There will be Signs

 

Jesus said, “There will be signs…”

Chrissie Hynde, the musical genius leader of The Pretenders (and graduate of my high school), wrote and recorded a haunting song for the group’s 2002 album Loose Screws.  The lyrics begin…

If I’d known then
if only I had known

what, where or when
I would of kept you on the phone.

Hindsight is tough, it’s so obvious

never enough for the two of us.

I would have tried a little harder.

I would have cried a little louder.

I would have lied with more aplomb.

I, I, I, I, I, I, I should have known.

If you want to connect to life’s pain, do a Google search of phrases such as “I should have known”, “Why didn’t I see it coming?”, and “How did I miss the signs?”.  I did that earlier this week and encountered story after story of unexpected illness, sudden financial ruin, relationship-ending infidelity, hidden substance abuse, heartless employment termination, and (perhaps the most painful of all) struggling with the what, where, and when of why a loved one took his or her life. 

Looking backward.  Maybe you’ll identify with this poem by the English writer James Fenton titled The Mistake:

With the mistake your life goes in reverse.
Now you can see exactly what you did

Wrong yesterday and wrong the day before
And each mistake leads back to something worse

And every nuance of your hypocrisy
Towards yourself, and every excuse

Stands solidly on the perspective lines
And there is perfect visibility.

What an enlightenment.  The colonnade
Rolls past on either side.  You needn’t move.

The statues of your errors brush your sleeve.
You watch the tale turn back — and you’re dismayed.

And this dismay at this, this big mistake
Is made worse by the sight of all those who

Knew all along where these mistakes would lead —
Those frozen friends who watched the crisis break.

Why didn’t they say?  Oh, but they did indeed —
Said with a murmur when the time was wrong

Or by a mild refusal to assent
Or told you plainly but you would not heed.

Yes, you can hear them now.  It hurts.  It’s worse
Than any sneer from any enemy.

Take this dismay.  Lay claim to this mistake.
Look straight along the lines of this reverse.

“It’s so difficult, isn’t it?”, writes S. J. Watson in his book Before I Go to Sleep, “to see what’s going on when you’re in the absolute middle of something?  It’s only with hindsight we can see things for what they are.”  Edmund Burke famously said “those who don’t learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.”  This, I think, is the work of the head... to learn from the past.  But R.J. Ellory is speaking of the pain of the heart when he writes hindsight is “ever the cruelest and most astute adviser.” 

The season of Advent always begins with a warning of what is to come.  “There will be signs,” Jesus says, “and when you see them know the worst thing imaginable is about to happen.”  This horrible thing will happen, Jesus says, before this generation passes away.  “This generation” does not refer to us.  Jesus speaks these words to people who live almost 2,000 years ago and it refers to an event in their lifetime, not ours. 

Each of the four gospels is written either just before or just after a siege by the Roman army leading to the fall of Jerusalem and subsequent destruction of the Temple.  This is the event to which the signs Jesus mention points.  Afterward, Jews are dispersed all over the known world, their society and religious practices forever altered.  For the most part, up until this moment Christians are a subset of the Jewish community. They worship in the synagogue and Temple and participate in local commerce.  After the calamity, separate identities between the two groups slowly emerge.  Christians begin to understand Jesus as the fulfillment of the Temple rituals and come to see themselves as a kind of new Jerusalem.

Mark’s gospel, being the earliest, foresees these events as immanent, much the same way we project the disastrous consequences of questionable government policies.  The other gospels are written after the fall of Jerusalem and so they speak with hindsight.  Except, by casting them as Jesus’ words, they locate his warning decades before the events come to pass.  As a result, they carry the heavy tone of “You should have known” and “All the signs were there.” 

While Jesus’ words speak to something not of our time, they touch on a timeless dynamic.  As humans it is imperative for us to learn from the past and to prepare for the future, but we have a tendency to take this too far.  Hindsight becomes an exercise riddled with remorse, regret, and self-recrimination.  We anticipate horrible scenarios in the future and live in anxiety, fear, and dread.  It seems to me both are expressions of our perceived omniscience.  When looking backward we expect of ourselves the ability to see all things.  When looking forward we believe we can know exactly how things will unfold.  Both are rooted in the subtle and false notion we can know everything as God knows everything.  The truth is we can’t and we don’t.  We will always miss some signs and be blind to some clues.  We will always fail to anticipate a potential outcome or development.

What are we to do, we who live with the statues of our errors?  Jesus offers us this: “Be on guard… be alert at all times, praying…”  It is sage advice.  Live attentively in present, the space between the past and future.  It is easier said than done. 

