Remembering Truthfully--July 1, 2020

Remembering Truthfully--July 1, 2020

"When Israel was a child, I loved him,

    and out of Egypt I called my son.

 The more I called them,

    the more they went from me;

 they kept sacrificing to the Baals,

    and offering incense to idols.

 Yet it was I who taught Ephraim to walk,

    I took them up in my arms;

    but they did not know that I healed them.

 I led them with cords of human kindness,

    with bands of love.

 I was to them like those

    who lift infants to their cheeks.

    I bent down to them and fed them." [Hosea 11:1-4]

How do we learn to tell the truth about ourselves?

Both as individuals and as communities, how do we get to the place where we can be honest about our past, about how it has shaped our present, and then to decide what role we will allow our story-so-far to have in directing our future?

See, it's really not a question as being "pro-history" or "anti-history."  Everybody tells some version of their own story to the world around them, and to themselves.  Everybody holds some picture of "how it happened" in their minds, and that becomes the story through which we view the rest of the world and our daily lives.  So despite the many voices these days that seem to get upset at what they call "erasing history," there is really nobody trying to forget or delete the past--rather, the question is whether we can remember honestly about ourselves, even when the picture that emerges from the past makes us uncomfortable.  No one is trying to erase history--but the job of the prophets has always been to help us to remember our history truthfully, rather than through the haze of selectivity we often use to filter out the things we wish to ignore.

That might not be how we usually think of "prophets."  Often, we think that the job of prophets is to predict the future, not to re-teach the past.  But in the pages of the Scriptures, that's often exactly what the prophets did: they helped the people to look again, honestly, at their own history, so that they would remember both who they were supposed to be, and so they could come to grips with the failures and sins of the past that continued to have ripple effects in their present.  The prophets, like Hosea here in the verses above, know that the only way we can be fully alive right now is to be as honest as possible about the mess-ups, the misdeeds, and the dead-ends we have chosen in the past.  Like James Baldwin famously said, "Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced."  And the work of the ancient Hebrew prophets was just that: to help the people to face their own histories honestly... even when that meant tearing down the untruths, false stories, and official party-line about "the way things are."

This passage from Hosea is a case in point.  In the eighth century BC, the kingdom of Israel thought it was doing pretty well.  Business was booming.  The economy was roaring.  The army was strong, and their territory was expanding.  And part of the official accepted reason for all that good business was that at some point one of the kings of Israel had set up some monuments with golden calves on top (yes, literal golden calves) as shrines for worshiping God, along with other altars for worship the gods of the surrounding nations (one popular one was named "Baal," and you could find a shrine to Baal as easily as you can find a gas station today).  So, the official palace-approved version of history went something like this: "We were a struggling nation, until we started putting up these monuments and shrines with our golden calves and Baal statues.  These various statues and idols represent the god(s) who helped us to become so great.  And when you support these shrines, you are helping us curry the favor of the deities who keep us that way."  And, of course, the often implied coda to all that party line from the palace was, "We have always been a pious, faithful, and righteous nation--as these many shrines and temples will attest--and it is that deep devotion to God (or gods) that has yielded the rewards of prosperity we now enjoy."

Well, the real and living God raises up a prophet like Hosea to speak up and say, basically (like Luke Skywalker in The Last Jedi), "Amazing--everything you just said was wrong."  Hosea, and the other prophets of Israel and Judah's history, have to help the people to tell their story--their history--truthfully again.  And that means helping them (even if it makes them squirm) to see the ways the stories they have been telling themselves were built on illusions, or outright lies.  So, for example, Hosea has to retell the history of Israel's ancient past--he has to remind the people that, for one, the Canaanite god Baal had nothing to do with their rescue from Egypt (it was YHWH, the God of Abraham and Sarah, Moses and Miriam).  And furthermore, Hosea has to remind the people that they weren't righteous and devout in their past--they were constantly turning away to idols throughout their history, in fact!  So the accepted version of history in ancient Israel ("We were pious, and these many shrines to many deities are both proof of our religious devotion and the source of our material blessing) had to be dismantled.  That's what Hosea does--he's not attacking or removing Israel's history--he is committed to remembering it truthfully!  And when he does that, it becomes clear that Hosea's criticism of the many altars, shrines, and golden calf statues to Baal is not because Hosea hates history, but because they themselves are a distortion of history, and he wants to tell the truth clearly without illusion anymore. Hosea sees that every altar to Baal, every golden calf (yes, even the ones erected by the king's decree), is a willful distortion of the true story of the people of Israel--they weren't rescued by Baal from Pharaoh, and no golden calf brought them through the Sea.  And in fact, the God who did do all those things (YHWH) didn't rescue them as a reward for their piety or devotion, because in fact, they kept complaining, doubting, and running back to Egypt in between bouts of golden-calf-casting even back in the wilderness.  

