September 11

Eleven years ago, I hosted a little dinner party early in September.  It was a picture-perfect evening, cool and clear.  My garden was lovely with late summer blooms and basil and tomatoes and other vegetables at their peak. I put a long table in the back yard and covered it with my antique crocheted table clothes.  I moved the dining room chairs out on the grass, and set the table with china and silver and candlesticks.  We had ham and pimento cheese sandwiches.  And my friends and I sat in the twilight and laughed and talked and it was wonderful.  I don't remember the conversation but I do remember the feeling of love and security and innocence.  And then a few days later, it seemed that all that was destroyed in the rubble of falling towers and crashing planes.

When I think about 9/11, that dinner party is my "before."  It was a time when we were blissfully naive, unaware of the tragedy that was before us.  Even as we sat under the stars, sharing food and fellowship, someone somewhere was planning an elaborate act of destruction.

I've had friends over for supper many times since then.  We still laugh and talk and share each other's joys and sorrows.  But somehow it is not quite the same.  We are not as innocent and trusting as we might have been then.  We have seen a side of human nature that is much more evil than we could have imagined that night.  But we have also seen a side of human nature that is humbling in its radical love: in people willing to lay down their lives for their friends, and for total strangers; in the tender care of the survivors; in the love and support of those who still live with loss; in the tragedy of the loss of those who could not survive the deaths of those they loved.

Today was another sparkling clear September day.  And tonight my garden is lovely, the stars are shining, and I know that love lives in the world, even in the face of terror and evil.

22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time

Purely Religious??

James 1:17-27

Mark 7: 1-8.14-15. 21-23

The book of James has gotten a bad rap throughout history.  Martin Luther called it the “strawy epistle” meaning apparently that it lacked substance.   But if you read this little book from beginning to end, you will find careful and comprehensive instructions about how to live a truly Christian life. 

James calls on us to care for the most vulnerable, to practice hospitality, to avoid favoritism, to refrain from actions based in anger, to be generous.  James calls on us to be doers of the Word, to practice our faith, to put our beliefs into action. 

We cannot merely read or hear the Word.  That is not enough. 

That is like looking at ourselves in a mirror, and then going away with no lasting image of who we are.  It is a fleeting experience that accomplishes nothing.  But looking into the mirror of the law – the Word – and then acting on what we see there, is the path to blessing. 

BUT – there is a big caveat to all this.  Sometimes we look into the mirror of the word and only see what we want to see.  We get all caught up in appearances, in how things look, and we forget what lies beyond the surface.  We spend our efforts on the rules and regulations and miss the intention of love that lies behind them.

This is not a new problem.  The religious leaders of Jesus’ time were experts in the law.  They knew every little jot and tittle. They were the keepers of tradition. And the tradition was important, no doubt about it.  Back in the wilderness, after Moses came down with the tablets of the law, it was the tradition that shaped the children of Israel into God’s holy people.  They were set apart from the pagans around them by everyday customs – what they ate, how they dressed, what kind of relationships they could have, how they worshiped.  Those traditions were important because they put the Law, the Word, into action.  They were guidelines for how to live. 

But somewhere along the way, the tradition – not the Word – became the focus.  Being religious came to mean keeping the rules.  The rules had built up over the years, layer by layer by layer, so they almost obscured the precious shining intention of the Law that was their foundation. 

And the religious leaders took on the job of enforcing the rules, which put them in conflict with Jesus.  Jesus was a rule-breaker!  But not just for the sake of being contrary or combative.  Jesus broke the rules anywhere the rules had become instruments of exclusion. 

Take this story about the rule for hand washing before eating.  It doesn’t seem to so bad, does it?  After all, we are supposed to do the same thing, for health reasons now, of course, not religious ones.  What could be the problem with requiring people to wash their hands?

Well, think about this part of the world in the first century.  A lot of the land was desert.  Water was scarce.  Getting enough water to drink and farm with took a lot of effort.  Poor people needed to use their precious water as carefully as possible, and pouring it out on their hands before a meal was an extravagance they could not afford. 

The Pharisees and the scribes, on the other hand, were among society’s elite.  They were relatively wealthy, supported by gifts to the synagogue.  They did not have to travel miles to draw water each day.  They did not have to worry about the lack of rain when the wheat was in the field.  They did not have to ensure that the thirsty could drink.  All that was taken care of for them.  They could afford to wash their hands, to be clean before they ate.

And this simple little rule, this tradition gone astray, had the effect of creating divisions.  The rich were able to keep themselves pure, according to the rules of religion, while the poor, even those who were deeply faithful, were considered ritually unclean and declared impure.