The biologist Robin Wall Kimmerer’s first book is titled Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses.  Surely the study of moss requires one to focus attention on the subtleties and nuances of life.  She makes this observation:

Infrared satellite imagery, optical telescopes, and the Hubbell space telescope bring vastness within our visual sphere.  Electron microscopes let us wander the remote universe of our own cells.  But at the middle scale, that of the unaided eye, our senses seem to be strangely dulled.  With sophisticated technology, we strive to see what is beyond us, but are often blind to the myriad of sparkling facets that lie so close at hand.  We think we’re seeing when we’ve only scratched the surface.  Our [awareness] at this middle scale seems diminished, not by any failing of the eyes, but by the willingness of the mind.  Has the power of our devices led us to distrust our unaided eyes?  Or have we become dismissive of what takes no technology but only time and patience to perceive?  Attentiveness alone can rival the most powerful magnifying lens.

The great mystics of our Christian tradition tell us attentiveness to the present moment and mystery is a kind of prayer.  “Be on guard” is not a military mandate, but rather a call to the spiritual discipline of setting aside all that distracts – all our pouring over the past and all our pondering about the future – in order to experience the blessing and wonder of now.  It is an invitation to quiet our minds in order to be truly present wherever we might be; to be truly present to whoever we might be with.

Advent is the season when the secular world bombards us with one advertisement after other.  Each one tells us exactly what to purchase to let the special people in our life know how much we love them – a diamond, a Lexus, a gift card.  Jesus reminds us the single most precious gift you have to give is your time and your attention.  Give this gift and you will see what is really happening in this world – how moss grows and how those close to you are really doing.  Advent begs us to give a gift to ourselves.  Be attentive to what is happening to you.  What is happening to you as you live and move and have your being in this one and only life you have?  Jesus said there will be signs.  Some will be foreboding.  Others will point to promise, hope, and possibility.  Do not let them pass by unnoticed. 

We are Family

A few months ago our assigned Old Testament reading was taken from the Book of Esther.  Because it is both short and interesting, I encouraged you to go home and read it for yourself.  This morning we encounter another short and interesting Old Testament book – the Book of Ruth.  I encourage you to take 10-15 minutes sometime today, or perhaps later in the week, to read it.  Only four chapters long, it is a little more confusing than the Book of Esther because it deals with ancient customs regarding responsibility for caring for a childless widow in the family. 

The story begins in Bethlehem, yes, the Bethlehem where Jesus will be born centuries later.  The region is undergoing a severe famine and so a couple, Elimelech and Naomi decide migrate with their sons to the land of Moab because they have heard there is food there.  While only 30 miles away and located on land above the southeastern side of the Dead Sea, the terrain is step and difficult and it will take a week to ten days to complete the journey on foot. 

Moabites are descendants of Lot, Abraham’s nephew.  Although they are related to the people of Israel, they do not welcome Moses and the exiles from Egypt and for this God condemns them for ten generations.  Moabites worship foreign gods and practice abominable acts such as child sacrifice.  More often than not they are at war with Israel, but at the time of this story the two peoples enjoy a period of relative peace and cooperation.  Make no mistake, there are huge cultural differences between Elimelech’s family and the people with whom they now live.

Elimelech dies during their time in this foreign land and Naomi is left with her sons.  Each takes a Moabite wife, one is named Orpah and the other Ruth.  Ten years pass before each of Naomi’s sons also die.  Orpah and Ruth, like their mother-in-law, are now widows.  Naomi receives word conditions have improved in Bethlehem and after having been away for more than a decade she decides to return to her homeland.  She encourages her daughters-in-law to remain in Moab where they will have the opportunity to remarry among their own people.  Neither woman wants to leave her.  Orpah eventually relents, but Ruth stays with Naomi and relocates to Bethlehem. 

Boaz is one of Elimelech’s close relatives and he extends kindness to the two women.  As we hear in today’s reading Boaz and Ruth eventually marry and have a son, Obed.  Obed is one half Jewish through his father and one half Moabite through his mother.  Obed becomes the father of Jesse, who, depending on his mother’s lineage, is at least one-quarter Moabite.  Jesse fathers several sons, including David who will become the King of Israel.  Again, other ancestors notwithstanding, David is at least one-eighth Moabite. 

For a people so consumed with religious purity and an intolerance of intermarriage, this ancestral element of David’s background is scandalous.  That the story is remembered, retold, written down, and eventually included in the canon of Scripture suggests someone somewhere recognized how interrelated we all are and believed it was important to acknowledge it as something good.

