There is a God and I am not It.

Those were the closing words from our celebrant this morning.

I knew that. (that I am not It, not that he was not It...) But in his earlier remarks, he was talking about the old Paul Harvey radio shows and how the second half always began with "… and now for the rest of the story…"

He spoke about our various liturgical seasons: Advent, Christmas, Lent, Easter, Pentecost. We observe the seasons year after year as if we didn't know the rest of the story, even though we do. His question was: while we know it, do we pay attention to it?

We are still in the season of Easter, and this coming Thursday is the feast of the Ascension. Jesus will leave his disciples. Again. In the Gospel reading this morning (John 14:23-29), Jesus said to his disciples: "I am going away and I am coming to you." A strange way to put it.

But the fact was, Jesus would be leaving. Again. And more than likely nobody was happy to hear about it.

He also said "If you loved me, you would be glad that I am going to the Father…" That kind of talk rankles. (I've been cruelly manipulated with language like that.) But the sermon wasn't on that passage. The sermon was about the "ministry of presence" versus the "ministry of absence."

He explained that we emphasize the ministry of presence in our faith… be present, Lord, in the breaking of the bread. But we don't talk much about the ministry of absence. Our celebrant made the point that Jesus had to walk away. The Holy Spirit would not come to the disciples as long as he stayed. They needed the Spirit's power… the Spirit's wisdom… to continue the work God had commissioned them to do. Much as he loved them, he had to let go and walk away.

Sometimes we have to walk away. As he put it: let go and let God. We can care, but we cannot fix. We can love, but we cannot protect. There is a God and I am not It.

Today is Mother's Day. My own mother had a tendency to use the same language (we attribute to Jesus) to instill what I'm sure she believed was appropriate guilt… "if you loved me, you would be glad… (fill in the blank) to spend time with me, to send me flowers, to give me a card, to call…" Her stature as a mother was measured somehow in the lavishness of my affections on Christmas, her birthday, and especially Mother's Day.

At the time, I resented the guilt and I resented the implications. But I've since found that she wasn't alone in her need to measure and compare. I've had friends regale me with stories of their kids' calls and visits and gifts… and then ask rude and pointed questions about my children's observance of these special holidays. More guilt, more implications… the implication seeming to be to judge how I rated on the mother-scale. The fact is, if I were to judge myself by my kids' response on those days then I was and am a piss-poor mother.

Yet when I met my older son at the airport last week, his embrace did not appear to be from duty or guilt. It was warm and sincere and it lasted way beyond the requirements for mother and child reunions. We were happy to see each other again and it showed.

My children do call me on the special days. If I'm not around to answer the phone, they leave a message. Occasionally I get a card. Once in a blue moon I even get a gift. When that happens I am amazed and flooded with gratitude… weepy even. Because it's unexpected. That's the secret I think. My own mother expected me to shower her with tangible evidence of my love. Love is intangible. You either know it or you don't. Somehow I know it. I may not deserve it, but I know it.

vocation

This morning we had a rare treat as one of our long lost celebrants joined us again. Over a year ago he left New York, retired, on sabbatical, checking out life in a warmer climate… but to our surprise and joy, he's baaackkk! (At least for a year.)

His preaching style is legendary, yet this was my first opportunity to hear him. How one person can pack so much meaning into so few words boggles my mind... no wonder he is a legend.

The gist of his homily was the understanding of vocation. He used a quote from Parker Palmer: "It's not the life I want to live; it's the life that wants to live in me. I can relate. Although my family and friends were stunned, nobody was more surprised than I when I ended up in a convent.

The Gospel reading for today (Luke 13:31-35) describes the interchange between the Pharisees and Jesus, where Jesus tells them, "I must be on my way." ... that imperative to continue on the path that God had chosen for him, to be absolutely true to the vocation of who he was born to be… the Messiah.

Jesus was human, like us, with all the temptations, the weaknesses; yet as it is written: he did not sin. The crux of his sinlessness, then, could have been, must have been that willingness to be obedient. I never put much stock in obedience until I had to take a vow of it. Woot!

dignity

This morning our celebrant reminded us that one of the most important things the Incarnation of God came to prove and demonstrate, was... dignity. She elaborated... that the dignity of humankind was respected and valued so much that God became human. In spite of ourselves, in spite of the darkness, we were worth it.

When Jesus grew to manhood and began his ministry, he granted to all he met that same regard for dignity. To John, he granted the right of his own baptism. He granted Mary Magdalene the status of disciple because he recognized women as humans with value, not chattel. He saw his enemies as people worthy of his prayers. He recognized us only as lost, not evil.

She gave another example from the Broadway musical "South Pacific"... where the song by Lieutenant Cable explains that you have to be taught bigotry, you aren't born with it. So far ahead of their time in 1949, Rodgers and Hammerstein received a lot of criticism for their commentary on racial discrimination. They were accused of being Communists, a threat that would take hold and rampage artists and thinkers throughout the 50's and into the 60's.