If you lived in Hosea's day, you would have likely been upset at what he had to say, because it felt like he was attacking the way you had always been told your national story. Folks would have accused him of trying to destroy their national heritage and history when he came out criticizing the altars to Baal and golden calves (and believe me, to read the rest of Hosea's book, he comes out swinging!)  Hosea, however, would have said he wasn't trying to destroy or erase history, but to get the story straight, because the altars to Baal and the golden calves themselves were distortions of how they had come to be in the place where they were.  Hosea was all for studying history--he just wanted to make sure the people remembered that history truthfully.

I know that's a lot of very ancient history to cover in a morning's devotion, but it seems to me that we are wrestling with very similar challenges in this moment, and in this time and place.  And if we allow conversations today to be framed in terms of "These people over here are in favor of history, but THOSE people over there are anti-history," we will be colossally missing the point.  Much like was the case in Hosea's day, it's not a question of whether you are "pro-history" or "anti-history," but rather a question of how we tell those stories truthfully, even when the stories we have to tell bring up skeletons we would rather leave in the closet, or cause us shame for what we and our ancestors were complicit in.  When Hosea called for the golden calves to come down, or spoke against giving positive praise to the god Baal, he wasn't in any way, shape, or form, asking for Israel to forget its history--he wanted them to remember their history truthfully, and that meant acknowledging Israel's habitual sin of turning away from the slave-liberating God and toward the convenient gods of the nations around them, or the idols of their own power and wealth.  And when people heard him say things like that, they clenched up and got defensive, because they did not want to consider that they had been retelling their own story wrong, and they certainly did not want to allow the possibility that they had made villains into heroes by praising the kings and priests who had led them to worship Baal in the first place.  Nobody ever wants to admit they were wrong, and nobody ever wants to admit they have been duped.  And frankly, it is always a little bit scary to consider new information--even if, like in Hosea's case, it is only "new" in the sense that everybody had collectively forgotten the truth.  So you can understand why prophets like Hosea were met with hostility, and why Jesus himself regularly makes the the point that you can tell the true prophets from the false, because the real ones were the ones run out of town for upsetting people, while the fakers only said things that would play well with the palace.

But Hosea, along with all the other prophets in Israel and Judah's history, were convinced that it is worth the discomfort that comes with telling our stories truthfully and remembering honestly.  They were convinced that when we remember rightly, we can own our failures, our sins, and our hurtful choices, and then turn from them.  After all, worshiping a golden calf only sounds like a bad idea if you can let go of the idea that the golden calf is the one who brought you out of Egypt and gives your fields enough rain.  

I wonder if, in this moment, we find ourselves getting defensive rather than taking the risk of being brave enough to listen to the parts of our collective story that we have not wanted to listen to.  I wonder if, when I have that gut-clenching reaction to someone else telling me a version of my history that "doesn't go the way I was taught it," if I can muster the courage to consider what they have to say, and maybe at least to ask if there are parts of the story I have not remembered rightly.  And I wonder if we can, together, reframe the conversation we are having nationally right now and see it for what it really is--not a contest between wise and saintly "pro-history" people and wicked and foolish "anti-history" people on the other, but rather a search for the way to remember truthfully... even when the truth is difficult to hear again.

