It Will Be Hard

It Will Be Hard--July 31, 2017

You yourselves know, brothers and sisters, that our coming to you was not in vain, but through we had already suffered and been shamefully mistreated at Philippi, as you know, we had courage in our God to declare to you the gospel of God in spite of great opposition. [1 Thessalonians 2:1-2]

Contrary to popular Christian opinion, the followers of Jesus never got free passes.  Being truthful about that fact may clear one of the bigger hurdles that gets the church tangled up and tripping over its own feet these days.  We never got free passes, and we are not promised entitlements, either.

Sometimes we are so afraid of having obstacles around us that seem unfair, and sometimes we get so obsessed with asking nervously, "But what if it's hard?" about living the Way of Jesus, that we forget that the voices of the New Testament themselves have been saying from the beginning, "It will be hard.  It is worth it.  But it will be hard."  The way of Jesus has always been a way of greater--not lesser--resistance.

In our place and time, it is pretty common to see religious folks acting like they expect the culture around us to make a special place for Christians because we are, or have been, the majority of the population in this country.  We find religious people getting upset when non-Christians refer to events in December as "Holiday" events rather than "Christmas" events, even if they don't share our belief in Christ (and even when the events in question have nothing to do with Jesus--after all, what about an appliance sale really has to do with the birth of our Lord?).  We find people getting really mad if someone can't put cross-shaped monuments or displays of the Jewish/Christian Ten Commandments on public grounds (and yet no one seems to think it could compromise the meaning of the cross or the commandments to have them associated with all-too-often-power-corrupted governments in the first place). 

People who remember an earlier generation when blue laws kept most stores and activities closed on Sundays now get upset when the rest of the world does not automatically make its schedule around the Christian holy day.  In other words, we tend to have a belief that it should be easy for us to be Christians in our culture, and that everybody else around us, while free to have whatever faith they want, should be flexible around our wants and calendars.  We expect free passes and entitlements, and we are bound by the fear that we might not always get an easy path (while we are often unable see how difficult the path is for others around us at the same time!).

Historically, though, that's just now how Christianity was birthed.  Here in these opening verses of Chapter 2 from what we call First Thessalonians, Paul makes that clear.  It appears that Paul is referring to the events we know about from Acts 16-17, where he and Silas were stripped and beaten by a mob for freeing a slave-girl who had a spirit that told fortunes (effectively depriving her "owners" of their income and making them mad over it).  And when the authorities sent the angry mob away, their next step was to throw Paul and Silas in prison (yes, this is the set-up for the story of Paul and Silas singing in prison before the earthquake and the encounter with the Philippian jailer).  And then the next thing you know, Paul and Silas head over to Thessalonica, and there's an angry mob waiting for them there, too.  Nevertheless, in every town, and even when they've been horribly mistreated, Paul doesn't give up peaking the good news of Jesus wherever he goes.  Paul did not expect a free pass. Paul did not assume he was entitled to a friendly hearing--and he wasn't afraid when he didn't get one.  He knew that he was in store for a lifetime of opposition and that his voice would always be one from the margins. In fact, it might just be that the followers of Christ are only being authentic to the way of Jesus when we are a voice on the margins. And Paul was convinced that the news he was bringing was just so inherently good, so compelling and beautiful and true, that it was worth telling, whether or not the crowds and the authorities made it easy for him or not. 

If Christianity is not merely a hobby--something that can easily fit into the pockets of free time in our already booked calendars--then it is worth living out this faith of ours whether or not the culture or the powers of the day around us makes it easy for us or not.  And at least as Paul's story makes it clear, we Christians have not traditionally been given free passes by the world around us, because the world around us knew that we Christians were dangerous to the order of things "as they are."  If we really are part of a revolution, a movement, and not a pleasant pastime, then we should not expect to get special treatment.  If anything, we should be prepared for the powers of the day to make it harder for us bring the news of Jesus. 

After all, following Jesus will lead us to seriously question our economics, our politics, our personal comfort and its cost to others, and how much of ourselves we give up to technology.  Paul and Silas were beaten and stripped at the decree of the authorities because their actions to liberate the slave-girl cost her owners a profit.  And the world around us, enamored as it is with profits, is always going to have trouble with Christians who question whether our piles of money are worth our devotion.  The world around us is always going to be upset when we go around announcing that the emperor is wearing no clothes.  That's how it has always been for us.  This is going to be hard--that's how it is to be a part of the movement of Mercy in a world lulled into inertia in the pursuit of keeping comfortable.

I had a professor in seminary who once asked in a sermon, "Can Christianity survive in times of persecution?  Certainly--we have plenty of evidence from 2,000 years of history that the church even thrives at the times and places where it is pressed the hardest.  But can Christianity survive in times of comfort?  That is much more in doubt." 

What did President Kennedy once say about the dream of going to the moon within the decade of his presidency?  "We choose to do these things, not because they are easy--but because they are hard." Things worth doing are usually like that.  That's part of how you know to give your life to them.

If we spend our time and energy fussing that the world has not given us free passes or preferred status in the public square, fearful about losing a privileged place and therefore willing to sell out our character in the hopes of making friends in high places, or spouting angry words because we have not been given special entitlements for being Christian, then we are wasting minutes and words that could be spent simply bringing the good news to people around us and letting the grace of Jesus speak for itself.  And in fact, we would be spending our energy and time serving ourselves by trying to make it more comfortable to be Christians, rather than serving Jesus and others bringing the Good News to people even when there is no special place made for us at the table.

So how will we spend our energy today--complaining that we Christians are not given special enough treatment, or simply putting the love of Jesus out there for people, whether or not we get a pat on the back from anybody for doing it?  Are we willing to share the Good News only if we get a free pass to do it, or have we found the Gospel so compelling by itself that we cannot help but live it and speak it, regardless of what the rest of the world does about it?  That kind of witness is going to turn some heads....

Lord Jesus, give us the courage and love to keep sharing your Good News rather than looking for easy outs or the path of least resistance.  And give us the wisdom and passion to see where you are leading us today.