How do we grant dignity to those who work for us?

to the poor?

to those we perceive as less intelligent?

It is a sad commentary that we still have so much to learn from the God who made us, who became one of us to give Himself as an example.

time is on our side

Mark 10:17-31

Our celebrant Sunday was all over the place with his thoughts on the Gospel... maybe because it was one of those "hard teachings", the ones where Jesus tells us something we really don't want to hear. Sunday's Gospel was the one about the rich young man who wanted to know how to inherit eternal life. We've probably all heard it a million times: first, the man is reprimanded for calling Jesus good, then he says he'd already kept all the ten commandments. But then there's something like an aside: it says next that Jesus loved him.

We don't know why he loved him, but apparently there was something... some spark, some gesture, a look... and then Jesus said the worst thing the guy could have heard: Go sell all your possessions and give the money to the poor. And the fellow went away grieving because he was very rich.

Grieving. He didn't go away mad. That's telling, don't you think? Usually when I hear something I don't like, my reaction is to take offense. Who do you think you are to tell me what to do with my money, my life? And our celebrant seemed to think that was significant as well.

"Time is on our side," he said. Because there will be other opportunities. In elementary school it's called a do-over, and I've had enough of them in my life to agree. I quit college in my third year. But when I was thirty I went back to school and did it over and graduated. I mustered out of the Navy three months before I was eligible to sew on my third class crow. But six years later I joined the reserves, took the test again, passed again, and was able to eventually rise to the rank of second class petty officer. Do overs. They are everywhere.

We don't know what that young man did after he grieved. He may have thought about it and figured Jesus was on to something. Maybe not. The Bible leaves us hanging... but time was on his side.

from hero to villain

I've probably mentioned before that Palm Sunday, the way we do it in the Episcopal Church, has always been a sore spot with me. This might be because I was brought up in an assortment of Baptist-Congregational-Unitarian churches, where Jesus got the whole day to be the son of David, the hailed messiah. 

When I was little we marched around the entire block in the Baptist church, around the pews in the Congregational church; I can't remember if we marched at all in the Unitarian church, but the entire service was given over to hosannas and palm waving.

Not anymore. Now we re-enact a "Passion Narrative" (one of the Gospels) and it's actually called Passion Sunday. We speed through the hosannas and boom! it's time to crucify him. All inside of minutes. That's just wrong.

And yet... as our celebrant preached on Sunday, it mirrors life. It mirrors the mob mentality. I don't like mobs. Crowds either. They can turn on a dime for no apparent reason. And so, Jesus goes from hero to criminal in a matter of minutes. How easy this turning.

Our celebrant also examined the concept of of scapegoating... distancing ourselves from our own accountability for whatever may be wrong with the world. Yesterday I saw a news report about Obama telling the truth about the American mentality (he said we have sometimes been arrogant) and the news reporter jumped all over it. As Jesus was well aware, telling the truth is a dangerous endeavor.

But one thing she said struck me as especially important for me this year. That in the Passion narrative, especially this year's version from Mark, we are allowed to walk through all the experiences of humanity. The drama of the journey lets us (if we are willing) see ourselves in the story. Of course.

The parable of the prodigal son has always been like that for me... seeing myself in all those personalities (I always identify first with the older brother... no surprise there.) But never in the Passion narrative. We are all Judas, Peter, Pilate... at different times in different situations. It's a good reflection for Holy Week, I think.

proof texting

Hebrews 5:5-10

Our celebrant began his sermon with the opening lines of L. P. Hartley's novel The Go-Between: "The Past is a foreign country: they do things differently there." He was referencing today's lesson from Hebrews, in which over a third of the epistle quotes the Old Testament. 

He launched into one of his erudite discourses, analyzing the points taken from the liturgy for Yom Kippur, providing a thorough examination of the rights and regulations of the tribe of Levi, the Order of Melchizedek and Abraham, all proving that it was certainly okay for Jesus to be the High Priest as well as the slaughtered sin offering.

He spoke of this quoting practice as it applied to the writer of Hebrews. The writer felt strongly that his listeners needed insight into exactly what God had done in Jesus Christ, but today we might label it "proof texting" (finding a piece of scripture that seems to support what you've decided you already believe.) He told an amusing anecdote of a fellow who brought a finished sermon to him and asked him to supply a Bible text to support his thoughts.

But our celebrant went on to explain that the opposite approach "anti proof texting" is where we simply ignore the scriptural passages that don't support what we've decided we already believe. 

His implication was that both practices are lazy ways to approach an understanding of what God is doing in the world. They do not engage the text, they simply use or discard it. "Even disagreement is a form of engagement." he explained.

