At the Mall

I usually try to avoid going to the mall to shop during the days before Christmas. This year, I needed one thing that I could only buy there so off I went. After about 20 minutes or so, I found a parking spot and entered the fray. The mall was full of folks, some old men sitting on the communal couches, waiting with packages piled around them, teenagers roving in groups, some smiling and laughing but most wandering around with blank stares. As I joined the crowd, I had the unbidden thought: “What in the world would Jesus think of all this – all this consumerism and stress and lost expressions?” And then almost immediately, I heard in my heart these words of scripture: “When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd” (Matthew 9.36). And it was all right, there in the mall, in the midst of the mess of Christmas. God was with us: Emmanuel.

A David kind of world

In my readings this summer, I have read through the whole story of David. It is fascinating – full of intrigue, plotting, revenge, power struggles, heartbreak. David is not a priest or a prophet; he is a warrior and a ruler. He lives in a world of danger and politics. He does not spend his days cloistered in worship. But even so, he is always consulting God about what to do. And despite all his faults and failings – and they are significant – he is the one known as a man after God’s own heart.

Sometimes I think I live in a David kind of world. I am certainly not a warrior king, but I do have my own battles to fight. There is no pulpit for me to hide behind, no quiet sanctuary or study to settle my soul. I live and work in the midst of a world where there are problems without solutions, struggles that cannot be overcome, pain that has no anodyne, and difficulties that seem to surpass the wisdom one needs to cope. And I carry my own significant sins and sorrows. So am I consulting with God in the midst of this worldly life I lead? Do I believe that my actions have God’s blessings? Sometimes. Do I miss being more immersed in the holy, living and working in a place where the Word is central, where matters of the soul are given serious reflection, where prayer is a constant? I do miss it. But then I think, maybe to seek that way of life is to have it – even in the most unlikely places. Maybe to long for the sacred is to find it. And maybe there is no context so odd and unlikely that it is beyond the shelter of God’s presence.

So as I go off to do battle today, let me be reminded to consult with God, and to try to follow after God’s own heart.

Reading Leviticus

This year, I am reading the Bible all the way through in version that provides a lectio continua reading from Hebrew scripture and Gospel, a psalm, and a verse or two from Proverbs each day. For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been reading Leviticus, and it is fascinating. It is such a carefully ordered approach to life in community, exactly the kind of guide an ancient people needed in order to maintain their God-chosen identity in the midst of pagan society.

It is also fascinating to consider how modern people have interpreted this guide in a time, place, and culture so different from its original genesis. It strikes me that we have done a lot of picking and choosing. For example, many modern folks want to enforce the guidelines about sex (Lev. 18), but would not dream of obeying some of the other parts. For example, I personally have never been in a church that offered burnt animals as a pleasing gift to God (Lev. 1; 4; 5; and many other chapters). There are lots of church people who say they take the Bible’s commands literally and yet wear polyester-cotton clothing (Lev. 19:19), even into worship, or associate with others when they have a skin problem like eczema or acne (Lev 13). You get the point.

And then there is this:

If one of your countrymen becomes poor and is unable to support himself among you, help him as you would an alien or a temporary resident, so he can continue to live among you. Do not take interest of any kind from him, but fear your God, so that your countryman may continue to live among you. You must not lend him money at interest or sell him food at a profit. I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt to give you the land of Canaan and to be your God. (Lev. 25:35-38, NIV)

Well.

The news is full of stories about our fellow men and women who have become poor. I know many churches that have long been concerned about the poor. There are soup kitchens, food drives, clothing closets, and building projects, all intended to help others. But I don’t hear much, if anything, about us promoting (or creating) programs to make no-interest loans, or opening stores that sell at wholesale. I do hear a lot of church people who are worried about how they will keep their lights on, their sanctuaries heated, and the preacher and musicians paid.

When we pick and choose which commands to obey, we need to be careful not to pick those that fit in with our own thinking and seem to advance our personal ideas of the realm of God, while rejecting the ones that are hard to accept. Isn’t it interesting that Jesus had quite a bit to say about money, and almost nothing about sex? Somehow, I think we have gotten our priorities wrong. Maybe one outcome of this recession/depression is that it will force us to reflect on matters of money in a way that prosperous times do not.

