Lenten Journey: God's Will for Me

For Reflection...

We know that all of us are called to bear fruit for the Kingdom of God.  That is God's will for all of us.  But how might I discern what fruit I am called to bear?  What is God's will for me?

In 1 Corinthians 12:4-6, Paul says, "Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone."  We're all called to bear fruit, all called according to the same Spirit, but not all gifted or called to serve or to act in the same way.

There are common fruits, "fruits of the Spirit":  love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22-23).  These offer us a framework, a rubric against which to measure our own pursuits.  If we are using our gifts, and our actions and service are yielding these fruits of the Spirit, we are surely in accord with God's will.

Still, that leaves us a wide playing field.  There are many paths that may lead to love, joy, peace, and the rest.  Which one am I called to take?

As we have pursued this Lenten journey of prayer, opening ourselves to be drawn ever more deeply into the heart of God, we may find that we are growing in awareness of our own hearts, where God dwells.  As good as it is in and of itself for us to be in relationship with God -- it is, after all, what we are made for -- there is a public dimension to that relationship.  Remember Isaiah 49:6?  We are called to be a light to the nations.

Our light -- which is another way of talking about the fruit we produce -- is meant not to illuminate our minds only, but to be a beacon to the world, leading others into the healing, reconciling, saving Kingdom of God.

As we deepen our walk with God, we are ever being transformed into Christ (2 Corinthians 3:18), who is the "image of the invisible God" (Colossians 1:15).  It is that transformation, the cultivation of the soil from which we grow, that creates the conditions that allow us to be fruitful.

For Entering In...

- Spend a few moments in silence becoming present to yourself and to God.

- Reflect on these questions:

• There is no gift that God gives that is wasted; all of our gifts are needed (see 1 Corinthians 12:14-25). Think about what you do, what you've done, what you love to do.  What are the gifts that you have been given?  What are you good at?  What about you do others affirm?

• Back when we were looking at sin, we asked this question:  "If it is true that all of creation is broken by sin, what do you see as the most egregious manifestations of that brokenness?  In what circumstances does your heart most cry out for God to act in healing and saving ways?"  If you haven't yet answered this question, answer it now.

• Theologian Frederick Buechner said, "The place God calls you to is where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet."  Spend some time reflecting on your gifts together with the broken places your heart most yearns to see healed.  What might God be saying to you about your personal call?

• God's will for me is not only about the broad contours of my vocation.  It can be about how I am living my life day to day.  As you listen to God in the stillness, is there something about your daily life, where you are and what you are doing today, that is called to your attention?  What do you know?  What do you wonder about what God might be saying to you?

- We are growing to see our time apart, our quiet time with God, not as a discreet time of prayer, but as a reminder that all our life is prayer.  Rather than ending your prayer time, can you move out of your quiet reflection carrying with you into the rest of your day the knowledge that you are deeply connected to God in your soul in all that you do?

Lenten Journey: Third Sunday - God's Will

Scripture Readings of the Day

Exodus 3:1-8a, 13-15

Psalm 103

1 Corinthians 10:1-6, 10-12

Luke 13:1-9

For Reflection...

During this third week in Lent, we will arrive at the half-way point of the forty day journey from Ash Wednesday to the Passion of the Lord and Holy Week.  It's time to notice where we have come to along the Lenten road.

We began with the three great themes of Lent, fasting, almsgiving, and prayer.  Lent is a dessert season, and its practices of self-denial are all meant to call us into deeper relationship with the God who, in Jesus, we can meet face to face.

Once we have encountered this God, what then?  Encounter is not synonymous with going to church or following the rules.  It is a living relationship.  God takes the initiative in our very creation.  We respond by doing what we're doing now, turning our faces toward God.

But if our relationship is to grow, we must wonder what is next for us.  God wants us to do more than show up.  We are invited to participate in the work of redemption, that is, in the transformation of the world-broken-by-sin into the Kingdom of God.

If we have come to believe that we have met the real God, we might well wonder what our Creator desires of us. What is God's will?  How do we recognize it?  How do we begin to respond?


For Entering In...

- Spend a few moments in silence becoming present to yourself and to the God who dwells within you.

- Reflect on these questions:

• Have you chosen something from which to fast this Lent?  If so, how has that been for you?  Rather than thinking about yourself as having been "good" or "bad," notice whether and when it has been easy or difficult.  What have you been aware of as you fast?  What have you learned?  If you have not been fasting, consider what you might be called to abstain from and why you may be resisting.

• Have you given alms, that is, acted in mercy for someone in need?  Have you been vulnerable enough to receive help in your own need?  Remember that when we act in charity, whether as one who gives or one who humbly receives, we see the face of Christ in another -- and she sees the face of Christ in us.

• How is your prayer life?  Have you adopted or renewed a daily practice of time set apart to be present to God?  Do you still feel concerned about what or where or when or how you pray?  What if every time you became conscious of the presence of God, that was your prayer?  Could you use that as a place from which to grow?

