Facing the Truth

Today’s gospel lesson falls between two significant events – Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead and the Passover festival.  As Jesus’ closest followers and friends gather in the home of two of his most ardent supporters, both of these events surely are the talk of all present.  They wonder if Jesus has power over even death, what mighty act will happen when he goes to Jerusalem for the Passover. 

For months now, ever since the execution of John the Baptist, Jesus has been telling his followers he will die when they go to the holy city.  His grim vision is part pragmatic hunch (the powers that be surely will not let someone like him live, given his potential for mobilizing the people against them) and part divine revelation (Moses and Elijah talk with him about it during the Transfiguration).  But every time he brings up the subject, Jesus’ followers are resistant to hearing it.  They seem to think he will go to Jerusalem and become a king.  They even discuss/argue what will be their individual positions of power and prestige in this new order.  While Jesus harshly squelches any such talk, it surely is the topic of hushed conversation for those gathered at Bethany in the home of Mary and Martha.

You will remember this is not the first time the sisters have hosted Jesus.  At a previous visit Martha becomes annoyed with Mary who is sitting at Jesus’ feet listening to his teaching while she alone shoulders the burden of preparing a meal for all the guests.  In today’s reading, Martha is in the kitchen once again while Mary reclines discretely at Jesus’ feet.  Of all the people in the house, Mary alone appears to hear and believe what Jesus is saying about dying.  It is not what she wants, but she accepts it is what is to come.  We know this because of the sign she performs.  She rubs Jesus’ feet with a burial anointment she has purchased to use after his impending death.

Facing the truth, when the truth is difficult, is never easy. 

I have a clear memory of an early afternoon day in June 1980 someone tracked me down at a summer job in my college town to tell me my father had suffered a massive heart attack and was in intensive care.  To the astonishment of his doctors, he survived and even came home for a brief period of time.  Still, we were told not to get up our hopes because his heart muscle had been badly damaged. 

We celebrated his 52^nd birthday a few weeks later and I gave him a pair a Levis jeans, with a waist size about ten inches smaller than what he wore before his crisis.  My father never wore jeans, but in my mind it represented youthfulness.  The smaller size reflected my belief he was well on the road to recovery, was going to drop weight, stop smoking, and enjoy many, many more years of health and vigor… wearing those jeans. 

I returned to my work in my college town and a week or so later my father was readmitted to the hospital.  I failed to comprehend the gravity of the situation.  Six weeks after the initial attack the telephone rang as the early morning sun poured in through a window of the house where I was staying.  It was my mother.  “Your father is no longer with us,” she said, her voice strong, but shaking.  “What did you say?” I responded.  It was as if my mother shared a computer file that my hard drive head had no software to open.  “You father has died,” she repeated.  I was absolutely stunned because I had refused to believe what was obvious all along.  I collapsed on a sofa and sobbed uncontrollably.

I know firsthand facing the truth, when the truth is difficult, is not easy.  I know most of you know this as well.  These truths don’t come to us often, but they do come: 

· Your company is downsizing. 

· Your marriage is in trouble. 

· Your child needs more than the “typical” help. 

· Something about your body just doesn’t feel right. 

· Your drinking is taking a toll on you and on those you love.

· Your capacities are diminishing.

· Someone close to you is dying.

This is not an exhaustive list, but you get the idea. 

We have developed remarkable coping mechanisms to help us find easier alternatives when we are faced with difficult truth.  The disciples first turn to denial.  Do you remember how Peter contradicted Jesus the first time he told his followers he was going to die?  The fisherman turned follower said, “This will never happen to you”; denial bald and naked.  They also turn to delusions – substitute visions easier to palate.  “When we go to Jerusalem Jesus is going to be made king and each of us is going to have a special place in his royal court.” 

When I think back on those jeans I gave to my father, I think how much it is a tangible sign of my denial and delusion with regard to his situation.  In as much as we use the devices to avoid the truth, denial and delusion are lies.  And God, who is a God of truth, can do little to help us as we choose to live our lives based on them.  When my father died, the lies I had turned to collapsed in an instant and I was devastated.  Only then, facing the truth, was God able to begin to help me.

Think about Jesus’ followers.  Where did living based on a lie get them?  When Jesus is arrested they flee.  When Jesus hangs on the Cross they are nowhere to be found.  When he rises on Easter morning they are cowering behind locked doors, fearing they too will be arrested and executed.  The lies they choose to live by have been exposed and they are struggling to move forward in the truth.

Now think about Mary.  She is the only person to face the difficult truth Jesus reveals.  Although she is deeply grieved, God is with her and gives her the power to do some remarkable things the others are not able to do.  She comforts Jesus with costly nard.  She stands at the foot of the Cross as Jesus dies, comforting his mother and supporting him to the last.  She works with others in a hasty effort to prepare Jesus’ body for burial before the beginning of the Passover.  She rises early on Sunday morning to join a few other women in the solemn task of finishing the burial work.  And although the Scriptures don’t mention her reaction to Jesus’ resurrection, we can be sure she is one of the first to celebrate because while she mourned at her brother’s tomb a few weeks earlier she confessed a belief in Jesus as the Resurrection and the Life.  I suggest Mary is able to do all of this through the power of God only because she has faced the difficult truth others have been at pains to avoid. 