And it seems to me that the holy intent of the ancient commandments – all of them – was forming community. We’ve lost sight of that. In fact, all too often, the way we apply the rules accomplishes just the opposite: it shuts people out and breaks up community. Maybe as we get back to basics, we can learn the preciousness of relationships, the unconditional love of God, and the blessing of the community of faith, a community so vast it embraces everyone whom God loves. Which, after all, is ….everyone.

In Our Hands

Isaiah 9:2-7
Luke 2:1-20

There is so much about this story that tugs at our hearts: the animals in the stable, the shepherds carrying lambs, the new mother, the father standing watch, and, in the center of it all, a baby. It is a scene written in our memories even though we were not there to witness it when it happened. We have seen it on Christmas cards, in museums with famous paintings, on our lawns and in manger scenes on the mantel so much that it seems as though we must have been present.

But is it not just a picture. It is also music. Of course, it is music in the hymns and Christmas carols that we sing, but especially this night, it is somehow the music of the angels. And their song is a powerful and precious part of Christmas because it speaks to some of our deepest hopes. “Peace on earth,” they sing, and “good will from God” and isn’t that what we want? God’s good will -- the certain presence among us fulfilling all those ancient promises so that the world becomes the way it was at the beginning when there was peace everywhere. That is what the angels sing.

But listen carefully to their music. What they are singing is not about some future time. They are singing about the here and now. When this child comes among us, then there is peace. That is why the heavens open and the music pours down on us. In the coming of the baby, everything that God has ever promised is here and now. Except that it doesn’t exactly seem like that, does it? The world is filled with wars, big and small. There is famine and hunger and financial disaster. Many people are losing their jobs, and those who have them can barely get by. And it is not just the world around us; sometimes there is no peace in our homes, no peace in our hearts. So what do we make of this song that the angels sing, these words from on high proclaiming the reality of God’s presence in the world? What do we make of them? And what does God call us to do to make this Christmas promise a reality?

Let me tell you a little story about an ancient holy man, a saint, known as Kevin. He lived in Ireland 1500 years ago and he was a good and gentle soul. There are many stories of his kind and loving ways. One of those stories tells of a day when he was praying with his arms lifted out. He prayed and prayed, deep in prayer for a long time -- long enough for a bird to come and make a nest in his hand and lay an egg. And as the story goes, Kevin remained with his hand held out until the egg hatched.

It’s a fanciful story, a legend hard to believe I suppose, except here’s the truth of it. The same thing can happen to us. The same thing does happen to us.

Every time we reach out to God, every time we open our hearts, God puts the precious gift of life and love and peace in our hands. And once we hold it, then it is up to us, like Kevin, to protect and nurture it, to watch and wait, to be gentle and patient and to persevere. And it is ironic, I suppose, that the almighty, all powerful God, creator of the universe, ruler of all that is, that this God of awe and might gives us a gift that somehow looks so small and fragile.
Like the gift we receive here tonight. That gift looks like a small piece of bread that we take from each other—a little ordinary insignificant piece of bread -- but that bread has the power of the crucifixion and the resurrection in it, a power that overcomes death and promises eternal life. And then there is the gift that looks like a thimbleful of juice, a tiny little sip, barely enough to taste, but that gift has the life-giving power and healing strength of the blood of Jesus and we taste it and it is a transfusion of love that saves our souls. But above all, on this night, there is the small and fragile gift from God that is a baby. And maybe that is the most fragile of all, because a baby is one who requires our care and protection to grow into life. It is fragile, and it is astonishing, because Jesus, God’s gift to the world, is given to us as one of us. It is what the church calls the incarnation which one preacher describes as “nothing less than Ultimate Mystery born with a skull you could crush one-handed.” (Frederick Buechner)

We have a new baby in our family this Christmas, born on December 20. It is easy to forget how little a newborn is, how tiny and fragile. It is easy to take for granted the miracle of new life -- until you hold it in your hands. All life is a gift from God, and on this night, and when we hold a new babe, we are reminded of how amazing that gift is.