Ahhh now there's hope for me. I can tell.

expectations

Mark 8:31-38

Our celebrant this morning focused his remarks on Peter, acknowledging that in the lesson previous to today's Peter was the only disciple to proclaim Jesus as "Messiah", seemingly the only one to get it. 

How quickly things change... One minute you're flavor of the month, the next, you're Satan incarnate. But the point he was making was that Peter had certain preconceived ideas about what Messiah meant, and suffering and dying did not fit the job description. Expectations... such a problem. For all of us.

Our preacher took the concept further: how many times do we pigeon-hole groups (or individuals) with the sweeping generalizations of "they" always... fill-in-the-blank... ? We project our perceptions onto the other, and then can't handle it when they don't fit the projection.

We do it with God. 

If God doesn't conform to our image of who or what God should do or be, we say things like "I could never believe in a God who would... fill-in-the-blank. How do we know what God does or does not do? He acts in ways beyond our human comprehension. But because it is all beyond us, that's just too hard to take. So we place finite limits on the infinite. 

God-in-a-box. Doesn't work. Never has, never will, but we still keep trying. 

athletic training camp

I Corinthians 9:24-27

Instead of preaching on the Gospel, today our celebrant gave his sermon over to Paul's first letter to the Corinthians, what he termed "a terribly energetic passage".

When the lessons for today were first being read, I remembered I had once preached a sermon on these same texts... (if interested, you can read it here). Had three years passed so quickly? So... it was especially exciting to hear something new and different. This particular celebrant is both a Biblical scholar and a teacher; his sermons have a little of the lecture quality about them. I come away from his sermons knowing more about the Bible than I did before, yet feeling less adequate. I'm thinking that's not such a bad thing, especially as I prepare for several retreats I must lead over the next months. Humility has never been my strong suit, but it's a virtue I'm still trying to acquire. Not to be confused with humiliation... one doesn't necessarily follow the other.

But back to the sermon. In this passage, our preacher suggested, Paul portrays the Christian life as an "athletic training camp." He makes it (Christianity) come across as a competition. Everyone tries, but only those fit succeed. The best trained will come out the big winners while the less trained will be the big losers. And for that he added, we are all in big trouble. And to use the boxing metaphor, we all may as well throw in the towel.

Paul himself points out that we're all several laps behind him in persecution alone, so who can ever hope to pass him in the final lap? But we were reminded that this entire athletic metaphor was taken out of context. Today we only get a few of the verses, but the entire letter is to be read in the context of Christian freedom. Salvation is not a prize to be won; it is a gift from God. The point of staying fit and disciplined is to help others recognize the gift.

Paul points out in his letter that although (in Christ) he has been freed, he doesn't use that freedom. Instead, he conforms, especially if by doing so, he can lead others to Christ. "I have become all things to all people" he says. That made me chuckle. In my time I was brought up with a different cliché: You can't please everybody. So which is it? But that's another tangent.

The celebrant concluded with this idea: that we have a job to do: to invite others into this freedom in Christ. To do that requires a sustained and conscious effort. We do have to work hard, not to be saved, but to save others. It's a commitment to a calling, much like the athlete has a commitment to his or her chosen sport.

I thought about Paul's idea of freedom, and his willingness to lay it down for the larger purpose. He certainly must have modeled himself on the very one he worshipped. For Jesus, though in the form of God, did not cling to equality with God, but humbled himself, taking the form of a servant, and was born in human likeness. His larger purpose was to reunite us (humankind) with God, the creator. Pretty amazing when you think about it.

He's gone.

Mark 1:29-39

Our celebrant this morning was explaining why Mark is her favorite Gospel. "It's the most troubling Gospel," she said. Most scholars believe it is the earliest Gospel, that the other three base most of their stories on what Mark had to report. 

She said, "We've grown up with these stories, so we can explain them away. But in Mark, there is no explanation." She went on to say that today, the trendy way to view Mark's writings is from the context of empire... these are all empire stories that the people of that time already knew. Much as we associate politicians on the back of a train with Roosevelt and that earlier time when life was simpler and values were solid, the people in Mark's generation would have understood these stories by making the association between Jesus and Moses. Jesus comes up out of the water at his baptism... Moses was drawn from the water. Jesus journeys, incessantly. Moses journeyed (incessantly) with the children of Israel through the desert. 

In the brief part we read in today's Gospel, Jesus has just called a few followers and they have gone to the house of Peter and Andrew. But his call to his followers is not what it seems. These men had families, they weren't young bachelors with nothing better to do. Jesus heals Peter's mother-in-law of a fever, not a lightweight illness in that time. Then... a host of neighbors with all their sick relatives descends, and he heals them too. What must they have thought? Hallelujah? He's come to make our lives better?

Then... he disappears in the middle of the night. They have to go searching for him, and when they finally find him, and want to bring him home, (to do it all over again tomorrow morning,) he says No. I'm leaving. That was when it probably sunk in... just what "Follow Me." was going to be about.

