The text in which Jesus refers to himself as the Good Shepherd is a challenging one for the simple reason that we are pretty sure that we know what a good shepherd is like. Many of us learned the words to Psalm 23 when we were just tots, and we cannot help but apply those images to Jesus, just as he probably had the same Psalm in mind when he referred to himself as the Good Shepherd. Often, when I have spoken about this passage, I have referred to sheep as being less than intelligent, which is why it can be such a challenge leading them. I was told recently that sheep do not have great eyesight, so they tend to focus on what is close at hand. I don't know if that is true or not. However, I came across some writings this week that cause me to want to look at this familiar passage again with eyes that fully embrace the shepherd imagery.
Harvard chaplain Peter Gomes once wrote about the custom in early New England of referring to the founding of churches as the "gathering" of the church. Cornerstones are inscribed with the words "..Gathered in 1687..." instead of "founded." What a different dynamic such language sets up for us. To say that a church was founded calls to mind a small group of folks establishing a congregation, electing officers and scheduling meetings. Or, perhaps that is my United Methodist heritage peeking through. However, to gather a congregation calls to mind the actions of another, a leader, a caretaker, a shepherd, if you will. It fosters the idea that God had a part in bringing said congregation into being that the word founded just does not communicate. God was there at its gathering to nurture and care for the congregation, just as a shepherd or shepherdess gathers and cares for a flock.
In my reading I came across the opening words to the Heidelberg Catechism, the foundation document of the Reformed Church, and ancestor of the United Church of Christ. The catechism asks, "What is your only comfort in life and death?" The first two elements of the response: "That I belong, body and soul - in life and death - not to myself, but to my faithful savior, Jesus Christ."
When one combines the image of being gathered together by God with the affirmation that one belongs not to oneself, but to a faithful savior, the image of the Good Shepherd comes alive with life-altering force. Nothing else needs to be said.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
How Do We Keep the Feeling? Luke 24:13-35
Though the lectionary deals with the end of Luke's 24th chapter this week, I have chosen to discuss the first part of the chapter. I am continually intrigued by the account of the journey to Emmaus and the revelation that took place there.I prefer the first part of the chapter, because in that account, by the time that his followers recognize him, Jesus disappears from their midst. The assigned text for the day, from the latter part of the chapter, has Jesus appearing to the disciples, eating in front of them and showing them his wounds. It smacks too much of our need for proof, and I think we need to spend more time getting away from that kind of thinking.
The two people traveling to Emmaus, Cleopas, about whom we know nothing else, and an unnamed companion, are joined by a third person, who seems oblivious to the goings on of the past few days. The walk takes place on Sunday evening, so news of the purported resurrection of Jesus that morning had reached their ears, though they did not know what to make of it. The stranger who walked with them was surprised that they did not seem to grasp the natural progression of events, and he told them as much. He then taught them as one who knew about such things. Just as the conversation was getting really interesting, they reached their turn-off on the road and the stranger appeared to be going on ahead. Customary rules of hospitality bade them to invite him to their place for food and lodging, and he accepted. While they were eating, in the breaking of bread, Jesus was made known to them, and then he was gone.
We just hate it when that happens. Just as God is within reach, God hot-foots it out of there.But what is more important than the fact that Jesus was made known to them was the way they felt when he was with them. "Did our hearts not burn within us?" was the way the fellow travelers expressed their amazement. And that, I think, is at the heart of our longing for some kind of encounter with a physical manifestation of God. Ronald Goetz, writing in the Christian Century years ago, stated that what the believers experienced was "not a revivification of the man they had known, but rather, one knowable only by a miracle of self-disclosure." Goetz then went on to get at the heart of our longing by comparing it to the experience of the commingling of the bonds of affection that occurs between friends or lovers. Those first encounters are almost over-powering in the mutual experience of common interests, feelings and even passions. Can we remember the first date with a current or former lover? Remember the quickening of the pulse, the clammy skin when you finally got up the courage to actually hold hands? Recall the intense longing after you parted, whether for a day, or forever? On the flip side, how about those who remained friends or lovers after those initial feelings of shared affection? Have you found yourself trying to reclaim those early fireworks, only to find that now you seem bored, or at least uninspired with the relationship? Goetz stated that the Other, who became almost as real as one's own self, does not and cannot stay. Moods change, interest fades, the Thou becomes an It. That first moment cannot last. Like the heavenly manna of the Exodus, the experience of that initial love cannot be stored and preserved.