And Jesus stepped into this division between the leaders and the people, the rich and the poor, those who thought themselves pure and those who could not keep the burdensome rules.  He reminded them what the Word, the Law, was really about.  It was not about separating people; it was not about creating second-class citizens; it was not about a practice that had become divorced from its original intention.  In fact, Jesus said, it didn’t matter at all what happened on the outside.  Purity could only come from within. And washing one’s hands was no substitute for having a clean heart.

But what does this have to do with us – if anything?  We wash our hands because that is good hygiene, not because we think it makes us holy and pure.  In our church, our denomination, we don’t have all those rules about what to eat and what to wear and how to deal with leprosy. 

Maybe not.  But perhaps we have our own version of the ancient rules. We love our church and we depend on our own laws to help us know how to act.  Heaven knows, Presbyterians love their rules, their Book of Order!  We debate doctrine ad naseum. 

But when the rules become a means of creating divisions, of sorting the faithful into this group versus that group, of declaring some of us second-class, then like the ancient Pharisees, we have become purely religious, not religiously pure.  We have forgotten what God’s word really looks like. 

A clue to how we are supposed to be together in the church lies in the origin of the word religion.  It comes from a Latin word that means to bind up again.  Pure religion ties together what has been separated.  Pure religion connects us again into a whole body.  Pure religion is about unity, not division. 

If we are to be doers of the Word, then everything we do must lead to wholeness and unity and equality.  That is the source of our strength.  A single stick can be snapped, but a bundle tied together cannot be easily broken.  Together we can withstand the pressures of the world.  Together we are strong.   Together in our diversity we are the image of God, reflected in the mirror of the Word. 

So let us be doers of the Word, the precious shining Word, that binds us all together in God’s love. 

May it be so.  Amen.

© Martha C. Highsmith

Idle and Blessed

A couple of weeks ago the New York Times had two articles about one of the odd and troubling aspects of modern life. One, in the Review section, was about how busy we are, how being busy has become a mark of meaning, a sign of importance and worth. We are too busy to see friends, too busy to take a day "off," too busy to step out of the ratrace even for a moment. The other article was in the Travel section and was about how hard it is to unplug on vacation. The ubiquitious email, the "bing" of messages, the vibrating phone -- all those divide our attention. We keep one ear listening for the sounds of work in case we miss something important. And what happens is that we risk missing that which is truly important, and we are never fully present where we are in the moment. Children are laughing, old people are telling stories, young mothers are singing babies to bed, the ocean is washing the cares of the world away -- and we are busy listening for the latest office email.

I have been more intentional this year about giving my wholehearted attention to the place and the people where I am. I have been spectacularly un-busy. I have had fascinating conversations with a three-year-old, and have listened to the prayers of tiny toddler. I have sat on the beach and dozed. I have napped. I have cooked with my mother and brother, read the paper every morning with my father, and shared a bed with sister just as we did when we were little.

I have been idle and blessed, and it has been like an unceasing prayer, a prayer of thanksgiving for all the bounty of this life, this family, this time. Amen.

The Summer Day by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?  

from New and Selected Poems, 1992 Beacon Press, Boston, MA    

14th Sunday in Ordinary Time

What’s Your Story?

Mark 6:1-12

For the past several weeks, we have been reading stories about the early days of Jesus’ ministry.  The stories tell of Jesus healing and raising people out of death, stilling the storm, casting out demons.  There are miracles at every turn, it seems. 

Great crowds gather to watch, some out of curiosity, no doubt, wanting to see this spectacle; others out of need, seeking healing and wholeness for themselves or someone they love.  Some see and believe that this is godly power; others dismiss Jesus as just another trouble-maker or a heretic. 

But whatever the crowds think, the stories spread.  They inspire the faithful and challenge the skeptics.  The stories are told and retold. And eventually, they are written down and spread even further. 

Matthew, Mark, and Luke all tell the story of Jesus returning to his hometown and going to the synagogue.   We’ve heard Mark’s account this morning, and it is a little different from the other versions.  That is understandable, isn’t it?  Two or three people can be involved in the same event and each one will have a different perspective. 

As Mark tells the story, we know how Jesus’ visit to Nazareth affected him.  The negative reaction of the people is powerful and makes it all but impossible for him to minister among them. 

But there are other stories here, too.  What about the people who heard him teach that day, those who were offended by his teaching?  How were they affected?  What story would they tell about this encounter?  I invite you to imagine one of those stories with me.