• Have you yet chosen a word to "fasten to your heart."  Continue to carry your word with you, letting it speak in your heart.

• Think back to where you felt you were in relationship to God on Ash Wednesday.  Notice where you are now.  Has anything changed?  Write about what comes up for you.

- As you finish this quiet time, rejoice in the presence of the God who made you just as you are and who longs to have you draw near.

Lenten Journey: Reflecting God's Glory

Jesus took Peter, John, and James and went up the mountain to pray.  While he was praying his face changed in appearance and his clothing became dazzling white.  And behold, two men were conversing with him, Moses and Elijah, who appeared in glory and spoke of his exodus that he was going to accomplish in Jerusalem.   Peter and his companions had been overcome by sleep, but becoming fully awake, they saw his glory and the two men standing with him.  As they were about to part from him, Peter said to Jesus, "Master, it is good that we are here; let us make three tents, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah."  But he did not know what he was saying.  While he was still speaking, a cloud came and cast a shadow over them, and they became frightened when they entered the cloud.  Then from the cloud came a voice that said, "This is my chosen Son; listen to him."  After the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone.  They fell silent and did not at that time tell anyone what they had seen.

- Luke 9:28b-36 

For Reflection...

"Jesus took Peter, John, and James and went up the mountain to pray. While he was praying..."

Do we notice that this story which we refer to as the transfiguration of Jesus takes place while Jesus was praying?  We've spent some time already this Lent reflecting on prayer and even more time practicing  prayer.  We have talked together about prayer as the act of becoming present to the God who, even now, is waiting for us to notice that God is always present to us.  We have considered the throat-parched cry of the desert prayer; we'll be there, in the desert with Jesus again, before Easter arrives.

But this week we are on the mountaintop.  We, with Peter and James and John, are invited to watch and learn from Jesus who has climbed to the heights to pray.

It is in the midst of this mountaintop prayer that Jesus, like Moses (Exodus 34:29ff), radiates the light of God's presence.  Like Moses in the tent of meeting (Exodus 33:11), Jesus approaches God face to face (cf. Hebrews 9:24), and Jesus invites his disciples -- us -- to do the same.

There is something about being in the presence of God that shows in my face.  I look different, even if the difference fades.  There is a glory in me that, when it encounters the glory of God, shines out of me like a light.  I become like a lamp in the darkness, a city on a hill (Matthew 5:14).

The dark world needs my light.  When I am shining, I become a sign to the nations, promised in Isaiah (49:6).  I become a part of the solution that God always intended to insure through Israel's Messiah.  I am equipped as part of the body of Christ (1 Corinthians 12) to participate in the work of reconciling the broken world -- healing, loving, forgiving.

It is no accident that Jesus transfigured appears clothed in "dazzling white," and we, at our baptism, are likewise adorned.  We put on the promise of transfiguration.  As Paul says in 2 Corinthians 3:18:

And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit.

We are the mirror image of the glorious face of God.  We are called with Christ to be the image of the invisible God (Colossians 1:15).  Do we believe it?  Do we believe that when the light shines from our faces, it is God that people see?

For Entering In...

- Spend a few moments becoming present to yourself.  If your mind is preoccupied, allow the thoughts to come and to go.  Notice what you feel in your body, in your heart.

- Invite God to be present with you.

- Reflect on these questions:

• What have been mountaintop experiences in your life?  What are the times when you have glowed with joy or wonder or peace or delight?

• Choose one or more of your mountaintop experiences.  Ask yourself, when you were there, on the mountaintop, where was God?

• Sometimes it can be difficult for me to see my own light.  Can you think of a time when you saw someone else's face aglow with the glory of God?  Who was it?  What were the circumstances?  How did it make you feel?

• How have others been touched by your light?  Has there been a time when you knew you were shining God's light into the world?  What was that experience like for you?  Was there something about that experience and your role in it that stands out for you?

• Make a list of the ways in which God has gifted you.  What are the talents that you bring to the world?  Can you give humble thanks to God for inviting you into God's healing work?

- As you finish this quiet time, take a moment to connect with your soul and enjoy the goodness that God has created in you.

Lenten Journey: Plan A

For Reflection...

All too often I feel like our Christian theology sets up the Jesus story as God's "Plan B."  That version of the story goes something like this:  God created everything, including people.  God gave people free will.  God wanted us to be in right relationship with Him, but we abused our free will and destroyed that relationship.  Uh, oh!  God's plan was ruined!  God needed to start all over with a new idea, a "Plan B."  Plan B, then, is Jesus on the cross, often understood as the sacrifice to placate a justly angry God.

The problem with this story is evident from the first page.  How could an all-knowing God not have seen sin coming?  Surely, surely we must assume that in the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth, God knew how the story of humans and our free will to be -- or not be -- in relationship with God would unfold.

In this version of the story, Jesus is Plan A.