The Decadence of Fear

The Decadence of Fear--July 26, 2017

"Now the word of the LORD came to me saying, 'Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.' Then I said, 'Ah, Lord GOD! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.' But the LORD said to me, 'Do not say, I am only a boy; for you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you, says the LORD.'  Then the LORD put out his hand and touched my mouth; and the LORD said to me, 'Now I have put my words in your mouth. See, today I appoint you over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant'." [Jeremiah 1:4-10]

When God calls you to speak up, it turns out, fear is a luxury you cannot afford.

I know that sounds odd, doesn't it?  To say that fear is a luxury? 

We assume, don't we, that things that are "luxuries" will be pleasant to us.  A second car--or third!  A dinner out at a nice restaurant--with cloth napkins, and nothing served with the prefix "Mc-" on the menu!  A cruise vacation, a country club membership, a first-class seat on the airplane...these things are all rightly taken as "luxuries"--things that are a bit decadent, things that are nice, but costly, things that are by no means necessary to life but make you feel a bit pampered for a day.  And the reason you convince yourself it's ok to splurge on such luxuries now and then is precisely that--they make you feel good, generally speaking.

But really, what makes something a luxury is that it is excessive.  Luxury is, by definition, something you cannot really afford.  Students of language will even tell you that the etymology of our word "luxury" comes from two parallel terms from the Latin, one that meant "extravagant" and the other that meant "offensive, lecherous, or rank." "Decadent," after all, comes from the notion of "decay". That's the hitch with luxury--you pay a lot for it, knowing it is more than you really ought to spend, and as often as not, it ends up smelling to high heaven.  Caviar is an indulgence, but it still reeks of fish and saltwater.

So maybe it is time to acknowledge that being ruled by fear is a luxury, too--at least if we have any desire to be used in God's Movement of Mercy (what the Gospels often call "the Kingdom," or "the Reign of God").  Fear gives us an out--an excuse--to hide, to stay quiet, to withdraw.  Fear of "what other people might think," or of "what will happen to my job," or of "who might get offended," or whatever else might be out there, it is an extravagance that reeks to high heaven like old fish eggs, because we allow it the power over us to keep us from letting the Spirit move in us.


It is telling, I think, that the prophet Jeremiah is so honest with us as he tells the story of how God got a hold of him to speak up in his own day.  Jeremiah admits that he came with a lot of fear... and that fear hid behind a plausible rationalization. "Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy!" the young would-be prophet insists.  It's a solid, almost Moses-like, excuse: "It's not that I don't want to help, God... but I'm just not equipped in the public speaking department, and I don't want to get your message wrong or make a fool out of myself in being your spokesperson."  But, of course, that line didn't work with Moses, either--God still sent ol' Moses to Pharaoh despite his protests that he was a poor public speaker, too.


In fact, God's response to Jeremiah is relentless:  "Jeremiah, this moment is too important for the extravagance of fear--you don't have the luxury of saying you are just a boy." God's promise is to be with him, and to give him the words and the courage, but God's assurance is not a pass.  God doesn't say, "You don't have to be afraid, because I won't make you ever have to do anything hard, or speak to anybody something they don't want to hear, or risk losing your livelihood and life."  Rather, God says, "You will speak truth to power... and they won't like it... and they will run you out of town time and again for doing it... but you won't be ruled by fear, because I will be with you."


That is an important lesson for us to see ourselves--God's announcement, "You don't have to be afraid," is never made on the grounds that we won't have to do anything scary or say things in situations that could get us in hot water with someone powerful.  It's not, "You don't have to be afraid... because all I'll ever have you say are vague and empty religious slogans that couldn't offend anybody."  God never says, "My message will appeal to everybody, and will never scandalize anyone, so get ready for high fives and smiles all around." 


Of course not.  God knows that the gospel of mercy and justice will always upset people.  There is no part of the message of God's Reign that leaves us unaffected or unchanged.  The powerful never want to hear that God is on the side of the losers, the broken, the marginalized, and the empty-handed.  The "religious" never want to hear that God isn't impressed with their rituals, banners, ceremonies, and incense.  The ones who fancy themselves "winners" never want to hear that the living God "feeds the hungry with good things and sends the rich away empty" (thank you very much for reminding us, Mary, the mother of our Lord).  The "comfortable" and "inside" group never want to hear that God chooses to specially protect the alien, the stranger, and the outsider, and that Jesus even chooses to be identified with the stranger.  My goodness, even grace itself is a scandal to a culture full of knuckleheads who have convinced themselves they have to earn their keep and that heaven is a prize given to people who have racked up enough points.


Jeremiah was going to have to say all that and more--he got scandal in spades when it came to speaking God's message.  When the powerful of the day put out an official government proclamation that everything was "great" and Judah was on track to win against all its enemies in a new era of glory and wealth... Jeremiah was given the task of saying, "No--exile is our future, because we've been ignoring the way of God to love neighbor and instead we've been worshiping our weapons and wealth and elbowing the vulnerable out of the picture." 


When the official decrees of the capital announced, "We are all going to get rich together--just you wait and see how success and greatness start pouring in, like you have never seen before!" Jeremiah was given the word from God that said the opposite: "No... these are the same old empty promises we've been throwing ourselves at for centuries, and they are always just a bunch of hot air from pompous blowhards standing at the official royal podium." 


And when the sad and pathetic puppet king of the day started pouting about how unfair it was to have prophets like Jeremiah raining on his parade all the time, well... God gave Jeremiah more of the same to speak: that the powers of the day were bad shepherds who didn't care about the people, and that ultimately it would take none other than God's own presence to restore a good and just and merciful Reign on the other side of exile.


In times like Jeremiah's, fear of speaking up is a luxury one cannot afford. 


In days when the Good News of God's Reign--of the Movement of Mercy, which is for all and draws all--is deeply needed, fear of what someone else might think is an extravagance we do not have the liberty to indulge in.