Think about the events of your life.  What difficult truths have you faced?  How did acceptance affect your ability to operate and minister in those moments?  Have there been times when you have avoided a difficult truth?  What happened as a result?  What did you learn from that moment?  In what ways did you experience God’s presence during those times?  Think about those you know who have avoided hard truths as well as those who have had the courage to face them?  What did you see in their experiences and what wisdom can you draw from them?

In life, some truths are extremely difficult to bear and, in our weakness, we will do almost anything to avoid them.  We have an amazing ability to create and follow absurd alternatives and explanations simply because in the moment they are easier to stomach.  In truth, these lies turn out to be much more difficult because God cannot be with us in them, thus we become disconnected from an essential source of courage and companionship when we need it most.  In the end, when the lies we choose to live by fail and fall apart, we are devastated.  When we embrace a difficult truth we are – in Jesus’ words – set free; free to act, free to give, free to love, and free to live… even as we are dying.  This morning we give thanks for Mary of Bethany and her witness of facing a difficult truth.

Before It's Too Late...

“Give it one more year… and then, if nothing changes, cut it down!”

Jesus’ parables are rich and evocative.  They remain timeless because they invite contemplation and conversation while avoiding simplistic and trite interpretations.  One popular way to approach these stories is to ask which of its characters do you identify with most.  Today’s parable offers a plethora of possibilities.

Perhaps you identify with the owner.  He charted a course, engaged in risk, planted a vineyard, employed a laborer, and expected a return.  But now, at this point in the story, he is angry and frustrated and finished.  He wants to eliminate any and every reminder of his fruitless endeavor.  In his estimation it is time to move on.

Or maybe you see yourself in the gardener.  You are measured, hopeful, and optimistic.  You believe in the potential inside every person, thing, and moment.  You also believe in yourself and your ability to nurture the best qualities in people and situations.  You often find yourself interceding on behalf of others, attempting to be a calm head in a chaotic world.  The flip side of this coin is not nearly as positive.  Maybe you feel it is your responsibility to fix every unfixable problem.

Or perhaps you identify most with the fig tree.  You believe you are not worth much in this world and, try as you might, have little of value to contribute.  You sense you are a disappointment, especially to those who have invested most in you.  They let you know in subtle and not so subtle ways you are wasting away your life.

Maybe you identify with the yet-to-appear fruit.  You are just waiting for your opportunity to shine.  As of today, the stars have not lined up for you, but when they do… look out world because you have a lot to offer.  If only someone will believe and you give you a chance…

In which of these figures in the parable do you most see yourself?  Or, if you really want something to mull over, in what ways do you see yourself in each of them? 

While Jesus’ parables speak in multiple ways to many different situations, biblical scholars remind us each one as a single focused meaning.  Jesus’ main point in this one seems to be time is running out and each of us needs to get our act together… and do it soon!  We Episcopalians don’t warm up to sermons on impending judgment and the urgent need to repent.  We do not want to be compared to the barren fig tree, but this is exactly what Jesus does.  And whether we like it or not, as I often say, its Jesus’ story so he gets to tell it any way he wants.

And to make matters worse, he tells this story in response to a question about tragedy.  Someone asks him about a group of people executed on Pilate’s orders while they were worshipping.  Jesus’ response: “Do you think this happened to them because they were worse sinners than you?  They weren’t… and unless you repent the same thing will happen to you.”  It seems a rather harsh thing to say, and yet Jesus doubles down on it by mentioning eighteen people who died when a tower collapsed on them.  Surely Jesus is not saying victims of calamities get what they deserve, is he?  At least on the surface it sure seems like it. 

Here is another question to ask of a parable: where is grace found in it?  In the midst of all the judgment in today’s story – the owner’s anger, the fruitlessness, the call for punishment – where is the grace?  It is found in the phrase “give the tree one more year”.  Grace is found in the element of time.  The tree still has time to change. 

Time’s precious nature is a theme found throughout Scripture, especially in the Psalms, which compare the length of our days to the grass that flourishes in the morning dew, but withers in the afternoon sun.  For people of faith this reality is not cause for despair, but rather a call to intentional living.  “So teach us to number our days,” writes the poet of the 90^th Psalm, “that we may apply our hearts to wisdom.”  Scripture connects an awareness of mortality with a purposeful life.

I read once middle age is not a chronological point in life.  It is not something you experience precisely during, say, your 42^nd orbit around the sun.  Rather, it is a feature of attitude and awareness.  When we are young we sense the path of life is wide open to us.  You may set out on a particular career choice in your 20s only to discover it does not interest you.  You may try out several different options in your youth because you can always pull the plug on one thing and start another. 

We arrive at the phenomena of middle age when we realize we can no longer hit the reset button – at least without significant consequences.  Middle age is that point in life when you realize you have made your choices and now you have to live with them.  It is too late to do it all over.  It is the first time in our lives when time reveals itself to us as limited.  No wonder so many act out against this initial sense of limitation by engaging in what we call a mid-life crisis. 