For Hosea, remembering rightly meant giving the rightful credit to YHWH... which also meant an all-out attack on the shrines, monuments, and statues of Baal and the golden calves of his time.  And he kept calling for a right truth-telling, not because he didn't love his people, but precisely because he loved them... and because he knew the real and living God had loved them from the days of Egypt onward and ever since.

If we dare to tell our stories--individually and corporately--with honesty, in the end, we will find ourselves brought to life more than we ever have been.  But it may well mean that we have to let voices like Hosea's help us rethink what we have always assumed was true.... and we may need to consider the possibility that letting go of an illusion is part of how you get to see clearly.

May the God of life and truth raise up the prophetic voices we need for this moment of our lives... and may that same God give us the courage to listen when they speak.

Lord God, teach us the truth about ourselves, and make us brave enough to remember our own stories and histories truthfully.

The Ones Who Need It (Or, Remembering the Sunflowers)--June 30, 2020

The Ones Who Need It (Or, Remembering the Sunflowers)--June 30, 2020

"The word of the Lord came to Zechariah, saying: Thus says the LORD of hosts: Render true judgments, show kindness and mercy to one another; do not oppress the widow, the orphan, the alien, or the poor; and do not devise evil in your hearts against one another. But they refused to listen, and turned a stubborn shoulder, and stopped their ears in order not to hear.  They made their hearts adamant in order not to hear the law and the words that the LORD of hosts had sent by his spirt through the former prophets..." [Zechariah 7:8-12a]

I'm picturing my sunflower seedlings behind my house, thirsty for water.  Hold their image in your mind.  We'll come back to them.

But first, picture the prophet Zechariah delivering these words long ago.  He is tired.  He is weary of having to say the same thing over and over again.  But he says it, as God has been sending prophets to say it for centuries: "Do not oppress the widow... or the orphan... or the alien... or the poor.  Instead, show kindness and mercy and justice."

And the moment those words leave his lips, you can just see someone walking past the prophet on the street-corner and interrupting this proclamation with an eye-rolling, "Well, actually, Zechariah... we shouldn't oppress anyone. Not just the widow, the orphan, the alien, and the poor, but everybody.  Don't you know that?"

And I'll bet you can guess how the dialogue would go from there.  Zechariah seems to sense that God has been having this same conversation with people for ages, and he knows that this won't be the last time, either.  Zechariah notes that this isn't the first time God had spoken the direction to the people to care particularly for the folks who were most at risk, exactly because they were the ones most at risk.  The trouble is, the people of God have pretty consistently not wanted to listen.  We still don't.  So, as the prophet notes, we turn away, shrug our shoulders, plug up our ears, and harden our hearts, so we won't have to hear God's ancient word, "Love your neighbor--particularly those most vulnerable."

Of course, both Zechariah and the God for whom he speaks believe that nobody should be oppressed.  But the problem was that some people in ancient Israel were particularly at risk of being taken advantage of, stepped on, or left to suffer.  And so those are the people Zechariah lifts up specifically--not because God doesn't care about people whose parents or spouses are still living, but because widows and orphans were in particular need. Without parents or a spouse, you were left without a way of providing for yourself, and were likely too old or too young to make a living on your own. Zechariah specifically names "aliens"--that is, foreigners who are not ethnically Israelite citizens but who have come to live among the people of Israel and Judah--because these are the people who are much less likely to be treated well.  They don't have family around to support them, they likely do not have land of their own to farm and provide their own food, and they stand out because of their "otherness."  And the poor, well, that's obvious, too--if you're struggling just to keep your own farm already and a bad harvest forces you to sell, the neighbor who bought up your ancestral land is going to be doing fine, but you don't have a way to feed your kids.  

In other words, of course God cares about the well-being of everybody--but if you've got a giant piece of property yielding a fortune in harvest and wealth, you're going to be fine.  If you've got generations of family around you looking out for your well-being, you're going to be OK, too.  And if you look like everybody else, you can just blend in and not draw any undue attention to yourself.  In other words, nobody has to speak the warning, "Don't oppress the guy with four cars, a vacation home, and a booming family business," because that's not a concern--nobody is oppressing that guy at the moment.  