In the moment when we are faced with either keeping quiet so nobody will ostracize us or standing up alongside someone else who has been told (or has told themselves) they are not eligible for the love of God, what will you and I say? 


What will you and I do...now?


Please, dear Jesus, let our words not stink like caviar. Let them bring the freshness of your world-changing, life-giving word.

 

"Here There Be Monsters"

Here There Be Monsters--July 25, 2017

"You have heard, no doubt, of my earlier life in Judaism. I was violently persecuting the church of God was trying to destroy it. I advanced in Judaism beyond many among my people of the same age, for I was far more zealous for the traditions of my ancestors. But when God, who had set me apart from before I was born and called me through his grace, was pleased to reveal his Son to me, so that I might proclaim him among the Gentiles, I did not confer with any human being, nor did I go up to Jerusalem to those who were already apostles before me, but I went away at once into Arabia, and afterwards I returned to Damascus." [Galatians 1:13-17]

You know, it is rarely the case that there are actual monsters "out there" in the world to be fought. 


In fact, despite the persistent myth, early cartographers did not actually write "Here there be dragons" in regions of the world that had not been explored, even if they did decorate the seas in their map with fanciful creatures from their minds' eyes.  The decorative monsters in the margins came from within their own imaginations and were projected to be "out there" in the unexplored waters of distant seas.

That is so often the truth of things: the monsters we think we see out there and all around us are so often really projections of the monsters inside us that we do not want to acknowledge are a part of us.  It's like the old punch line from the Pogo comic strip:  "We have met the enemy--and he is us." 

Trouble is, there is this terrible fear inside us that doesn't want to own the worst inside us.   We don't want to bear the responsibility for the worst in us, and on the flip side we have a way of always casting ourselves as the noble heroes--and unable to see our own failings, our own worst tendencies, our own sin.  Nobody wants to face the truth of their own missing-the-mark, and so instead we all look for ways to do what the old mapmakers did--to imagine the monsters are outside ourselves (that is, in other people), instead of within us.  That allows us to pass the buck, deflect responsibility, and avoid owning the consequences of our choices, words, and actions.

And, my goodness, that's easy.  It takes no courage at all--not one whiff of bravery--to hype up fear in other people of scary things "out there" to distract people's attention from our own pet monstrosities.  It takes no courage at all to throw our hands up and say, "I'm not taking responsibility for this!  This isn't my problem!" 

I think of that moment in the Gospels, for example, where the Roman governor Pontius Pilate symbolically washes his hands of Jesus' blood... but then allows the crowd and the religious so-and-sos to carry him off to execution.  For a lot of my younger life, I think I assumed that Matthew the Gospel writer was trying his darnedest to let Pilate off the hook for Jesus' death--but more and more, I think the evangelist was showing what a sniveling coward Pilate was, with a spineless gesture that attempted to say, "I'm not going to own this man's death.   I'm not taking responsibility for this."  What a crock!  Pilate is the one--the only one--with the political position to do something one way or another with a prisoner like this itinerant rabbi named Jesus of Nazareth.  Not to do anything to stop his death is to do something--not to decide is to decide, and not to act, is still to act.  Matthew the Gospel writer knows that full well--and so he gives us this pitiable and pathetic depiction of Pilate trying to dodge responsibility because he doesn't want to see what is monstrous inside him.  It is always easier to try and make somebody else to be the monster--make it the religious leaders, make it the angry mob, make it Jesus himself, but never admit that he himself holds the monster inside.

Now, when it is someone in an official position of power--like, say, the cowardly weakling Pilate--who is trying (unconvincingly) and failing to plead, "I'm not going to own this...", maybe it's not difficult to recognize how pathetic a response that is.  But then it begs the question, what else can we do?  If all of us have these monstrous streaks inside of us--pieces inside our deepest selves that are capable of great hatred, great cowardice, great greed, or great indifference--and if all of us feel the temptation to project the monstrosities at others "out there" as though they and those people are the bad guys, rather than owning what is inside us... what is the hope for us?  Or are we all just doomed to find our place in a long line of pathetic imperial pretenders like Pilate?


No.  In a word, no.  There is an alternative to projecting the monsters from inside ourselves out onto the uncharted seas around us.  The alternative is to own even our worst selves--to own them without necessarily excusing or rewarding them, but to acknowledge what is inside us.  That takes courage--but such courage is possible because of grace.  The mercy of God allows us to own up to the worst things inside ourselves--the things we are not proud of and do not even want to admit are there--because the mercy of God speaks an unconditional love that encompasses even what is most broken, most flawed, most wicked in us.  That's what made it possible for a violent man like Saul of Tarsus to say out loud all that he had done and been a part of, and not to blame it on someone else, project it onto some imagined straw man bad guy, or shrug it off with a cowardly, "I won't own this."  Saul can say that he was violently persecuting the followers of Jesus, and he can admit to all that had been a part of his past, not because it didn't matter or wasn't important, but because he knew he had been met by the grace of God that loved him in the midst of his monstrosities.  The solution was not to pretend he could pass the buck or deflect ownership of his worst choices, or imagine he could make it all go away by saying, "I won't take responsibility..." but rather to say, as grace gave Paul the courage to say, "This is a part of me.  I bear responsibility, and I own this."  There is no ridiculous washing-of-hands, a la Pontius Pilate; there is only the honest admission, "Yes, this is a part of my story. This is what I am responsible for.  This is something I struggle with that is inside me."  The deep assurance that Saul (Paul) was unconditionally loved by God made it possible for him to point a finger at his own heart and say, "Here there be monsters," and then to know he was loved all the while.  Only then can we can dare to deal with the things inside ourselves we do not want to face or admit to.


For all the ways you and I are in the same situation, there is good news on this day.  The relentless mercy of God seeks us out and embraces us in full awareness of all of our deepest hates, fears, and selfishness.   God is not fooled, and God is not ignorant of what monstrosities I have allowed to live in my heart.  But God's mercy allows us to bring them out of the shadows and out into the open, and from there, knowing we are beloved before we have done a thing about them, we can begin to let God work transformation within us.