I have been reading a book by Adam Rutherford called A Brief History of Everyone Who Ever Lived, an ambitious sounding title to be sure.  Rutherford is a geneticist who examines what DNA evidence tells us about the history of the human race.  The short answer is it tells us a lot and not a lot.  It can answer some questions, but is unable to give definitive answers to many others.  DNA evidence is very difficult to retrieve from older human remains, but we are learning about migration patterns, mating habits, and a host of other information.  For example, you may be interested to know about 2% of your DNA has been passed down to you from the Neanderthals. 

In one chapter, Rutherford examines family ancestry and pedigree.  Your family tree of direct descendants doubles with each generation.  You have two birth parents, four birth grandparents, eight great-grandparents, and so on.  Rutherford discusses Chalemagne, who lived around 750 AD.  If you are a direct descendant of his, your family tree contains 137,438,953,472 people.  If this sounds like a lot, it is.  It is more people than are alive today and have ever lived.  So at some point your pedigree begins to fold back in on itself. 

I have found instances of this in my own ancestral tree.  John Tindall and Elizabeth Hutchinson are my grandparents nine generations back in one part of my family line and eight generations back in another.  They are the great-grandparents of Lockhart Hutchinson and also his great-great grandparents.  He had to know something was up because his mother’s maiden name was the same as his paternal grandmother.  All of our family trees are riddled with this kind of overlap.

If I have not confused you yet, keep listening because things are about to get really confounding.  Joseph Chang is a statistician at Yale University.  He set out to examine ancestry not based on genetics, but mathematics.  He asked a basic question: How far back do you have to go to find a person we all share as a common ancestor?  Setting up a model incorporating the number of ancestors we all have (two parents) and the current population he went looking for a point in time when all of our ancestral lines connect.  If you are of European descent the answer surprisingly is about 600 years ago.  Sometime in late 13^th century there lived a man or a woman through whom all Europeans are related.  Keep in mind this person is one of only thousands and thousands of people from whom you and I are direct descendants, but we are related through this person.

Thomas Cornell lived from 1593-1655 and he was the first Cornell to immigrate to the colonies.  Rebecca Briggs, his wife, lived from 1600-1673.  They are my great-times-ten grandparents, 13 generations removed from me.  At this ancestral level alone, baring overlap, you are directly descended from 4,096 people.  Now they had several children, some who lived and some who did not.  Their children had multiple children and so on.  Over the generations, some of the lines come to an end when a child does not produce a son or daughter, but, as you can imagine, a lot of people are descended from Thomas and Rebecca Cornell.  One of them is our own George Cornell.  Another is the fabulous Miss Madison Mottley.  Yes, my connection to these two people is only as deep as two out of 4,096 people, but we share some small trace of DNA and are very distant but real cousins.  It is quite possible, even likely, many of us here today have common ancestors even more recent than the 13^th century, but at the very least our European lineage intersects at that point in time.

Well, Chang wasn’t finished with his research.  Using more math, he determined we are all related to every European who live a thousand years ago and before.  Rutherford uses this information to state every person of European origin is a direct descendant of King Charlemgne.  Yes, you are from a royal line, many in fact. 

Building on his initial work and tweaking his model based on more recent research, in 2003 Chang set out to determine how recently every human being shares a common ancestor.  Given how the Americas were isolated until relatively recently, you probably realize this date will not be as recent.  Still, you may be startled to learn Chang determined our most recent common ancestor lived just 3,600 years ago.  At the conclusion of an academic paper through which he reported his work, Joseph Chang writes this:

Our findings suggest a remarkable proposition: no matter the language we speak or the color of our skin, we share ancestors who planted rice on the banks of the Yangtze, who first domesticated horses on the steppes of the Ukraine, who hunted giant sloths in the forests of North and South America, and who labored to build the Great Pyramid of Khufu.

Remember I told you I would confound you!

Why do you think the Book of Ruth, which is chalk full of beautiful theological and personal themes, ends by noting Ruth the Moabite is David’s great-grandmother?  And what does it say to you genetics and mathematics tell us there is an Adam or an Eve of DNA, someone to whom we are all related?  What do you make of our ancestral interconnectedness not millions of years in past, not hundreds of thousands of years in the past, but well after the advent of recorded history?

It occurs to me when Christians tell the story of Adam and Eve we focus primarily on two things: (1) God created us and (2) we sinned.  Perhaps another meaningful aspect of the story we ignore or underemphasize is we are all related.  The “human family” is not a phrase invented by liberals or Hallmark, it is a reality… a fact. 

You are related, if ever so thinly, to every person who was elected to office last Tuesday and to every person who was not.  You are related, if ever so thinly, to every single Veteran who has served our country.  You are related, if ever so thinly, to every person walking across Mexico from Honduras to America.  You are related, if ever so thinly, to every person worshipping in our church this morning, and down the street, across the street, and a few blocks away, and in our community and, well, you get the idea.  And you are related, if ever so thinly, to every person worshipping and praying in whatever way their beliefs and traditions teach them. 