But the ones who were easiest to take advantage of because they were desperate, or because they knew they didn't have anybody backing them up if they were cheated?  Yeah, they were constantly in fear of being taken advantage of, mistreated, or left without any hope.  So prophets like Zechariah had to be raised up, generation after generation it seems, to say once again, "Ok, I'll say it again: don't oppress the vulnerable--that means, look out especially for widows and orphans, foreigners and those in poverty."  It's not that these folks were more virtuous or more noble than anybody else and "deserve" more than anyone else--it's that they are constantly most at risk for being cheated, undersold, or overpowered.  Zechariah says we are not to oppress "the widow, the orphan, the alien, or the poor," not because nobody else matters, but because these are the ones who need it to be said.

And that's why I'm picturing my sunflowers in the yard behind my house.  It's because of all the plants and flowers and trees in my yard, they are particularly vulnerable right now.  When we get a dry spell like the last couple of weeks, or a bout of hot, sunny weather, the little sprouts that we planted as seeds at the start of June start to wilt. Their spot behind the house gives them plenty of sun in the afternoon, but the gutter and the soffit of the house block some of the rain.  And since they are just starting out (delayed in planting because we had a cold snap in May that killed a lot and warned us to hold off on planting sunflower seeds), they are particularly in need of regular watering.

The locust, oak, and pine trees in my yard, they are going to be fine.  They're big enough and stable enough that they are going to weather through dry spells without a worry.  And the grass in the yard is going to be fine, too--it keeps spreading and reseeding itelf anyhow, and all I need to do to help it survive a week without rain is just not to mow it.  Even the flashy looking flowers on our front step are fine, really, because they get attention every time I walk out my front step or drive to work in the morning.  I don't need a reminder to water the marigolds and pansies in my front yard, because I can't forget or ignore them.

But the sunflower seedlings in the back--the ones that are just two little leaves and a tiny stem right now--they are particularly vulnerable right now.  I need to leave myself reminders, "Don't forget the sunflowers!" because they are the ones it is most easy to ignore, and they will pay the highest price if I do ignore them.  The long-established, decades-old trees in the back will be fine.  And the blossoms on the marigolds in the front are conspicuous enough already to get my attention to water them.  But the ones that are most vulnerable require a special reminder--exactly because all my plants and yard matter, but also because the sunflowers are the ones in particular need right now.

It seems to me that Zechariah sees himself in the same position as he speaks to the people of God in his time.  Of course God loves and cares for everybody, but in all honesty, some folks are long-established trees that will be able to weather a drought just fine, and others are attention-getting marigolds or pansies that you can't miss.  But the sunflowers against the house--they are easy to forget, and particularly vulnerable.  So Zechariah says what God has said since the days of Moses:  give particular care to the widow, the orphan, the alien, and the poor--because these are the folks especially at risk when things get difficult.  If you only have so much time or attention or water, make sure it goes to the sunflowers first--they are the ones that need it most at this stage.

You get the feeling that Zechariah was tired of speaking the same message over and over again, like he was beating his head against a brick wall as he spoke it, because it wasn't (or shouldn't have been) news.  It was simply that every time he and the prophets before him had brought this same message, the people stuck their fingers in their ears.

And yet, despite the tiredness of the prophet, he keeps speaking.  He keeps saying, "Look out for these ones who are especially vulnerable, whether because of their family situation, or the way they look, or how much money they have, or where they come from.  Give special care for them, because they are the ones, like the sunflower sprouts, who need it right now."

And just as surely, he must have run into the same repeated refrains of people who didn't want to hear what he was really saying, and who just shut him down like they did to the prophets before him with a shrug as they said, "You should water ALL the plants, Zechariah!"  And so he would try all over again to explain what he--and the patient God who sent him--really was getting at all along.

