On Dancing Badly--October 31, 2019

"On Dancing Badly"--October 31, 2019

"We who are strong ought to put up with the failings of the weak, and not to please ourselves. Each of us must please our neighbor for the good purpose of building up the neighbor. For Christ did not please himself; but, as it is written, 'The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me'." [Romans 15:1-3]

First, a confession: I am a bad dancer.

There is no graceful way of describing my lack of gracefulness. I am just not good at moving my body or limbs in aesthetically pleasing ways to the beat of a song. The style of the music doesn't seem to matter. The familiarity of the song doesn't make a difference. I'm just clumsy, self-conscious, and awkward, and those make for a pathetic combination on the dance-floor.

Someone recently gave me the gift of honesty recently by reminding me that I am not a good dancer, and I have been thinking lately about the lesson to be learned from that awareness. That reminder came at a wedding reception, at which my son was too shy to go out on the dance floor by himself. That's fair--he's eight. But it's also a bit ironic, because my second-grade son is a fantastic dancer, and he just naturally has five times the skill I have, while he has one-fifth the number of years of life. So there we were, wallflowers the both of us for a while. He didn't want to go out and dance to the music by himself, even though he's got a natural groove, and I didn't want to go out and dance, either, because I am a train-wreck of sub-par gross motor skills.

But I'm the grown-up. I'm the one who is supposed to have developed the thick skin and confidence to deal with life, and I'm the one who is tasked with teaching him that it doesn't matter what anybody else thinks of him. I'm supposed to not care about what other people think of me, too. And I'm supposed to be the example. Maybe most of all, as the parent of a primary-grade child, I'm supposed to be the presence that makes it safe for him to step out and do new things... to grow... to experiment. Soon enough, he won't need me to stand at his side when he takes on the world, but in second grade he does.

So here was the resolution to our predicament: I took my son out onto the dance floor, and I danced badly so that he could dance well. Nobody in their right mind would have said I looked cool, but that was no longer the point. I was there so that he could come into his own, because from his vantage point, I was the "strong" one who had the grown-up courage to go "out there" when other people were watching. And once I was out there, making a delightful fool of myself while Abba played in the background, my son could do his thing and find his way.

He did. He rocked it. And I dare say he enjoyed himself once he had forgotten his self-consciousness. And all of a sudden the tables were turned, and his comfortableness in his own skin made if possible for me to stay out there and move uncomfortably to the music, too. Each of us was "strong" in a sense--my son in actual talent, and me in a willingness to do foolish things--and each of us was "weak," too. And it occurs to me now that the purpose of those "strengths" is not for each of our own benefit, but for the benefit of the other. My relatively strong tolerance for personal embarrassment at my own bad dancing is not really a positive if I'm just out there by myself. But when it exists for the sake of letting my son shine on his own, it is a positive. And my son's ability to dance is, in the big scheme of things, not a hugely-useful skill in life--but when he got into it, he made it possible for me to stay there, too, without feeling weird myself anymore. Our strengths are only meaningful when they are used for the sake of one another, and it is a damn shame to use them only for ourselves and our own interests.

The early Christian community knew the same: if you think you are "strong" in some way, your strength is meant for the good of the neighbor, and their "strength" is meant to build you up. The apostle Paul is clever here in his rhetorical move. He writes, "We who are strong ought to put up with the failings of the weak..." and of course everybody in his audience wants to cast themselves in the role of "strong" rather than "weak." Everybody wants to see themselves as strong--and that's how Paul catches us all. Once we have identified ourselves as strong, Paul says, "Then your strength is meant to make life better for someone else." In the wider context of his letter, Paul has in mind those who have different dietary needs or restrictions, or those who have scruples about wine or meat or whatever. These are ordinary kinds of issues--not big deals, just regular, everyday kinds of situations. And yet Paul takes it for granted that the followers of Jesus are called to make special provisions for those who have different needs from our own. Instead of complaining about it, or griping about it, or insisting that the majority of people don't have a problem with X or Y, so we aren't doing anything to change it, Paul says that we are always called to look out for the needs of those who do have particular requirements or scruples or conscience issues.

And that move is radical. It completely inverts the old idea that the "strong" get to use their strength to impose their wishes on the "weak," by saying that those who are "strong"--whether in raw numbers, muscle-power, wealth, status, or influence--are called to use their strength for the sake of others, not at the expense of others. All too often, I hear people complaining about how they don't like making special accommodations for others, because they don't like being inconvenienced: why should we have ramps and handlebars on construction if we don't think there will be many people in wheelchairs who will ever need this? Or why should we accommodate the dietary needs of "those people," because they aren't in the majority? Or why should we accommodate the needs of people whose language is different--who need sign-language interpreters, or Spanish or Arabic or Mandarin, or whatever else? Or why should we go out of our way to help people who are homeless, or people who are newly arrived in this country to get settled and find housing or employment? The variations are infinite, but they all boil down to the same assumption of conventional wisdom: that when you are "weak" (the one without power) you just have to accommodate yourself to the system set up by the "strong" (those who have power). And over against that, the New Testament insist on just the opposite. All the way down to little details of everyday situations, the apostle says that those who are in positions of relative power or advantage (the "strong") are called to use it for the sake of helping those who are not in power or without advantage (the "weak").

There's no way around this--it is bedrock New Testament teaching, because as Paul sees it, it is rooted in the life, teaching, and example of Jesus Christ himself, the supremely "strong" one who did not seek his own well-being, but the well-being of... well, all the rest of us. And Jesus used his strength to make it possible for us, in all of our weakness, to go out on the dance floor and find our own groove. Jesus is the grown-up who is perpetually willing to make a fool of himself so that we can come into our own. And Jesus is the graceful one who makes it possible for us to forget our own awkwardness, too.

In this life, there are going to be times when you are on the "weak" side of the divide, and times you are on the "strong" side, too. Sometimes we are both at the same time in different categories--like being the relatively confidant adult who is also at the same time clumsy in the dancing department. And that means we are going to be constantly putting ourselves out there for the sake of others... and at the same time receiving the gifts of others' strengths. That's what it is to be a part of the Christian community, really: that we can honestly own both our strengths and our weaknesses, the places we have power and the places in which we are powerless, so that we can use what we have for the sake of others, and then in turn to be blessed by the gifts that others have to offer us as well. We are always both at the same time--the nervous kid with moves and the awkward adult willing to look silly.

So in this day, on an ordinary Thursday, let's take an honest look at our own selves--where we are strong, and where we are weak. And instead of complaining or moaning about having to go out of our way for "those other people" if I don't have a problem with something, maybe I can see that the places I have strengths are meant to serve others... and that God has called others who have different strengths to help accommodate me in my places of powerlessness.