I was born in Pittsburgh while my family was transitioning to life in Ohio, so I consider myself an Ohioan.  Still, there is a part of Pittsburgh in me.  I remember when Willie Stargell and the Pittsburgh Pirates rode the song “We are Family” all the way to the World Series title in 1979.  It is a truth that rallied a team and a city.  Might it be a truth that, through the grace of God, helps us to live in peace, unity, and concord with one another?  Might it be a truth informing how you interact with every and any person who, if ever so thinly, is related to you?

What Do You Want Me to do for You?

The Gospel of Mark, from which are assigned readings over the course of this year have been drawn, has two major sections.  In part one we read stories exploring Jesus’ identity.  Who is this person who does such amazing things, teaches with incredible insight and authority, and forgives sins?  Part two deals with his final journey to Jerusalem and all the events that transpire there. 

Part one concludes when Jesus and his followers go to Caesarea Philippi, a pagan center about 30 miles north of their home base of Capernaum on the Sea of Galilee.  Caesarea is an area riddled with springs that combine to form the Jordon River.  These water sources create lush greenery in a region otherwise arid, desolate, and darn near uninhabitable. 

Jesus “flees” to this remote location after Herod has John the Baptist beheaded.  Jesus rightfully considers he might be next.  Caesarea is in a region ruled by Herod’s brother Philip and thus is beyond the grasp of the ruthless tyrant who murders Jesus’ cousin.  Think of it as being like fleeing to Elizabeth City if the governor of Virginia wants to do you in.

It is here Jesus asks his disciples who people believe him to be… a prophet, Elijah, who?  And then he asks who they believe him to be.  Peter famously responds, “You are the Messiah, the Christ, the one sent from God.”  During this time of relative safety Jesus has the opportunity to reflect, to pray, and to strategize.  He determines he must go to Jerusalem to confront the principalities and powers, even though he surely will die by doing so.

Jerusalem is about 105 miles from Caesarea Philippi.  Tom Coxe and I made the journey last month by bus, but of course Jesus and his followers walked it.  Their route took them through a lush, even swamping valley surrounded by barren mountains similar in scale to the Blue Ridge.  Eventually they descended to Capernaum.  After a brief rest they traveled down the Jordon River valley to the city of Jericho. 

Now the valley itself is quit wide, flanked on either side by step cliffs and mountains.  It is an extension of a continental rift running from deep in Africa to Lebanon.  The Jordon River empties into the Dead Sea and is surprising narrow, no more than 25 to 30 feet across.  Over the past few Sundays we have heard readings detailing the conversations of the travelers as they made their way leisurely along the riverbanks.  Who is the greatest?  What should we do about people not a part of our group who use Jesus’ name to heal?  Does Jesus want to be bothered by children who approach him?  What must a person do to inherit eternal life?  Which of Jesus’ followers will sit at his side in paradise? 

This morning Jesus and his entourage pass through Jericho.  It is the oldest known city on earth, first inhabited more than 10,000 years ago.  Our tour group spent a night there in an upscale hotel.  From what I could tell, it was the only upscale thing in Jericho.  The city today is located in a poverty ravaged, Palestinian-controlled region.  Trash, rubble, and vacant lots abound.  There is little greenery and little growing.  The homes and neighborhoods we passed make Suffolk’s roughest areas look richly suburban.  I noted several compounds – a block or two of dwellings surrounded by barbed wire topped walls with guard towers at the corners.  Whatever ruins exist in Jericho either are not worth seeing or are not safe to visit because we loaded in our bus in the morning and took the main highway out of town.

Jericho is only 15 miles from Jerusalem so you might imagine Jesus and his followers have an easy day’s stroll to complete their journey.  However, Jericho lies more than 800 feet below sea level, while Jerusalem sits on a mountain nearly 3,500 feet above sea level.  Even our bus struggled to gain elevation at certain points along the way.  Jesus and his band walk up the Wadi Qelt, a dry streambed carved in between deep, steep limestone cliffs.  When I say there is nothing but rocks and dust in this wilderness, I mean there is NOTHING but rocks and dust in this wilderness.  It is a shocking, yet magnificent sight.  As a side note, Jesus uses this bleak location as the setting for his parable of the Good Samaritan. 

Surely as they leave Jericho there is no more discussion about who is the greatest.  They are thinking only about the arduous, physical task ahead.  It is at this point a blind beggar by the name of Bartimaeus cries out, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me.”  At first the disciples try to silence the beggar, but Jesus stops and asks them to bring the man to him.  “What do you want,” he asks?  The response, “I want to see again.”  Jesus, noting his faith, pronounces the blind man to be healed and immediately his sight is restored. 