The key to unraveling Plan A is to see the underlying pattern of election in God's Master Plan.  In the Plan A version, God recognized that we humans generally would fail in our God-given mission to steward creation.  So God's plan included calling a little group of humans, a remnant of the whole bunch of us, to carry on with the Plan.  That remnant is called the nation of Israel.  God calls Abram, whom he renames Abraham (Genesis 12), and from his seed and stock, God raises up a nation who will do what all of humanity was meant to do -- stand in the gap between God and the rest of creation.

Notice, God's plan was not for Israel just to be God's chosen people, but for Israel to be God's chosen so that they could intercede between God and the rest of humanity and the rest of creation (see, importantly, Isaiah 49:6).  Israel's election is for a purpose, to fulfill God's original role for all of humanity.  But just like the rest of humanity, Israel itself decides to go its own way (see, for example, the indictments contained in every prophetic book in the Old Testament).  Once again God's purpose goes unfulfilled.

Or so it seems.  God has a final move.

Out of the remnant Israel, God will raise up one faithful Israelite, that is, one human, a new Adam (1 Corinthians 15:45), to do what humans were meant to do all along -- to bridge the gap, to intercede between God and humans.  This One, the final remnant of all of humanity, will be anointed like a king to stand at the head of the nation and of the human race.  He will be a king who functions like a priest; by definition, a priest stands in the space between Man and the gods and offers some sacrifice from the earth back to heaven, thus restoring any discord in the relationship between them.

Thus do we come to Jesus.

For Entering In...

- Spend a few moments in the quiet becoming present to yourself.  Notice how it feels to be in your body to be here, now.

- Invite God to be present with you.  Notice what it feels like to be in God's presence.

- Theology is the study of God.  Every one of us, when we consider God at all, is engaged in doing theology.  Our theology, whether we're atheists or theists, Buddhists or Christians, monotheists or pantheists, matters.  It defines how we think about God, ourselves, and the world.  With that in mind, reflect on these questions:

• How have you come to your personal theology, your understanding of who God is and what God has done and/or is doing in the world?

• Are you acquainted with the stories of Israel in the Old Testament?  If not, consider reading through one or more books, beginning with Genesis (skipping over the genealogies, if you prefer) and Exodus and the books of 1 and 2 Samuel.  These will give you a flavor for some of the more engaging pre-historical and historical narratives.  Choose a translation of the Bible that resonates for you.*

• The Bible is often called the story of the history of salvation.  Having taken some time to reflect on temptation and our personal and collective sin, what are your thoughts about our need for salvation?  How have you come to understand the problem of sin for you personally or for the world?  Or do you see it as a problem?

- It has been a week since we began this Lenten journey together.  As you consider the time you have spent in prayer, reflection, and writing:

• Have you been able to set aside some daily quiet time for yourself?  If so, how has that been for you?  If not, why not?

• Is there anything new you have learned about yourself?  About God?

*If you would like more suggestions about where to start in reading from the Bible, e-mail me:  chris@livingthetruthinlove.org.

Lenten Journey: Temptation

Filled with the Holy Spirit, Jesus returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the desert for forty days, to be tempted by the devil.  He ate nothing during those days, and when they were over he was hungry.  The devil said to him, "If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become bread."  Jesus answered him, "It is written, One does not live on bread alone."  Then he took him up and showed him all the kingdoms of the world in a single instant.  The devil said to him, "I shall give to you all this power and glory; for it has been handed over to me, and I may give it to whomever I wish.  All this will be yours, if you worship me."  Jesus said to him in reply, "It is written:  You shall worship the Lord, your God, and him alone shall you serve."  Then he led him to Jerusalem, made him stand on the parapet of the temple, and said to him, "If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written:  He will command his angels concerning you, to guard you, and:  With their hands they will support you lest you dash your foot against a stone."  Jesus said to him in reply, "It also says, You shall not put the Lord, your God, to the test."  When the devil had finished every temptation, he departed from him for a time.

- Luke 4:1-13

For Reflection...

If Jesus provides the pattern for the spiritual journey of the Christian, it should come as no surprise to us that as soon as God declares to us that we are his beloved (Luke 3:22), we are driven into the desert.

The desert is the testing ground.  From our election as God's chosen, we must pass through the rigors of the desert to be equipped to live out our mission.

The testing we endure is "common to everyone" (1 Corinthians 10:13), and so to Jesus as to us.  We may think of the temptations we face in the flesh as unique; it is true that no two of us experience temptation in quite the same way.  To one, the Siren's call may be the lure of money.  To another, it might be sex.  Envy, avarice, gluttony, sloth -- every temptation has its adherents.  But the temptations Jesus faces in the desert embody them all.  

Stones into bread.  Power and glory.  Vanity projects.  It's all here.  We have different strategies for getting them, but in the end, what we want is the material security, strength, and recognition that the kingdom of this world rewards. In a ploy built on cunning and deceit, the father of lies tells us that the way to affirm our status as the children of God is to claim these worldly prizes. The devil in the desert tells us that they are his to give -- if only we will worship him.  And we are tempted.