We are slow on the uptake, and so God keeps sending voices like Zechariah's, who will keep being willing to say what we all should have understood long ago.  But we still need people--maybe it will be you or me today!--to get up and say, "Don't forget to water the sunflowers!" We still need people who will identify the people and groups who are most vulnerable and make sure we don't let them fall through the cracks.  And every time we retort back indignantly, "But what about the marigolds?  Or the grass?  Or the pine trees?" we need those voices to stick to their convictions and say in reply, "Yes, of course, those plants need water, too, but they have not been planted in a place that makes them more likely to be lacking water and they are less at-risk when someone does forget." We need someone who will say, "You know what?  Every time I tell you to go water the sunflowers, you automatically go and water the marigolds out front, too, and you check on the grass and the trees--but sometimes you forget the little seedlings in the back when you water the showy flowers in the front."

We need voices like Zechariah's.  We need the honest that comes with their weariness.  We need them to keep saying what God has been raising up prophets to say for a very long time, and we need them to keep reminding us to water the sunflowers around us because they are the ones that need it right now, even simply by virtue of where they have been planted.  Maybe we need you to be one of those voices in the world, too.

Spend your energy making sure you don't forget the sprouting sunflowers today, and everything else will take care of itself.

Lord Jesus, help us to work to provide what is necessary for all of us to bloom--especially those we easily forget or write off.

Make It Better--June 29, 2020

Make It Better--June 29, 2020

"'All things are lawful,' but not all things are beneficial. 'All things are lawful,' but not all things build up. Do not seek your own advantage, but that of the other." [1 Corinthians 10:23-24]

There's a song playing in my head again tonight. I first heard it sung by Jonathan Rundman, who credits the lyrics to Michael Hall, and the first verse offers these words, originally written about the loss of a friend:

Everyone is an artist... and everyone's a bureaucrat.

Everyone is a good guy... and everybody is a rat.

Everyone is beautiful... and everyone is base.

But you--made this a better place.

The whole song works like that--pairs of opposites, held in tension, about how each of us is a paradox of goodness and rottenness.  And then each verse comes to the recurring refrain, over and over: "But you... made this a better place."

In all honesty, I don't know that there is much more one can hope for in this life--to have made the world, for all brokenness both around us and inside us, a better place.

For Paul, writing here to a fractured congregation in Corinth (all divided along party lines and convinced each was better than the other), it's beautiful to me what simple clarity he offers.  This is the same Paul who has staked his life on the certainty that there's nothing we can do to earn God's love... the same Paul who elsewhere can be obstinate in refusing to add any conditions, requirements, or fine print to his freedom in Christ... the same Paul who is also confident that in the end God is making a whole new creation.  And yet, here that same guy sees so clearly that our calling, given that we know we are already beloved and saved by grace every day of the week, is simply to make things better for others.  

There it is, friends: a purpose for our days that we could each fill a lifetime with. How do I make the world a better place, not merely for myself, or for me-and-the-ones-like-me, but for "the other"?  How can I make this a better place?  If I get to the end of my life and that can be said of me, it will have been a lifetime well spent.

And here's the secret--which is no secret at all, except that we so often fail to hear what Paul is saying here--to living out that purpose:  we surrender the attitude that says, "I can do whatever I want, and you can't stop me!"  We let go of that childish way of thinking (as I sometimes hear out of the mouths of my actual children) that goes, "Nobody can MAKE me--I don't have to if I don't WANT TO!"  And we definitely let go of the mindset that puts Me-and-My-Group-First, because we realize that just isn't how God operates in the world.

Paul puts it so directly: don't just look out for your own advantage, your own comfort level, your own convenience.  And he pushes further, insisting that we cannot try and bring God into it by saying, "It's my God-given right to do as I please!" That's not how followers of Jesus are meant to think about "rights."  So, while Paul will readily concede that there are a lot of things we are technically "allowed" to do, that kind of misses the point.  For Christians, Paul says, that's the wrong framing of the question.  It's not, "Is there a rule that says I can't--and if so, who says I have to follow it?" but rather, "How can I make things better for others?"