It's a never-ending motion of back-and-forth, as strength is laid down for weakness, and power is used for the well-being of the powerless in an ongoing circle.

Kind of like, I guess you could say, a dance.

Lord Jesus, keep us dancing to your tune and laying down our strengths for the sake of others, while we own our weaknesses, too.

Small Revolutions--October 30, 2019

"Small Revolutions"--October 30, 2019

"If anyone strikes you on the cheek offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not without even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again. Do to others as you would have them do to you.  If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them. If you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same. If you lend to those from whom you hope to receive, what credit is that to you? Even sinners lend to sinners, to receive as much again. But love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return..." [Luke 6:32-35]

Jesus is at his most radical when he is at his most everyday, I think.  He is at his most provocative when he speaks about our small actions in daily life, because he makes it clear that his revolutionary way of living in the world is not reserved for some select class of spiritual superheroes, but for all of us in our ordinary interactions with others.  

That leaves us nowhere to run when we hear his words--we don't get to use some excuse like, "But this is for saints or monks or nuns or pastors--not for the rest of us ordinary Christians living out our lives day to day!" There are no draft-deferments or exemptions if you have a doctor's note.  Nor are we permitted to say, "We have to live in the real world, where people are mean and cruel and sometimes people want to take your stuff!  Jesus can't be referring to my everyday life here!  This must just be for a set of special people or special circumstances!"  All of that is just our attempt to run away from the radical vision of Jesus' kind of love.  (It's funny, by the way, how often you'll hear folks stake out their positions on some issues by insisting, "The Bible is clear about...!" and yet look for every possible excuse to dodge taking Jesus seriously about loving enemies and giving without seeking reciprocity, when Jesus sure seems to be "clear" about his teaching on those points.)

So if we have no excuse nor escape route, we'll have to listen to Jesus' words here and let him do his radical transformation of us in the midst of our ordinary lives--where we interact with people who are sometimes rude or rotten, and where we run across people who ask for our help in the course of just carrying out our weekly routines.  And at the core of all of these teachings of Jesus, there is a beating heart of unconditional love.  Jesus is heaven-bent on making us into people who live, speak, and act on the basis of unconditional love--both God's for us, and ours for others.  Jesus really is convinced that God's love is lavished on us regardless of our goodness or badness, and that God does good to us apart from considering whether we "deserve" it or not.  Jesus is further convinced, it appears, that the people of God will live as though the universe is an economy ordered by grace, rather than by transactions, deal-making, and revenge.

All of the specific, ordinary situations Jesus describes in these verses are ways of resisting the conventional wisdom that says the world is run on the basis of tit-for-tat (or to use a Latin phrase that is getting a lot of use in the news these days, "quid pro quo") exchanges, in favor of doing good without regard for what will be gained in return.  From Jesus' vantage point, this policy of doing good, even in return for rottenness, is as plain as the nose on your face, because he sees this as God's policy toward the whole world already.  God loves the world despite our unloveliness. God is good not only to the well-behaved religious people, but to stinkers and sinners, atheists and agnostics, outcasts and undesirables all the same.  And from Jesus' vantage point, that is not a design flaw on God's part--that is in fact the defining feature of the Kingdom of God--or, if you like, the Yahweh Administration.

Therefore, Jesus says, we who dare to live in light of this God's values will practice the same kind of audaciously unconditional love in our day-to-day dealings with others. We will give without expecting to get favors done for us in return--because we know that God doesn't demand a proverbial "pound of flesh" in exchange for daily sustaining our lives.  We will not answer violence with violence, and we will not sink to the level of doing evil to the people who do evil to us.  And in our refusing to sink to their level, we are making our protest against their rottenness.  Answering evil with goodness is not giving permission to evildoers to keep being rotten--it is a refusal to spread evil by adopting the tactics of those who see us as their enemies.  It's not about being wimpy doormats--it's about having the moral courage not to cheat those who cheated you or insult those who insulted you or hate those who hate you.  

And that insight helps make more sense even of Jesus' teaching about turning the other cheek.  As other commentators have noted before (see, among others, Walter Wink on this one), in Matthew's recounting of this teaching, Jesus talks about someone striking you on the "right cheek" and then offering your "left" in response.  In a culture where everyone uses their right hands for everything but the bathroom (sanitary reasons forced a practical right-handedness on everyone, including those naturally left-handed), striking someone on the "right cheek" with your right hand requires you to be giving someone a back-handed slap in the face--in other words, that's the way you hit someone when you intend to insult them or regard them as a social inferior.  When Jesus says to respond by turning your left cheek, it is therefore a refusal on the part of the person who was struck to accept being treated as a social inferior, but to insist on being struck as an equal.  It is as if to say, "You are trying to insult me by slapping me on the face, but if you are going to strike me, I insist you treat me as an equal." The idea is to shame the person who has struck/slapped you into seeing what a total buffoon they have been, and to get them to back off by the power of that social shaming.  In other words, when someone tries to belittle you or treat you as inferior, you don't sink to their level, but you don't accept their assessment, either--you insist that you are of equal worth while refusing to play by their rules.  So, despite all the ways this passage has been misused by preachers before (usually male preachers on this count) to tell people in abusive relationships that they must stay in abusive relationships, Jesus doesn't really seem to be talking about staying in abusive marriages.  Rather, he insists that when others try to insult us, we will not answer those insults with rottenness of our own, but rather we can stand up for our own belovedness and worth without attacking the other person.

And in all of that, Jesus is downright radical.  His way of loving seeps down into little moments and small actions of every day life, which means that our revolution against the old order of tit-for-tat will happen in quiet ways, right under the nose of the world's deal-makers and talking heads.  Jesus really is incendiary. He truly does advocate a revolution against the old way of seeing the universe as an economy of transactions, revenge, and self-interested deals. It's just that his revolution is not waged with an army or an insurgency, but rather through small acts of unconditional love by ordinary people in everyday life.  And to every loud shouting voice that says, "Self-interested deal-making is just how the world works, and you have to answer rottenness from others with rottenness from you," Jesus says, "No, it isn't.  No, you don't.  You never have to accept those terms or play those games."  

The small revolution happens in little actions that defy the old tit-for-tat mindset.  And today Jesus dares us to join it.

Lord Jesus, let us show you radical love in ordinary situations today.