But God’s ultimate Christmas gift is kind of surprise, isn’t it? Think about it: God does maybe the last thing on earth that we would expect, coming among us as one who is fragile, helpless, defenseless and dependent. It was certainly not what people wanted two thousand years ago. When Jesus was born in Bethlehem, God’s people were looking for a savior -- someone powerful and strong, someone who would lead an army to defeat those who oppressed God’s people. They were looking for someone who could wage the kind of war that would restore the land to them, reclaim their power, take over the government. That’s what they wanted, and it’s not so different from what we want, really. We want God to solve our problems, fix what is wrong, take care of us. That’s the kind of gift we want, and instead we get a gift that we have to take care of. That is what happens tonight. We open our hearts, and the gift of life and love is given to us all over again, but it is not always what we expect. In my life, in your life, this gift may seem small and insignificant, whatever it is that God has given. But it demands a response from us, it calls us to care. Our task is to hold our gift gently, to wait and watch with patience and faith as it opens in our midst, to do all we can to make that life and growth possible. The gift is like a newborn baby. The gift is a newborn baby.

When Jesus was born, people wanted peace on earth, and God’s gift to them was one called the Prince of Peace. The angels knew it first and they announced it from the heavens: “Peace on earth.” The shepherds heard and believed and told what they had seen and learned. And some who found this fragile gift within their reach held it with care and patience, watched over it, and nurtured and helped it grow. But others ignored what they had been given and went on their way, leaving God’s great gift shattered and broken and ruined, crushed and abandoned.

That is the way it was then when the angels first sang, and it is still that way now, because we, too, want peace; we, too, listen for heavenly reassurance; and we, too, have the gift within our reach. That gift of peace, of the Prince of Peace, is a reality in God’s kingdom. It may seem that it is not fully realized in our world, especially in these days of war and bankruptcy and bailouts. But on this night of nights, this holy night, the gift is revealed to us and we know that all is possible, that God’s promise is kept, here and now, as it was in Bethlehem. And we are called to cradle God’s great gift in our hands, not to lose heart, not to give up, not to go our own way and drop what we have been given. We are called to hold and protect it, to wait, to watch, and keep faith because it will come to fullness in time. At Christmas, the angels sing to us, and we, like the shepherds, know the promise of peace born as a baby, and like it was for them, he is give to us to hold in our hearts.

As a bird grows in the egg, as a baby grows in the womb, so peace grows in our world through the great gift of Jesus Christ. May we be those who hold it and protect it while we watch and pray.





(c) Martha C. Highsmith

The Magnificat

Mary's powerful song of praise (Luke 1:46-55) begins: "My soul magnifies the Lord." What would happen if we took this as a command for ourselves; and what would it mean to interpret it literally?
When you cannot see something clearly, a magnifying glass is a useful tool. When I'm tying a fly onto a leader, I have a little magnifier that helps me thread the almost invisible line through the tiny eye. People who stitch use magnifying glasses to help them. And anyone who wears glasses or contacts understands their necessity.
So what would our world, exterior and interior, be like if our souls were magnifiers, if we held them up to God so that God became clearer and easier for the world, and us, to see? Mary goes on to sing of the lowly being lifted up, the hungry being fed, the proud and the rich and those who think they are big stuff being brought down to size. That is what God looks like, and the soul that makes that clear acts to bring about God's vision.
In the life of faith, Advent is not about getting ready for Christmas: buying and wrapping and cooking and decorating. Instead, Advent is meant to be our anticipation of God's promised presence in the world. God has come in Jesus long ago, and the scriptures inform us that God will come again. And in my soul, I know, too, that God in Christ is here and now. So, I take as my Advent task (along with the shopping and the celebrating!) figuring out I can make that presence as clear as possible with my own life, how I can hold my soul up to God so that God shines through, magnified, bright and clear!

Thirty Pieces of Silver

Then one of the twelve, who was called Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests and said, “What will you give me if I betray him to you?” They paid him thirty pieces of silver. And from that moment he began to look for an opportunity to betray him. (Matthew 26:14-16)

Judas is our scapegoat this week. He is the one who bears the guilt of all of us. We have made him a kind of monster in our minds, someone who did something unthinkable, who committed the scandal of selling out and doing in his friend and companion. But, if we are truthful with ourselves, we know in our hearts that we have all betrayed Jesus, we have all taken our own thirty pieces of silver.