When Jesus vanished from the midst of his new friends, they had only the memory of how they felt when in his presence. It's fleeting nature is what made it so exciting, so precious, so remarkable. As they, and the early church would soon discover, that memory would have to be enough. And it must be enough still. We cannot recreate those moments of self-disclosure, either by God, or by friends and lovers. We can only treasure them, meditate on them and try to understand them in the context of our fleeting lives. They are blessings on the journey and signposts to the Kingdom that awaits us, in this world, and the next.
The two people traveling to Emmaus, Cleopas, about whom we know nothing else, and an unnamed companion, are joined by a third person, who seems oblivious to the goings on of the past few days. The walk takes place on Sunday evening, so news of the purported resurrection of Jesus that morning had reached their ears, though they did not know what to make of it. The stranger who walked with them was surprised that they did not seem to grasp the natural progression of events, and he told them as much. He then taught them as one who knew about such things. Just as the conversation was getting really interesting, they reached their turn-off on the road and the stranger appeared to be going on ahead. Customary rules of hospitality bade them to invite him to their place for food and lodging, and he accepted. While they were eating, in the breaking of bread, Jesus was made known to them, and then he was gone.
We just hate it when that happens. Just as God is within reach, God hot-foots it out of there.But what is more important than the fact that Jesus was made known to them was the way they felt when he was with them. "Did our hearts not burn within us?" was the way the fellow travelers expressed their amazement. And that, I think, is at the heart of our longing for some kind of encounter with a physical manifestation of God. Ronald Goetz, writing in the Christian Century years ago, stated that what the believers experienced was "not a revivification of the man they had known, but rather, one knowable only by a miracle of self-disclosure." Goetz then went on to get at the heart of our longing by comparing it to the experience of the commingling of the bonds of affection that occurs between friends or lovers. Those first encounters are almost over-powering in the mutual experience of common interests, feelings and even passions. Can we remember the first date with a current or former lover? Remember the quickening of the pulse, the clammy skin when you finally got up the courage to actually hold hands? Recall the intense longing after you parted, whether for a day, or forever? On the flip side, how about those who remained friends or lovers after those initial feelings of shared affection? Have you found yourself trying to reclaim those early fireworks, only to find that now you seem bored, or at least uninspired with the relationship? Goetz stated that the Other, who became almost as real as one's own self, does not and cannot stay. Moods change, interest fades, the Thou becomes an It. That first moment cannot last. Like the heavenly manna of the Exodus, the experience of that initial love cannot be stored and preserved.
When Jesus vanished from the midst of his new friends, they had only the memory of how they felt when in his presence. It's fleeting nature is what made it so exciting, so precious, so remarkable. As they, and the early church would soon discover, that memory would have to be enough. And it must be enough still. We cannot recreate those moments of self-disclosure, either by God, or by friends and lovers. We can only treasure them, meditate on them and try to understand them in the context of our fleeting lives. They are blessings on the journey and signposts to the Kingdom that awaits us, in this world, and the next.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
So, What DID Become of Sin? I John 1:1-2:2
Yes, there was a famous book written by Dr. Karl Menninger back in the 1960's whose title asked "Whatever Became of Sin?" I even have that book on my office bookshelf; it was one of the first books I bought for free reading when I was a divinity student. As I recall, I read about half of it. Menninger was a psychotherapist, and he wondered if we had risen above the need to call anything sin anymore. He felt that we attempted to explain everything away through psychological processes and counseling. I still think his point was valid. Don't get me wrong, after all, I hold a graduate degree in counseling, so I do believe in its merits. But I have come to believe that we so misunderstand the whole concept of sin that it has been rendered mostly meaningless. But it really should not be so.