Our celebrant asked "What about those who were left behind?" She was thinking of the ones that Jesus had touched and had probably changed their lives forever. What would they do with this new concept of love and justice and possibility? Especially now that the source had packed up and left them to figure it out alone? But my thoughts went to the ones left behind that were too late for the healings. They didn't get the memo the night before, but they were probably standing in line early that next morning, outside the door to Peter's house. 

Where's the healer? When is he coming back? 

Oh, you missed him. 

He's gone on down the road to spread the good news to somebody else. 

Too bad. You missed him.

disruption

Mark 1:21-28

Today's Gospel is the story of one of Jesus' first public teaching appearances in the synagogue. As our celebrant reminded us this morning, he encountered every teacher's worst nightmare: a loud mouth with an agenda who disrupts the proceedings. This particular loud mouth also spoke the truth "you Holy One of God". Everyone was watching. Now what?

Although he was new to public speaking engagements, Jesus had the presence of mind to take command of the situation. And... according to the Gospel, apparently everyone was impressed.

Our preacher brought her analogy to the present. She commented on Obama's first full week in office, and how, as with Jesus, everyone was watching his every move. And a few were already making trouble, causing disruption. Back then they named it an evil spirit.

What about today? Whatever it is, we just cannot be content with listening to people who speak with authority. We have to take potshots, have to disrupt. What's that about? It certainly makes the role of leadership that more taxing, and the ability to stay on message now becomes one of the marks of a good leader.

The question posed then was this: what is legitimate criticism as opposed to just harping to undermine the process? She asked us to look at our own lives and examine how we behave... both as leaders and when we are not leaders... to look at the temptation to criticize. Is it legitimate? Or do we just need to bring them down a peg? Are we jealous? Jealous that someone else is actually good at what they do? 

She spoke to the strife in the Anglican Communion... all the arguments over who could and could not be ordained and why, the interpretation of Scripture, the clinging to dogma. Much of the huge debate acting as distraction, disruption from the true mission of the church. 

What are we jealous of... and why?

not a lot of hope...

The word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time... —Jonah 3:1

Our celebrant this morning mentioned that her class had studied the book of Jonah for their Bible study last year. Earlier she had been telling them about the minor prophets and the wonderful stories that you always hear in Sunday school, but never think to read the actual text. So to her dismay, they had picked the book of Jonah. Dismay, in particular, because of all the prophets, Jonah is perhaps the best example of one who just doesn't get it. While he converts an entire city, he himself is never converted. He saves them, yet despises his own life.

"There's not a lot of hope in Jonah," she said. But she went on to lay out the theme of today's readings: the call from God... and to look at that theme from our own 21st century lens. 

What do we do about a call from God? 

Jonah was called by God, Simon, Andrew, James and John were called by Jesus, yet unlike the four, who dropped everything and followed Jesus, Jonah tried to escape. Of course he didn't escape, and he finally begrudgingly did what God asked of him.

And it worked. The people of Nineveh repented. God changed his mind about the disaster he was going to bring, and he didn't do it. So... was Jonah proud of himself? Was he happy that his words had brought about such a dramatic conversion of all those people? Not on your life.

He wanted them to be punished. He knew God would be merciful if they groveled and it smacked up against his own bias of who God was and how God should act. "Just kill me now." 

"Conversion is not just about us," our celebrant reminded us. "It's about a people ready to be transformed." 

She related her experience in Washington at the inauguration last week, where she and her children waited in the bitter cold with two million others to essentially watch TV outdoors. Her kids wanted to know why they were standing in the cold just to watch TV, and she explained that it was not what being there was about. 

It was actually about conversion, and the masses assembled there giving witness and approval (or at least acceptance) that we wanted more from ourselves, from our nation, from our lives... than getting rich, being thin and collecting more toys. She said that it feels like we have just been spit out of the belly of the whale. Now we get to decide how we will proceed. 

Will we answer the call with enthusiasm and a willingness to see what God has planned for the future? Or will we be like Jonah... whining and complaining and arguing about everything that doesn't suit our preconceived ideas of how it should work?

"There's not a lot of hope in Jonah," she had said earlier. On the other hand, I find it more than hopeful that God uses even the most cantankerous, ill-tempered and unwilling people to do his work. It means there's hope for me.

no regrets

The word of the Lord was rare in those days, and visions were not widespread. —1 Samuel 3:1

This line from today's Old Testament reading made me chuckle and think to myself: Yep, and that word is even more rare in these days. It struck me too, that though it was Eli who recognized that it was God calling Samuel, what God actually had to say ended up not being such good news for Eli. Irony abounds throughout the Bible. Throughout Life.