Today, there will be the temptation to shrug off responsibility, as though just saying, "I won't own this..." can make it so.  There will be the temptation to project what we see inside ourselves onto someone else.  There will be the temptation to be ruled by fear.


But grace meets us--in fact, it seeks us out and if necessary knocks us off our high horse to meet us--and loves us into courage.  And courage then lets us pull the string on the light bulb inside our hearts' darkest basement corners and see whatever is in there that we did not want to have to deal with.  And with such grace-given courage, let us bring whatever we find there into the light.


Lord God, thank you for your love.  Let us dare to trust that you love us already as we are, so that we can also own what is ours to own about ourselves that we had been ashamed of, afraid of, or unwilling to name.

Uncovering Our Blind Spots

Uncovering Our Blind Spots--July 21, 2017

"Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. He replied, 'Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.' Then he became angry and refused to go in.  His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, 'Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!' Then the father said to him, 'Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.'" [Luke 15:25-32]

"Privilege" has become sort of a dirty word.

When I was a kid, privilege was the word trotted out by grown-ups like parents and teachers to describe things like having a bike, owning a pet, being a big brother, or getting to stay up extra late on a night of summer vacation.  These things, it was explained to me, were not owed to me, and they were the kind of thing that carried responsibility along with them.  If one did not attend to the responsibilities, the grown-ups said, the privileges could always be taken away.  Don't take care of a dog, and you won't be allowed to keep it.  Don't go to sleep when it's time to go to bed after staying up, and you'll lose the later bedtime. 

As a kid, the word "privilege" felt kind of like a badge of honor, and it felt like something that I had somehow achieved--despite the fact that this misses the entire point of what a "privilege" really is.  But in kid-logic, if you weren't allowed to stay up last year, but now you are allowed to stay up, it seems like something you must have earned.  If you weren't considered responsible enough before to have a dog, but now you are allowed the privilege of a pet, well, it sure sounds like you are being rewarded for your good behavior. 


Funny, isn't it, how we take things that are given to us--the extra time to stay up, the dog, the opportunities--and force them into ways to tell ourselves that we have earned these things.  Funny, in that bitter kind of way, I guess.  Bitter, I suggest, because when you tell yourself that the free gift is something you have earned, you also set yourself up to look down on other people for not having been given the same gifts... opportunities... chances... that you have received... and you end up imagining that all the good things you have going for you are the fruits of your own sheer wonderfulness, rather than gifts beyond your deserving.  The thing about privileges--from childhood bonuses like pets and later bedtimes to grown-up realities like the kind of education you received or the neighborhood you lived in--is that we have a way of pretending they are not there, or at least pretending we do not see them as privileges. 


And see, that's what has made "privilege" into a dirty word in our day.  And it is a negative all around, from all sides. When I am the privileged one, I don't want to acknowledge the things I have been given, the things that have been handed to me as free gifts, because I would rather imagine (that is, lie to myself) that my own achievement or effort or excellence has merited all the good things in my life.  I don't want to have to admit times when I had an easier time, or was given special opportunities, or had chances (and second and third and fourth chances) that others did not have--because if I acknowledge those, it will make me see that my "greatness" is not all it's cracked up to be.  And on the flip side, for those who can see my privilege (usually precisely because they have not been given the same things I have received), the difference feels like a cruel injustice.  It begs questions like, "Why wasn't my kid able to have the same opportunities?" and "Why can't they see that they only won the race because they had a ten second head-start that they've all pretended not to notice or count?"


It is a frightening thing to have to come face to face with the privileges we have been given in life when we have been given them, because it forces us to admit we have not "achieved" or "earned" or "deserved" the things we puff ourselves up to think we were owed, and because it forces us to see that others we have gotten comfortable looking down on have overcome a great deal more than we give them credit for--likely more than we ourselves have had to go through, too.  We are afraid of having the blinders taken off and seeing our own privileges, because we are afraid of finding out we are not as impressive as we pictured ourselves.  It is so much easier to criticize others and imagine that they are the ones with the problems when they point out the number of times we had a leg up in life, or to wag our fingers at people we imagine as having an air of entitlement... because we don't recognize that we have the luxury of being able to hide our feelings of entitlement by telling ourselves we really do deserve the good things we have more than others--because we must have worked harder for them than anybody else.  After all, why would I have the perks I have in my life if I didn't get them by being just plain qualitatively "better" than... those people (however I picture "those people")?


I was in an interesting conversation not too long ago.  I was talking with someone who had recently had a frustrating schedule conflict and couldn't get done in one particular day all they wanted to have happen, and in the midst of venting about how things hadn't gone according to Plan A for the day, the other person says, "Doesn't it just feel sometimes like the whole world is against you?"  And I thought for a moment... well, while I surely have some days when things don't go as I'd hoped, I'm a middle-class, white, married male who is a member of the predominant religion in the country where I live and who had a college education... Nope.  I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed to say "the world is against me."  I'm pretty sure that list is a set of privileges that were not my accomplishment but were given to me.  Nope--I don't get to complain that things are stacked against me; I just get to say, "I wish today had gone differently."  But for a moment, as I thought about the question, it really haunted me to consider just how many ways I am probably not even aware of that I have it easy.  And I realized that there is a big part of me that doesn't even want to open that can of worms, because there is this prideful beast inside me that wants still to live in the illusion that every good thing that happens to me is my achievement, my reward, or my accomplishment.  And they are not--they are privileges.


Privilege is, in a sense, like grace.  Grace demolishes any sense of "earning" or "merit," and has a way of humbling us when we see it, because we realize what we have been given is an undeserved gift and not a reward.  Perhaps we could say that when I am conscious of the ways I have been afforded benefits I did not earn, and when I then use my position to offer something good to someone else, so that they can be blessed, too, then we transform "privilege" into grace.  But so often, my frightened refusal to see the truth makes "privilege" a source of bitterness, envy, judgment, and division.  And because we have these hearts bent on puffing ourselves up and comparing ourselves to the person next to us, we don't want to dare to see honestly how we have been graced, and that leg-up opportunities are meant to be used to help someone else, not to push ourselves ahead at someone else's expense.