The Last Gift of Friendship--October 29, 2019

The Last Gift of Friendship--October 29, 2019

"As for me, I am already being poured out as a libation, and the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give me on that day, and not only to me but also to all who have longed for his appearing. Do you best to come to me soon, for Demas, in love with this present world, ahs deserted me and gone to Thessalonica; Crescens has gone to Galatia, Titus to Dalmatia. Only Luke is with me. Get Mark and bring him with you, for he is useful in my ministry. I have sent Tychicus to Ephesus. When you come, bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, also the books, and above all the parchments." [2 Timothy 4:6-13]

Of all the gifts you are given in the course of a friendship, it seems the last one is the lesson of how to appreciate the good in things even when they end.

Let me back up a moment.

I was struck, flipping through the latter letters of the New Testament, at how the apostle Paul is depicted in dealing with the endings in his life, and how often the ordinary and the extraordinary are intermingled.  Here in what we call Second Timothy, we are given a scene that sure presents itself as the Apostle Paul's Farewell Speech.  We are meant to read between the lines that he knows his death is near. And in fact, it is most likely that Paul didn't get to retire on a pastor's pension in Florida somewhere, but rather was executed by the Empire for being a seditious enemy of the state (you can't, after all, call Caesar "Lord" if you have confessed Jesus as Lord already).  So Paul knows his life is near its end, and some of this passage almost has the feel of a Shakespearean soliloquy (I can't help but hear echoes of this passage in Henry V's famous "St. Crispin's Day" speech).  And yet, even though Paul is, at one point, talking about the big, momentous, literally life-and-death turning points, he is also completely immersed in the mundane details of ordinary life.  

While in one breath he talking about going to his death like a runner who has finished the race or a boxer who has fought hard, in the next breath he is rattling off a shopping list to Timothy of things to bring when he comes (a cloak, and books, and parchments--of what, who knows?).  And in the midst of it all, too, we are given a glimpse of Paul as someone coming to terms with that other piece of ordinary life--the coming and going of people in our lives, and the beginnings and endings of friendships.

It's a little bit painful, I find, to read these words from Second Timothy, both because here the Apostle Paul seems so vulnerable, so lonely, and also so wounded, and also because he is coming to terms with the reality that life in the adventure called "Church" will go on without him.  I want to give the man as much credit as I can, because I certainly share a lot of the same insecurities that Paul had, but I can't deny that he comes off as little bitter, too. As the saying goes, hurt people hurt people--and Paul seems to be hurt, which makes him also quick to throw a pity party for himself at losing people he had once relied on. And that's difficult to admit seeing in Paul--both because it means that the same flaws likely reside in me, and because it is never easy to see the clay feet of people you respect.  But having read these verses, I can't un-see it.  Paul is clearly wrestling with what it means to see that life will continue on, as it should, and as it must, even when it continues without him.

You can see a variety of different relationships in a number of different stages in these few verses.  Whoever Demas was, Paul clearly disapproves of whatever choices he has made.  We aren't privy to knowing what Demas had chosen to do in Thessalonica, or why he was going there, but Paul is taking the loss pretty personally--and Paul seems to be convinced that Demas is choosing to leave Paul for selfish reasons rather than Christ-centered ones.  That must feel like a double-loss to Paul--both to feel like he is losing the friendship he had with Demas, but also to feel Demas just doesn't "get it" and has sold out his commitment to Christ to go somewhere else. 

Then there are two others, Crescens and Titus, and we don't know whether it's good or bad that they have gone to their respective destinations.  It's quite likely they are going off to do other church work--to teach and preach, to tend to fledgling congregations, to share the Good News of Jesus. Paul doesn't explicitly disapprove of their going, but again, there's a cloud of loneliness left hanging because these friends have left Paul's side.  Even if they have not had a bitter falling out, Paul knows because of the circumstances that he will not likely see them again, this side of glory, and that the closeness they had once had is now a thing of the past.  Paul has had to say goodbye to them, even while he is still alive, because he knows that they have chosen other paths, and that those paths no longer include "staying here by Paul" anymore.

There is hope for Paul, too, that he is comforted by the presence of Luke (quite possibly the same Luke who is associated with the third Gospel and the book of Acts), and he seems hopeful of seeing both the Timothy to whom he is writing, and Mark (this may or may not be the John Mark associated with the second Gospel and with Barnabas).  So Paul is hopeful that he will have the support of new faces--or at least that there will be others who come to support him while he has had to let go of others.  But even at that, the shadow of the executioner's sword is looming in the distance, and Paul knows from having to say his goodbyes to others that the time will come for saying his goodbyes to Luke and Timothy and Mark.

That's so much of what this life is: a constant--and constantly messy--overlap of goings and comings, of goodbyes and good-to-see-yous, of people who leave and people who come.  Sometimes those comings and goings are painful because there is estrangement between those who had been close; sometimes the pain is precisely because there is no estrangement, and you still have to say goodbye.  This, of course, isn't just the case for apostles, but for all of us.  I was just sitting in a hospital waiting room today with someone who was waiting for a friend having surgery, but who is also anticipating a move to another part of the state in the near future, and the overlap of being present and being absent was there sitting in the same chair!  Ordinary life is like that--the comings of new people, the leavings of people we have known and loved, and the changing distance as people become closer or become more distant--whether that distance is measurable in miles or in emotions.

Now, the temptation when you and I live through those comings and goings, is to make the ones who go from our lives into villains, and the ones who come into our lives as good-guys.  Paul seems very, very close to doing that there, by casting Demas as a world-loving apostate who bailed out on him, and pinning a lot of hope on the friends he expects to come to see him.  But in all honesty, the people who had been with Paul were there and gave him important gifts in the time they were with him, and he in turn blessed their lives with his own wisdom and care and love. The difficult--but necessary--thing about this life is that you have to be able to see good (and God-given good, at that!) in the things that lasted only a while.  It is a good and beautiful thing that, for example, Paul had been able to work with Titus side by side.  But now that Titus has gone to do mission work in Dalmatia, it doesn't make the blessings of the past vanish in a puff of smoke, and it doesn't mean that Titus shouldn't have gone to Dalmatia.  He went, we have to trust, where Christ led him.  And Paul had to come to terms with the fact that he might not like it, but he wasn't the boss--Jesus is.

If we can see our lives as part of something God is weaving together, or like a pattern of lace knitted into a blanket, then the comings and the goings that are part of ordinary life can also be beautiful.  I am amazed when I look at blankets my wife has knitted, and the way stitches are intentionally dropped and then picked back up, leaving intricate patterns that are only possible with the letting go and the taking hold of different loops.  If you are the stitch that just got dropped, you feel alone and miserable, but when the whole thing is completed, someone looking at the entire project will come to see beauty and design in what felt like being dropped and forgotten.