Are we not?  Which of us has not longed for a bigger house, a nicer car, a softer bed?  Which has not imagined controlling the world -- or at least our little corner of it?  Have we not all wanted to be the object of  the ministrations of angels?  Would not that bounty signify our value in the eyes of God?

Such is the gospel of prosperity, but not that of Jesus Christ.  No.  He accepts hunger and thirst, weakness, and obscurity as the hallmarks of abiding in God's will.  He endures the desert.  He invites us to do the same, knowing that he has gone before us, goes ahead of us, carries us.

For Entering In...

- Spend a few moments in the quiet becoming present to yourself.  Notice how it feels to be in your body to be here, now.

- Invite God to be present with you.  Notice what it feels like to be in God's presence.

- Reflect on these questions:

• In what ways have you felt tested in your life, particularly in your life of faith?

• In what way are you tempted by material security?  How much money would be enough?  What material goods do you covet?  For what do you hunger?

• When do you notice your desire for power or control?  Under what circumstances?  What have you done to assert your power over others?

• What kind of recognition have you sought?  Who do you want to notice you?  To hold you in high regard?  To like you or appreciate you?

• Which seems most challenging to you:  The call to hunger, to weakness, or to obscurity?  Why?  

- When you have answered these questions in your thoughts or in writing, pause and again become present to yourself and to God.  What do you notice?

Lenten Journey: Alms - Keeping Secrets from Ourselves

"When you give alms, do not blow a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets to win the praise of others.  Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward.  But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right is doing, so that your almsgiving may be secret.  And your Father who sees in secret will repay you." - Matthew 6:2-3

"Any material favor done to assist the needy, and prompted by charity, is almsgiving." (quoted from the Catholic Encyclopedia)

For reflection...

Alms is such a funny word, isn't it?  I don't think I've ever used it in a sentence.  When I hear it, I think of giving money.  I might use language like giving to charity or making a donation or even tithing, but I would never say I'm giving alms.  Even writing it makes me feel like I've stepped into a Charles Dickens story.

But if I'm to believe the definition I found, it's about more than money.  What does it mean, I wonder, as I unpack "material help" for "the needy," prompted by charity"?

Material help seems easy enough.  That includes money, right?  And stuff.  Canned goods or new socks or toothpaste.  For the needy.

Here I have to pause.  Needy.  I'm needy sometimes, and I have plenty of food and clothing and toiletries. So what else might it mean to be needy?  For me, I think of myself as needy when I'm over-stressed and over-planned and overwhelmed and I feel under-equipped, under-prepared, and misunderstood.  I say feel because, what I know from my less needy moments, is that I do have everything I need, if...

If what?  If I remember.  If I ask.  If I stop and breathe and pray and breathe some more.  But I forget, and I don't ask and I hold my breath and try to do it on my own and the next thing you know I feel like I'm suffocating.

The problem is, I am a lot more comfortable being the almsgiver than being the needy.

Which brings us to charity.  "Prompted by charity," says our definition.  Charity is another one of those words, like alms.  It's positively Dickensian, until you look at its roots.

Charity started out as an old Latin word, caritas, which was used in the Latin Bible to translate the Greek word that John and Paul and the other New Testament authors used:  agape.  We're probably familiar with it  in 1 Corinthians 13 and in John 3:16, but what does it mean?

C.S. Lewis wrote a whole book on the different ways the Greeks had of expressing the concept of love.  The nutshell of agape love is that it is what we might call unconditional or sacrificial love, that is, the sort of love that God has for us.

Which is the long way round, but brings us back to what it means for us to be "prompted by charity," or agape.  I have to know my own neediness before I can really meet you in yours with agape.  If I start anywhere else, I'm doing you a favor, because I can.  Because I have more.  Because I see myself in some sense as richer or more privileged or better.  And that's not love.

Love is mutual.  It requires that you and I meet in our shared need.  We come together in a common recognition of our brokenness and helplessness apart from something that is outside of us both -- that is, God.

If I'm going to give someone else a handout or a hand up, I have to start with my hands empty.  It's a mystery, even to me, how I can give from my own nothingness.  It's not mine to give, because I don't have it to give.  It can only be given through me, through my awareness of my own want.

My right hand, doing the giving, can only keep the secret from her partner, the left, when the right doesn't know herself how she's doing it.

For entering in...

- Find a quiet place to be.  Spend a few moments becoming present to yourself.  Notice how it feels to be in your body, in this place, at this time.

- Even if you're not sure there's anyone listening, invite God to be present with you.

- Reflect on these questions:

• Do you give to charity?  Do you tithe?  Why do you do it?  How have these practices figured into your spiritual life, if at all?

• Have you ever been in want for material goods?  Under what circumstances?  Were you able to receive help from others?  How did that feel?

• Do you ever feel emotionally or spiritually needy?  When or under what circumstances?  How do you react?  What do you feel like you need in those moments?

• Write your own definition of love.  In particular, how would you describe the sort of love you think God has for you?  Is this what you want from God?  If not, rewrite your description to reflect the sort of love you want from God.  Include as much detail as you can.  