That's why my heart is still so unsettled every time I come to the end of Jesus' amazing story of the recklessly gracious father with two sons (we call it "the Prodigal Son" sometimes, but that kind of misses the point).  Chances are, you know the story pretty well.  We love to identify with the redeemed and restored lost son, because things work out well for him.  We don't mind singing, in words that echo this story, "I once was lost, but now am found," because we bend the words to sound like an accomplishment in our own ears--I was on the wrong road, but then smart ME got my act together and look how I have fixed up my life!"  But we have a really hard time with the presence of the older brother in this story, especially because he is so much like us.  He is privileged as much as his younger brother, but he has the added danger of blindness to it.  He has been given all he needs in life from a generous father, and he is promised that he will continue to have all that he needs ("All that is mine is yours," says the father).  But he still paints himself as the poor, put-upon son who has never had a special opportunity and never got a free gift.  That makes him able to condemn his brother as a freeloader with an entitlement complex, because he cannot bring himself to see that he has been given just as much privilege as the younger son.  He doesn't want to see that--because he is afraid.


And that's what makes this story's ending so haunting--Jesus' parable is left open-ended, like the old story, "The Lady or the Tiger", in that we don't know what the older son will do.  Will he choose to be ruled by his fear of having to admit his privileges... or will he come to see that he has had grace and privilege and opportunity given to him in abundance, knowing that he can no longer judge his brother once he sees it?  Will the older brother stay outside with his arms crossed and brow furrowed, or will he let down his guard, admit his own privileges, and come to the party to celebrate?


We are all, in that sense, the older brother in this story. Even if there are ways we are like the younger, "lost-but-found" son, too, we are all like the older brother, and we have a really hard time admitting our own privilege... our own reliance on grace.  We, too, are afraid of what we will see if we start actually looking around our blind spots for places we have been privileged.  We, too, are afraid of how it will change our relationships and views of others that we had already conveniently pre-judged..  We, too, would rather paint ourselves as the poor, put-upon, hard-working, underappreciated hard workers, rather than see that we are a part of a household that is run solely on the economy of grace.


But what Jesus offers us in this story is essentially what the father offers his older son in the story--mercy.  And mercy allows us to finally be free from the fear of facing our privileges and naming them for what they are, so that we can be honest about them--and use our situation to bless the lives of others.  Blessing is never meant to be a cul-de-sac in the Bible, and it is not meant to be one in our lives, either.  Privilege, you might say, is what happens when blessing becomes a dead-end, and grace is what happens when I can be honest about how I have been blessed and then let blessing flow to reach others, too.


So, here in this day, the father in the story approaches you and me--and he says to us, "Look--everything you've ever been had in this life, these things are all gifts of grace.  Would you quit puffing yourself up and looking down on everyone else long enough to see that you have been given good things that are meant to be shared rather than hoarded?  And would you dare and celebrate when someone else is given a gift beyond their deserving, too?"


Now it's up to you and me--what will we do with this day, and what will we choose to acknowledge about ourselves?  Can we dare to name the ways and places we have been privileged--and then let it change and humble our perspective, or will we stay outside of the party forever?


Come in.  Come into the party.  Take my hand, too, and lead me to go in with you.


Lord Jesus, give us honest eyesight about our own privilege, so that we can be conduits of grace rather than dead-ends of bitterness and resentment.

The Enemies' Table

The Enemies' Table--July 20, 2017

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

     I fear no evil;

 for you are with me;

     your rod and your staff--

     they comfort me. 

 You prepare a table before me

     in the presence of my enemies;

 you anoint my head with oil;

     my cup overflows." [Psalm 23:4-5]

Do you see it?  Do you see who is there at the table?


It is important to note that the "enemies" don't disappear from the picture; rather, the presence of God makes us no longer ruled by fear of their presence.

If I may be honest with you for a moment here, as a pastor--as a (somewhat) trained, (moderately) seasoned, reader and teacher of the Scriptures and someone who is often invited into moments of deep crisis in people's lives--sometimes it seems to me we don't really read the words of Bible verses we memorized once upon a time, and we don't think about what they actually have to say any longer.  We have a way of letting familiarity breed ignorance, at least when it comes to beloved passages  and favorite verses from the Bible, so that we can only hear them saying what we want them to say.


The well-loved (and rightfully so!) words of the Twenty-Third Psalm are a case in point.  The imagery and poetry of this old song are so familiar that even wider pop culture knows phrases like "the valley of the shadow of death" or a "cup that overflows" and peppers them into movies, TV shows, and novels.  And for anybody who has spent any time at all in the church, lines like, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want" probably roll off the tongue straight from the mental filing cabinets nearly as easily as "Our Father, who art in heaven..."


And yet, every time I read these ancient lyrics, I am taken aback at the idea that our shepherding God sets a table... "in the presence of my enemies."  And over the years as I have talked with and listened to folks about what this psalm is actually saying, it's funny how often these words about enemies at the table are forgotten or ignored.  It's almost like we are so focused on the quaint pastoral imagery of shepherds and sheep grazing in a bright green meadow that we choose to pretend this talk of sharing a table with enemies is even there.  If the psalmist has been picturing himself like a sheep so far in the psalm, that's rather like saying, "God has invited wolves to the picnic, and expects me not to freak out over it!"


We love the images of God as a shepherd supplying our needs, or leading us to nice quiet spots for rest alongside the quiet stream.  But we don't know what to make of the possibility that we could be brought to the table with those we most strongly don't like... and for that somehow to be OK.  And notice here, the Psalm is unnervingly silent about how the enemies got there, or why, or having weapons at the ready to stop them.  The psalmist doesn't say, "I'm not scared of my enemies lurking around, because I've got my .45 here at my side."  The psalmist explicitly does not put trust in his own strength, speed, or access to weapons.  The only mention of anything like that is the Shepherd's "rod and staff" that the sheep don't get to use and couldn't grip in their hooves if they wanted to.