In his sermon, our celebrant tied all of the readings together as a central theme: the call from God. He went on to explore the struggles we have with this thing we call "belief"... how do we deal effectively with the doubts of those around us, as well as the internal doubts we may harbor in secret?

In the New Testament lesson, Nathanael's prejudice gets in the way of his believing. "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?" Instead of being insulted, though, Jesus praises him for being so straightforward.

Our celebrant related two stories: one about Joan Chittister, OSB, the Roman Catholic nun and widely acclaimed author, lecturer and retreat leader. When asked, she said that even though she may go to her grave unsure about some things, those doubts did not diminish her devotion to Jesus.

In another story a religious scholar was asked about his belief in the afterlife... what if it really was all a lie? His answer is one that I would echo in my own experience. He said he would bet his life on it. And if it isn't true, he still wouldn't change a thing and would have no regrets.

Is there really life on the other side of the grave? Do I care? I'm pretty sure there are those who care a lot, but I don't think I'm one of them. This life is pretty awesome as it is. If belief in God and trust in Jesus serve to make my own individual experience of humanity one where I strive to be compassionate, kind, forgiving, generous... all those things I actually do strive for (and fall short of) then it's been more than worth it. 

Change is coming...

Last Sunday we celebrated the baptism of Jesus. It's always a curve ball for me. I'm still contemplating the visit of the wise men and wham! it's time to baptize a thirty year old. So much about our liturgical calendar puzzles me: we begin our New Year in late November/early December, we celebrate the Holy Innocents before the wise men's visit, we put Jesus in the tomb on Friday and celebrate Easter on Sunday... hardly three days in the ground by anyone's count. And yet other things seem pretty specific: The Annunciation is nine months before the birth... that's linear. Yet some of these wonky celebrations serve as a reminder that God's time is not linear, even though my pea brain likes to think it is. 

Our celebrant on Sunday did a time-skip himself. he began by describing John the Baptist and then explored the differences between John and Jesus. John preached that change was coming. That you'd better get ready for it. Then he skipped to our time, our now... where change is still being preached and we're also told we'd better get ready.

But ready for what? Global warming? Economic meltdown? Violence? Hunger? War in the Middle East and Africa? Strife in the Anglican Communion? These issues don't seem especially new. 

People went out in droves to hear John the Baptizer. Jesus went too, for whatever reasons we like to attribute to His motives. Our celebrant suggested that Jesus identified with John's message of change and wanted to be a part of it. 

But hardly anyone was ready for the message Jesus brought. If He appeared today I doubt many would want to hear it either. God did a new thing in Jesus. New, radical, and against all understanding of fairness and common sense. We've tamed that message over the years, sanitized it, packaged it, revised it to meet our needs. 

When will we ask what God needs? What God wants from us?

stood up

When I was in college, occasionally instructors were late for class, and students were required to wait a certain length of time for them to show up, depending upon their status. If he (or she) were a professor, it was ten minutes. If a doctor, then twenty.

We waited fifteen this morning for our celebrant, who never did arrive. My guess is he forgot... there's a lot of that going around, especially here at our convent. But on Sunday, and on this, the first Sunday after Christmas, it was a bigger deal than usual. Our sister in charge of music had to forego all of the Christmas hymns she had planned, as we scrambled to make do with a modified "deacon's" mass. However, a couple of us had specifically requested a certain hymn, so after communion we all opened our books to 112... In the Bleak Midwinter... that haunting poem by Christina Rossetti. 

At breakfast I was saying that there are actually two versions, although only one appears in the hymnbook. Except I couldn't get the tune we'd just been singing out of my head. So I searched on YouTube. Most everyone sings the Hymnbook version, but I found a couple of the other one I remembered. Here you go...

Christ the King

Our celebrant mentioned that she felt it was fitting that Christ the King Sunday come at this time of year, when the nights are long and the days cold. "We need some hope, some light in the darkness—to be reminded of who is actually in charge", she said.

This week is the end of the church year; next Sunday we'll start all over again with Advent, when we focus directly on the bleakness of our world and our hope for some heavenly intervention that will bring us comfort and joy.

Wars still rage in several parts of the globe, starvation and disease are commonplace, if not here in the United States, certainly in Africa and other third world countries. Our own economic recession-going-on-depression is reason enough to look for meaning that doesn't come from money or possessions. 

Today's Gospel (Matthew 25:31-46) speaks of a God who values acts of kindness and charity to the least likely suspects in which to see the face of Jesus. To serve those we don't even recognize as Christ... that is what God values. 

the low-risk spiritual life

Today's Gospel reading (Matthew 25:14-30) is yet another of those parables I never liked. (You might wonder, if I hate so many of Jesus' parables, why I'm even a Christian...) Yeah, I know. Just consider it a Gospel mystery.

Our celebrant this morning gave one of the standard explanations for this parable. I've heard it before, but it's always good to be reminded of truth. I sometimes like to forget the truth, stretch the truth, bend it, make it suit my own desires. (What... nobody ever does that but me?)