Our thirty pieces of silver are those things we have wanted more than we wanted to follow Jesus. Sometimes our purse of betrayal holds “ambition” or “fitting in and being popular” or “failure to forgive” or “lack of compassion” or “blindness to the needs of another.” I will spend some time this day naming thirty things that I have sought instead of seeking to follow Jesus. And (God have mercy) I don’t think I will have a hard time coming up with the list.

What is on your list? Can you name your own pieces of silver? Try it and then .... give it up. We keep careful accounts, but somehow it seems Jesus does not. Consider this story (from Madeline L’Engle, in The Rock That is Higher):

There is an old legend that after his death Judas found himself at the bottom of a deep and slimy pit. For thousands of years he wept his repentance, and then the tears were finally spent he looked up and say, way, way up, a tiny glimmer of light. After he had contemplated it for another thousand years or so, he began to try to climb up towards it. The wall of the pit were dank and slimy, and he kept slipping back down. Finally, after great effort, he neared the top, and then he slipped and fell all the way back down. It took him many years to recover, all the time weeping bitter tears of grief and repentance, and then he started to climb again. After many more falls and efforts and failures he reached the top and dragged himself into an upper room with twelve people seated around a table. “We’ve been waiting of you, Judas,” Jesus said. “We couldn’t begin till you came.”

And maybe this is the ultimate scandal -- not what Judas did but rather what Jesus is still doing. No matter what we have done, no matter how we have sold out, Jesus is waiting for us, ready to welcome us back as his friends and followers. Let us look at our lives honestly this day, but do that knowing that when Jesus looks at us, it is with unbearable love.

Fifth Sunday of Lent

A Near Death Experience

John 11:1-45

There has been a tradition at Carnegie Mellon University for faculty members to be invited to give their last lecture. That is what they would want to say to their students if they knew it was the last time they would address them. Last September, Professor Randy Pausch gave that lecture and for him it was not an academic exercise: it was the real thing. He has pancreatic cancer and had just been give maybe three to six months to live. He’s still living but has just stopped chemo because it really isn’t working any more. Death for him is not an abstraction. It is a reality that has shaped how he is living these days. In his lecture – you can see it on line – he talks about fulfilling his childhood dreams. And he says this: That he is not going to talk about death, but about life and how to live.

It is an amazing lecture – powerful and honest and moving. He is looking his own death squarely in the face, and doing that by living his life to the fullest. And perhaps most amazingly, he does not seem to be afraid.

That is surprising, because it seems that death is the great and secret fear of humankind. It is the one thing in our world that ultimately remains beyond our control. In modern times, we have solved many of the mysteries that baffled our ancient sisters and brothers. We can plot the path of storms; we know how the human body works; we can move mountains. In fact, we can do pretty much whatever we put our minds to. But we cannot avoid death. We can prolong life, yes, but we cannot avoid death. We will take heroic measures to keep it at bay. There are all kinds of medical interventions possible at the end of life these days, and almost all of them are intended to delay, postpone, push back the darkness of death.

I think that is because it is the final great mystery. For all our modern brilliance, we cannot truly understand what happens when someone dies. One of the professors at Yale, a doctor, has written a book titled “How We Die.” In it, he describes the physiological characteristics of death. But even with all his medical knowledge, he has not been able to explain why death comes when it does, what happens during death, or what comes next.

There are others who have written about their own experience with death. You know the stories: someone’s heart stops beating of the operating table, or someone has a terrible accident, or something like that, but they live to tell about it. If you’ve ever read or heard any of these stories, you’ll know that these folks focus more on what happens to them spiritually rather than physically. They often talk about moving in the direction of a great light, about feeling a sense of peace, about wanting to go rather than remain in the land of the living. For many of them, there is no more fear about death once they have had this kind of experience. But they can’t explain what happened to them. The doctors can’t explain it. The scientists can’t explain it. No one can explain it.