So instead of some picture of imagining we can make ourselves free from fear of "the enemy" by rounding up sticks or clubs or sharp teeth or horns or guns or bombs or bullets, the poet we all grew up memorizing gives us a scene in which we are totally vulnerable ourselves and entrust ourselves and our peace entirely to a God who lets enemies come near the table where we eat... and yet somehow, it is OK.


The Bible actually makes a pretty consistent point about this--again and again, the Scriptures warn the people of God NOT to trust in their own resources, defenses, or wealth.  The Bible's many voices call for us to let God be in charge of establishing peace and justice rather than imagining (wrongly) that I will feel better at night if there's a weapon in the night stand.  And the Bible has a way, in its most familiar and comforting passages, of describing God as the one who actually destroys swords and shields and spears. The famous poem we call Psalm 46, which inspired the great hymn, "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," and which ends with the timeless line, "Be still, and know that I am God..."--that same psalm depicts God as the One who makes wars end and destroys all the weapons... because we will not need them anymore.


The Bible never--NEVER--gives the impression that we can get out from under the reign of fear with MORE weapons, or bigger walls, or larger armies.  These things may serve a purpose, but they cannot actually break the power of fear.  The way to no longer be afraid of the enemy is not to put a wall between "us" and "them" or to try and build a bigger bomb than they have, but to find yourself at a table sitting across from the ones labeled "enemies" and to find that the God who shepherds makes us no longer ruled by fear of them.  There at the table, where I find that there is enough for me, and that the "enemy's" presence doesn't actually threaten my ability to have a cup filled to the brim, there I discover peace has been waiting for my heart all along.


If we dare to actually take seriously the words of this psalm that you likely know by heart, we will find ourselves challenged as well as comforted.  We will be, quite literally perhaps, disarmed as well as embraced.  We will see that when God seeks to set us free from being ruled by fear, God's way is not to fool us into thinking we can keep everybody away that we don't like... or that we can find solace in having our own weaponry at hand... or that we can build a wall to keep "them" all out.  God's way of freeing us from the power of fear always ends up bringing us to the table, and finding that God has invited our enemies there, too, and yet that because God has a watchful eye over the whole dinner, we do not need to be paralyzed by fear.  Sheep may well be afraid of wolves watching while they graze, and for good reason--but ours is the God who envisions a future where wolves and lambs graze together (see Isaiah 11 among other places), rather than a future where lambs are walled in or put in cages or the wolves are all hunted down.  God's plans are always bigger and more audacious than we could have imagined that way.


Today, let us listen again to the words that we have perhaps heard all our lives but never considered in depth.  Let us hear again and dare to live the image of being sheep led by a good Shepherd who makes it possible for us to sit at a table where "enemies" are close by but without being afraid of them, and without thinking we'll feel safer with a sword in hand or a wall between us.  God knows we won't--so God instead frees us from fear while we are all at the same table. 


If you want to be free from the power of fearing the people you imagine as your "enemies," don't run from them.  Rather, if we dare to trust a three-thousand-year old poet on the subject, let God invite you all to dinner.


Lord God, lead us to the tables you see fit, but give us confidence in your presence there.

After the Worst

After the Worst--July 19, 2017

"I want you to know, beloved, that what has happened to me has actually helped to spread the gospel, so that it has become known throughout the whole imperial guard and to everyone else that my imprisonment is for Christ; and most of the brothers and sisters, having been made confident in the Lord by my imprisonment, dare to speak the word with greater boldness and without fear." [Philippians 1:12-14]

God, it turns out, is quite clever.

Look, sometimes in this life, it's all we can do to just keep putting one foot in front of the next day by day, but not really having a clue how God is directing any of what we do, work through our words and actions, or using the circumstances in which we find ourselves.  And then, there are other times when, as Paul puts it, our love just “overflows more and more with knowledge and full insight” and we see divine fingerprints on things, nudging and steering us where God intends. 

Well, this is one of those times when Paul himself has seen the curtain pulled back, and Paul has been able to see God’s direction in his life, even through bad circumstances.  Paul has come to recognize in a whole new way just how clever the living God really is--and he sees it in the midst of a situation that would rightfully scare the willies out of anybody.

It turns out that Paul is writing the letter we know as Philippians from prison—or from a kind of house-arrest—in Rome, awaiting trial.  This might seem like a bad situation, both for Paul personally, and for the prospects of spreading the Good News.  After all, Paul’s the star player on the team, and it seems like he’s in the penalty box and out of commission at the present time. If you or I were in Paul’s place, we might just accuse God of having abandoned us, or we might give up on spreading the message of Jesus around, because after all, look where it’s gotten Paul so far!

This is the kind of situation you usually label a "worst-case scenario," right? Time after time in the stories in Acts, Paul gets run out of town and just narrowly escapes being arrested or jailed or killed, and he gets away by the skin of his teeth to do it all over again in the next town, announcing the Reign of God and the Movement of Jesus.  It would seem in each of those close-calls, the goal is to avoid getting caught, because if he's caught, he can't keep reaching people with the grace of God, right?  So if you're Paul, for both selfish reasons of personal safety as well as your bigger-picture goals of bring the Good News to everybody, "getting caught by the Romans" should be just about your Number One Fear.

But Paul has been given a glimpse of how God was working through his situation.  Paul sees that because of his imprisonment, now the message about Christ is spreading like a virus through the whole imperial guard. It is infecting the empire with the Gospel, so to speak, from the inside out.  And Paul can see that because he has been arrested, others have stepped into the fray and begun to speak up.  Others are being empowered to bring the Good News of Jesus—others who will raise up new leaders after them, and another generation after them. And those new preachers and teachers and missionaries would not have found their courage if necessity had not compelled them to find it.  Even while Paul is sitting under house arrest, he is still being used by God to reach others with the news of Jesus.  And on top of that, Rome footed the bill for his transport from Palestine to the imperial capital, and the Roman soldiers who were there to keep Paul in are also going to keep Paul safe from any lynch-mobs around!  All this is possible, on the Emperor’s nickel, mind you, because God is just that clever.