"Why do you suppose," our celebrant asked, "Jesus was so rough on the one-talent-person?"
He went on to describe a typical one-talent-person... and came to the conclusion that most of us are exactly that. There are not so many gifted people in the world that are going to make the cover of Time, win a Pulitzer prize, or be remembered into the next century. Most of us are average. That's what average means. But the anonymity of being average can lead to the incorrect conclusion that whatever we have to offer is so small, it won't be missed.

I won't use my talent badly, but neither will I risk it. (After all I only have one.) So we play it safe, don't hurt anybody, keep a low profile, get by with minimum effort and minimum trust. He talked of the low-risk spiritual life: "where we neither sin nor love much, acting not with faith, but with prudence." These are the people Jesus is concerned with reaching in this story.

For myself, I always figured the poor guy got a bum rap. If telling your master you think he's "a hard man, reaping what you did not sow, and gathering where you did not scatter." isn't taking a risk, I don't know what is. "I was afraid, and went and hid your talent in the ground. Look, there you have what is yours." That sounds pretty gutsy to me. But after all, he's backed into a corner by the other two highly successful (and talented) servants, what does he have to lose now? 

I was afraid... That's the crux of the problem. We have too many tales of a wrathful and vengeful God that we forget the part about mercy. (Not that this story shows much mercy either.) But God is essentially saying that our faith in His mercy is what will produce it. That rings a bell, doesn't it? How many times does the word faith play a part in Jesus healings, stories, and rebukes? O you of little faith... if you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you faith has made you well. Seems like he's trying to tell us that faith, in and of itself, is mighty important.

So the point of the parable, then, is to use what we have, whether we have a lot or a little. Hoarding won't work in the Kingdom of Heaven. In fact, it will get you thrown out.

Choose Today

Our celebrant on Sunday took his sermon from the Old Testament Lesson (Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25), rather than from the Gospel. I, for one, breathed a sigh of relief. I'm sick of that Gospel about the five wise virgins pitted against the five foolish virgins... I don't care how you spin it, there's just something wrong there. 

I'm currently reading The Wisdom Jesus by Cynthia Bourgeault. She mentions this Gospel and describes it as more of a koan than a parable, explaining that these teachings are not about the outer activities they describe, but are about inner transformation. Of course the wise virgins couldn't share their oil, she says, because the oil stands for some quality created inside us "by our own conscious striving." She also goes on to explain that we wouldn't get that connection unless we understood that Jesus is teaching from a specific Hebrew Wisdom Tradition.

Interesting. That falls right into place with another book I'm reading by John Shelby Spong: Jesus for the Non-Religious.

Both authors assert that Jesus cannot be fully understood until we place him in the Jewish context he was born into. Okay, I'm game for that. But... both books are also difficult reading for different reasons. Spong, already in the first chapter, has eliminated the wise men, the virgin Mary, Joseph, Bethlehem and all the singing angels. Just think of all the Christmas carols we'd have to scrap if we all agreed he's accurate in his assessment. Just think of all the amazing music and artwork over the centuries, not to mention my own lame attempts to portray these miracles. We'd probably have to eliminate Christmas too... and that's my favorite holiday. 

Not that I don't believe Spong will give adequate and excellent examples of why Jesus should still be revered as God's son; I have complete faith that he will. I'm just too blown away at the moment by losing all the lovely mythology around the birth of the Christ, (whether it's true or not.)

But back to Sunday's sermon. Joshua charges the people of Israel: "Choose for yourself whom you will serve." And he gives them a lot of choices. There were nearly three thousand minor deities available to them in that time, a time when they believed that the power struggles in the heavenly realms directly affected the outcomes on the earthly plane. The more worshipers a god could command, the more powerful he or she would be. As I was listening, I realized just how awful a choice Joshua was asking at that time. The God of Israel, by His own admission, was a jealous God. God was a green-eyed monster? You read some of the Old Testament accounts and that's not too far-fetched. Makes you want to think twice if this is the one you will serve. Yet they all agreed. The faithfulness of Israel, whatever their motivations, has given us the world we now inhabit. 

We too, have that choice. The words choose today ring the truest, though. It is a daily choice. Every day. Day-in and day-out. Saying yes once won't cut it. It has to be a vow renewed with every breath. Choose today whom you will serve.

Hard lessons

Last Sunday I attended mass at my old church in Jacksonville, Florida. The new rector, who I'd just met two days before at the rehearsal dinner, sidled up to me and said "I don't really like today's lessons. Why don't you preach the sermon?" I laughed. I actually hadn't read Sunday's lessons yet, so I was curious to hear them, and then to see how he preached them. 