Well, I’d known him all his life, and he was always a nice boy.  His mother was glad to have him take up the family business and support her, and he was a good carpenter, steady and strong.  But he always seemed to be thinking about something else, and that cousin of his, John, was not a good influence.  One day, he just up and left, went to see John in the wilderness somewhere down near Jerusalem, where he got baptized or something. 

He came back home after that but he was not the same.  That was when he started his work as an itinerant preacher.  It just about broke his mother’s heart when he left home.  And the stuff he was saying and doing – oh my goodness – we all knew he would get into trouble with the authorities.

I remember that Sabbath when he came back to Nazareth to visit.  In our synagogue, men and women worshipped together and I was there that day when Jesus stood up and started to teach.  We were all so impressed by his confidence, his knowledge, his wisdom.  But the more he talked, the more it seemed he was challenging us.  His interpretation of the scriptures was not what we were used to.  And somehow I felt …accused…or guilty….or something. We were good people, weren’t we?  But I felt like I needed to defend my beliefs against what he was saying.

And then I just got angry.  I think a lot of us did.  I mean, who did he think we was to presume to teach us about God, to tell us what it meant to be faithful.  He was only a carpenter, after all, not a rabbi, and not even from a respectable background.  Of course, Joseph had raised him, but we had never been quite sure about who his father really was. And where was his respect for his elders?  I was old enough to be his mother; I’d changed his diapers, for goodness sake. And now here he was, acting like he was God or something. 

We never got to see any of those miracles we’d heard about.  And when he left us that time, we knew he would not be back.  It was almost as though he had shaken the dust of Nazareth off his feet and moved on.  And I’m sorry that it turned out the way it did, but we were right about him getting into trouble. I just never thought he would get himself killed, and certainly not like that.

You know, I’ve thought a lot about that day in the synagogue since he died.  I can’t remember exactly what he said but I know now that he was trying to show us some deep truth about God, and all we could see was an ordinary person we’d known all our lives. 

I’d give almost anything to be able to sit in that synagogue and hear him teach again.  And maybe I can.  The ones who were with him while he was alive say that he is still present, that he is alive in a new way.  I don’t know what to make of that, exactly.  But I do know that he keeps on teaching.  I hear his stories all the time.  It is as though he left parts of himself behind in those who were willing to take what he offered. 

I didn’t do that when he was here, but I’m doing it now.  I’m looking for him in the most ordinary places; I’m listening for him in the voices of those around me; I’m trying to live so God can use me to do that for others.  And maybe there has been a miracle in our midst because I feel like I’m meeting Jesus in a whole new way.  I feel like I’ve been given another chance to know him.  

And that’s my story. 

What’s your story? 

Are you one of those ordinary people who bears God into the world?  Are you one who teaches Christ?  What story are you telling the world with the way you live your life?  You may be the only gospel some people ever hear. 

And where do you yourself meet Christ?  Do you expect to encounter him in the words of a brother or sister, a familiar friend, an ordinary person?  When your faith is weak, do you draw strength from the Christ in another’s heart? 

Jesus is in our midst, still teaching, still healing, still challenging.  All we have to do is receive what he offers.  The great story of God’s love, God’s power made perfect in weakness, God’s all-sufficient grace, was lived out in Jesus; and now that story lives in us. 

           

Go and tell!

Trinity Sunday

"Understanding God"

Isaiah 6:1-8

Psalm 29

Romans 8:12-17

John 3:1-17

Today is Trinity Sunday, but we acknowledge the Holy Trinity almost every Sunday.  “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit” is an ancient –- and very familiar -- way of understanding God.  Some churches sing it in a Gloria Patri or a doxology. Others say it along with the sign of the cross. And almost all churches use the phrase as part of baptism.  But what does it mean, really, to speak of God as trinity, as three in one, one in three?

The preacher Frederick Buechner explains it this way:

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit mean that the mystery beyond us, the mystery among us, and the mystery within us are all the same mystery.  Thus the Trinity is a way of saying something about us and the way we experience God.

The Trinity is also a way of saying something about God and the way God is within Godself, namely God does not need Creation in order to have something to love, because within Godself love happens.  In other words, the love God is is love not as a noun but as a verb. ….

                                                                             (Wishful Thinking, p 114)

So God is love in action, in the threefold way that is a mystery.  I’m talking about capital M mystery, the kind of mystery that might better be called mystical, and not the kind that is a problem to be solved.  We are good at the latter, at solving problems and figuring things out, but not so good at dwelling with mystery.  That’s a problem in itself, because the life of faith, a life lived in, with, of and by God, is just that, a life of dwelling in mystery. 