It is comforting, in a weird way, for my own insecure heart to see that Paul went through his own heartaches at the loss of friendships--whether it was because some other life-choice came between them, or distance, or disagreement, or all of the above.  It is oddly comforting to know that Christ has never been afraid to work with people whose hearts are afraid of loss, or people who feel exposed and vulnerable, or people who want to throw themselves pity parties.  It is strangely good news for me to hear that Jesus doesn't see my own insecurities, anxieties, and heartaches as disqualifying, but he is willing to keep loving me despite my hang-ups and deep (like Grand-Canyon-deep) flaws.  I need that.  I need to know that I am still acceptable, despite the days I feel beset with bitterness, and despite the days I am tired of saying goodbyes to Demas and Crescens and Titus in my world.

And maybe seeing Paul's struggle here allows each of us to see--and to be grateful for--the gifts of people we have counted as our friends in this life, for as long as we got to have them in our lives, whether they left our lives because of life-choices they made like Demas, or to distance like Titus, or to death like Paul himself.  Any good in a lifetime--and any good in the universe at all--is not in vain in the big scheme of things.  And that means it is worth the effort to love, to be decent, to be truthful, and to be faithful, even if we know that all the relationships of this life will always be marked by comings and goings, and even if they all come with a price tag measured in pain.

The last gift, in the end, of all friendships is in seeing that there was beauty in them while we are together, and that beauty and goodness is not undone by the things that make our paths go in different directions when they do.

We dare to trust that Jesus holds us all, no matter where those paths lead.

Lord Jesus, hold us all.  Hold us always.

"The Names We Wear"--October 28, 2019

“The Names We Wear”—October 28, 2019

[Jesus said:] “For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.” [Mark 9:41]

There is a wise older sister in Christ I know who will not wear shirts with brand logos on them. She doesn’t get preachy or belligerent about it. She just will say, if you bring up the subject, that she doesn’t see the sense in paying a company for the “privilege” of advertising their brand on her person. You get to send one message with what you wear, even if that message is simply a non-verbal one when you wear stripes or solid colors (which still sends a message about the occasion you wear certain clothes for), and it doesn’t make any sense to her to waste your message shilling someone else’s brand and giving away your money for the chance. She has a point.

Most of us are not so picky—or even self-aware—with the labels we proudly wear. Hopefully we have gotten past that adolescent phase of wearing certain brands because they are the trendy brands, and the going out of our way to let people see the logo on our shirts or shoes. But quite often we do not realize that we are turning ourselves into walking billboards and that we cannot help but advertise something with the brands we buy and wear and consume. We are sending messages all the time about what matters to us, and about what things we will let ourselves be defined by. We send messages to the world simply through the names we wear, and how we wear them.

It is that realization that brings to mind the haunting line of a hymn of Fred Pratt Green’s, entitled, “How Clear Is Our Vocation, Lord.” The third stanza goes like this:

We mark your saints, how they became
in hindrances more sure,
whose joyful virtues put to shame
the casual way we wear your name,
and by our faults obscure
your power to cleanse and cure.
The lives of faithful disciples—those older and wiser sisters and brothers in Christ—do expose “the casual way we wear [Christ’s] name.” We are quick to wear the logos of favorite teams, brands, schools, and the life, and we do not think of the messages we are sending by wearing them. But even less do we think about what it means that we bear the name of Christ. We forget, perhaps because we are used to paying money for the chance to wear designer brands or the logo of our favorite pro football team, that we have been given the name of Jesus to wear as a free gift.

We are marked, we followers of Jesus, with the name of Christ. It is real, if invisible, in the watermark of the cross traced over our heads in baptism. We are set apart, and we can lay claim to belonging—truly belonging—in the family of God because of Christ Jesus. And yet, we treat it as if it means nothing. We act as if our identity is really derived from our bank accounts or our jobs or our political party or our children’s report cards. We act as if the brands we wear say more about us than the “brand” of that water-traced cross that says we are the beloved of God in Christ. We really do wear the name of Jesus casually.

And yet Jesus reminds us that wearing his name matters. It's an ordinary part of life, maybe, but it is still important--never confuse ordinary with unimportant. It’s not that Jesus is so worried about his reputation being sullied by sinners—after all, Jesus himself did plenty of associating with notorious sinners, outcasts, losers, sell-outs, and failures. It’s not that Jesus can’t stand to have his name used to identify us. It’s that he recognizes the power and preciousness of belonging to him—enough that even those who offer simply a cold cup of water because we bear the name of Christ are blessed!—and Jesus knows how easy it will be for us to take that name for granted.

There is great power in the names you and I allow to define us. We can let it be the brands we purchase from the store, or the money it costs to buy the high-end, name-brand, logo-emblazoned clothes, or the company letterhead we work for. Or we can resist that impulse to be defined by our stuff, our money, and our jobs, and instead to be defined by Christ. Today, what if you and I began to stop and consider just how we do wear the name of Jesus, and how we might let him define us completely and fully. How might we recognize the privilege we have that we can name the name of Jesus? And whose name will you wear today?

Lord Jesus, you have marked us as your own. Let us wear your name boldly and intentionally, finding our truest identity in you.

"What We Give Up"--October 25, 2019

"What We Give Up"--October 25, 2019

"As [Jesus] was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, 'Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?' Jesus said to him, 'Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the commandments: You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; You shall not defraud; Honor your father and mother.' He said to him, 'Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.' Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, 'You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.' When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions." [Mark 10:17-22]

Jesus loved him.  

At every moment of this story, even though Jesus knew he was going to be passed over like chopped liver by this well-heeled would-be disciple, Jesus loved him.  In fact, he never stopped loving him.  I dare say Jesus still loves him right now.

It's a detail that we often skip over in this story, but Mark seems intent on slowing things down in this conversation enough to add his editorial description that Jesus, "looking at him, loved him" before daring him to pawn his possessions and give the money to the poor.  Mark wants us to know that Jesus doesn't say this as an impossible test, as though he's trying to get the other man to fail or give up.  Jesus isn't trying to blow him off or discourage him, nor is he trying to punish the man who has come to him.  Jesus isn't insisting on payment for access to God, or demanding some kind of quid pro quo to earn your way into eternal life or the Heaven Club. Jesus isn't trying to make the man sad or upset or miserable--it is, rather, that Jesus knows what makes life really worth living. In other words, Jesus doesn't tell the man to sell his possessions in spite of the fact that Jesus loves him; it is precisely because Jesus loves him.