The text tells us Bartimaeus follows Jesus on the way.  Take note he joins at the most physically demanding part of the journey.  Presumably he is a part of the Palm Sunday experience, the events of Holy Week, is somewhere nearby when Jesus is arrested, is aware of the Crucifixion, and no doubt, along with the rest of the disciples, has some kind of encounter with the Risen Christ.

You don’t need to have lost your physical sight to be blind.  John Newton, the former captain of a slaving ship, wrote in his hymn Amazing Grace, I once “was blind, but now I see.”  If you will permit me to speak personally, let me tell you a little bit about my recent blindness.

It has been an amazing year for me.  In addition to going to the Holy Land in September, in May I was able to go with a group of friends on a walking pilgrimage in North Umbria on the Scottish/English border.  Our final destination was the Holy Island of Lindisfarne.  Castle Beach, along the eastern side of the island on the North Sea, is strewn with round, smooth rocks of all sizes that are perfect for stacking.  There are literally thousands of stone cairns along the stony beach, each one marking someone’s individual creation.  Many are tangible signs of a personal prayer.  It truly is an inspiring, holy location.

Some person or group took the time on a grassy area to make a labyrinth out of the stones (those of you this summer who attended the pot-luck dinner when I made a presentation about my trip will remember the pictures I showed of it).  I said a brief prayer and entered into it.  When I walk a labyrinth I move slowly and patiently toward the center, being mindful of everything I bring with me – who I am, where I have come from in life, my hurts, my joys, my losses, my loves.  You all are a blessed part of what I carry with me as I wind my way to the center. 

At the center of the labyrinth a pilgrim encounters God.  It is a way of coming into God’s presence, or so the theory goes.  The few times I have undertaken this spiritual exercise I stand quietly and wait, trying to let go of what is on my mind in order to be open to whatever might happen.  I don’t know how long I stood in this beautiful seaside setting on a sun-splashed day, but at some point a thought came to me, an insight from beyond I hold to be the still, small voice of God: “I want to know that my life matters to me.”  I want to know that my life matters to me.  Had I been talking aloud it would have left me speechless.  It was as if I had been given a diagnosis for something ailing me spiritually for a long, long time.  After a while I began the slow, deliberate journey out of the labyrinth.  I always use this time to ponder and pray over what I am to do with what I have received.

I know my life matters to a great many people.  My “little hiccups” this have certainly confirmed it.  And I believe God loves me deeply.  So please don’t get me wrong, I am not suicidal, but I came out of the labyrinth with an unsettling awareness I am not sure why my life matter to me.  I have lot of blessings to be sure: people who love me, people who care about me, a vocation I love, a place to serve as a priest I love and know that I am loved, God’s unfailing and unflinching love… I could go on and on.  I know I matter to a great many people, but I am just not sure I matter to me.

I talked about this with maybe a half dozen people or so and learned I am not alone.  It seems many of us locate our “matterness” in others.  “My children need me.”  “My grandchildren need me.”  “People at work depend on me.”  None of this is a bad thing at all.  But maybe, like Job, if all of it was taken away, why would your life matter to you?

I have been living with this question now for several months.  My “health hiccups” have helped me to “see” a few things to which I have been blind.  I never felt like I was going to die, so facing my own mortality has not induced in me a panic-driven desire to live.  Your thoughts and prayers have overwhelmed me.  With all I am and all I have I thank you. 

Here are the two things I thought about early last Sunday morning as a lied in the ER for a third time this month.  First, I hated that you all would come to church, learn I had a setback, and be anxious and worried sick about me.  I just hated putting you through that.  Like the Monty Python movie, I could have lost an arm and all I wanted to do was let you know it was just a slight flesh wound.  And while what I am dealing with is serious – and I am taking it seriously – compared to some of the people we are praying for, I am in a very, very good place health wise.

The other thing I thought about is I want to be dependable.  When you come to church on Sunday your first thought ought to be something like “I wonder how I will meet God this morning” or “I can’t wait to offer up my prayers for myself and those I love”, not “Will Keith be here this morning?” 

I want to know that my life matters to me.  There is still much in this to which I am blind, but like Bartimaeus I am regaining some of the sight I had lost.  My life matters to me because I am privileged beyond anything I can describe or deserve to stand in a place bridging for people the ordinary and the holy.  I am not perfect at it, to be sure, but there is such a thing as amazing grace and I am absolute proof of it.

