The New Jerusalem Revelation 21:1-6

I remember retreating to my high school library during study hall so that I could read Hal Lindsay's Late, Great Planet Earth. The book was a feast of modern-day interpretations of the text of the book of Revelation. It confirmed what Americans had suspected: Red China and the Soviet Union together comprised the beast mentioned in the apocalypse. Lindsay managed to associate many other countries and personalities with major themes in Revelation. I can offer a defense of my reading such a book: I didn't know better. Now I do, and so do many other Christians who have done even the most rudimentary Bible study. But, as the "Left Behind" series attests, folks still like the spooky "God is going to rub out the bad guys and take only we chosen Christians" way of looking at the world.
Chapter 21 mentions the New Jerusalem, which, to my way of thinking, means that the City of God has no resemblance to anything that we have formulated in our theologies and thoughts. But we still create our ideas of what it will be like to be with God, after we die, or when the world ends. As the Reverend Ike used to say, "I want apple pie in the sky when I die." Well, actually his was a prosperity gospel, so he wanted the apple pie now. Think Joel Osteen, with less greasy hair!
It is no coincidence that this passage from Revelation is offered during the season of Easter. If resurrection is about anything, it is about things turning out in ways we never expected. Easter is beyond comprehension, and so is the New Jerusalem. We should think of the New Jerusalem not as a place that we can go to when we die, but a place that comes to us. How so? As Brian Peterson phrases it, "We do not go to God, God comes to us." The Revelation to John was written to offer hope to a church under persecution, something we American Christians like to feign when someone disagrees with us, but, in reality, something that we do not experience. Salvation is found not in places, like cities, but wherever God is present. The New Jerusalem may not be a place, but, rather, an encounter with the living God through Christ.
I once spoke to a group of students who identified themselves as evangelical Christians. I asked them if they thought that salvation could have to do with this world. Only two persons out of 50 thought that salvation could relate to this life, and not just life after death. When I pressed them further and asked if Christ came for the whole world, they cautiously said yes. When I asked them if they agreed with the quote "The task of the Christian is not to save the world, but to tell the world that it has already been saved" I had a near riot on my hands. We like the idea of the new Jerusalem being a place, because that means that we can set up rules and keep some folks out of there. If the new Jerusalem has to do, instead, with the re-creation of humanity, we get uneasy, because it implies that we must do something now, rather than later, in the sky, after we die, to help bring it about. And so we wait, and read books and allow TV preachers to scare the wits out of us. It beats venturing out and meeting all kinds of people who have just one thing in common: they all belong to God, and will be residents in the new Jerusalem.

Lest We Turn Others into Sheep - John 10:22-30

Like many pastors before me, I have often used the occasion of this scripture passage appearing in the lectionary as an opportunity to once again remind people that it is not a great complement to be referred to as sheep. So, I am not going to take that tack this year. Instead, I want to look at the passage, and the whole idea of being God's sheep as a comforting thought, which is what I think the original intent of the image, and the passage was. The lectionary pairs Psalm 23 with the John passage, which is one of the better connections made by a device that sometimes mystifies me as from whence came the rationale to have selected some scripture passages that don't seem to have the slightest family relationship to other passage with which they have been paired.
Psalm 23 was the first scripture passage I ever memorized. I was asked to do so for a program at our church when I was a very young boy. It was a major production, as far as I was concerned, and, as I remember it, I got most of it right that night for the program. What touches me more about the passage in the context of that program is the memory of that church and its people. My home church was a place of great comfort to me as a child and adolescent. For that reason, the imagery of Psalm 23 always calls to mind that place and those people. The fact that the church was destroyed by fire when I was fourteen and the congregation split as a result of a rift over the decision not to rebuild the church makes the memory all that much sweeter, because the physical place is gone. Perhaps because of that wonderful nurturing faith community, I catch myself when I am tempted to turn others into sheep, not looking deeply to see their uniqueness or their joy or their hurt. Sheep tend to all look and behave alike to non-shepherds, and Psalm 23 is an assurance to us that God never views us as a herd, but as individuals, in need of loving care and pastoral respite. I can think of no greater comfort than to "lie down in green pastures" because God comforts us in whatever ways we need to be comforted, and such love and care make it difficult (or should make it difficult) for us to look past the needs of those all around us, dismissing them as a part of the herd.

The Most Misunderstood Holidays in the Christian Year

I write this on a gorgeous Good Friday morning. The campus is quiet, and even though we do not have an Easter break, this place will be rather empty in a few hours, as students retreat to spend time with their families. Later, I will lead a quiet prayer service. And then I will spend a quiet weekend with my family. I have always loved the spirit of Holy Week, and by the time I get to Easter Sunday, I do feel a sense of rejuvenation and hopefulness. However, the reason that I feel that way may differ from the reasons that many Christians would use to explain their sense of joy on Easter.
I cannot separate Good Friday from Easter, and have never been able to do that. For many, Good Friday is a downer and it is best to move on to Easter as quickly as possible. While serving my first parish, I was part of a ministerial association that sponsored an annual seven-part Good Friday service. The service was held in one church, so it did not move from church to church as some services do today. Each half-hour segment was a self-contained worship service, with hymns, prayers and homilies. I recall that one year I was the last preacher of the day, the last one to preach about the significance of the day we were living. Enter the preacher before me. He got up and chastised the congregation for being bummed on Good Friday. After all, Easter Sunday meant that Good Friday did not matter. It was "good" because the resurrection was coming. I don't recall what I said during my homily, but he made the task much more difficult, I'm sure.
I tend to look at the equation from the opposite direction: Easter makes no sense without Good Friday. In the crucifixion, God touched earth with compassion and empathy and a willingness to experience all that is common to men and women. The joy of Easter, for me, has to do with the fact that there is nothing that I must face in this life that God does not understand. Death is not the great destroyer, because God knows the pain of a loved one's death. I am a person of deep faith, but my father's death devastated me, and no amount of theologizing about it made the pain lessen in the least. But I did have this assurance from deep within that his death would not destroy me and that I did not have to bear it alone. When I die, my children will not have to bear the pain alone, either. The God of Good Friday and Easter will be there too, and they will come to understand the connection of the one day to the other.
So, may you experience a Good Friday of deep meaning and quiet assurance, and may Easter affirm for you, and for all, that resurrection has to do with the eternal presence and faithfulness of a God whose love we can never fully imagine.

Whom Are We Welcoming?

I have decided to observe Palm/Passion Sunday a bit differently this year. In years past, I have focused on the "passion" part of the observance, tying in the inherent paradox of the would-be-king with the common criminal who would be executed on the following Friday. While there is no way to separate the kingly-criminal element of Holy Week, nor should there be, it can be instructive to ask ourselves a question that needs to be asked over and over again: just who is it that we are welcoming? I ask this question in light of a report I heard on NPR today about a dust-up that is brewing in the Southern Baptist church over a new book by Brian McLaren: A New Kind of Christianity: Ten Questions That Are Transforming the Faith. McLaren has done a good deal of work looking at the so-called emergent church movement, and he has ruffled a number of evangelical feathers with his new book. His understanding of the Jesus of faith has begun to diverge from the orthodox evangelical understanding of Jesus as the necessary blood sacrifice for our atonement. McLaren sees the crucifixion more as God willingly taking on the role of the victim and identifying with the suffering. Those who disagree with McLaren decry such an understanding and despair of such a God ever providing a solid reason for entrusting one's everlasting soul to said God. The fact that McLaren hints that those who do not follow Christ are not lost seems to be the final straw for those who hold onto the traditions of an orthodox faith.
So, back to the heading on this blog today: what kind of Jesus do we welcome? Understood one way, the Palm Sunday procession exemplifies the triumphalism of a ruling king who showers favor upon those who follow and casts out those who do not believe in him. However, if one reads the whole account of that day, one discovers that Jesus was not caught up in excessive celebration and, in fact, wept that day. Perhaps he wept for all of the misunderstanding that was headed into the lives of his followers and for the city that he loved. Does he still weep for all who do not understand what it is he came to bring to earth? Does he weep for the rigid fundamentalists, the atheists, the disaffected theological liberals? Yes, I think that he does. This king who was welcomed so graciously on Sunday was executed on Friday, and little has changed in human nature regarding how quickly we will turn on God when we do not get our own way, when we perceive that God is not living up to the kind of exclusive faith that we think we should be entitled to. So, what kind of king will you be welcoming this Palm Sunday? One thing for sure: he is never the king that we think we are welcoming. And thank God that he isn't.

What Christians Do Best, or Worst.

The reader can decide, but I have come to the conclusion that the one thing that Christians do best, or the worst thing that Christians do, is to fight one another over doctrine. The issue came to mind when I was reading an article about the early in-fighting in the Eastern Church.In 449, the leaders of the Christian church met in Ephesus for debate on theological issues. According to Philip Jenkins, who teaches at Penn State, "At a critical moment, a band of monks and soldiers took control f the meeting hall, forcing the bishops to sign a blank paper on which the winning side later filled in its own favored statement.The document targeted the patriarch of Constantinople,Flavian....Yelling 'slaughter him!' a mob of monks attacked Flavian, beating him so badly that he died a few days later." Those who eventually came out on top during that meeting invalidated the whole council, referring to it as Latrocinium, which translates loosely as a Gangster Synod!
It is difficult not to read this account with a mixture of horror, and maybe even a little amusement, as one imagines a group of monkish thugs.But that slight amusement is tempered quickly when one thinks about the current state of the Christian Church. The ill-will and in-fighting has never stopped. On more than one occasion, Catholic students have asked me why there are so many Protestant denominations. I reply quickly, "Because we love to fight." I am only half-joking when I say that. My own experience as a youth was tainted by a rancorous split in my own congregation after we were refused permission to rebuild the church after a fire totally destroyed it. I have served parishes whose members had deep distrust, and even hatred, for one another. On my own campus, students siphon off attendees from my Sunday morning service so that they might attend a "true" church off-campus. What are we to think of this, and is there any solution? I don't know, and can only imagine that nothing will change until the return of Christ himself. In the meantime, I continue to be touched by something that a man who was a member of the first church that I ever served said in a Sunday school class. He was talking about a man for whom he had much dislike and to whom he could not bring himself even to say hello if they met on the street. Yet, he marveled, that when he saw that very same man in church on Sunday, in that very church that I was serving, he admitted that his feelings towards the man softened and he could even extend his hand and say "Good morning." It's not the answer to the problem of nasty Christians, but it is a start.