Now, in fairness, we should note here that something seems to have been exceptional about this man's situation. Jesus doesn't that demand everyone who comes to him must sell all their possessions. That's not a prerequisite of Mary and Martha, for example, who kept on entertaining Jesus in the home that they very much still possessed.  And Jesus doesn't make Zacchaeus sell all of his possessions when ol' Zach spontaneously offered to give half.  

But--and we just can't get away from this--Jesus does, for some reason, think it is vital that this particular man sell his possessions, give the proceeds away to the poor, and then follow.  Jesus readily acknowledges that this isn't something he has demanded of everyone, and yet Jesus also shows no indication that he is willing to negotiate on this one.  He doesn't demand something that is physically impossible--there is no requirement of performing a miracle, walking on water, or curing leprosy.  In that sense, Jesus' call to the rich man is entirely ordinary.

And yet, you can just imagine the protests on his lips as he goes away, head down, bitterly muttering.  You can voice his sadness and anger toward Jesus, because chances are they are forming in your mind like they form in mine when I read this story and see myself in this man's place.  We know how this pouting protest goes.  "Oh, really, Jesus?  So you think I can't follow you well enough if I don't get rid of my belongings?  So, what--you just expect all of us to be like monks and live without?  So you don't think people can really love God if they also own a house or a decent farm?  So I can't have my stuff and also follow you?  I should just empty my whole life so I can wander around aimlessly with you, is that it?  And otherwise, I'm not, what, dedicated enough for you?  Do you really think so little of me, Jesus?  Because I did, after all, come here to you and ask to follow you...."  Those words have been yours and mine plenty of times, I imagine.  That's how you know Jesus has poked at a tender spot.

But remember, Jesus loves this man.  He cares about him deeply.  He loved him before the rich man proudly announced how well he had kept the commandments (in his own recollection), as well as afterward.  He loved him before the challenge to sell his possessions, and he loved him, too, even when the rich man went moping away.  Jesus wasn't trying to end things with this would-be follower.  In fact, it is precisely because Jesus loved him that he directed the man to let go of all the other stuff that was getting in the way between him and a life fully centered on God.

See, the problem isn't whether it is "sinful" to have money, or a house, or a family, or a new car, or a trip to Europe planned, or fun plans for the weekend.  That misses the point.  It's not about whether it is breaks a commandment to be in a certain tax bracket or have a membership to the country club.  It's a question of whether any of those things--big or small--are getting between us and God.  From Jesus' vantage point, the rich man has to choose what gets the first allegiance in his life--going where God leads, or holding onto his stuff.  The rich man was just hoping he wouldn't have to ever pick between the two, and that's part of why he gets into such a huff when Jesus calls his bluff and makes him actually choose.  He was sure that Jesus wouldn't say it was "sinful" or "against the rules" to have all the comfortable trappings of life that he had, and so he couldn't possibly imagine seriously being asked to give all that up. But as so often is the case in life, it's not that we are deciding between something obviously evil and something obviously good; rather, we are usually left having to decide whether to pick between what is okay and what is genuinely good.  And Jesus just forces us to realize that at some point we can't have it all--we have to decide whether we would rather have the not-technically-sinful-but-still-lesser-thing, or whether we would rather be free to love God with our whole selves.

It was never that owning a house or a field or a brand-new chariot was a wicked thing by itself.  It's that, quite honestly, we have only so much attention, love, and self to give in this life.  And the time and effort I devote to maintaining my house, field, chariot, and so on is time I am not free to go where Jesus would lead me.  I cannot maintain the necessary empty space in my life to be free to follow Jesus if I have filled my life with stuff and filled my calendar with appointments for maintaining my stuff.  So while Jesus doesn't say in the abstract that "No one can ever own any possessions if they want to follow me," he knows that for this particular man, those possessions will always get in the way of holding the empty space in his life that would free him to follow Jesus.  

For others of us, it's not our possessions that possess us but our social lives... or our achievements at work... or our reputations... or our political preferences... or the legacy we leave behind and how we are remembered.  So Jesus may not come up to me and demand I sell my car (maybe I wouldn't get much to give to the poor for a rust-colored 2009 Subaru hatchback with a dented front fender anyway), but he might insist that I have to give up my technology... or my plans for the weekend... or my insecure need to be liked... or any of a number of other things.  Or he might ask you to let go of your need to have the cookie-cutter life with 2.5 kids and a white picket fence... or the online relationship that is sucking the oxygen out of the room and keeping you from being able to help the others God sends across your path... or the set of political commitments you have been holding onto like a family heirloom without ever stopping to ask if they fit with the Jesus way of life.  

I can't guess what Jesus will say to you when he starts the sentence, "You lack one thing..." But my suspicion is that it isn't always something obviously wicked or sinful--it might just be the thing that is keeping you from being fully available to God because it is the one thing you don't want to let go of.  And when Jesus says that to you, as he keeps saying it to me day by day, it's not because he is trying to punish us or test us or because he hates us or wants us to be miserable.  It is because Jesus knows the things that are keeping us from being completely given over to God, and he knows that often what keeps us from being fully immersed in God are not obvious evils but simply lesser goods that we give our allegiance to rather than to God.  

It is because Jesus loves the rich man that he insists he must sell his possessions, give the money to the poor, and come follow.  It is because Jesus loves me that he keeps calling me to surrender what I keep giving my allegiance to.  And it is because Jesus loves you, too, that he just might call you to let go of things that seem perfectly innocuous but are keeping us from being able to give ourselves fully to God.  Your list might be different than mine--that's how it is.  But the love of Jesus is the same to each of us.  Like Frederick Buechner says, "Christ's love so wishes our joy that it is ruthless against everything in us that diminishes our joy."  That might mean letting go of things we thought made us "happy" for a minute for the sake of having the One who gives us "joy" forever.  But that letting go isn't a punishment meted out or a price waiting to be paid--it is what allows us to be completely given over to the Love of Christ who will not let us go.

Remember, dear ones--beginning to end, Jesus loves us.  And he still loves the mopey and bitter rich man, too.

Lord Jesus, root out the things that keep us from you, and let us see that digging as your work of love in us.

"Hidden in the Soup"--October 24, 2019

"Hidden in the Soup"--October 24, 2019

"For I received from the Lord what I also handed onto you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, 'This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.' In the same way, he took the cup also, after supper, saying, 'This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.' For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until he comes. Whoever, therefore, eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be answerable for the body and blood of the Lord." [1 Corinthians 11:23-27]

They say a fish doesn't know that it's wet.  Maybe that's why it's taken me so long to come around and think about the glaring way that Christ is present in the ordinary every Sunday where I worship by showing up in bread and wine.  It's been there all along--he's been there all along--but maybe I had forgotten that, for whatever else the Lord's Supper is about (and it is about many things at once), it is at the Table where Christ chooses to be present not only among ordinary people, but among ordinary ingredients, too.