And because Paul sees that, he is able to see beyond the old fog of fear.  He can see that right in the midst of the "worst case scenario" there are new possibilities where before he had only seen the edge of a cliff.  God's provision in the worst helps him no longer to be ruled by the crippling fear of "What if...?"

Martin Luther King, Jr. once said, "My personal trials have also taught me the value of unmerited suffering. As my sufferings mounted I soon realized that there were two ways that I could respond to my situation: either to react with bitterness or to transform the suffering into a creative force."  That change of perspective is exactly what Paul had been praying for on behalf of his readers—that their love would overflow with knowledge and insight so that they can see God’s hand and their place in God’s purposes.  And now Paul is the one who has been given that insight for his own situation.  Paul can see how God is using his imprisonment to get the Jesus-Movement to more people—people who will then take the Way of Jesus from the capital, Rome, throughout the empire.  And at the same time, God has got the Romans to pay for it all: the great empire that arrogantly sees itself as eternal ruler of the world is paying for the spread of a message that a crucified rabbi from Palestine is the true ruler of creation!  Paul can see, with a kind of delight at being in on the divine joke, how God is using this situation for divine purposes.  And Paul can live with that, even if it’s not easy or fun to be in prison. It is a question, as Dr. King said, of deciding whether to act with bitterness or to let the suffering be transformed into a creative force.

That’s the other thing to catch about these few verses: Paul can recognize God’s clever designs even when things aren’t going great for him.  Paul doesn’t make the mistake we sometimes do—that God’s will must be whatever is pleasant to me at the moment, or that if I am struggling through difficult circumstances, God can’t be anywhere in that situation.   And we get bitter.  We get anxious.  We slide back into the country of fear.

Sometimes, we recognize God’s fingerprints when our hardships go away—when the sickness is cured, the work-load at our job gets lighter, or the person you’ve had personality conflicts with goes away.  Other times, like Paul here, we can see God’s gracious cleverness as we go through the tough stuff that isn’t being taken away, or that we are not being taken out of.  Paul is still in prison—but he sees God at work in that situation, as others are brought to faith because of where he is.  He doesn’t have to like being in prison, but he does see that God is up to something right where he is.  And that frees him from being dominated by the fear, "What if the worst case scenario happens?  What if the bottom falls out?" 

Before getting to Rome, maybe Paul couldn't imagine any kind of future if he got caught--it was just too scary.  But now that the "worst" has happened, Paul sees the possibilities that may arise on the other side of the "worst."  He doesn't have to be afraid any more.

Today, may we be given such clarity to catch glimpses of what God is up to in our lives right where we are, too.

Lord Jesus, allow us today to see at least in part how you are at work around and in and through our circumstances today, even while we remain in those circumstances.

The Faithful Blues

The Faithful Blues--July 18, 2017

"By the rivers of Babylon--there we sat down and there we wept

     when we remembered Zion.

  On the willows there

     we hung up our harps.

  For there our captors asked us for songs,

     and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying,

     'Sing us one of the songs of Zion!'

  How could we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land?

  If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither!" [Psalm 137:1-5]

It takes no bravery at all to fake a smile.

But perhaps we are never more courageous when we can be honestly sad.

We live in a time and a culture that seems obsessed with manufacturing happiness--or better, the appearance of happiness--like it is a product that can be mass-consumed, ordered on demand with Amazon Prime, or super-sized at the McDonalds drive-thru window.  We live in an age and in a society that is so fearfully uncomfortable around sorrow that we do everything we can to either deny that it is there, numb the feeling away with pills, bottles, screens, and distractions, or shoo the sadness away with "retail therapy" and the thought that we can buy our way out of both emotional and economic depressions (both are lies).

And it takes no courage at all to give in to fake happiness or to dull the pain of sadness over things in life that genuinely call for sorrow.  It takes no courage at all to hide a broken heart from family and friends.  Somewhere along the way we got this foolish notion that real strength never reveals that it is hurting, never lets anyone see you bleed--but all that really did was to glorify denial and to let us cover up our insecurities.  Do that for long enough and you get a society of people who project a toxic "toughness" to the world but are really scared playground bullies underneath, shaking angry fists at the world in the hopes that no one will notice our knees knocking together in fear.  Well, that's us.

Against that, the surprising wisdom of the God who speaks in the Scriptures is of a totally different picture of real courage--one that is able to see power in being honest about grief in this life, one that is brave enough to be sad.  And one of the things that we are given in this life, the more and more we are shaped by the story of God's people is a freedom from the fear of letting others see our sadness.  We gain the ability--the power, you could say--to lament.

Lament is one of those things you rarely hear talked about in our culture, much less appreciated.  There is a section in our denomination's most recent hymnal entitled "Lament," (along with a complete collection of all 150 Psalms, including the sad and angry ones), which I must confess caught me by surprise the first time I saw it, maybe because I had gotten used to the (wrong) idea that Christian songs, poetry, or thinking should all be peppy, upbeat, and happy all of the time.  I think I had unwittingly bought into the assumption that people with "real" faith are always in good mood and smiling wide. But the Bible itself make room for real lament, and in fact seems to suggest that sometimes the greatest, most courageous, act of faith is to allow oneself to be sad... honestly.

These verses from what we call Psalm 137 are a good example.  In the midst of exile, and under the shadow of an arrogant empire, the people of God resist the fake-happiness of Babylon by lamenting.  They won't be prodded into singing a joyful song just because the Babylonians taunt them into it.  They won't pretend that everything is fine when it's not.  They resist the lure and persuasion of Babylon that kept trying to tell the exiles, "We are in charge. We rule.  This is normal. Get used to it." by refusing to sing the old happy tunes while their hearts are broken. 