• Look back on what you wrote about the ideal love you wish for from God.  Can you believe that God is offering you that sort of love, right now?  What if it were true?  How would your life be different?  How could you allow that love to pass through you and into the world?

- When you have answered these questions in your thoughts or in writing, pause and again become present to yourself and to God.  What do you notice?

Mirror, Mirror

Did you do it?  Did you look at yourself in the mirror yesterday?  If you did, what did you see?  If not, why not?  (And if you have no idea what I'm talking about, click here and read all the way to the end).

I see myself in the mirror all the time, every day.  I see myself when I get up, when I get dressed, while I'm applying make-up or brushing my teeth or fixing my hair.  I can do a quick check every time I enter a bathroom or my bedroom.  I see myself in the door of the microwave and the rear-view mirror of my car.

Mirrors haven't always been at hand.  For a long time, they didn't exist.  Then they were a luxury.  There was a time when a person could only see her reflection in water.  Otherwise, I wouldn't know what my own face looked like.  Someone could describe my face to me, I guess.  Later, someone could paint my portrait.

Maybe I would realize that I must look like my other family members.  Surely people have always spoken of having your mother's eyes or your father's nose.


Now I don't have too go out of my way to look at myself.  I know what I look like.  I'm familiar to me.  I've seen some version of me every day that I can recall.  Sure, the girl in the mirror used to be younger, but I've watched her, day by day, and I know her.  At least I think I do.

Even while I can scarcely move around my house without me staring back at me, what I see in the mirror is an illusion, isn't it?  It's my "mirror image."  I'm backwards.  When I see me I see the opposite of what you see when you look at me.  I cannot gaze squarely upon my own face.

Most of the time, we seek out the familiar.  It's comfortable, like my own face in the mirror. I probably visit that grocery store four times a week, and I always go to the same store, because I know my way around.  I can find things I need in a flash.  It's familiar.  Now they're renovating the store.  Every single time I go in, things are somewhere new.  The shampoo is where the yogurt used to be.  The ice cream is where I used to find the office supplies.  Don't even get me started on the cream cheese, which I couldn't find for three weeks.

I hate going to the grocery store these days.  Everything is different and unfamiliar.  I feel lost.  I cling to the things that I recognize, the checkers, for instance.  They're the same.  I find myself striking up conversations with them even more than usual.  "Wow," I'll say.  "How about all this mess!  It must be driving you crazy.  Can you even find anything?"  But it's me who's feeling crazy.  I'm the one who can't find anything.

What I want is for the checker to be a mirror for me.  I want to see, in him, in her, my own uncertainty and sense of dislocation.

I suspect that the truest mirrors are not the shiny ones.  If I want to see what I really look like, who I really am, I need to look in someone else's eyes.  I want you to be something like me, so I can see myself outside of me.  Maybe, from the inside, I feel unsure.  I want reassurance.  I feel confused.  I want clarity.  I feel alone.  I want to connect.

If I can't find the reassurance and clarity and connection in my own heart, maybe I can see it reflected through your eyes, in your heart.  Maybe when we see each other face to face, I'll see you, but I'll also see the truer version of myself, the one that's not backward.

"For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then we will see face to face" (1 Corinthians 13:12a), says Paul.  Maybe today I can't look in the mirror and see myself as lovable and beloved (but if you haven't tried, I urge you to do so).  All hope is not lost, even still.  Look in the eyes of someone else -- a friend, a child, a beloved pet.  Let them be your mirror.  What do you see?  And what are you reflecting back to the them?

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry!

And Nehemiah, who was the governor, and Ezra the priest and scribe, and the Levites who taught the people said to all the people, "This day is holy to the Lord your God; do not mourn or weep."  For all the people wept when they heard the words of the law.  Then he said to them, "Go your way, eat the fat and drink sweet wine and send portions of them to those for whom nothing is prepared, for this day is holy to our Lord; and do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength."  So the Levites stilled all the people, saying, "Be quiet, for this day is holy; do not be grieved."  And all the people went their way to eat and drink and to send portions and to make great rejoicing, because they had understood the words that were declared to them.  - Nehemiah 8:9-12

Sometime in the second half of the second century before the birth of Jesus, the Jewish people were permitted by their Persian overlords to return to Jerusalem.  The Persians had conquered the Babylonians, who had sent the Jews into exile.  As a result of the Babylonian seizure and occupation of Jerusalem, the temple was destroyed and the city walls knocked down.  Under the Persian king and his governor, Nehemiah, the people were permitted to restore the structures and the worship they housed.

In the 8th chapter of the Book of Nehemiah, the people are gathered, "the men, women, and those children old enough to understand" (v. 2, New American Bible, Revised Edition).  The Priest-scribe Ezra reads from the book of the law, and the people weep.

They've been away for a long time, exiles in a foreign land.  Many of them, the children in particular, may have never before heard God's law (which includes the books of Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy -- along with their narrative stories, in addition to the Ten Commandments and other legal prescriptions).  It is their history, their legacy, their founding documents.  It would be something like Americans exiled to a foreign land regathered in Washington, D.C., to hear proclaimed the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution.