If this isn’t easy for us we can perhaps take comfort that it hasn’t been easy for our predecessors in faith either.  

Look at poor old Nicodemus.  He just didn’t get it, did he?

He came under cover of darkness to see Jesus, both the darkness of nighttime and maybe also the darkness of his own doubt and confusion.  Perhaps he thought that his interest in Jesus would be hidden in the dark, but instead he found himself in the presence of pure light, the kind of light that exposed all his deepest needs and desires and lack and longing.  He found himself in the presence of the Light of world.

He was drawn to Jesus by the physical signs he had seen, but Jesus seemed to say that it was what could not be seen that was more powerful.  Nicodemus was firmly rooted in the kingdom of the world and Jesus instead pointed him to the Kingdom of heaven – whatever that meant.

And Nicodemus confused Jesus’ instruction to be born from above as meaning that he had to somehow crawl back into his mother’s womb.

He also thought Jesus was talking about the wind when what Jesus really meant was the powerful breath of the Spirit blowing wherever it chose.

We get a sense of how frustrated Nicodemus must have been when he finally threw up his hands and said:  How can these things be?

How indeed!  If Nicodemus, a learned man, a scholar of the Torah, a teacher of Israel, couldn’t understand, what hope could there be for the rest of the people, especially those like us who never had the chance to approach Jesus in person?  How is it possible for us to understand God, to comprehend this mystery?  What is God like?  How can we know God?

Reflect with me for a moment on some of the ways God is revealed in the Hebrew Bible.  God is experienced as a mighty wind, a voice, a rock, a pillar of fire, a sheer silence and the sound of thunder.  God is understood as a nursing mother caring for her child, a shepherd, a king; a judge, a potter, a lover, a father.  And yet, none of those understandings fully grasp all of who God is.  As the prophet Isaiah reminded us:  God’s thoughts are not our thoughts nor are our ways God’s ways.  For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are God’s ways higher than our ways and God’s thoughts than our thoughts (paraphrase of Isaiah 55:8-9).

As much as we might try, ultimately it seems God is unknowable.  Except, except, God apparently wants to be known so God comes to us in ways we can understand.  As John Calvin said:

“For who even of slight intelligence does not understand that, as nurses commonly do with infants, God is [accustomed] … to ‘lisp’ in speaking to us? Thus such forms of speaking do not so much express clearly what God is like as accommodate the knowledge of God to our slight capacity. To do this God must descend far beneath God’s loftiness.” (Calvin, Institutes, Book 1, Chapter 13, Section 1)

In other words, God speaks to us in baby talk.  God kneels down so we can see eye to eye.  God comes to us in ways we can comprehend.  We have an understanding God who knows our limitations and responds to them, by approaching us in a whole variety of ways, and even going so far as to become one of us.  Jesus was both the Son of God and somehow also God.  John tells us that “The Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.”  But John also reminds us that “No one has ever seen God.  It is the God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made God known.” (John 1:14, 18)  And Jesus has made God known to us as “Abba,” a word that means something like “Daddy” or “Papa.”  It is a term of endearment, expressing intimacy and love.  And Jesus’ Abba is our own Abba, because we, too, are the children of God. 

And that is two-thirds of the mystery.  From the record of scripture we can understand God as the author of creation, our father and mother, and as Jesus our brother.  But God is not limited to the pages of a book, not even if it is the Good Book.  The God who acted in the past is still at work.  God still breathes new life into our world.  And God’s life-giving breath can be as powerful and unpredictable as a sudden storm, or as gentle and refreshing as a cool breeze on a summer morning. 

Our Triune God is the one in whom we live and move and have our being – we live because God has created us, has birthed us into life; we move in the world as Jesus moved, acting with compassion and justice and mercy and acceptance and love; and we have our being by the power of the Holy Spirit, who continues to breathe in and through us, inspiring us and those around us. 

And in the end, there is only one reason we can ever even come close to understanding the mystery that is God and that is because our understanding God loves us and calls us to respond in love. 

Can we explain or ever fully understand love – where it comes from, how it works, its power and tenderness? When we are able to understand the mystery of love, then we will understand God.  Because God is love – God who is the creator, transcendent and over all, high and lofty; God who is our brother Jesus, walking with us in the sorrows and celebrations of this life; and God who is as close to us as our own breath, the Spirit which gives us life. 

And maybe it doesn't matter at all that we cannot understand God because God fully understands us, understands us and still loves us.  God so loves us; God so loves the world.

And for that, thanks be to God: Abba, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen.