buckets wishing to fill them up with pool water so they could get cleaned up and flush their toilets. The conversations were almost always about how much damage they’d seen, whether or not they lost their roof, was anyone hurt, and if we can do anything, let us know. I didn’t know it then, but when I look back and reflect on those memories with what I know now, I know spirit of our rural community in Berkeley County. the spirit was in communities coming together, people helping people, after the water. I don’t know why such devastation occurred, whether in New Orleans or Charleston or any of the other places who know the destructive forces of wind and water, but I know what happened after and I know how it changed people, people with water on their minds and in their hearts.
The Christian calendar sets aside this Sunday as the day in which we celebrate the Baptism of Jesus. I find Gospel accounts of Jesus’ baptism intriguing because if you read them closely, you can practically hear the authors’ anxiety about reporting it. There is anxiety, and maybe even embarrassment about Jesus having been baptized because the Gospel writers’ understanding of baptism doesn’t quite sync up with who they understand Jesus to be, that is, God incarnate, sinless and therefore not needing baptism. John, in fact, doesn’t even talk about the baptism at all but only sort of maybe alludes to it having happened. Luke is no exception. Luke doesn’t even tell about the baptism itself, but picks up the story just afterwards. “Now when all the people were baptized, and when Jesus also had been baptized and was praying, the heaven was opened, and the Holy Spirit descended upon him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven, You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” The account doesn’t even seem to support the fact the John the Baptist was the one to have baptized Jesus. I got to thinking about that, and researching it a little, and what I found was this: Luke wants to convey a particular message about the event. Throughout Luke’s Gospel, Jesus is proclaimed Messiah, son of God, and Luke would want some distance between Jesus and John because John’s agenda was baptism for repentance. You see, John the Baptist was set on preparing the way of the Lord and renewing the covenant between God and God’s people. John believed, rightfully, that it was not God who failed in the covenant relationship, but that it was the people who had broken covenant law and therefore needed to repent and be cleansed in the water as a symbol of that repentance. This being the case, it’s not too hard to see why the gospel writers are a little embarrassed about Jesus getting down in the Jordan with the sinners. In her published sermon “The River of Life,” Barbara Brown Taylor writes: “Even if Jesus were innocent, even if his intentions were nothing but good, it was ruinous to his reputation. Who was going to believe that he was there just because he cared about those people and refused to separate himself from them? Gossip being what it was, who was not going to think that he had just a few teeny-weeny things to get off his conscience before he went into public ministry?” So all that to say, Luke doesn’t understand Jesus’ baptism all that well, doesn’t understand it’s necessity, so he focuses on what happens after, what happens when the baptized has water on his mind and in his heart.
After Jesus’ baptism, Luke tells us that Jesus was praying and the heavens opened up and the Spirit descended upon him in bodily form, then empowering him for his public ministry that was ahead of him. You see, Luke emphasizes that in Christ, the spirit and the body are joined together, that the Spirit dwelt within the body of Jesus.
Have you ever wondered why it is that when the pastor baptizes someone, be it a child or otherwise, that there are questions for the congregation? It’s not a private act for the family and the pastor. It’s a community act. It’s a symbol not necessary for salvation, but it is a means of God’s grace and a sign of our being called by God into God’s great story. It is for us a moment that we can point to and remember as a symbol of God’s relationship with us. And sometimes we can’t remember the actual moment, but that’s one of the great things about it not being a personal experience, but one of a gathered community. The community is witness to that moment and participates in all the moments thereafter.
For a long time after Hurricane Hugo, my mom would get a little on edge at every storm that came up on the weather map. For years, she did the typical stocking up that you see when storms threaten the coast. She’d call the whole family and make sure we knew to be cautious wherever we were. When my sister would tell her to relax and that everything was fine, Mom would say, “But you just don’t remember how bad it was after Hugo. You don’t remember bathing in the lake and not having power for so long.” But in recent years, she hasn’t done that so much anymore. And I think that’s because she’s forgotten the water. It’s not as fresh on her mind and in her heart anymore.
That’s why we celebrate our baptism together. Because when Jesus prayed and the heavens opened up, the spirit descended upon the body of Christ. We are the body of Christ for one another. We worship, we fellowship, and we pray together. In an interview for a magazine, Barbara Brown Taylor talks a bit more about baptism in general (and if you haven’t noticed, I like her writing) She says, “Our baptisms are our ordinations, the moments at which we are set apart as God’s people to share Christ’s ministry, whether or not we ever wear clerical collars around our necks. The instant we rise from the dripping waters of baptism we are marked as Christ’s own forever.” If we, as we do, understand ourselves to be living as Christ’s and after the example of Christ, it would be a grave mistake for us to forget what followed Jesus’ baptism. The passage we’ve read tells us that it was in that moment that the Spirit came upon Jesus. If we skip ahead and read Luke’s 4th chapter, beginning with the 14th verse, we hear these words. “Then Jesus, filled with the power of the Spirit, returned to Galilee, and a report about him spread through all the surrounding country. He began to teach in their synagogues and was praised by everyone.” After Jesus was baptized and filled with the Spirit, he was sent out. In his ministry, he went out teaching and preaching, feeding the hungry, healing the sick, caring for the suffering. As individuals, sometimes we lose sight of God’s call on our lives, lose sight of what it means to be Christ’s own people, called by God into God’s story and sent forth as the body of Christ. As individuals, sometimes we forget, but as a community, we remember our shared story, we gather and support one another, and we remind each other what it means to washed by the water, filled with the Spirit, and empowered to do Christ’s important work.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Breadbox of World Peace
Luke 2:1-7, 13-14
1 In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. 2 This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. 3 All went to their own towns to be registered. 4 Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. 5 He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. 6 While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. 7 And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.
13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, 14 "Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!"
A friend of mine received a breadbox of world peace for Christmas this year. There is a story behind this breadbox of world peace, though I do not know all the details, nor do I understand fully what I do know. What I do know is this: there is a brand new breadbox on the kitchen counter rumored to be the key to world peace.
This next bit seems unrelated, but follow me here. I was driving the road between Athens and Atlanta this weekend when another friend called to see where I was. Right at that moment, I passed a sign letting me know that I was in the town of Bethlehem. She didn’t believe me when I told her, but it was soon cleared up that I was in Bethlehem, GA, not Bethlehem, a city of David in Judea. Noting my location got me thinking about Bethlehem and what the name means. I don’t know how to read Hebrew, but I do know how to use reference materials and because of this I know that in Hebrew Bethlehem is broken into two words (bayit and lechem). These two words, when put together, mean “House of Bread.” (House of Bread over which angels sing “peace on earth and goodwill to humanity”, breadbox of world peace…see the strange way my brain works!)
Bethlehem is the town in which the incarnate God was born the Christ child. It was in this place that God became man, turning everything we know on its head. Theologian and New Testament scholar Bill Mallard illustrates what happens when Word becomes flesh at Bethlehem by describing a widening chasm between God (Word) and humanity (flesh). God’s solution to this problem is to redeem flesh by becoming flesh. The incarnation is God repairing the separation between God and humanity through Jesus Christ, born in Bethlehem, the House of Bread.
God has this countercultural tendency. God takes things and changes them so that we are never left the same. We live in a world that seems anything but peaceful. We live in a world wrought with strife, plagued by fear and frustration, overrun by greed and pride. We live in a world in need of grace, grace freely given, grace certainly not deserved. One of the ways in which we receive God’s grace is through the sacrament, through bread and wine. Ted Runyon (theological hero of mine) writes, “In the hands of Christ, the sacrament is presented to us as the world in its original and eschatological form. He takes the bread and the wine, which are products of our ordinary world—and therefore related to the complexities of international grain cartels, embargoes, starvation, and alcoholism, and all the other ways in which God’s good gifts have gone awry—and turns them into signs of his kingdom of justice and love. He does this by identifying them with himself and his mission--his body, his life’s blood—just as he did with the paschal bread and wine at the Last Supper.” (From Keeping the Faith: Essays to Mark the Centenary of Lux Mundi, 1988) In Christ’s hands, bread is a symbol of countercultural, dynamic, mind-blowing peace. Because, on the night in which he gave himself up for us, Jesus took the bread, gave thanks to God, broke the bread and said ‘Take, eat, this is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me’ (from Luke 22). The communion liturgy goes on to ask the Holy Spirit to make the gifts of bread and wine be for us the body of Christ so that we may, in turn, be for the world the body of Christ, redeemed by God’s grace. If we could just begin to see ourselves more and more as the body of Christ and take that responsibility seriously, then yes, we will glimpse the heavenly kingdom, here and now, and know the real peace of Christ.
1 In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. 2 This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. 3 All went to their own towns to be registered. 4 Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. 5 He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. 6 While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. 7 And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.
13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, 14 "Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom he favors!"
A friend of mine received a breadbox of world peace for Christmas this year. There is a story behind this breadbox of world peace, though I do not know all the details, nor do I understand fully what I do know. What I do know is this: there is a brand new breadbox on the kitchen counter rumored to be the key to world peace.
This next bit seems unrelated, but follow me here. I was driving the road between Athens and Atlanta this weekend when another friend called to see where I was. Right at that moment, I passed a sign letting me know that I was in the town of Bethlehem. She didn’t believe me when I told her, but it was soon cleared up that I was in Bethlehem, GA, not Bethlehem, a city of David in Judea. Noting my location got me thinking about Bethlehem and what the name means. I don’t know how to read Hebrew, but I do know how to use reference materials and because of this I know that in Hebrew Bethlehem is broken into two words (bayit and lechem). These two words, when put together, mean “House of Bread.” (House of Bread over which angels sing “peace on earth and goodwill to humanity”, breadbox of world peace…see the strange way my brain works!)
Bethlehem is the town in which the incarnate God was born the Christ child. It was in this place that God became man, turning everything we know on its head. Theologian and New Testament scholar Bill Mallard illustrates what happens when Word becomes flesh at Bethlehem by describing a widening chasm between God (Word) and humanity (flesh). God’s solution to this problem is to redeem flesh by becoming flesh. The incarnation is God repairing the separation between God and humanity through Jesus Christ, born in Bethlehem, the House of Bread.
God has this countercultural tendency. God takes things and changes them so that we are never left the same. We live in a world that seems anything but peaceful. We live in a world wrought with strife, plagued by fear and frustration, overrun by greed and pride. We live in a world in need of grace, grace freely given, grace certainly not deserved. One of the ways in which we receive God’s grace is through the sacrament, through bread and wine. Ted Runyon (theological hero of mine) writes, “In the hands of Christ, the sacrament is presented to us as the world in its original and eschatological form. He takes the bread and the wine, which are products of our ordinary world—and therefore related to the complexities of international grain cartels, embargoes, starvation, and alcoholism, and all the other ways in which God’s good gifts have gone awry—and turns them into signs of his kingdom of justice and love. He does this by identifying them with himself and his mission--his body, his life’s blood—just as he did with the paschal bread and wine at the Last Supper.” (From Keeping the Faith: Essays to Mark the Centenary of Lux Mundi, 1988) In Christ’s hands, bread is a symbol of countercultural, dynamic, mind-blowing peace. Because, on the night in which he gave himself up for us, Jesus took the bread, gave thanks to God, broke the bread and said ‘Take, eat, this is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me’ (from Luke 22). The communion liturgy goes on to ask the Holy Spirit to make the gifts of bread and wine be for us the body of Christ so that we may, in turn, be for the world the body of Christ, redeemed by God’s grace. If we could just begin to see ourselves more and more as the body of Christ and take that responsibility seriously, then yes, we will glimpse the heavenly kingdom, here and now, and know the real peace of Christ.
Friday, January 1, 2010
An almost missed moment
I was doing rounds tonight and spent a good long while on one of the medical floors because I get along very well with staff there. We chatted about the holidays and about the past week. All the while, I was ignoring a woman sitting just beyond the desk in a wheelchair. Why, as the chaplain, would I ignore her, you may ask? Well, it is often the practice of this nurses on this floor to wheel "trouble" patients out to the hall in front of the nurses' station. This is for patients who try to get out of bed when they shouldn't, for patients with dementia who require a good bit of supervision that is not really possible for a floor nurse to give. So, yeah, I didn't pay much attention to her, and neither was anyone else.
I went down the hall to check on a patient and when I came back to say goodnight to the staff, I walked past the woman again, still not really paying her any mind. But this time, she called out to me, "Ma'am, do you work here?" Now, she didn't call me by name because she didn't know my name, but she might as well have. I thought about this after reading an article my friend and seminary classmate (Shea Tuttle) wrote. In this article, she talks about Zacchaeus in Luke 19. Zacchaeus was called down by Jesus, simply by his name being called. In this summoning, he was called back to reality and forced to face his carelessness.
I gave a sermon at the hospital chapel service today, and in that sermon, I spoke of the importance of names and of naming things. The use of a name, the act of naming something, is a powerful and important event. Just as Jesus called Zacchaeus's name and this woman called out "Ma'am" to me, there was a naming event occurring. It was so powerful an event that it called me to task and caused me to stop and spend awhile with this patient. Yes, she was suffering from dementia. Yes, she was a problem patient. But there was something truly significant about literally getting down on my knees at this woman's feet, to listen and to pray. Makes me want to think more about Paul's admonition that we are the body of Christ. I'll have to think more on that...
I went down the hall to check on a patient and when I came back to say goodnight to the staff, I walked past the woman again, still not really paying her any mind. But this time, she called out to me, "Ma'am, do you work here?" Now, she didn't call me by name because she didn't know my name, but she might as well have. I thought about this after reading an article my friend and seminary classmate (Shea Tuttle) wrote. In this article, she talks about Zacchaeus in Luke 19. Zacchaeus was called down by Jesus, simply by his name being called. In this summoning, he was called back to reality and forced to face his carelessness.
I gave a sermon at the hospital chapel service today, and in that sermon, I spoke of the importance of names and of naming things. The use of a name, the act of naming something, is a powerful and important event. Just as Jesus called Zacchaeus's name and this woman called out "Ma'am" to me, there was a naming event occurring. It was so powerful an event that it called me to task and caused me to stop and spend awhile with this patient. Yes, she was suffering from dementia. Yes, she was a problem patient. But there was something truly significant about literally getting down on my knees at this woman's feet, to listen and to pray. Makes me want to think more about Paul's admonition that we are the body of Christ. I'll have to think more on that...
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