I always seem to end my sermon with a question and this one may be the most challenging, puzzling, or disturbing one ever.  Yet I think it is profound and significant.  Why does your life matter to you?  If you have a ready and real answer consider yourself blessed.  If you don’t, I invite you to join me in a prayerful journey of discovery.  I invite you to join me in pleading, “Jesus, I want to regain my sight.”  It will not be a one-time prayer, I promise you.  It is more like walking the twisting path of a labyrinth where answers and insights give themselves up only over time.  It is a journey I am willing to walk and to explore with you.

The Need for Recognition

 

I love our bulletin board in the hallway leading into the church – you know, the one where we post newspaper clippings featuring parish members.  The other day I was looking at it and learned we have at least two budding artists in our congregation.  Caroline Webb is pictured with some of the work she created this summer at a camp at the Cultural Arts Center and Margaret Laney Cross is pictured with her painting of James and the Giant Peach, which won best in show award at the North Suffolk Library.  Congratulations to both of you.  We are very proud of you.

I spent some time reflecting on my early experiences of receiving public recognition.  Every week in Sunday School we were sent home with a bible memory verse.  If we could recite it the next Sunday we got a star next to our name on a chart of the class’ students.  That was a kind of recognition.  The Akron Metro Parks had another.  They gave children hiking sticks and for every trail you walked a park ranger gave you a little sticker to put on your staff.  I remember being very proud of the numerous stickers I collected and displayed on my hiking stick. 

Beyond being something that makes us feel good, recognition is a fundamental human need.  Abraham Maslow famously created his hierarchy of needs.  At a most basic level he says we need food, water, shelter, and warmth.  At the next level we need safety, stability, and freedom from fear.  After this we need a sense of belonging and love – family, friends, and perhaps a spouse.  After these basic levels are met, Maslow says we strive for self-esteem, for a knowledge that our life matters.  This includes mastery, achievement, respect, and recognition.  Mother Teresa, who saw a lot of poverty in her life, once said there is more hunger for love and appreciation in this world than there is for bread.   

Think about this for moment.  Once our most basic needs are met, there is something in our human nature craving to be connected with others (the drive to belong) and needs to know we are making a valuable contribute in life (the drive to matter and make a difference).  How powerful is this drive?  Research indicates 43% of employees who quit a job cite lack of recognition as a factor.   Dale Carnegie observed people work for money but go the extra mile for recognition, praise, and rewards.

All of this brings us to this morning’s reading from the Gospel of Mark.  James and John – brothers – come to Jesus with an audacious request.  When Jesus presides in glory they want to sit at his right and left side.  Matthew tells the story a little differently.  He has the boys’ mother making the request.  Luke’s version is even more different for he has all the disciples arguing about who deserves this honor. 

It is understandable why this is on their minds as the group walks to Jerusalem.  Even though Jesus has told them three times he will be killed there, they seem to believe he will lead a messianic uprising, expel the Romans, and reestablish the throne of David.  Given this belief, the disciples essentially are vying for cabinet positions in Jesus’ new administration.  Imagine how crushed they must be not only when their friend is killed but when their vision of glory dies on the cross.

Now you or I, if we were in Jesus’ position, might be offended by the disciple’s blatant request for status.  We might respond, “Who do you think you are?”  But Jesus sees through their inappropriate appeal and perceives something very human in it.  The brothers are asking for recognition.  They want to know they matter to Jesus and have contributed something important to his ministry.  So Jesus does a remarkable thing.  He does not put down James and John, rather he teaches them about what “greatness” looks like in his kingdom.  It is not about sitting in a position of great power and prestige, as they suppose.  It is about being a servant to all.  It is about giving and giving and giving yourself to others. 

Abraham Lincoln famously advised not to worry when you are not recognized, just continue to strive to be worthy of recognition.  I think Jesus would applaud this.  Treat other people the right way.  Look for ways to be helpful.  Use often phrases like “Thank you”, “That is a job well done”, and “You add so much to make this a special place.”  Do more than you are asked or expected to do and do it with a smile on your face and a laugh in your heart.  Do this and you will find others recognize and appreciate who you are and what you do.

Stuff

Many years ago, when I was just starting out and raising young children, I heard a retired bishop give a talk about some of the tasks necessary to retire.  Like many clergy back in the day, he spent his entire career living in church-owned housing.  For he and his wife, the first task of retiring was finding a place to live.  The second task involved downsizing.  They had much more stuff than they could fit into their new home.  Nowhere was this more evident than with the things the bishop kept in his office – again, a church-provided space.  Specifically, he had way more books than he could ever hope to store in his home and truthfully most of them he no longer needed.  Apparently the local library had little use for forty-year-old theology books.  Neither did his seminary.  Eventually he was able to box them up and ship them to a newly forming school in Africa. 