Ah yes ... the vineyard owner, both versions: the original from Isaiah, and the one Jesus told as a parable. It's always good to hear his source material in context with the Gospel reading. I often forget Jesus drew from Torah for many of his stories. He didn't operate in a holy vacuum, making up everything he said from scratch.

The preacher began by talking about prescription drugs and their possible side effects... how Madison Avenue has made a killing with advertising for prescription medications of all kinds, (not just the ones to enhance your physical abilities in bed.) The theory is you'll go to your doctor and ask for the drug. If the doctor prescribes it, then you'll also get a large piece of paper with all the possible side effects: nausea, headache, diarrhea (he didn't use that word) and muscle pain. It comes down to the fact that you're betting that the meds will do their job without you having to deal with the side effects. His analogy was that everything in the lessons for Sunday dealt with choice and the side effects of those choices.

In the Isaiah vineyard story God built, planted and took great care to tend His vineyard. But instead of getting a nice crop of grapes, he got sour ones. In that version it's clear that Israel, the people, are the grapes. They've entered into a relationship with God based on a covenant, where both parties have made promises, have responsibilities. God keeps His side of the covenant and expects His people to keep theirs. But they don't. Instead they are wild grapes, a people who rebel and don't honor the relationship.

While the imagery is the same for the Gospel, it's now a case of vineyard owner versus tenants. Still, there's the underlying idea of covenant: it's his vineyard after all, and the owner expects to collect his share of the harvest. But... when he sends his servants to collect, the tenants beat them up, and some servants are actually killed. After all this, the owner says to himself, "I'll send my son. Surely they will respect him." But they don't.

Let me stop right here and spin off on a tangent. Am I the only person who's ever thought the owner is naive? These tenants have just killed his servants. He did nothing. They think the place is theirs. Why would they even hesitate to kill the son? I must be missing something historical, contextual, huge... because I don't get it. 

Except of course, I do. 

The analogy that God is patient and forgiving and loving and full of mercy, giving us the benefit of the doubt time after time is clear. But both these lessons have a warning. In both these stories, there's an end to the mercy. In the first, the vineyard is trashed and allowed to be overrun with weeds. In the second, it will be given to new tenants. In the early Christian movement, they probably thought they were the new tenants. A lot of us probably still think that's the case. But the truth remains that Christians behave with the same rebelliousness, greed and self-absorption as Israel did in Isaiah's time.

Our priest said, "These are hard lessons." 

Why? Well, first of all nobody likes to admit guilt. "Not my responsibility" or "I didn't know." are two of the standard excuses when a catastrophe occurs. Take your pick... the latest debacle on Wall Street will do. "I'm not greedy like those guys. I'm just trying to get along in this dog-eat-dog world, make a decent living, give my kids a better life." 

Except... we've all bought into some pretty lame substitutes for a better life. Our kids sit in front of TVs that tell them they'll be prettier, more popular more in... with anything and everything from designer jeans to the latest Barbie, and adults will be happier, more attractive, more successful... with a bigger house, a cushier car and prescription drugs to enhance our physical abilities in bed. We didn't have to buy that story. But we all did (and do) to some degree. So here come the side effects.

"The Kingdom of God will be taken away and given to others." In our day and age, how does that work? On Sunday, the priest had his own idea about how it happens. He thinks it won't be a drastic thing... more like erosion. Certain things lapse and ethics become lax. He wondered aloud how many people ask themselves "What does God want from me?" rather than "What do I want?" Not so many. I know that even in the convent it's an issue. We, who have given our lives to God are still plagued with the "I wants" instead of the "God wants" or even worse, we pretend that God wants what we want. 

And yet, in times of disaster, it seems to me easier to hear the hard lessons, to swallow the medicine that will make us well again. We are a greedy people. Yet when that greed is paying off, who wants to hear it's wrong? Only when the house of cards begins to tumble do we buck up and get clear about our priorities. Maybe now is the best time to hear these lessons.

set up

(Matthew 20:1-16) Our celebrant reminded us this morning, that any time we hear Jesus saying "The kingdom of heaven is like..." (fill in the blank), he really means: this is what the world would be like, our world, if we acted according to God's purpose and not our own. And Jesus' mission, he said, was to bring God's kingdom to earth.

I always feel a little differently about that. Whenever I hear Jesus say "The kingdom of heaven is like..." I know to look out, because he's going to say something that makes no sense, does not seem fair, and will take me a whole lot of contemplation to finally get it. If I ever do finally get it.

Today's Gospel is a prime example. The vineyard manager goes out early in the morning to hire day laborers. After a bit, he sees he needs more help so he goes looking, and hires a few more. And again, and again throughout the day, right up until an hour before quitting time, he hires the last ones he can find. So far so good.

Then he sets them up. Really. He deliberately sets them up, calling them in reverse order to be paid. No sealed envelopes in this company, everybody gets to see what everybody else gets paid. Well look at that! Those guys who only worked one hour just got an entire day's wages. Wahoo! Whoopie! We're gonna get a bonus, nyah nyah nyah..