The crisis ends with the wise realization the choices we have made are good ones and we begin to see what we have is pretty special and satisfying.  We become aware of how the time we have put into our our work and our relationships and our passions has been an investment.  Even though it is too late to take a different path, the dividends of the choices and commitments we have made are beginning to pay off.

I am embracing the reality I am now in my late-middle age.  I will turn 60 this fall.  Most likely I am at the 2/3^rds to 3/4^ths pole of life.  As I mentioned to the Vestry at our retreat, I will be retiring sometime in the next 7-10 years.  I describe this reality as being like the mileage signs on a highway.  Once you drive to Chicago, the sign tells you are 12 miles from Walla Walla and 400 from Minneapolis.  Yes, I still have a lot more to do in my career, but for the first time the next major destination 400 miles down the road is retirement. 

I am finding being in my late-middle years to be quite invigorating.  For the first time in my life I sense how precious time is, but I don’t fret it is running out.  When we are young we say to ourselves, “I’ll get around to that someday”, imagining our life to be an undiminishing supply of somedays.  Now, I sense the need to count up my somedays and do something with them.  And, you know something, far from being depressing, it is tremendously empowering.

So, for example, I have really enjoyed the various pilgrimages I have been on over the last few summers – hiking, biking, and touring.  If I am lucky I may have another 15 summers where I can continue to do this.  So I think to myself, what are the 15 things I most want to do with my time?  I can tell you this is a question I never asked in my 20s.  In this, and in so many other ways, knowing I don’t have forever has opened uncountable doors to opportunities and possibilities.  I can’t do it all, but I am more likely to be intentional and aggressive about choosing and doing something.

Well, today’s parable of the Barren Fig Tree reminds us time is precious with the hopeful caveat, baring unforeseen circumstances, there is still time.  We each have the time to turn things around, to tend to matters needing our attention, to get up, get going, and get after those dreams we have not yet pursued.  Perhaps it is too late to chase them all, but now is the time to prioritize and to act.

And there is one more element of grace found in Jesus’ story – manure.  While we don’t usually think of the s _ _ t in our lives as being a blessing, in Jesus’ parable it represents all the ways life lines up to help us.  Our quest to be fruitful is never undertaken in isolation.  We are surrounded by those who love and care for us; whose assistance and encouragement means more than we often realize.  And we stand in the presence of the One who created us; whose Spirit works in and through all things to bring forth in us what we struggle to achieve on our own.

Earlier in the week I revisited one of my favorite websites – deathclock.com.  You simply tell it the date of your birth, your gender, outlook on life, height, weight, and whether or not you are a smoker and it will tell you the day of your death.  Apparently my heavenly reward/final judgment with come on Saturday, August 12, 2056.  It may also become my saint’s day because, as a friend of mine once pointed out optimistically, if the Episcopal Church decides to make you a saint, it always assigns your remembrance to the day you die.  Well, I don’t know if I have produced enough fruit to merit such recognition and I don’t know how I feel about the possibility of living to 97. 

According to a countdown clock on the website, as of last Friday at 3:42 in the afternoon, I had 1,179,910,387 seconds left in my life.  I laughed out loud as I watched the seconds tick down… 386, 385, 384 it occurred to me no matter how much time any of has left, each one of you has invested about 1,000 seconds of your precious time listening attentively to my sermon.  I pray the seconds you have left are many and I pray you will consider how you and God would like you to use them.

Time is precious.  What do you need to do with this day?  What do you need to do with this week?  What is the most redeeming thing you can do before the end of this month?  What is God calling you to do before the end of the year?  In the next few years? 

Lord, teach us to number our days

that we may apply our hearts to wisdom.

Freedom

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!

Welcome to our first attempt at a Celtic Eucharistic liturgy.  You may already have an inkling its spirituality sets a different tone from what we normally encounter on a Sunday morning.  It is more Trinitarian and focused on God’s guidance, God’s protection, and God’s mercy.  The God meet through Western Christianity has taken on a therapeutic persona.  Our God is there when needed, available for council and comfort, wise but not meddling, and encouraging of all our good endeavors.  God, as made known through Celtic spirituality, is engaged in a cosmic struggle while remaining unimaginably close to us.  This closeness is manifested through companionship and connection to the mystical beauty of the countryside.  Today we encounter the God of Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings, rather than the God of Jan Karon’s Mitford series. 

Our reading from the Book of Genesis blends comfortably with Celtic spirituality.  It is concerned with one of the most basic functions of all living organisms – the need to propagate.  It finds spiritual truth and hope in the stars of the night sky.  And it presents us with an image of God far different than a white-bearded, grandfatherly figure sitting on a golden throne floating on a billowy cloud.

God and Abraham engage in the ritual of an ancient Middle-Eastern covenant ceremony.  Today, when two country’s leaders sign a treaty, they exchange pens.  In Abraham’s day the ceremony was much more graphic.  Various animals, both large and small, are gathered, killed, and their carcasses cut in half.  The halves are pulled apart to create a bloody path in between, which those entering into the covenant walk barefoot between, their feet and clothing becoming stained in the process.  As they walk they recite a series of blessings and curses – the conditions of the covenant and what will follow based on adherence or disregard.  In essence, each party expresses a willingness to be like the slaughtered beasts through which they walk if they prove unfaithful.  (And you thought getting a mortgage was an undertaking!)