That talk has stayed with me over the years because it reminds me everything I have one day will have to be given away, disposed, or sold.  Somewhere after I bought my current house and outfitted all the rooms I crossed a threshold in life.  I am no longer accumulating stuff, but I have not yet begun the process of letting go.  I am just sitting on it.  Kings and queens are said to possess the throne by sitting on it.  Sometimes I wonder if I am sitting on my possessions or if they are sitting on me.     

Do you know there are nearly 12,000 Starbucks coffee shops in America, there are over 14,000 McDonalds, and almost 32,000 post offices?  Care to guess how many self-storage facilities we have in our country?  Almost 53,000 and growing by 2,000-3,000 a year.  There is over 2.3 billion square feet of storage space – three times the size of Manhattan and equal to seven square feet for every person within our borders.  Now, some of this space is used to keep items while in transition, but 50% of what is stored simply won’t fit into a person’s home, even though the average size of a typical house has grown dramatically since the 1950’s.  We Americans have a lot of stuff, so much in fact, we have nowhere to put it. 

Perhaps we have no better biblical figure with which to identify than the person who approaches Jesus in today’s gospel reading.  We never learn his name, but he is often referred to as “the rich young ruler”, even though the text does not tell us he is rich or young or a ruler.  He asks Jesus what he must do to inherit eternal life.  This, it seems to me, is another great obsession in our country, at least for some.  Who here has not been “evangelized” by a well-meaning person who asks “If you were to die tonight do you know where your soul would go?”  I wonder if the man who approaches Jesus wants to have this ‘heavenly’ question answered so he can be at peace as he gets back to the earthly business of collecting stuff. 

Interestingly, Jesus points him to the Ten Commandments dealing specifically with how one is to treat a neighbor, but not to the ones describing our relationship with God.  The man says he has kept these laws all his life.  “There is one thing you lack,” Jesus says to him, “Go and sell all you have, give the money to the poor, store up for yourself treasures in heaven, and come follow me.”  I wonder if I will ever get to the point where I have done so many good deeds I will need a self-storage space in heaven to keep all the spiritual treasures I have accumulated. 

On hearing this, the text tells us the man is shocked and goes away “grieving” for he has “many possessions.”  The Greek word translated here as grieving literally means ‘gloomy’, ‘overcast’ or ‘clouded over’.  The man’s possessions cloud his vision and he cannot see past them to anything that lies beyond.  They obscure his sight to such a degree he cannot see the Kingdom of God Jesus offers to him.  He loves his possessions so much that they prevent him from knowing the love of God. 

If Jesus invited you to follow him, would you be able?  What would hold you back?  Some of us – especially those with small children – understandably are not able to drop everything on a whim and follow.  But many of us – far too many – are impaired by financial commitments and obligations.  Who will pay your mortgage, your car payments, and your student loans?  Perhaps you have already maxed out a couple of credit cards and can’t afford to take on any more debt.  Maybe you are saving for a boat or a vacation home.  The things we have and the things we want can inhibit us from being the person God is calling us to be.

As I said, I feel very blessed to be at a point in life where I no longer feel the need to accumulate stuff.  It probably has more to do with my age and where I am in life than any kind of spiritual awakening, so it is not something for which I take credit.  But it is something for which I am deeply grateful.  I am better positioned to channel my resources to things that matter and make a difference.  Some time ago, without really trying, I became a tither, giving away at least 10% of what I earn, which is the biblical measure of generosity.  This was hardly possible when I had young children, but now is something I can do without giving it a second thought. 

In a couple of weeks St. Paul’s will ask you to make a financial pledge to support the work of our parish in 2019.  Your Vestry and I appreciate every dollar you give us and we do our best to make it count for something good.  I encourage you to examine where you are in terms of your giving.  The average person gives away 2% of what they make.  Often this is done without any kind of plan or commitment.  Many of us give when we feel motivated to give.  I want to challenge you to stretch yourself.  If you are giving away 2% of your income, can you push it to 2.5%?  If you give away $25 a week, can you make it $40?  Little by little and over time, these sacrifices begin to add up and one day you will find yourself tithing, in that place where God invites you to be in right relationship to your wealth and possessions.  

I don’t know who said it first, but more than one person has said, “I have never met a former tither.”  This simple spiritual discipline becomes a way to live which is consistent with our faith and open to accepting God’s invitation.  Getting there is a part of our life’s journey and with each step you will sense yourself not inheriting eternal life, but living with it here and now.

A Salty Purpose

At one level or another each of us is trying to figure out this ‘life’ thing.  We want to know why we are here and what we are supposed to do.  Every now and then a clue comes our way.  The Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw provides this valuable insight:

This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.

Do you have a mighty purpose in life?