Sacred Space Genesis 15:1-12, 17-18

The passage from Genesis is full of images that are, at once, strange and beautiful. One should not try to write or speak about every part of the story. I, for one, will not be spending time this weekend imagining the various pieces of animal flesh surrounding Abram as fire passed between them. I just returned from a conference in North Carolina, and they have the best barbecue anyway. The part of the Genesis passage that appeals to me most is the portion where the Lord takes Abram out alone and asks him to look at the stars and to try to number them, for such will be the number of his descendants. One of my fondest memories from my youth was of a stargazing expedition which was a part of a Boy Scout weekend at out troop's cabin. Several of us were accompanied by our scout leaders to a field, with nothing but flashlights and star charts as equipment. I can still remember the silence, the almost supernatural stillness of that night. Our cabin was isolated, and the sky was pitch black, except for millions of twinkling stars. I mention this experience because it was a time in which I sensed the presence of God so keenly. I think the Genesis passage gives us an opportunity to ask ourselves the following question:"When or where do I sense God's presence in a way that is true in no other place?" Do we have places that are set apart, where we feel a sense of something supernatural so strongly that it changes us anew each time we are there? Why do we sense it? How do we explain it, if we can, in fact, do so? When we find ourselves in that place, do we seem to have a different sense about ourselves than we do when we reside in other places? Does the time spent in those special places enable us to accomplish things as a result of being there that we are not as able, or willing to do otherwise?
I believe that these questions might have been asked by Abram, because theophanies tend to cause such introspection. However, my recent trip back to a place that has been significant to me for all of my adult life had no light shows or flames in the night. Rather, it was so much like my childhood experience of stargazing: there was just an assurance of a presence of One beyond myself and others. The One who was present was simply reminding me of all that has transpired in my life thus far, and of the experiences, good and bad, that have made me the person that I am. I live my life in the midst of an academic community that bustles everyday, and students do not have much opportunity for solitude. I worry sometimes that they do not know how to handle silence, and so, do not seek it out. There is a danger, then, that they may have difficulty finding the kind of sacred space in which the presence of Another is undeniable. Perhaps the story of Abram can entice them to want to find such a place.

Another Ash Wednesday

One knows that one has lived a long time when the beginning of the Lenten season comes to mind as "another Ash Wednesday." In my first parish after divinity school, the people were quite surprised when I suggested that we have an Ash Wednesday service. It took about three years before they were ready to get on-board with the idea. Then, as now, the perception was that Ash Wednesday is something that Catholics do. Every year, at least one of the local news stations will cover the Ash Wednesday observances at local churches and will refer to it "a day day for Catholics to reflect on the Lenten season." On my own college campus, it is an effort each year to try to get some Protestants to attend the ecumenical service that we offer.
The fact is, Lent is a Christian, not a Catholic observance. The Catholic Church has been much more faithful in its observance of the season than have Protestants, though the Protestant community is catching up, slowly. Many students, Protestant and Catholic, fret about what they will "give up" for Lent. After all, it should not be something that will hurt too much, and some things are not even on the table for discussion: chocolate, coffee, beer. Others scoff at the idea of giving up something, saying that it does not mean anything to do so. Some have stated that Lent should be a time to take on something new, such as a discipline, or a service project, or a fitness regimen.
I think that whatever one decides to do to observe Lent is important, because it means that one has made a conscious decision to at least do something. Many Christians do not want to be "brought down" by having to think about the painful part of the gospel narratives. They love Christmas and Easter, but don't care much for Ash Wednesday and Good Friday.
Yes, it's another Ash Wednesday, and I will observe it as a holy day, and the beginning of a season where I have yet another opportunity to so some serious meditation on my faith and my life. Some would say that I should do that everyday, not just during a season on the church calendar. In an ideal world, that would be the standard. But I am human, fallible and prone to lapses at times. So, for me, Lent is a season to look within myself, with all of my imperfections, and to know that God is with me. So, thanks be for another Ash Wednesday.