The fearful ones who went into exile eventually gave in.  There were plenty who went into exile and eventually just gave up their sense of belonging the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.  There were plenty who just decided to accept the way of life Babylon offered, and to accept whatever fake happiness Babylon offered.  But there was this handful of brave souls that would not give in and would not sing while their hearts were broken--they had the courage to be honest, which freed them from the fear of sadness.

Sometimes sadness is our greatest witness of hope, oddly enough.  Sometimes tears are the only way to adequately say, "This isn't how it's supposed to be."  Sometimes lament is the right way, the only way, to protest what is wrong, what is unjust, and what is heartbreaking, and to resist the voices that want to numb it away, ignore it, or pretend things are fine. Just like it takes courage to say, "The emperor is wearing no clothes," or "This is not OK--this is not normal," it takes courage to be able to be sorrowful over the days when Babylon wins, the times when the vulnerable are stepped on, or the moments when all we feel is loss.  Denying it is just giving the fear more power.  But allowing sad faith to be sad stares that fear down face to face.

The psalmist in today's verses turns out to have a very deep faith--and a deep allegiance to the God who is an alternative to the gods of Babylon.  But ironically, when the powers of the day asked the band to play an upbeat number to dance to, the psalmist responds with a song... but not a two-minute tune of bubble gum pop.  The psalmist sings the faithful blues--blues, in the sense that they lament the pain of living through times that feel like the bad guys won the day, but faithful in the sense that the poet still pledges allegiance to the defiant hope of how things are meant to be, and how they yet might be put right.

Today, don't let anybody tell you that a living faith has to wear a fake smile.  It doesn't.

Today, don't let anybody try and rush you out of a sadness that is honestly yours today.  Own it.

Today, don't let the taunting voices of Babylon make you forget, "This isn't how it's supposed to be."  Remember--and hope--how all things are to be put right.

Today, don't let anyone say that Christians aren't supposed to shed tears.  Rather, let your tears be the insistent reminder that God will not rest until every last tear is wiped away... but that we are not there yet at that day.

Today, don't let anyone fool you into accepting that myth of toxic toughness.  If your heart is in a place to be sad over something that is broken, hurting, or lost in this life, let it be honestly sad.

Like the old prayer goes, "Let my heart be broken by the things that break the heart of God."  Let us dare to be freed from the fear of sadness... and to let lament be the beginning of a protest of hope.

Lord God, break our hearts where they need to broken rather than complacent, and give us the freedom to be sad as well as joyful with honesty..

Thanks for Weakness

Thanks for Weakness--July 14, 2017

"Friends, I beg you, become as I am, for I also have become as you are. You have done me no wrong. You know that it was because of a physical infirmity that I first announced the gospel to you; though my condition put you to the test, you did not scorn or despise me, but welcomed me as an angel of God, as Christ Jesus."  [Gal. 4:12-14]

It turns out that our weak places are gifts.

It turns out that being vulnerable is the key to being available.

Maybe that is hard to imagine, since we think of vulnerability as a synonym for weakness; it is a liability, a soft spot that must be defended, an opening in the city walls where we are susceptible to attack.  Our fear of being vulnerable is what leads us to erect the defense mechanisms that keep us so distant for so much of the time.  I don't want you to reject me, so I will reject you preemptively to avoid being hurt.  You retreat and withdraw from friendships or connections with others to avoid discovering they are not perfect.  We make ourselves feel better by keeping out the other from our clubs--the ones who are different, the ones not already in the club.  Nations and governments coerce and threaten and kill each other rather than risk seeming weak to enemies.  It's all the same game, and it all comes out of this deep sense in us that it is bad to be vulnerable.

But for Paul, his own vulnerability was an opening for relationship.  We don't know what Paul's "physical infirmity" was--some think he was going blind (later in Galatians he talks about how big his handwriting has become), and others think he had some sort of ailment that kept him from getting around physically.  Who knows?  Well, the Galatians knew.  Paul shared it with them; he found himself in their community with a chance to bring the news of Jesus, and he risked sharing himself with them even though it meant imposing on them by staying with them.  This is another challenge for many of us who were always taught never to impose on others. It's not good manners to need things from others, it's a sign, we think, of--you guessed it--vulnerability and weakness.  And for Paul, it is just in those shows of vulnerability--of dependence on another, asking for help when it is needed, offering help without becoming patronizing--that grace takes a hold of people.  Paul's whole way of announcing the gospel to the Galatians came through whatever weaknesses he had, not by hiding them or covering them up or denying they every existed.  He presented himself to these Christians as he was, warts and all, as an example of the powerful embrace of God who loves people as they are--warts and all.  That is the gift of vulnerability.

Imagine today how your conversations with others would be different if the game-playing of trying to impress others was taken out of the equation.  Imagine the freedom you would find in daring to share yourself with others rather than putting up defenses.  Imagine the depth of connection you might find with someone in being honest about your own places of weakness, along with your strengths.  That is the gift of vulnerability.

Gracious God who receives us knowing full well all our weak places, you are also the God who graciously risks loving us even knowing that we so poorly and rarely love you back as we ought.  Grant us today the courage to be vulnerable in appropriate ways, following the model of your servants like Paul, the model he learned from Jesus your Son, the model you give us yourself in the risk of loving and creating the world.

New Song on Bandcamp from Mercy Moves Us--Julian's Song

Hey, friends...


Looking ahead to the story many of us will hear next Sunday (July 23) in worship, Jesus' parable of the wheat and the weeds, here's a new recording of an original song inspired by that story (as well as Paul's words about creation groaning in Romans 8)... and a little bit of Julian of Norwich in there for good measure, too.


For the days when there are weeds in your soul, too.

Remember, any proceeds from folks who purchase songs from us at Mercy Moves Us on Bandcamp.com will go to Luthern World Relief's Syria projects...


--Pastor Steve