Only that doesn't happen. The final payout for everybody is one day's pay. Grumble, grumble, grumble. So what's with this? You give those slackers the same as us? And the vineyard owner says, "What? I can't do what I like with what belongs to me? You feel cheated? We contracted for a day's wage for a day's work. That's what you got. Take your money and scram."

Then he proceeds to rub salt on the wound by saying "Maybe you're just jealous because I'm generous." Okay. Intellectually I get it. His money, he can do what he wants. And if I had been one of the five o'clock workers I'd be ecstatic. Maybe feel a little guilty about the other guys with the sunburns, but nevertheless ecstatic.

But what about the dawn workers? I think they have a legitimate gripe. If they had been paid first and sent home none the wiser, wouldn't that have been easier to swallow? Of course word would have spread, but it's going to spread now anyway. 

With my protestant-work-ethic-mentality, all I can think is if I can sleep til noon and I'll still be paid for the whole day, why should I kill myself to get there on time?

Our celebrant told a story from his own experience that helped with an answer. When he first came to New York, he had seen men early in the morning, waiting... They were mostly immigrants, day laborers, waiting for construction foremen to come by in their trucks. A truck would pull up and the driver would roll down his window and hold up two or three fingers, to indicate how many workers he needed. The men would start running. The first ones to the truck were the ones who got the jobs. Jobs were scarce. These men had families to feed. They could not afford to be picky, or late, or slow to move. 

That's a good point. If the whole story is a metaphor for God's abundant grace... and the emphasis is on grace, then none of us can afford to be picky. Or late. Or slow to move. Our souls are on the line. 

If the emphasis is on abundance, though, then gratitude is the only appropriate response. I may have been up since dawn today, but there were times when I grossly overslept. I cannot begrudge another that same grace.

How many times?

(Matthew 18:21-35) This is the parable about forgiveness. Peter asks Jesus how many times must we forgive someone who hurts us? Seven? And... (depending on which translation you read,) the answer is either seventy-seven or seventy times seven,  which would be four hundred and ninety. Either way, the answer certainly implies a bunch of times. That goes against the grain in our society. Someone who keeps forgiving and forgiving and forgiving is usually seen as a pushover. There's an expression: Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice shame on me. That puts the burden on the victim to make sure the consequences fit the offense... an eye for an eye and all that.

But today's Gospel has left a bitter taste in my mouth for other reasons. Ever since I participated in a Bible study class in my early years as a novice, I've had doubts that Jesus actually said this.( Not the part about seven times seventy, but the part about the king going back on his word and tossing the "wicked slave" into the torture chamber.

Here's why: One of our group posed the question: If the human king in this parable is the stand-in for God, and God can just take back his forgiveness in anger... where does that leave us? I'd never thought of it that way. I'd always thought it was just a story, an object lesson, like my Nana would say the boogyman would get me if I didn't behave. You don't forgive your neighbor and God will get you.

But her question brought up a lot of discussion at the time. In this particular story, the king has already forgiven the first slave his debt. Period. It's only when the other slaves turn him in for not forgiving his own debtor that the king goes berserk and has a hissy-fit... puts all the debt back and sends him to be tortured until he can pay it. This is nonsensical. If the man is in the torture chamber, he's not going to be working off his debt. It's vindictive. Is our God vindictive?

Our celebrant this morning took a different tack. He opened with the acknowledgement that some things are easy to forgive and other things really test us. As he spoke, I thought of all the people who lost friends or family members on 9/11/2001. How each anniversary brings it up all over again... the pain, the loss. Some have been able to forgive, some may never be able to.

He spoke of "the grim burden of not being able to forgive" and I thought of the expression "carry a grudge" in light of his words grim burden. Of course. We carry it. The torture chamber is one of our own making, even though in the parable the king imposes it as a penalty. Perhaps the penalty has always been in place as part of the human condition, and until we can learn the simple but maddeningly difficult lesson, we will continue to blame and accuse and expect payback. And, when it is not forthcoming we will live tortured lives. And even if there is payback... the death penalty for murder, for example... it will never be enough. An eye for an eye never replaces the first eye.

But he went on... "We should always be forgiving," he said, "because we are always in need of forgiveness." Now that's different. Way different. It's different  because it comes from the heart of who we are, no matter how wonderful we'd like to be. And it's is not a threat from a vengeful God, it's a statement of compassion and hope, instructions from a God who wants to help.

Forgive, not because we have been forgiven, but because we'll need to be forgiven. And soon. He asked just how high each of us rated forgiveness. As compared with justice in a world full with violence and evil. That's a sticky one. Both are two sides of the same coin if we are to improve the human condition globally. But our celebrant believes that forgiveness is central to all of it. I agree.