Now, let's think about what comes to mind when we say the word "sin". Is a sin telling a lie, falsifying one's income taxes, or going too far when out on a date? Many of us were raised with such definitions of sin. But to think of sins as individual acts misses the true meaning and danger of sin. The writer of I John asks how we can say we have no sin when we are sinners? By denying we are sinners, we become liars. Truth is, sin is not individual acts but a state of being. I think sin is reflected in the general cynicism, dishonesty and judgmental way in which we tend to view others. Instead of practicing the Christian hospitality that welcomes the stranger so that he or she becomes a friend, or at least a member of our community, we exclude folks who do not measure up to our idea of what is acceptable. We all remember the boy or girl in junior high and high school who did not fit in for whatever reason, and who was mocked and isolated by other students.
I cannot help but mention the saga of the latest media darling, Susan Boyle, whose audition for Britain's Got Talent has catapulted her into international stardom. She is a plainspoken woman from Northeastern Scotland who happens to have been blessed with a remarkable singing voice. Before she sang on the show, the judges and audience members treated her with a condescending sense of tolerance and amusement. After she sang, they fell over one another praising her. Susan Boyle has touched me deeply, because hers is a story of one who has had a challenging life; she was born with a slight disability that causes here to be perceived as lacking in social graces. She has been the target of neighborhood kids who ring her doorbell and run away. After her performance on TV, she remarked on how great it is to be congratulated by children in the street. So, what has changed to make her suddenly cool? People saw another side of her, there is a groundswell of love and support for her now, and folks are caught in that rising tide. But Susan Boyle, a faithful Catholic who cared for her elderly mother for years, has always been special in the eyes of God. Why is it that many who live in her village did not think so until now?
We have just come through the miracle of Easter; can we change our daily behavior to reflect that miracle? Can we love the unlovable, laugh with, and not at, people who do not seem to fit in? Can we admit that sin, properly understood, is a condition that causes us to separate ourselves from the realm of God's love for all people? And do we have the willpower to rise above the common cynicism of our time to show zero tolerance anytime anyone is singled out for ridicule, or cast out of the "accepted" community. I hope so, because only then can we say that we are trying to rise above sin and walk in the truth about which the writer of I John spoke.
Now, let's think about what comes to mind when we say the word "sin". Is a sin telling a lie, falsifying one's income taxes, or going too far when out on a date? Many of us were raised with such definitions of sin. But to think of sins as individual acts misses the true meaning and danger of sin. The writer of I John asks how we can say we have no sin when we are sinners? By denying we are sinners, we become liars. Truth is, sin is not individual acts but a state of being. I think sin is reflected in the general cynicism, dishonesty and judgmental way in which we tend to view others. Instead of practicing the Christian hospitality that welcomes the stranger so that he or she becomes a friend, or at least a member of our community, we exclude folks who do not measure up to our idea of what is acceptable. We all remember the boy or girl in junior high and high school who did not fit in for whatever reason, and who was mocked and isolated by other students.
I cannot help but mention the saga of the latest media darling, Susan Boyle, whose audition for Britain's Got Talent has catapulted her into international stardom. She is a plainspoken woman from Northeastern Scotland who happens to have been blessed with a remarkable singing voice. Before she sang on the show, the judges and audience members treated her with a condescending sense of tolerance and amusement. After she sang, they fell over one another praising her. Susan Boyle has touched me deeply, because hers is a story of one who has had a challenging life; she was born with a slight disability that causes here to be perceived as lacking in social graces. She has been the target of neighborhood kids who ring her doorbell and run away. After her performance on TV, she remarked on how great it is to be congratulated by children in the street. So, what has changed to make her suddenly cool? People saw another side of her, there is a groundswell of love and support for her now, and folks are caught in that rising tide. But Susan Boyle, a faithful Catholic who cared for her elderly mother for years, has always been special in the eyes of God. Why is it that many who live in her village did not think so until now?
We have just come through the miracle of Easter; can we change our daily behavior to reflect that miracle? Can we love the unlovable, laugh with, and not at, people who do not seem to fit in? Can we admit that sin, properly understood, is a condition that causes us to separate ourselves from the realm of God's love for all people? And do we have the willpower to rise above the common cynicism of our time to show zero tolerance anytime anyone is singled out for ridicule, or cast out of the "accepted" community. I hope so, because only then can we say that we are trying to rise above sin and walk in the truth about which the writer of I John spoke.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Another Easter, Another Missed Opportunity?