God promises to provide Abraham with a son, and even more, that his offspring will be as innumerable as the stars.  Abraham wants to believe, but needs a sign.  God directs him to lay out what is necessary for a covenant ceremony.  As night approaches Abraham falls into a fitful, trancelike sleep.  The text tells us a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch pass between the animal pieces.  These two symbols – perhaps related to how God protects the Israelites fleeing from Egypt as a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night – stand for God in the ritual.  Abraham himself does not enter into the gruesome walk; indicating God already deems his faith sufficient to seal the covenant and God assumes all the consequences for failure by Abraham or his offspring.

Middle-Eastern covenants bind behavior by defining how each party will and will not act and what each party will offer and receive from the relationship.  The bible tells us God enters into covenants with Noah, Abraham, Moses, and the people of Israel (through the ceremony we read about in last week’s Old Testament lesson).  As we partake of the Body and Blood of Christ we remember we have entered into a new covenant with God made possible through the work Jesus our Savior.

Each of the biblical figures who enters into a covenant with God does so freely.  The same is true for us.  We are neither forced nor coerced.  We can follow or we can forge different path.  We can act with affection towards others or we can be alienated one from another.  We can be like chicks huddling under the protective wings of the mother hen or we can run amuck in the world.  The choice is ours.  God gives us the freedom to choose.  But why?  Why does God allow us to obey or to disobey?  Why does God assume the consequences of our unfaithfulness?  Why did God create a world where things can go so wrong?

I just finished reading Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book Gathering Moss, which I quoted in a sermon last fall and then received as a gift for Christmas.  It has been a wonderful devotional-type read that has helped me to feel closer to our natural world.  Kimmerer describes the interconnectedness of every aspect of forest life.  Every organism, great or small, has a role to play.  It finds its niche in greater community – taking what it needs, giving what it doesn’t, doing something that is necessary for others.  For instance, did you know that a slug moving over moss picks up spores on its slimy underside and carries them several inches, thus providing the possibility the moss will reproduce in a new location?

Within the vast network of a forest there is little freedom.  Yes, the slug may turn this way or that.  A bird may choose to float on the wind or to work against it.  A falling leaf may or may not be carried off by the breeze.  Still, all things great and small are predisposed to do their particular part.  So why are we humans so different?  Why can’t we be a part of the bigger system without having the possibility of doing so much damage to it?  Why, at times, do was take more than we need, refuse to give what we have, and neglect to do our part for the common good?

In one chapter of her book Kimmerer describes a time she was hired to consult on a private development.  An extremely wealthy individual building a mansion on a huge expanse of property wanted to recreate an authentic Appalachian forest on the site.  No expense was spared in this effort and Kimmerer was called in to consult on the mosses involved, which hints at the scope of the undertaking. 

Well, it turns out you can’t just pick up a clump of moss from one place, put it down in another, keep it moist, and expect it to survive.  Moss, in all its varieties, is delicately situated in a place with specific kinds of nutrients, air-quality, sunlight/shade, partnering organisms, and a host of other factors.  You can’t just pick it up and move it.  Kimmerer notes the owner behind the project really did want to want to recreate an authentic ecosystem and took elaborate steps to make it happen, but his desire to control the process of growth ruined what he hoped to create. 

She then quotes Barbara Kingsolver who wrote, “It’s going to take the most selfless kind of love to do right by what we cherish and give it the protection to flourish outside our possessive embrace.”  I have read and reread this quote nearly a dozen times and there is so much in it I still can’t quite get my head around. 

It’s going to take the most selfless kind of love to do right by what we cherish and give it the protection to flourish outside our possessive embrace.

Celtic spirituality is grounded in creation as the Creator had made it.  God has created the forest to be a dynamic, interconnected ecosystem that, while random, lacks the freedom of choice.  God created the human family desiring we each have freedom.  While God could force each person to be like a brood finding love, protection, and comfort under divine wings, our response means more when it is entered into freely.  God’s selfless love eschews the possibility of a smothering, possessive embrace.  Our free will, our faithful response, elicits God’s deep joy.

We see so much in our world which must please the One who created all things and we so much which must not.  Our own lives are no different.  We choose at times to be faithful and we choose at times to forsake the terms of the covenant we have embraced.  But through it all we are free.  The choice is always ours.  Today, through our Celtic liturgy, we bind ourselves again to the strong name of the Trinity: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.  May we know God close enough to be a companion and source of strength and may we sense the restraint of God’s selfless love which invites our faithful response without smothering us in a possessive embrace.