I think Jesus would like this question.  He raises it in today’s gospel reading when he makes three statements about salt.  The first is “everyone will be salted with fire,” which scholars say is one of the most enigmatic things Jesus ever uttered.  And while not entirely clear, it seems to be related to animal sacrifice.  Prior to being offered on a fire, an animal carcass was rubbed with salt to draw out the blood.  Once this was accomplished, it was roasted over a fire and offered in sacrifice or served for human consumption.  The salt was useful in this process, but once used, it lost the properties that made it useful.  Hence, the second statement: “How can saltiness be restored?”  The final expression, “Have saltiness in yourselves, and be at peace with one another,” hints at the work we need to do to be in proper, healthy relationship with one another.

Do you have a mighty purpose in life, something at least as useful as what salt does when rubbed on meat and exposed to fire?

On his blogsite, Brandon Phillips offers ten signs you don’t have a mighty purpose, but simply are living life as a feverish selfish little clod:

1.    You mostly talk about yourself and every conversation focuses mainly on you.

2.    You litter.  It is a way of saying the world is your trash can and someone else will take care of it.

3.    You don’t consider the impact of your actions on others or, if you do, you don’t care.  (I call this the “Shopping Cart Blocking the Aisle Principle”) 

4.    You see the world through “you-colored” glasses and consider only how something affects you personally.  

5.    You have an entitlement mentality and expect to reap without sowing.  For example, if you are somehow inconvenienced, your first thought is how you can sue and win money.

6.    You don’t fulfill the responsibilities and commitments you’ve made.

7.    You only see extremes in every idea, person, or organization.

8.    You think anything causing you discomfort is bad and therefore you’re entitled to complain, worry, and moan.

9.    You think people who are different from you are the problem with the world.

10. You give only when you expect to get.

Now, I am confident none of us here this morning can say to any one of these, “Oh, that is me.”  I am also confident each of us knows at least one person who, by this definition, is a feverish selfish little clod.  And sadly, for most of them, once their saltiness is gone it can never be restored. 

Today’s gospel reading begins with what surely is not one of the Apostle John’s shining moments.  He complains to Jesus about a person not in the group who evokes Jesus’ name to cast out demons.  He and the other disciples try to stop the person because “he is not following us.”  The disciples, in fact, are on a roll.  In last week’s reading we learn they are debating amongst themselves who is the greatest. 

For Jesus, who has largely completed his ministry and has set a course for Jerusalem where he knows he will die, this must be very disheartening.  He has invested three years of his life in this group, and now, in the last weeks of his life, they just don’t get it.  He has offered them an expansive vision of what life can be, which he calls the Kingdom of God, but they are still trapped in small, me-centered, provincial thinking. 

Their mindset manifests itself as a competitive spirit, asking who is the most important and fretting over who is getting credit.  No wonder Jesus reactions as strongly as he does, recommending you cut off any body part that causes you to stumble.  The graphic imagery and startling teaching tells us Jesus will have nothing to do with the pettiness of his followers.  He is not interested in cultivating feverish selfish little clods.  He wants salty followers who know how to give themselves to others for the betterment of all.

There is more to George Bernard Shaw’s famous quote.  He offers this as well:  

I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community, and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can.

I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work the more I live.  I rejoice in life for its own sake.  Life is no “brief candle” for me.  It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.

A mighty purpose.  A splendid torch.  Salting all you touch and do.  Had Brandon Phillips focused on what this looks like rather than on the clod side, perhaps it would have written something like this:

1.    In every conversation strive to learn at least one thing you did not know about the other person.

2.    Make it your goal to leave no wake and no foul residue as you move through life.

3.    As you tend to your business consider how  your actions might make life a little easier for others.  (I call this the “Honor the Turn Signal of the Other Car Principle”) 

4.    Imagine how the world looks though the eyes of another person.  Ask “What blesses this person?” and “What challenges does this person face?”     

5.    Learn how to let go of privilege.

6.    Keep your word and honor your commitments, especially when it is difficult, costly, or inconvenient.

7.    When encountering a new or different idea, person, or organization discern what you have in common and decipher where connections are possible.

8.    Embrace hardship and struggle with good cheer, being grateful for the opportunities it brings for growth, resiliency, and strength.

9.    Aim to understand how people different from you add richness to the tapestry of life.

10. Give and give and give of yourself, expecting nothing in return except for a larger, more generous soul... and then be open to seeing what happens.

Jesus said, “Have salt in yourself.”  Me might take this to mean we should add flavor and zest to the taste of life.  This may not sound like much, but it is indeed a mighty purpose.  Focusing not on what you get but on what you give, not on how you are treated but on how you behave, not on what you are owed but on what you can offer is the essence of a salty life, a mighty purpose, and a splendid torch.