We have come through another Easter Sunday, with churches filled to the brim and folks feeling inspired afterwards. I don't think we will ever know, truly, what brings people out to church on Easter Sunday. Unlike some more skeptical folks, I don't think it has as much to do with making a fashion statement as it does with folks wanting to feel that they are part of something very special. So, once a year our churches are full and we have such an opportunity to address the meaning of the day. And I cannot help but feeling that we never really address it in the way that would be most effective.
I could not help but notice that, although we are in the lectionary cycle that features the gospel of Mark, John's account is also offered as the text for Easter Sunday. The church that my family and I attended used the Johannine passage. I am curious as to why the Markan account is not enough for the day and why we have to fall back on John's more detailed account. And what if we read the account from Mark and stop where many of the most ancient manuscripts did, at 16:8? Instead of an account where Mary sees Jesus at the tomb and assumes that he is the gardener, Mark gives us an account of a young man in the tomb who tells folks not to be alarmed, but the Jesus they have come looking for is not in the tomb, but has gone before them into Galilee. The young man told them that they would see Jesus there, out in the world among folks, just as he had told them. Why is that account not enough for us?
People come out on Easter and they want a show, they want the stops pulled out all the way. Might I go so far as to say that they want whatever proof the pastor can offer that the story is true? That task may seem easier with an account that has Jesus actually appearing to the disciples. Even Mark's gospel has an alternate ending, with more of Jesus and less left to the imagination.
As for me, give me the shorter ending every time. The empty tomb is plenty for me; I don't need to read about Jesus appearing to many people, as if such an account can remove all of the desire for more proof that each of us wants, secretly, or not. Truth is, I want it to be left to me to figure out, on my own. I know the story, I know the faith, so let me try to reason it through. Make me think it through, pray it through, read it through. I want to be challenged to look for Jesus "out there" among the people. I think we get way too attached to the empty tomb. I remember reading long ago that when we have an empty tomb, all we have is a tomb without a body in it.We should spend less time wondering if the shroud of Turin is authentic, because it means nothing. What matters most is the life that Jesus lived, and the sacrifice that he made on Friday. Students are amazed when I tell them that I believe Good Friday to be the most important day of the Chrsitian year. It is the authenticity of Jesus, his faithfulness to the message that he taught, and to his calling from God, that matters most. He was loving, obedient, and his words and his activities were seamless; he was the real deal. I prefer Mark's shorter ending, because it makes me keep looking for Christ in everyone I see and everywhere I go. That is something that lasts longer than the Easter Sunday service; it renews me daily, all year long.
I could not help but notice that, although we are in the lectionary cycle that features the gospel of Mark, John's account is also offered as the text for Easter Sunday. The church that my family and I attended used the Johannine passage. I am curious as to why the Markan account is not enough for the day and why we have to fall back on John's more detailed account. And what if we read the account from Mark and stop where many of the most ancient manuscripts did, at 16:8? Instead of an account where Mary sees Jesus at the tomb and assumes that he is the gardener, Mark gives us an account of a young man in the tomb who tells folks not to be alarmed, but the Jesus they have come looking for is not in the tomb, but has gone before them into Galilee. The young man told them that they would see Jesus there, out in the world among folks, just as he had told them. Why is that account not enough for us?
People come out on Easter and they want a show, they want the stops pulled out all the way. Might I go so far as to say that they want whatever proof the pastor can offer that the story is true? That task may seem easier with an account that has Jesus actually appearing to the disciples. Even Mark's gospel has an alternate ending, with more of Jesus and less left to the imagination.
As for me, give me the shorter ending every time. The empty tomb is plenty for me; I don't need to read about Jesus appearing to many people, as if such an account can remove all of the desire for more proof that each of us wants, secretly, or not. Truth is, I want it to be left to me to figure out, on my own. I know the story, I know the faith, so let me try to reason it through. Make me think it through, pray it through, read it through. I want to be challenged to look for Jesus "out there" among the people. I think we get way too attached to the empty tomb. I remember reading long ago that when we have an empty tomb, all we have is a tomb without a body in it.We should spend less time wondering if the shroud of Turin is authentic, because it means nothing. What matters most is the life that Jesus lived, and the sacrifice that he made on Friday. Students are amazed when I tell them that I believe Good Friday to be the most important day of the Chrsitian year. It is the authenticity of Jesus, his faithfulness to the message that he taught, and to his calling from God, that matters most. He was loving, obedient, and his words and his activities were seamless; he was the real deal. I prefer Mark's shorter ending, because it makes me keep looking for Christ in everyone I see and everywhere I go. That is something that lasts longer than the Easter Sunday service; it renews me daily, all year long.