Let me lay some of my cards on the table.  I come from the Lutheran branch of the Christian family tree--a tradition that revels in paradox, celebrates its earthiness, and unapologetically confesses that Christ is truly present in what we often call "the sacrament of Holy Communion," or "the Lord's Supper," or "the Eucharist."  Ours is a way of thinking and believing that is willing to bang on tables with the insistence that Christ is present, in Luther's words, "in, with, and under" the bread and the cup.  He's really there.  He's not just leaving us with a neato metaphor to think about.  And he's not just giving us an edible reminder of what happened a long time ago--Christ is really and truly present even in something as ordinary and common as bread that was baked in somebody's home kitchen earlier that morning.  If that sensibility pushes your theological buttons and you'd like to make a discreet walk to the exits for today, you are more than welcome.  But consider this your sacramental spoiler alert: beyond this point, there be dragons--well, not so much dragons, as a willingness to see Christ in ordinary flour and fermented grapes.

So, like I say, where I find myself on Sunday mornings, we share in this ancient meal of bread and wine every week, following what we think was the very same pattern of the earliest Christians, who saw every Sunday as a celebration of the resurrection and of re-creation (the eighth day of a seven-day week, or the first day of a brand-new creation).  And part of what we believe, based in part on the way Paul talks here to the Corinthians, is that Christ is really and truly present--that we can meaningfully call the bread and cup "the body and blood of Christ."  Paul seems so sure of that fact that he says you are "answerable for the body and blood of the Lord" when you share in this meal, and therefore we shouldn't be casual, glib, or self-centered with these gifts.  

Now, lots of Respectable Religious people over the years have spilled a lot of ink focusing in on that phrase about being "answerable," or about not eating and drinking "in an unworthy manner," and to be honest, I think they have missed the thrust of what Paul is really saying.  We've been so hung up on what list of dos and dont's Paul has in mind, or what metaphysical theory we should adopt for understanding what happens at Communion, that we seem to skip right over the amazing and audacious claim that Christ really there, being given out and shared, amongst ordinary ingredients from the supermarket.  That is the real headline, isn't it?  That Christ--and therefore God--chooses to be breakable like bread, pourable like wine, and also therefore shareable, spillable, and vulnerable, right in the midst of our ordinary gatherings?

Maybe we have lost something over the centuries by building official worship spaces, sanctuaries, and edifices called "churches," because we end up losing some part of the utter commonness of what is happening here.  When Paul wrote, of course, Christians weren't gathering in cathedrals or basilicas or even in rented public buildings.  We were gathering in people's homes, often in a common room or open area, in house churches that were literally somebody's home for the rest of the week.  And in the midst of what was apparently a potluck dinner, they would pause to retell the story of what Jesus did on the night of his betrayal, remember how that was inextricably tied to what happened at the cross, and then they would break the bread and pour the wine that Jesus himself had told the was his body and blood.  And it all happened in someone's living space.  Right in the thick of ordinary life.  My goodness, it wasn't even considered a religious day by the Empire or for the Jewish community around, either--Sunday was a work day in the Empire, and Judaism recognized Saturday as its sabbath.  So the early Christians met on an ordinary work day, in ordinary living space, using ordinary bread (note that Paul here doesn't even mention that it was a Passover meal in his retelling here, and therefore doesn't specify that it was unleavened bread), and they were convinced that none other than the Creator of the universe came to be present in the meal, indwelling the community like the proteins in grains of wheat become parts of your cells.

For whatever else is happening at the Lord's Supper--and yes, it is about remembering what Christ did at the cross for us, as well as about pointing us toward the promised future where we'll eat at the Lamb's Feast without end--this meal is about the God who becomes ordinary yet again, having already become ordinary in the olive-skinned flesh of a homeless Jewish builder's boy named Jesus.  And if it is true that God is willing to invade baked dough and fermented juice to be present and given away to us, then it is no harder to imagine that God chooses to show up in all the other ordinary moments and places of every day life, too.

In my tradition, that is exactly the point, in fact.  As the story goes, our older brother in the faith Martin Luther wrote to his Swiss fellow reformer and frenemy Ulrich Zwingli once that Christ "is as present in your cabbage soup as he is in the sacrament.  The difference is that he is hidden in the soup and revealed in the sacrament." But once your eyes can dare to discern the Maker of All Things being broken up and torn by hand to be placed in the sweaty hands of the old and the young at the communion rail, then all of a sudden, you can recognize that there is no place you go that is not already holy ground, permeated with the very presence of God, and filled with the presence of Christ.

And all of a sudden, the question is not, "Where should I go to find God?" but rather, "How have I missed it all this time, when I was like a fish that didn't even know it was wet?"

God has been hidden in the soup all this time.

Lord Jesus, let us see you in the places you choose to be revealed and recognizable, so that we will spot you everywhere else, too.

"In Case This Is Goodbye"--October 23, 2019

"In Case This Is Goodbye..."--October 23, 2019

"Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you." [Philippians 4:8-9]

What do you say to someone when it's time to say goodbye?  

What do you make sure to leave somebody else with, whether they are just walking out the door at the start of the workday, or walking out of your life for the last time?  What do you want to make sure you leave with people?  And what do you do when you just don't know if the goodbye and farewell you are speaking is just until the end of the day, or will last until the end of your lifetime?

I ask because, honestly, every day is full of those kinds of partings. Sometimes we say goodbyes that are just until the other side of the day, and they sound like, "See you when you get home!"  Sometimes they are the last farewells we speak to someone who is dying, and you know when you walk out the door or they shut their eyes, it will have been the last conversation you get this side of glory.  Sometimes you don't know what unexpected thing will turn a "See you later" into a last goodbye, too--it can be the spouse who leaves the "I'm leaving you" letter to be found after they have left, or the blow-up that unexpectedly ends a friendship or hobbles it so that it is never as close as it was before, or the tragic accident that takes a life when you had been expecting to see one another as usual.  The circumstances are many, but the experience of saying goodbye is part of our common everyday life.  Temporary or final, goodbyes are an ordinary part of life.