That comparison, however, fails to do justice to the import of this gathering.  The Jewish people are a nation not only tied to a parcel of land and a set of beliefs, but to a particular God who has called them and set them apart from all other peoples and nations and whose hand appeared to have been set against them.  Remember, this is a time when every nation had its gods, and success in war seemed to ratify the power of that nation's deities.  Israel was unusual, bordering on unique, in its worship of a single God -- a God who was, over time, not only seen as the top God, but the only God.

For Israel, that meant that no misfortune that befell them could be attributed to the superiority or favor of another god over his or her people.  It could only mean that Israel's God, the one and only, wanted to punish them.  The words of Israel's prophets are filled with invective against Israel's failure to do the one essential thing that God required -- remain faithful to their covenant relationship with God and God alone, abiding by the law and eschewing the worship of any other so-called god.  The exile in Babylon was seen as the ultimate  expression of God's displeasure with Israel.

Now the people have been returned to the land God promised to them.  Do they not hear, in the midst of this grand assembly, Ezra reading the story of this promise?  Are they stirred because they hear God's word to Abraham and to Issac, to Jacob and Joseph and Moses?  The promise is made to those forefathers and mothers, and, consequently, to the people there gathered.  Their very presence in Jerusalem is a sign that God has not forsaken them, but desires to renew his covenant with them.

Do they weep with regret for what has come before?  With relief?

Ezra and the Levites insist they cease to weep and commence rejoicing.  Prepare the feast!  Leave no one out!  This day that the Lord has made holy calls for a joyful celebration.

Many of us gather on Sunday to hear the proclamation of the promise.  We do so, because it is our Sabbath  the holy day, set apart for the Lord.  We gather from our own exile.  We can call our separation from the promised land sin, but it has many names.  It is the alienation I feel from a friend who I have hurt by provoking a careless misunderstanding.  It is the guilt I feel over choices I knew were wrong, but which felt easier in the moment than what I knew was right.  It is the sinking feeling in my heart that I'm a disappointment to my parents or my spouse or my kids or my God.  It is the anger and resentment over hurts unhealed.  It is the ways in which I immerse myself in the temptations of the world -- possessions, power, glory.

I come to church from Babylon.

What is the word I hear proclaimed?  Here's what Jesus says to us out of Luke's gospel today:

"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.  He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor." - Luke 4:18-19

I have heard any number of sermons calling me to go out and do likewise -- to proclaim the good news to the poor, release to the oppressed, and the like.  That is, of course, right; we are the body of Christ, called to do as he did.  But I cannot proclaim what I have not heard and taken into my own soul.

I am the poor who need to hear this good news.  I am the captive that needs to be released, the blind one who needs to have my eyes opened, the oppressed who needs to be set free.  I need to know that this is the year of the Lord's favor.  This is the day for rejoicing.

Do we leave church rejoicing?  Do we go forth to feast and share and celebrate?  Do we know that we are called, today, to live in a holy city restored?  That the temple has been rebuilt, and his name is Jesus, the Risen Christ?  That, as a member of his body (1 Corinthians 12), I too am rebuilt, restored, reborn, raised from death to life?

Do you understand the words that are declared to you?  How will you go forth eating, drinking, and rejoicing?

A A A

Yesterday we talked about change, about its coming, bidden or unbidden, from the inside or the outside, and about how we are left to respond with resistance or welcome.

The sort of change that arises from within might better be called transformation -- that is, a crossing (trans-) from one way of being to something new.  It's a truism in the world of personal growth that whatever pain within us is not transformed, we are bound to transmit.  We'll leave it behind in the world when we die, in our children or our other loved ones.  In God-language, it is the wood and the straw that eventually will be burned away, rather than becoming the fine and refined precious metal God uses to build his kingdom (1 Corinthians 3:12-15).

It's one thing to say that I am willing to be transformed, but what do I do?  Here's what I know from experience:  I can't wish it so.  I can do all the wanting and hoping -- and praying -- in the world, and I often keep on being the same old me, living in and transmitting the same old pain.  I might wish away the judgments that rattle on in my head or the behaviors that keep me stuck, but I find myself still listening, still doing what I say I don't want to do (see Romans 7:15).

What's more, my first reaction, I just need to try harder, is another way of keeping me stuck.  Here's how I think it works, by way of a metaphor:  At our science museum, there is a spot where you can pretend to cross a raging river on a little bridge.  The trick is in not looking down.  My temptation is to look at the bridge and watch where my feet are treading, but then I see the water below -- and I fall.

You probably know another version of this story.  It's about a Jewish fisherman on a wild sea at night, trying to follow his rabbi by walking on the water.  You know when Peter falters?  When he notices the wind (Matthew 14:28ff).