Remembering

Last Wednesday we launched into our annual Lenten journey.  This first Sunday in Lent begins with the familiar story of Jesus being tempted by Satan in the wilderness.  It will end on Palm Sunday with the reading of his passion and death on a cross.  Over the course of Lent we will rehearse familiar liturgies and rituals, gather weekly for a meal and spiritual nourishment, refrain in worship from saying a particular word of celebration, mark the days by fasting, and in many other ways prepare with joy for the Pascal feast.  All of this helps us to remember… to remember our Lord’s walk we know as the Way of the Cross and to remember not even the grave can contain God’s Spirit. 

The rhythm of doing this annually may be arbitrary, but it is a good one.  Most likely as soon as the first human beings discerned the yearly cycle of the seasons they began to celebrate annual rituals.  Some of these are related to the movement of the sun while others are based in moments of birth, union, and death.  Some involve an entire nation while others are deeply personal.  Some take place on a specific day, others stretch out for a longer period of time.  Each, in its own way, provides an opportunity to pause, to remember, and to reflect.  Absent such rituals we would soon forget those things that matter most; the things that shape, mold, and define who we are.

In this morning’s first lesson we read of the origin of one of the first annual rituals celebrated by God’s people once they enter the Promised Land.  They gather at the town of Shechem, which is lies about halfway between Jerusalem to the south and the region of Galilee in the north.  God instructs the people to erect an altar of unhewn stones on which to place their offerings.  God directs them to carve the commandments into the stones so that as the years pass by the people will not forget them.  The altar is to serve as a permanent reminder of the covenant they have made with God.

Every year the people regather in this spot to make an offering of the first fruits of the field.  Imagine surviving on what you stored for the winter months, some years cutting back consumption as supplies run thin, collecting the initial produce of the new growing season, and (rather than eating it) offering it to God.  This ritual makes several profound statements:

· Give to God the first of what you have, not what is left over.

· Trust God will provide.

· The need to be thankful is more significant than my need to be satisfied. 

The Deuteronomy text instructs that some of the offering be given to the priests.  This is what sustains them until the collection of the next festival’s offering.  And the text states what is left is to be shared at a community meal (so yes, there is a biblical mandate for the Pot-Luck dinner but no, it does not specify fried chicken, deviled eggs, or something made with Jello should be served).  Still, this directive to gather as a community suggests one cannot live out the faith through private devotion and individual piety alone.

As each person makes an offering, the contributor recites an ancient creedal history:

A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous.  When the Egyptians treated us harshly and afflicted us, by imposing hard labor on us, we cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors; the Lord heard our voice and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression.  The Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with a terrifying display of power, and with signs and wonders; and he brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey.  So now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground that you, O Lord, have given me.

Why does every person recite this and why do it every year?  Well, you only remember the parts of your story you tell and retell.  And what you tell has a way of shaping who you are and what matters most to you. 

The men of the parish I served in Richmond used to gather monthly for a bag lunch.  Charles McMurdo – one of the church’s founding members – always brought something from the past for what affectionately become known as “Mr. Mac’s Show & Tell.”  One month he passed around a copy of a parish budget from the early 50’s.   Typed on a single side of a 5x7 sheet of paper, it showed the church’s annual expenses to be a whopping $24,000.  All gathered zeroed in quickly on the Rector’s salary package, which came in at the princely sum of $6,000 for the entire year.  This, of course, solicited barking about returning to the good olde days.

My eye, however, was drawn to the line item in the budget for diocesan giving.  It designated $6,800 for support to the wider mission of the church, a figure just shy of 30% of all the parish’s income.  Why such a staggering commitment?  And to deepen the mystery, by the time I was called to serve as rector some forty years later, the percentage of giving had fallen below 5% and the total amount was… still $6,800.  Why had the founding members been so generous and why did the amount of giving become frozen over the years?  Mr. Mac could offer no insight.  None of the other longtime members had a clue either. 

While pouring through old documents years later I learned that the parish’s spacious wooden property had been purchased by the diocese and given to the church as a site to erect its facilities.  This too was something Mr. Mac and other founding members did not recall.  I theorized diocesan giving in the early church budget reflected a sense of gratitude and partnership, but as the memory of the connection between gift and giving faded, commitment to diocesan funding waned.  As the percentage decreased, over time this budget item became more of an obligation resented by leadership than an offering of thanksgiving.  All of this happened because the story had been forgotten.

Reflecting on the power and importance of stories, I have come to see how they foster mystery, meaning, identity, and wisdom:

·  They connect us to the Divine Being behind all creation, thus putting us in touch with the fundamental Mystery found in all things. 

·  They allow us to ponder what has significance and purpose, thus giving us a sense of the meaning of life.

·  They link us with our ancestors in the faith by inviting us to appropriate their stories as our own, thus giving us a sense of identity and place.

·  They enable us to understand the precedents for what we encounter, thus equipping us with the wisdom of time-honored ways of acting and reacting.

Story telling and remembering, as individuals, as a family, as a community of faith, and as a nation is so essential God’s people did it through the offering of the first produce of the new growing season after a long, meager, drab winter of nothing but rations for dinner.  As Jesus noted while fighting off temptation, every stone can be turned to bread, but this will not satisfy your deepest spiritual need.  We need the stories of God’s encounters with the human family and the mystery, meaning, identity, and wisdom they provide.