Monday, April 6, 2009
What's Good about "Good Friday?"
I just spent an hour with some students discussing why Good Friday is considered good by Christians. To make the discussion more interesting, I asked them to try to imagine that they had to answer the question without knowing about what happened on Easter Sunday. It turned out to be a real stumper. One student discussed the atonement, and I reminded him that the atonement was a doctrine that evolved in hindsight, and would not have been on the minds of Jesus' followers on that Friday. Seeing that the good folks were really trying to get this, I asked them to think about other events during what we now call Holy Week, and also other events that they could think of where Jesus was making points about the kind of faith he was proclaiming. Finally, one of them said, "because, in his death, he was living up to what he had always taught about sacrifice." Bingo!
For me, Good Friday became more meaningful when I ceased to be fascinated with the details of the day. After all, none of the gospel writers agree on every detail, so trying to come up with the "ultimate chronology" proves to be a less-than-satisfying endeavor. Looking at Good Friday for what the day has to say without looking to Sunday can be a tricky, but very rewarding adventure.
I grew up in a town that used to have a three-hour Good Friday service that was sponsored by the local ministerial association. The services were broken into half-hour segments, and different clergy would preach during each segment. Folks could come and go between segments. As luck, and God's sense of humor, would have it, my first parish after graduation from divinity school was located four miles from my hometown. So, I became a member of the very same ministerial association that had sponsored those services during my youth, and they were still doing them. During my second year in that parish, I was scheduled to preach at one of the segments of the three-hour service. The pastor who preached during the segment before mine told people to lose the long faces, that Good Friday did not matter because Easter Sunday was to follow. Then I followed him and called attention back to the day at hand. I remember playing to a tough room that day.
We prefer happy endings to our stories, even the stories of our faith. But I am an advocate of not moving ahead too quickly with the events of Holy Week. If we are too squeamish to even contemplate the agony of the cross before skipping ahead to the joy of Easter morning, how can we identify with the sacrificial nature of the faith to which we are called by God? What does a faith that has no room for dealing with tragedy, sadness and injustice have to do with us? On Good Friday, God made it clear to the world that God was not above knowing the pain of loss. I would much rather serve a God who can identify with my station in life than one who is only about the triumphal side of faith. Easter Sunday has little meaning apart from the events of Good Friday. We will do well to remember that.
For me, Good Friday became more meaningful when I ceased to be fascinated with the details of the day. After all, none of the gospel writers agree on every detail, so trying to come up with the "ultimate chronology" proves to be a less-than-satisfying endeavor. Looking at Good Friday for what the day has to say without looking to Sunday can be a tricky, but very rewarding adventure.
I grew up in a town that used to have a three-hour Good Friday service that was sponsored by the local ministerial association. The services were broken into half-hour segments, and different clergy would preach during each segment. Folks could come and go between segments. As luck, and God's sense of humor, would have it, my first parish after graduation from divinity school was located four miles from my hometown. So, I became a member of the very same ministerial association that had sponsored those services during my youth, and they were still doing them. During my second year in that parish, I was scheduled to preach at one of the segments of the three-hour service. The pastor who preached during the segment before mine told people to lose the long faces, that Good Friday did not matter because Easter Sunday was to follow. Then I followed him and called attention back to the day at hand. I remember playing to a tough room that day.