Here's what it means:   My eyes lead my whole body.  It's a scientific truth, like the experiment at the museum, and it's a spiritual truth too.  Listen to what Jesus says in Matthew 6, vv 22-23:

The eye is the lamp of the body.  So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light; but if your eye is unhealthy, your whole body will be full of darkness.  If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!

I've got to look to the light to be filled with the light.

When I'm trying harder, I'm looking at the darkness, so I can fix it.  But I can't see.  It's dark.

So the first thing is to let the light in, but how?  A wise friend of mine recently reminded me of the three A's, which are, in my experience, the singular path to allowing my own transformation.  They are:

1. Awareness - Now that the light has come in, what do I see?  I don't have to do anything about it, just see if for what it is -- see me, you, my situation, the world, as it is, not as I wish it were.
2. Acceptance - I may not like what I see, but can I acknowledge that it is what it is?  I can ask myself, what if this were as good as it's ever going to get?  Then what?
3. Action - Only now, that the light is shining and my eyes are seeing, am I equipped to do anything at all.    And there's still a question:  Not only, what action might I take, but should I take any action at all?

The rest is up to God.  

Safety in Numbers

"[Our social safety programs] do not make us a nation of takers. They free us to take the risks that make this country great." - President Obama in his Second Inaugural Address

Life is risky.  All kinds of things can go wrong.

I'm a textbook oldest child, so I work over time in prevention.  I'm Responsible.  I eat my vegetables.  I stay out of debt.  I floss.

I like to think that I can head off every bad thing, if I just do everything Right.

I can't.

I know, because I know a lot of really good people, people who want to do it all right, to whom bad things have happened.  Abuse.  Accidents.  Adultery.  We could make our way through the alphabet:  Betrayal.  Cancer.  Deaths.  I know, because my own mother died of cancer when she was 53.

We can do all the right things, and still end up on the receiving end of troubles.

I know that's true, and sometimes I react accordingly.  Forget it, I say.  What's the use?  Why not eat, drink, and be merry?  Why not lock the doors, crawl under the covers, and spend the day watching T.V.?

I don't always feel safe.


Which brings us back to the president.  We might differ in our politics and how -- or whether -- we think the government ought to provide for retirement or medical security, but I think the president is on to something when he talks about safety nets and risk.

They say mother eagles, when their babies are learning to fly, fly under them, to catch them if they fall.  We think nothing less of circus performers who execute their dazzling twists and turns on the high wire or trapeze over a wide-slung net.  When we first learn to drive we practice with an instructor who has access to a brake from her seat on the passenger side.

That's not to say there's not risk:  The baby eagle is pushed out of the nest.  The circus acrobat climbs the pole and swings through the air.  The teen driver buckles up and takes the wheel.  But the risk is tempered.

So it is with us.  If I'm going to grow into the Self I am created to be and live out my mission in God's kingdom, I need to take some risks.  I also need to know I'm safe enough to make mistakes, to fail.  For me, that happens in community.  I have family and friends who are ready to catch me, or even grab the wheel if I look like I'm running off the road.  I sometimes need those same people to give me a push up the pole or out of the nest.

Sometimes we think of courage as not-being-afraid, but that's not true.  The virtue of courage is acting in the face of fear.  Standing up to the challenges of this life takes courage, whether it's facing my personal trials or demons -- unemployment or illness or addiction or just getting out of bed some mornings -- or the devils of the wider world.

Even Martin Luther King, Jr., whose courageous work we remember today, did not risk confrontation with injustice alone.  He did so as a community of people, black and white, men and women, young and old, who stood, literally, arm in arm, forming a human barrier against encroaching evil.

It is God's own story that invites us to recognize that we are made to act in community.  God first calls the nation of Israel and then the family of disciples of Jesus (who we call the Church).  God invites us into the web of support that will bring about God's kingdom.  As Paul exhorts us in 1 Corinthians 12:26, "If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honored, all rejoice together with it."

I don't know what that means about funding Social Security or Medicaid, but I know it means that, one way or another, we need to take care of each other.

I Can No Longer Afford My Ego

For the past several years I have increasingly become an Environmentally Conscious Consumer.  I joined a CSA.  I looked for the "Certified Organic" label at the supermarket.  I bought eggs from happy chickens and beef from cows who ate nothing but grass.

As you know if you are following the continuing saga of how my budget stubbornly refuses to balance and my various rich girl problems, our new financial planner is demanding we adopt an austerity program -- by which I mean he has invited us to add up our income and our expenses and has suggested that we might want the former to exceed the latter.  The nerve.

We've always aspired to live by our values.  We've always fallen short.  But in this small way, I felt like we were making progress.  My husband has always had strong feelings about protecting the environment.  I worry about the human costs of industrialized food production.  So together we could say, "Damn the pesticides!  Protect the farm worker!  Support the small family farm and the local economy!  Eat closer to the earth!"

Problem is, it's expensive.  Organic milk costs twice as much as the cheap stuff, eggs from pastured chickens three times as much.  CSA (community supported agriculture) shares come with more kale and kohlrabi than my family is willing to eat, so there's waste.  We eat a lot of vegetarian meals, but I'm not willing to endure the domestic revolt I'd face if I cut out meat altogether.