So we begin our Lenten journey by remembering to remember.  We affirm our need to tell our stories – our personal stories, the stories of our family, the stories of this church, the stories of our community, and the stories of our nation – as we revisit The Story of God’s love made known in Jesus Christ.

More than the Worst...

Local news programs now have a graphic for it with dramatic music at the intro: Crisis in the Commonwealth.  It covers stories of two officials who worn blackface several decades ago and a third accused of inappropriate behavior.  No matter your position on these allegations and the seriousness with which they should be taken, each has changed the way we look at the person accused.  Now, when our current governor passes away, the headline of his obituary most likely will reference something he did at a Friday night party while he was in med school. 

A week or two after these stories broke, USAToday published an article chronicling what it had learned by examining more the 800 yearbooks from across the country published during the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s.  They discovered dozens and dozens of photos we deem today to be racially offensive.  They ranged from partiers wearing blackface to an entire fraternity staging a mock lynching.  Thankfully such events are not tolerated today, but they do speak of the environment in which we have been shaped, from which God continually beckons us toward the Kingdom.

While we here tonight may not share the same perspective on these events, there is one thing about them linking us together.  They give each of us cause for concern – what if that thing I did back in the day comes into the light of day in today’s world?  I sleep easy knowing there is nothing hidden in my past that could land me in jail.  Nor is there anything in my past that might cause my holy orders to be suspended.  But if made public there are a few things that would change the way you look at me: “I can’t believe when our priest was x years old, he _______.” 

I suspect there is not a person alive who doesn’t have a skeleton or two in the closet.  Some are things we did, but outgrew.  Others are mistakes we made and have learned how to live with.  Some are behaviors, attitudes, and actions acceptable (or tolerated) back in the day, but today are completely unacceptable.  Others might be things never permissible or even thinkable.  And for some, the mistakes reside not only in the past, they preside in the present and have the potential to do significant damage to us and to those we love if exposed.

I remember long ago having a conversation about the difference between shame and guilt with the priest who welcomed me into the Episcopal Church.  Guilt, he observed, is something a person feels regardless of whether or not anyone else knows what you have done.  A child who regrets stealing from a candy store even though no one knows about it may experience guilt and confess to a parent.  Or, the child may be perfectly at peace with his actions until a parent walks into his room as he stuffs his face surrounded by empty wrappers.  In this scenario, the child feels ashamed only when his actions come to light.  Guilt has something to do with how you feel about your actions.  Shame has something to do with regretting how you appear to others. 

Perhaps you live in fear… fear of being found out.  Fear because there is a time bomb ticking in your past and one of these days it is going to explode.   Or maybe you are riddled with self-recrimination... how could I have been so stupid?  Maybe you believe there is no way you can wipe the slate clean, no way you can remove the stain and pain of your own actions and behaviors. 

We gather on Ash Wednesday to remember our mortality… to remember we are but dust.  And there is plenty in the liturgy to remind us just how dirty our dust is.  The truth is we are the product of a sinful world and we are sinful people and we do more damage than even we realize.  This moment invites us to make peace with these truths.  It invites us to accept our human frailty: to acknowledge the log in our eyes, the wart on our face, and the skeleton in our closet. 

We respond to this invitation not groveling like the Prodigal Son in an attempt to earn our forgiveness and not with trepidation, fearing the consequences of being exposed, but by knowing we are enveloped in a relationship of love.  No matter how dirty we are, God embraces us with loving arms. 

Someone once said to me, “Keith, you are not defined by the worst things you have ever done.”  At the time I was dealing with the consequences of something hurtful I had done, so this comment was tremendously helpful and healing.  It didn’t mean I could run away from my actions and the impact they had on others.  Mistakes are mistakes.  Wrong is wrong.  Sin is sin.  But it did mean I did not deserve to be thrown onto a garbage heap and banished for the rest of my life.  And as damaging as my actions had been, the most significant harm was internal.  I really struggled to live with myself and love myself.  The thought of what I had done was like an anchor dragging me under.  Accepting I am not defined by my worst moments has been like a life-line to which I fiercely cling.

The season of Lent has real value in that it calls us to examine our lives and to repent.  However, we can do real damage to ourselves if we engage this process apart from the truth we are loved for who are, as we are or if we believe our worst moments speak most clearly of our lack of value and worth.  Only in the light of these truths are we able to stand before God bearing open the darkness in our hearts and in our past.  In the light of these truths, we are able to live into our best instincts, to serve as God has called us to serve, and to hope all we do that is good and gracious will be a blessing to this world.

I think about our governor – a person I do not know firsthand.  There is absolutely nothing he can do to erase a picture on his yearbook page.  Still, my assumption is he has grown in his ability to respect the dignity of every human being.  Like all of us, he is guilty of being mortal; of trying to do his best and at times falling short.  I will think of him throughout this season of Lent, not as a person who has fallen short, but as a fallen short person who has much to offer – way too much to be defined solely by something from his distant past.  I will think of him as being not that much different from me, and not that much different from anyone else here this evening.  And I will think of how God sees us as something much better than the worst we have ever done and how God calls each of us to something even better.

Should the Adaptation End Here?