We prefer happy endings to our stories, even the stories of our faith. But I am an advocate of not moving ahead too quickly with the events of Holy Week. If we are too squeamish to even contemplate the agony of the cross before skipping ahead to the joy of Easter morning, how can we identify with the sacrificial nature of the faith to which we are called by God? What does a faith that has no room for dealing with tragedy, sadness and injustice have to do with us? On Good Friday, God made it clear to the world that God was not above knowing the pain of loss. I would much rather serve a God who can identify with my station in life than one who is only about the triumphal side of faith. Easter Sunday has little meaning apart from the events of Good Friday. We will do well to remember that.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
My Kingdom for a Towel! Mark 14:51-52
There is one thing I can always count on when discussing Mark's passion narrative with students: they have never noticed the account of the young man running away from the garden after Jesus' arrest. They don't really pay attention until I remind them that the text states that he "ran off naked." Of course, because I attended college in the 1970's, I never fail to describe the practice of streaking, which was all the rage on campuses (and at the Academy Awards) at that time. They usually stare, not understanding at all why anyone would think such a practice was even the least bit cool. I cannot help but agree with them, though I cannot understand in the least why some of them think it is cool to drink beer from a hose! I guess it's all a matter of perspective.
But the story of the young man running out of the garden in his all-together has always fascinated me; why is it there? Why did Mark, and Mark alone, include this account? What can it possibly add to the story? Some scholars believe that he may have been a young man who was asleep in the house whose upper room Jesus and the disciples had just used for the Seder meal, and who awoke and followed them to the garden. If the house in which they met was the house of Mary, the mother of John Mark, it may be a bit of autobiographical license by the evangelist himself. Why would he include such an account and what theological purpose could it serve? Perhaps the author is saying, "You can believe this account, because I was there!" It is certainly not the first time an author or an artist has included him or herself in a story or a piece of artwork. It's a way of adding a sense of authenticity to a work. For Mark, it may have been a way for him to reassure the fledgling Christian community that had been demoralized by the destruction of the Temple and the city of Jerusalem itself by the Romans that they could believe in what Jesus had promised, because he, Mark, had witnessed the events himself.
Strange as it may seem, I really appreciate this odd little verse in the midst of such a painful story of our Lord's betrayal and death. The little notation about a young man who was probably not prepared for the intrigue that was to occur that night brings the story down to our everyday level. We struggle to understand this faith of ours, no matter how long we have been believers. Christianity requires daily re-examination, because it strains our understanding, and at times, our willingness to believe what was written so long ago. In this vignette about a young man who did not dress properly for what he may have thought was a low-key garden party, we are thrown a tiny lifeline for our faith. Here is someone who may not have really understood what was happening, and who hot-footed it out of there when things became tense. What was initially embarrassing, running away naked, in front of God and everyone, became for Mark, a seal of authenticity. He might have been telling his readers to take what he said as truth, because he was there and saw and heard it all. Who among us would not give all we have for a chance to under-dress for that particular garden party, even if we too ran away?
But the story of the young man running out of the garden in his all-together has always fascinated me; why is it there? Why did Mark, and Mark alone, include this account? What can it possibly add to the story? Some scholars believe that he may have been a young man who was asleep in the house whose upper room Jesus and the disciples had just used for the Seder meal, and who awoke and followed them to the garden. If the house in which they met was the house of Mary, the mother of John Mark, it may be a bit of autobiographical license by the evangelist himself. Why would he include such an account and what theological purpose could it serve? Perhaps the author is saying, "You can believe this account, because I was there!" It is certainly not the first time an author or an artist has included him or herself in a story or a piece of artwork. It's a way of adding a sense of authenticity to a work. For Mark, it may have been a way for him to reassure the fledgling Christian community that had been demoralized by the destruction of the Temple and the city of Jerusalem itself by the Romans that they could believe in what Jesus had promised, because he, Mark, had witnessed the events himself.
Strange as it may seem, I really appreciate this odd little verse in the midst of such a painful story of our Lord's betrayal and death. The little notation about a young man who was probably not prepared for the intrigue that was to occur that night brings the story down to our everyday level. We struggle to understand this faith of ours, no matter how long we have been believers. Christianity requires daily re-examination, because it strains our understanding, and at times, our willingness to believe what was written so long ago. In this vignette about a young man who did not dress properly for what he may have thought was a low-key garden party, we are thrown a tiny lifeline for our faith. Here is someone who may not have really understood what was happening, and who hot-footed it out of there when things became tense. What was initially embarrassing, running away naked, in front of God and everyone, became for Mark, a seal of authenticity. He might have been telling his readers to take what he said as truth, because he was there and saw and heard it all. Who among us would not give all we have for a chance to under-dress for that particular garden party, even if we too ran away?
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