And that makes it worth it for us to consider what we do with those hand-on-the-door moments, when we part company from one another, whether we end up getting to see the other person and life goes on as usual with the same closeness you had known, or whether your paths never cross again this side of glory.  It's worth considering how we take our lives from one another... in case this is goodbye.

I had a long car ride by myself not long ago, and I happened to have my CD of 90s R&B group BoyzIIMen in the car stereo (it was a mid-90s flashback drive, I'll tell you that).  And as I heard the voices in harmony sing the words of a song I had not really listened to in decades, I heard connections to these words of Paul from Philippians.  In their wistful song, "It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday," the quartet sings, "And I'll take with me the memories to bring my sunshine out of the rain... it's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday." That's really where Paul is as he gets to the last few thoughts in his letter to his friends from Philippi.  Paul had really loved the people in this congregation--he calls them "my joy and my crown" elsewhere in the letter, and he knows they have had his back in some really difficult times in their shared past.  But now as he writes to them from house arrest in Rome awaiting trial before Caesar, he doesn't know if he's ever going to get the chance to talk with them again.  Earlier in the letter, Paul talks about not knowing whether he would rather keep living so he can be "useful" to these friends of his, or whether he is ready to just be done and go to be with Jesus.  And while Paul seems to think that he's going to be released from his imprisonment and get to see his friends in Philippi again, it's actually most likely historically that this letter was one of Paul's last, and that he didn't get to see those dear friends again in this life.  An honest assessment of the data suggests that when Paul did get his trial not long after penning this letter, he was put to death by the Empire--most likely for charges of treason or sedition or disturbing the peace because he would not give his allegiance to Caesar.  In other words, as Paul wrote this letter and got close to the end of what he had to say, he seems to have thought that he would get the chance to talk with the Philippians again, but he didn't know for sure.  So he offers words to his dear friends in case this is goodbye.

The shadow of the executioner's blade hangs over Paul's sentence that starts, "Finally, beloved..."  And what seems important to me on a day like today is that Paul offers guidance that applies either way--whether Paul was days away from a death sentence or whether he got to see them again.  Paul's hand-on-the-door message for these people he has come to love is simply, "Whatever was good in what we had--hold onto that."  He says to them that whatever they saw in him that was worth following, just keep following that example.  If there was any place they saw Christ in him, he says, basically, just keep doing that.  And whatever they have shared that was good or pure or decent, to set their minds and hearts there.  

He doesn't say this to puff up his own memory or polish his legacy in case this really is the last time he'll talk with them.  He simply means it as a direction for how they will all keep on keeping on.  The Philippians are going to need to keep living their lives, regardless of how soon or distantly they get to hear from Paul again. (And remember, even if he did keep living for a long time, these people were all communicating by hand-delivered letter across hundreds of miles traveled on foot or by sailing ship.  This was not like a text message conversation.)  So regardless of how long or short it is until they see one another or hear from one another again, Paul's counsel is meant to be for living out ordinary life.  This isn't Paul giving his own eulogy--it is a plan for facing everyday situations, whether he is in the picture or not.

Whatever is good, whatever is true, whatever is pure, whatever is excellent, and whatever has shown us the face of Christ, let that be our North Star.  That's Paul's direction for his friends, and we can borrow it, too.  On a day like today, we never really know whether we'll get to see one another again.  Life is funny that way.  We are not hopeless even with that uncertainty, because we are people of resurrection hope.  And we dare to believe that the living God can not only overcome the separation brought by death, but also the separations brought by estrangement, distance, disagreements, and whatever other things can come up in a day.  And because of that, we can spend this day with purpose, focusing our minds on whatever is good, and following the examples of those who have shown us the face of Christ in their lives, however long or short we have had with them.

We never really know at the end of any conversation when we'll get to speak again, and when we are unknowingly saying goodbye.  So it's worth being graceful to everyone, all the time.  And it's worth looking at the people God has brought into our lives, for however long we have had with them, to see where we were giving glimpses of Christ there... and to hold onto that.

In case this is goodbye, let us look for where we have seen Christ in each other.

Lord Jesus, watch between us all while we are absent, one from another.

"A Strange Kind of Sparkle"--October 22, 2019

"A Strange Kind of Sparkle"--October 22, 2019

"Do all things without murmuring and arguing, so that you may be blameless and innocent, children of God without blemish in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, in which you shine like stars in the world.  It is by your holding fast to the word of life that I can boast on the day of Christ that I did not run in vain or labor in vain." [Philippians 2:14-16]

This is the place in the Bible where it says, "Don't be a jerk--and that will be the way you stand out against the rottenness, the crookedness, and the lies that are out there."

Did you wonder if the Bible said that?  Because it does.  Right here.

Seriously, I was caught off guard yet again paging through my Bible, and I happened upon that phrase of Paul's that illuminates my imagination every time: "in which you shine like stars in the world."  I paused, and I thought to myself, "Go back and read the first half of that sentence.  Go see again what it is that makes us shine like stars in the world.  What is it--what's the key to letting our lights shine against the darkness?"

And you know what?  It was not what I expected.  It was nothing heroic.  It was nothing extraordinary, really.  It required no walking on water, preaching with power, daring deeds of extreme faith or passionate sacrifice. And it was manifestly NOT about wowing people with money, power, a reputation for being "great," or political pull. None of those is the way to shine likes stars. Instead, it was, in so many words, "Don't be a jerk."

Really.

That really took me aback.  Maybe it was especially surprising to me because I'm so used to the way our culture uses the language of people being like "stars." We usually reserve it for people who have some performed talent, outstanding charisma, or captivating attractiveness.  We talk about "the stars" who dance, who act in movies, who sing and create movies, or who simply seem to exist for the sake of filling out magazine covers and social media articles.  Our culture talks about "stars" as those prima donnas and divas who can afford to be rude to their entourage and staff precisely because they are celebrities, or the people who cultivate a persona for reality TV audiences of being bossy.  We talk about stars as the big names from entertainment to politics to media, and they seem to all just assume that their fame exists for its own sake, and that because they are famous, they should have a right to a platform to shout things at us or sell things to us.  We usually use the word "stars" to talk about the exceptional people, the beautiful people, or the well-known people.

And here Paul the apostle just says, "Don't be a jerk--and against the backdrop of a world full of crookedness and rottenness, you'll stand out just for that."