I believe there's a lot of good to buying local and organic, and I will continue to do so as much as I possibly can, but, to be honest there's more that's bothering me than loading up my shopping cart with hormone-laden dairy.  I was starting to see myself as the Organic Shopper.

It's remarkable how many ways my ego can find to inflate itself with an Identity.  Organic Shopper.  Home Schooler.  Mother of Three.  Wife of Almost Twenty Years.  Good Citizen.  Anything that allows me to feel Important or, let's be honest, Better Than Somebody Else.

That's not who I want to be.  In my more grounded and grace-filled moments I can notice that the identity that matters is my identity in Christ:  I'm a new creation (2 Corinthians 5:17), a temple of the Holy Spirit (1 Corinthians 6:19), a child of the light and the day (1 Thessalonians 5:5), a branch of the vine (John 15:5), and an heir of God (Romans 8:17).

When I get attached my image, whether I maintain it by what I can buy or what I wear or do or my relationships, I am building on sand (Matthew 7:26ff).  All of that is going to pass away.

And what will be left of me?  Not my money, that's for sure.  It's good to want to protect farm workers or care for the environment.  We may need to find some new ways to do that, to put our time or talent where our treasure may not reach in this season.  Money's been able to buy me a sense of self-satisfaction, but the cost is too high.

Rich Girl Problems

"The world is too much with us; late and soon

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers" 

- William Wordsworth

As an English major I read a lot of poetry, most of which I don't remember, but these lines from the Wordsworth sonnet run frequently through my thoughts.  Today was one of those days.

After writing yesterday about how making ends meet feels like a more daunting task than usual right now, I spent today paying dental bills (and getting the "good faith estimate" for the extraction of four teenage wisdom teeth times two), confronting the expiration of the Social Security tax cut (Who knew?), and wondering what became of the sixty odd dollars in cash I lost track of in the past month.

Alongside my personal financial angst, I got word that our CSA ("Community Supported Agriculture" for the uninitiated) farm, the place that taught us to love (okay, appreciate) kale and the wholesomeness of eggs from pastured hens, has filed for bankruptcy.

"Mom," said my teenage daughter, "does your tax bill make you think you should have voted differently?"

No.

I will confess to a new-found level of awareness, and attendant horror, at the bite Uncle Sam is taking from my husband's take-home pay.  I will further suggest that what the federal government needs to tidy up its own financial house is to employ some mom who is accustomed to juggling the costs of organic food, choir fees, piano lessons, a mortgage, and fuel for the mini-van.  (I see that I am qualified, but I'm sure the job wouldn't pay enough to compensate for the aggravation.)

I know very well that my woes are "rich girl problems."  I have never -- nor, God-willing, will I ever -- worry about feeding my children, keeping a roof over their heads, or accessing medical care if they become injured or ill.  And I am, truly, grateful.

But today I feel tired.  I'm tired of the world as it is.  It's too much work.  It lays waste our powers.

I know a fair number of Christians who, along with their counterparts on the KLOVE hit list, talk in heartfelt and well-meaning ways about how this world is "not our home."  They imagine, if I understand them correctly, that Christianity is a great escape plan from this wearying place, a one-way pass to a place called "heaven."  That's not how John puts it in his Revelation.  In the first verse of chapter 21, he says,

"Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more..."

New heaven and new earth.  Not, allow me to emphasize, "We're blowing this popsicle stand called 'earth,' and moving our operation to heaven."  No.  John continues, in verse 5:

"And the one who was seated on the throne said, 'See, I am making all things new.' Also he said, 'Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true.'”

All things new.  New heaven and new earth.  Here's what else is trustworthy and true:

"Now if anyone builds on the foundation [that is, Jesus Christ; see v. 12] with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay, straw— the work of each builder will become visible, for the Day will disclose it, because it will be revealed with fire, and the fire will test what sort of work each has done. If what has been built on the foundation survives, the builder will receive a reward. If the work is burned up, the builder will suffer loss; the builder will be saved, but only as through fire." (1 Corinthians 3:12-15)

When the day comes, the day when God finally -- finally -- makes all things new, we'll see what has already been made new.  There are things that we're doing and building, here and now, that constitute the first fruits of the new earth.  We're not leaving it all behind.  We're taking some of it -- the good stuff -- along with us.

There are things I'll be glad to leave, and not just the tax bill.  I'll be relieved to be done with the violence that tempts my sons and the pressure to perform that tempts my daughter and the pride that tempts me.  I won't miss the endless tasks and worries, the getting and spending, the wood and hay and straw.

But let's not wish it all away.  What about the gold and silver and precious stones that are all around us?  What about the good jokes and the chocolate cake and the warm blankets and the stories that touch our hearts and the pillow talk and the hope and the love?

It ever bears repeating:

"So faith, hope, love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love." (1 Corinthians 13:13)

And that is trustworthy and true.