Death remains the ultimate mystery, and we do not deal well with mystery. Despite all our knowledge and skill and sophistication, we are no different from primitive peoples. Death makes us feel helpless and afraid. That is one of the reasons that Lent is such a somber season in the church. During Lent, we take an inevitable journey toward death. There is nothing we can do to avoid what is coming, just as there was nothing that Jesus’ disciples could do, although they tried. They did not want him to go to his friends at Bethany because the authorities were trying to do away with him. They wanted him to lie low, not stir up trouble, keep out of sight. And he would not. They were afraid he would be killed. And Thomas, without a doubt, was ready to die with Jesus. “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” And so they went, into a place of danger, a place of death and despair.

When they got there, they found that Lazarus had been buried for four days. Sorrow surrounded them; there was weeping and distress. Even Jesus was overcome with grief. But he called Lazarus forth out of the tomb, out of death, with a power that was beyond any earthly power, and Lazarus obeyed, stepping out into the light of day, the light of life, still bound by his grave cloths, with the smell of his own death filling his nostrils.

I wonder what that was like, but the scripture is silent on that point. Lazarus does not speak, does not tell us what it was like to be dead and buried for four days, to be beyond life and then called back. Lazarus has entered deep into the Mystery, and he has no words to tell of that experience. But if I find that frustrating, the scripture gently chides me. Because this story is not about Lazarus and his experience of being dead. This story is about seeing the glory of God in Jesus Christ and believing. This story is not preparation for understanding our own death. It is preparation for understanding life.

The heart of this story is not what happens at the open grave. It is what happens in the exchange between Jesus and Martha:

Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

“I am the resurrection and the life.” How will they remember that in only a few short weeks when he is crucified? How will they remember that when his tomb is open and empty. How will they remember that when he is among them again, the same and yet completely transformed? Will they understand?

No, they will not, because resurrection is an even greater mystery than death. The events that will take place in Jerusalem, in the garden, on the road to Emmaus, will defy understanding. The resurrection is not something they will be able to explain, to figure out. They will want proof, like Thomas. They will want to hang on, like Mary. But none of that will happen. Because the resurrection that Jesus talks about is not something to be analyzed. It is something to be believed. It is not like a question that has an answer or a problem that has a solution. It is a mystery that must be experienced.

When Jesus says: “I am the resurrection,” he is inviting us to enter into that mystery. But unlike what happened to Lazarus, resurrection is not something that happens to Jesus – it is who Jesus is. Jesus is the resurrection. Where there is death and nothingness, Jesus is. Where there is grief and despair, Jesus is. Where we have given up hope, Jesus is.

And in the end, it is not about death at all, but rather about life. Jesus says, “I am the resurrection and the life.” And he is inviting us to be resurrection and life also. After all, we are the Body of Christ, aren’t we? And that means that in spite of our brokenness and our woundedness,we are alive.

One of my favorite poems ends with this line: Practice resurrection. It seems to mean that resurrection is not something that happens to us only once, but that it is a continuing state of being. To practice resurrection is to practice Christ, the one who is the resurrection. It is to be always moving in the direction of life, offering life to others, living life abundantly. It is to understand that all of life is a near-death experience, in a way. It is living without fear, with faith.

There is no need, anymore, to fight death. Our Lord has already done that for us. Death has been conquered, once and for all. We will not, of course, escape a physical death. Not even Lazarus was able to do that in the end. But here is the great mystery that unfolds at the tomb: Death is not the end of life. There is a life in us that will not die, because Christ is in us. There is life in us and resurrection, too.

Jesus says: “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.” And then he asks a question – of Martha and of us: “Do you believe this?”

Do you?



(c) Martha C. Highsmith

The Southern Gospel

Yesterday in Sunday School, we read all the Gospel accounts of the coming of Jesus. Matthew and Luke, of course, tell about the birth, and John writes a long and lovely prose poem about the incarnation. And then there is Mark, who mentions nothing about a baby, and instead just jumps right in to the story of the ministry after the barest of introductions: “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ.”
After the lesson, one of the women leaned over to me and said that she thought Mark was a northerner and Luke was a southerner, because Mark was in a hurry to get to the story, but Luke added in all the details: what the baby was wearing, where the whole thing happened, how Mary knew she was pregnant, who came to visit. My friend was right – the southern way is to tell the story in all its specificity, and when we hear Luke 2 in church tonight, I will be thinking about the evangelist as one of our neighbors – interested in having us know exactly how it happened, in all the detail, so we can picture ourselves in the story. Which, of course, we are.