And while at first, I found it hard to swallow, the more I think about it, and the more I just pay attention to the daily news cycle or the tone of people who have loud opinions on the internet, the more it occurs to me that Paul is more right than I realized.  When we are used to people being rotten to each other, it will come as a surprise when someone can act with kindness regardless of whether it is returned or not.  When we become accustomed to the idea that everyone is crooked and self-serving all the time, it becomes noteworthy to see someone actually seek the well-being of others without first asking, "What will I get out of it?"  When we are just used to petty name-calling or loud shouting past each other, it is downright startling to have a conversation with someone who can genuinely listen to what you have to say, ask how you reach the conclusions you reach, and not run away in anger if they reach a different conclusion that yo udo.  When you are used to bickering and back-stabbing, it is a stark contrast to meet someone who is not angling for anything but just cares about telling the truth regardless of how it helps them or disadvantages them.  When you are used to people being selfish and not wanting to be put out of their way to accommodate others, there is a strange kind of sparkle when you run across someone who is perfectly willing to be inconvenienced for your sake.

And that's just it.  Paul isn't challenging us to become big-name celebrities so we can "win followers" for Christ who are allured by our fame or notoriety.  He is simply saying, "In a world where people have gotten used to rottenness, crookedness, and self-serving lies, you will be a bright spot in someone else's world just by being honest and decent."  It really is a radical thing when you live in a time and a culture that doesn't care about what is true or good or compassionate anymore, to be the one who insists on being genuine.  It really is a remarkable thing to be able to look everybody in the eye when you live in an era that has stopped asking, "What is the right thing to do?" in favor of asking, "What will make the markets go up?" 

It's funny--in that way things can be terrible and tragic and yet "funny" at the same time--that something that seems so ordinary can shine such a startling light, but that's really how it is.  In a time that has gotten comfortable with justifying crookedness, it's a surprising thing to be the ones who say, "It's better to be a decent person and poor than to be rich and crooked-as-hell."  In a culture that just assumes, "Everybody is a schemer and a con artist looking out for Number One, so just get over it!" it will always stand out to be people who insist on integrity, even when it costs them.  What seems ordinary turns out to be a bright light, because it is seen against the murky backdrop of crookedness and petty yelling.

So today, what the followers of Jesus are called to be is ordinarily decent--don't be a jerk.  Don't be a crook or a schemer.  Demand integrity from yourself and from others.  Insist that truth-telling matters, and that crudeness and cruelty are not acceptable prices to pay for profits.  Refuse to settle for petulant yelling in place of thoughtful conversation, and do not settle for saying, "Everyone else is acting like a self-interested crook, so let's all just play along."  And resolve never to be one of those people who says, "Character doesn't matter as long as my 401(k) is trending up," or "You just have to look out for yourself in this world, no matter what you do to anybody else."  These things should go without saying.  They should be ordinary and they should really be the bare minimum for our public life together, rather than something to aspire to.

But in an age that has gotten used to crookedness--and that seems to go out of its way to justify that crookedness as the path to being "great"--it really is an extraordinary thing to insist on not being a jerk... to insist on integrity and gracefulness.  When everybody else seems bent on finding a way to make crookedness and cruelty seem OK, there is a strange kind of sparkle to ordinary acts of decency and truth.

You don't have to be a diva or a household name to be a shining star.  Maybe... just don't be a jerk.

That could give us all enough starlight to walk by in a dark and murky night.

Lord Jesus, let us shine with the ordinary light of being decent people in indecent times.

"The Gift of Weariness"--October 21, 2019

The Gift of Weariness--October 21, 2019

"I lift up my eyes to the hills--from where will my help come?

 My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.

 He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber.

 He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep." [Psalm 121:1-4]

So, there's a story about a former pope that has guided this Lutheran preacher a good bit over the years.  Supposedly, Pope John XXIII would end his day with a prayer that went like this: "I'm going to bed.  It's your church, Lord. Take care of it."

I find myself coming back to that prayer, and to the well-loved words of Psalm 121, too, because they reminder who is the One that is truly tasked with keeping permanent vigil.  And it ain't me.  It's the living God.

Part of seeing God's presence in the ordinary stuff of life means recognizing each of our limits--and that includes me admitting my limits--and seeing that God does not have to stay within the boundaries of "what Steve can accomplish" or "how late Steve can stay up."  I will fail at it.  I will get too tired.  I already do.  But God doesn't.

Yesterday afternoon, I had a window of free time in between a counseling session and an evening Bible study, and I got to play "school" with my six-year-old daughter.  And I noticed that I was fighting sleepiness during our playtime lessons, even to the point of trying to convince my daughter for a bit that it was a kindergarten class she was teaching and that I should get nap time during school, like she had the year before.  I don't want to miss a minute of playing school or being there as my kids grow up, and I don't want to miss out on the opportunities in each day to be a part of the good Kingdom work God has put in front of me.  But then there is this humbling reality come day's end, where the tiredness wins, and I have to remember again, like a former Bishop of Rome once said, it's God's church--I'm going to bed.

Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking that seeing Christ in the ordinary stuff of life is only about what things I do that I can also see God's fingerprints on.  And that may well be true--we may get to glory and see that God was working through all sorts of things that you and I said or did in this life.  But at the same time--and this is the humbling reality--God is not required to stick inside the limits of what I can do, or what I can dream up, or what I can accomplish.  God's hours are longer than mine.  God's energy outlasts mine.  God's vision is wider and deeper and more audacious than mine.  And that means when I come to my limits, God is just getting started, really.

And that realization does something else to my view of the world, too.  It sanctifies the smallness of my life.  It makes my limits, the edges of my ability, into holy places.  Rather than feeling ashamed at how much or how little I can get done in a day, and rather than pretending that I can do it all as though I were God, I can see my tiredness as a point to see God covering the gaps that I cannot cover.  It is now possible to see my own weariness as a gift. And at the point where I am worn out by the day, or come to the end of my abilities, or even reach the close of my own life, I do not have to hide my face with shame, but see there the presence of the God who keeps going where I run out, who keeps on burning bright where my flame has run out of wick and wax.  I don't have to keep watch through the night, and I never did.  God does, and God does a pretty good job of it, it turns out.  

That means I can face this day, and every other one after that, with the ability to own my abilities and my limits at the same time.  I can do what I do, as well as I can, for as long as I can, for as many people as I can.  And then when my candle is fully spent, I can trust that the God whose night-vision was always better than mine anyway will continue to keep vigil while I rest my bones.

Like the preacher-narrator of Marilynne Robinson's Gilead writes to his young son in the novel's closing words, "I'll pray you find a way to be useful.  I'll pray, and then I'll sleep."

May that be enough for us today, knowing that when it is time for us to let go at last and rest, the living God keeps vigil.

Lord God, don't fall asleep on this world.  It's your church, your world, your universe.  Take care of it, beyond my ability to care for it all.