Hollywood loves to take a good book and turn it into a movie.  However, many books don’t translate well to movies, hence, in opening credits you may see something like “Screenplay by Jill Jones, adopted from Al Smith’s book A Ton of Troubles”.  While most adaptations attempt to remain faithful to the original book, some do not.  Characters may be added, subtracted, or even combined.  Entire storylines may be dropped.  And, most grievous of all, the ending may be changed.  More than one moviegoer has walked out of a theatre muttering, “How could they do that!  The book was so much better than the movie!”

If I was tasked with taking the written accounts of Jesus’ life and turning them into a screenplay, my movie might just end with today’s gospel reading.  It is such a climactic moment.  It is a stunning highpoint in the story.  In a sense, what more needs to be said?  Jesus’ true divine nature eclipses his human flesh as he stands head and shoulders above Moses (the giver of the Law) and Elijah (the founder of the prophetic movement).  Their presence with Jesus on the mountain signals the fulfillment of every expectation of the ancient Scriptures.  It is a cue the orchestra, roll the credits, close the curtains, and turn up the house lights kind of moment.  What more do we need to know?  What further epiphany needs to happen? 

This year’s Epiphany season has lasted nine Sundays and over its course we have come to see Jesus as one foretold in days gone by, attested to by God’s voice at baptism, revealed through miracles and healings, and amplified through his teachings.  Today’s Transfiguration is the icing on the cake.  It is the ultimate crescendo.  It is the final piece to the puzzle.  The story, as adapted by Keith Emerson, ends right here.

I’d like to be able to take credit for my version, but the truth is another person came up with it before me.  Peter!  He is there on the mountain when all of this happens and he (like me) is impressed.  Realizing he is privileged to be present at the pinnacle, he makes a very practical suggestion: “Let’s erect a couple of shrines, capture this moment, and stay in it forever.”  What better place in the story of Jesus to insert “and they all lived happily ever after”! 

Because of this story, personal, profound spiritual moments are often referred to as ‘mountaintop experiences.’  They are high points in a person’s life and they stay with us forever.  However, they don’t last forever.  Somewhat like molded clay’s experience in a kiln, the connection we experience with God on a mountaintop prepares us for a lifetime of service for what lies next.  We are not meant to remain in the spiritual kiln.  The purpose mountaintop moments is to prepare us for what comes after.

What happens to Jesus and Peter immediately after the mountaintop is telling.  They return to the crowds and become immersed again in the world’s deep needs as they encounter a young boy tormented by epileptic seizures.  Peter’s story in no way reaches the finish line as he witnesses Jesus’ changed appearance.  It is just one moment that shapes him for service over the next thirty-some years of his life.

Are you familiar with the story of Julian of Norwich?  The Black Death swept through her region in 1373 and at age 31 she became seriously ill.  As a curate administered last rites for her, Julian began to receive a series of visions – fifteen in the span of several hours and one more the next day.  She recovered a week later and in time wrote about her visions in a text known as Revelations of Divine Love.  It is the oldest existing English book written by a woman.  Famous for its phrase “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well”, her work has inspired poets such as T.S. Elliot and prime ministers, such as Winston Churchill.  Julian went on to live out her life as an anchoress in the Norwich church, where she prayed for her community, assisted the clergy, and received numerous visitors seeking her counsel.  Julian’s renown spread throughout England and beyond. 

What interests me about Julian’s life is that her deepest, most significant religious experiences (her visions or ‘showings’) last little more than twenty-four hours.  In fact, her mountaintop moment came during a time of perilous illness.  And while she surely had more close experiences with God over the course of her life, nothing came even close to what she experienced in 1373.  The mountaintop was not the end of her story, rather it launched her into a lifetime of prayer and service.

The same is true for Jesus.  As he converses with Moses and Elijah they discuss what must take place in Jerusalem.  Jesus’ most profound ministry occurs after he sets out for the Holy City and it continues all the way to the Cross.  If I would have told it, his story would have ended on the mountain well before the low point of Calvary.  But my adaption would have missed the point.  This great mystical moment is not intended to shelter him from life’s challenges.  Rather, it serves to steel him for all that is to come.

As it was for Jesus, so it is for us.  Our moments of profound religious clarity are few and far between, but they are enough to fuel a lifetime of witness to what lies just beyond.  These moments fill our hearts when we encounter the world’s deep need.  They provide sustaining hope in the face of every discouragement.  They stay with us as we walk through the dark valley.  And they promise that when our mortal bodies lie in death the end of our story has not been written.  Jesus was able to walk down that mountain and walk into all God called him to do because he knew in the end he would rise in glory. 

My adaption might be called “The Easy Road” while the Gospel story is called “The Way of the Cross.”  In the end, The Way of the Cross is the way of life, so there is no way my adaptation should end on today’s mountaintop.

 

Imprecations

Jesus said, “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.”  Many hold these to be the most unique of Jesus’ teachings.  His other insights, such as love your neighbor, are found in the ancient Scriptures.  By highlighting them Jesus elevates them above other important, but less weighty, commandments.  Walter Wink, a Christian writer and scholar, calls loving your enemies “the litmus test of authentic Christianity” in our time. 

If you bristle when hearing this, you are not alone.  My first reaction to it is to try to chop it down, to find a way to mitigate it’s meaning, to make it more manageable and less demanding.  I don’t want to be judged on my ability to love, aid, bless, and pray for my enemies.

If loving your enemies is not your cup of tea, try this on for size:

The wicked are perverse from the womb; *

liars go astray from their birth.

They are as venomous as a serpent, *

they are like the deaf adder which stops its ears,

Which does not heed the voice of the charmer, *

no matter how skillful his charming.

O God, break their teeth in their mouths; *

pull the fangs of the young lions, O Lord.

 

  Let them vanish like water that runs off; *

let them wither like trodden grass.

Let them be like the snail that melts away, *

like a stillborn child that never sees the sun.

Before they bear fruit,

let them be cut down like a brier; *

like thorns and thistles let them be swept away.

The righteous will be glad

when they see the vengeance; *

they will bathe their feet

in the blood of the wicked.

Does this sentiment strike you are a tad too vile?  Does it make you recoil?  Does it seem far removed from the teaching Jesus puts before us this morning?  What is the source of this hateful passage?  Well, it comes from the 58^th Psalm, verses 3-10.  That’s right, it is a part of our bible, our canon of sacred and inspired writings. 

The 58^th Psalm is one of many known as the Imprecatory Psalms – named after the word imprecation meaning “a spoken curse”.  Almost 25% of the psalms have a verse or passage falling into this category.  Some of the curses are rather benign, such as “Let them be caught in the snare they have set for me.”  Others are completely over the top… “Let his children be waifs and beggars; let them be driven from the ruins of their homes” or “he will heap high their corpses and smashed heads over the wide earth.”  On Sunday mornings, sometimes, but not always, when you hear the introduction “Portions of the X-numbered Psalm are appointed to read in response to the first lesson,” the part left out is a spoken curse, an imprecation.

We leave them out for good reason.  Often they are barbaric, vindictive, and appear to be antithetical to the teachings of Jesus.  It is far easier to ignore them, dismiss them, or pretend they don’t exist than to reconcile them with Jesus’ instruction to love, aid, bless, and pray for our enemies.  Michael Curry, our Presiding Bishop, is well-known for saying, “If it isn’t about love, it isn’t about Jesus.”  It is difficult to imagine how these spoken curses are acts of love, so how can they in any way be associated with our Lord?  After all, his dying words on the cross were not words of imprecation (as we might expect), but rather, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”

Still, we in the Christian tradition hold all words of Scripture are inspired by God.  Keep in mind, these psalms are not an irrational outburst of someone pushed past his or her emotional limits, but the products of reasoned and prayerful reflection and insight.  And while it is tempting to say the Imprecatory Psalms are reflective of an Old Testament ethic of law while the New Testament is based on an ethic of love, it is worth noting Jesus and several New Testament writers quote from these same psalms.  More than one person has said they are a part of Scripture to remind us of the gap between God’s highest good and our own defective prayers, but this also seems a bit too convenient a solution.

How do we square Jesus’ teaching to love our enemies with the spoken curses riddled throughout our sacred Scriptures?

For those of you who have joined St. Paul’s in the last four to five years, you missed out on knowing me during my “bad neighbor era.”  Almost every neighborhood has a person who, when he moves away, launches everyone else to throw a block party celebration.  For the first five years I lived in my house I lived next to that guy.  I won’t go into the stories because, well, I might lapse into post-traumatic stress, but let me just say my ex-neighbor was an irrational donkey’s behind who delighted in making my life miserable. 

As infuriating as he was, the truth is I did not hate him.  What I hated – and hated with a passion – was his behavior.  If, at any point, he had approached me and said, “I have come to realize I have been a difficult and unpleasant neighbor and I am going to change my behavior and undo everything I can that I did just to be spiteful”, then I would have welcomed him as a friend.  How likely was this to happen?  Not very, but even imagining it speaks to a deeper truth.  It was the behavior I abhorred, not the person.

It is easy to lose sight of this truth.  The distinction between person and action can be blurred easily.  Loving your enemies does not mean loving their unlovable behavior.  It does not mean we are to excuse the inexcusable.  It does not mean putting up with what is problematic and pretending everything is OK.  As long as my ex-neighbor continued to act in a way that diminished my ability to flourish and demeaned me as a person, I was unwilling to dismiss his behavior.  Still, at least in my heart, I tried to maintain a distinction between who my neighbor was and what my neighbor did.

I don’t pretend this distinction solves completely the challenges posed by the Imprecatory Psalms, but it is a place to start.  The spoken curses voice just how hurtful and destructive certain actions and behaviors can be.  They attempt in no way to minimize the destructive acts of our enemies.  Jesus’ teaching calls us to love our enemies while hating the wrongs they perpetrate.  It is surely one of the most difficult of his teachings to follow and perhaps this alone makes it one of the most important.

My earnest prayer is that God, even while hating some of the things I do, will love me.  If I ask God to extend this mercy to me, how can I not extend it to my neighbor?