That's the revolution of love we have been pulled into, dear ones.  It's a revolution because the world around us still thinks it is a good idea only to see things in terms of self-interest and childish "You-can't-make-mes." And we are freed from having to see the world like that.  We are free FOR the sake of our neighbor, even to the point of putting the good of the neighbor before our own.  In Paul's world and time, that meant things like being willing to forgo meat that had been sacrificed to idols if that was going to cause upset and offense to someone else who was really hung up on the source of the meat, rather than insisting, "But it's my God-given right to eat meat, and you can't stop me!" Maybe in our day it's little things like being willing to wear a mask in public to minimize the risk of spreading sickness to someone else because you don't know if you could be carrying the virus.  Maybe it means we stop complaining about other people being offended by things that may not offend us directly, and instead ask the other person to share their experience, and to go above and beyond not to cause hurt or harm to someone else.  My goodness, it seems we so easily become like little children again complaining that we are being told to be kind to others, when it is an easy win for making the world a better place to do the kind thing, rather than trot out the same tired "But I have the right to do what I want" cliche.  Sure, I guess we do have the "right" to do lots of things... but my "rights" can't love me, and other people can... and my "rights" are not made in the image of God, but my neighbor is.

It seems sad to me that we keep needing to have conversations like this--especially among church folks, since the New Testament has been making this plain from Day One.  But because we live in a time when Respectable Religious folks sometimes like to insist, not only on looking out for their own interests rather than the interests of others, but doing it in as obnoxious a way as possible and thinking that makes it virtuous, we have to keep coming back to the clear, simple refrain that both Jesus and Paul spoke, and that other wise voices have been singing to us ever since: do what makes this a better place.

That's enough of a calling for this day, isn't it?

Do the things that make this a better place for others today.

Say the words that will build someone else up.

Practice kindness rather than self-interest.

Build someone else up, rather than insisting only on securing your own "rights."

Be willing to be inconvenienced... or to feel a little uncomfortable... or to look silly... for the sake of someone else.

And then, when our time is done, may it be said of us, "You made this a better place."

Lord Jesus, you who put our well-being before your own, give us the courage, the love, and the faithful imagination to make the world in which you have placed us a better place for others today.  And let that be enough.

To Whom Much Is Given--June 25, 2020

To Whom Much Is Given--June 25, 2020

[Jesus said:] "From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required; and from the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded." [Luke 12:48]

It's not hard to read Jesus' words or interpret his meaning.

It's not even controversial, I don't think, to accept the truth of what he is saying--as a general principle, about people in the abstract.

The hard part is taking an honest look at what I have been given--and then realizing my obligation to use what I have been given in ways that benefit more than just myself.  Once we start looking closely at how much of the good in our lives has been given to us, beyond our earning, we will have to do the difficult work of using that good for the sake of others.  And examining our lives that truthfully is like pulling at a loose thread: before long, we may discover that the imaginary versions of our selves as self-made success stories that we construct in our minds unravel before our eyes.

It's easy to say, "To whom much is given, much is required," as long as it's a proverb of general wisdom--you know, meant for "other people" to apply to their lives.  But it is uncomfortable to shine that light on myself and come to grips with how very <gulp> privileged I am... and then to see Jesus himself insist that I am required to use what I have been given, unearned, for the sake of others.  Indeed, I am required to use my platform and my resources to help others to have the same good things that have blessed my life.

In a sense, this is Jesus' version of the famous motto from Spider-Man comics and movies.  As Peter Parker's wise Uncle Ben teaches him, "With great power comes great responsibility."  Fans of the superhero know the story--how a newly spider-powered Peter Parker chooses not to use his super strength and reflexes to stop a robber, and that same criminal ends up murdering Uncle Ben.  Before he learns the consequences of his inaction, of course, Peter thinks he has no obligation to do the right thing, just because he has the powers to stop the crook.  "Why should I be bothered?  It's not my problem," he tells himself... only to see that, indeed, he bore a great responsibility because of his great power.

The thing I know that I need to acknowledge in my own life is that I still bear responsibility for how I use the advantages, gifts, and positions that are mine in this life, even if I didn't ask for them.  We like to tell ourselves that we're off the hook for how we use the things we had no choice in, because we didn't choose them.  We say things like, "I didn't choose to be born in America--you can't tell me that I have a responsibility to use my relative affluence and influence to help others!"  Or we say, "I didn't choose my skin color, or my native language, or the kind of family I was born into--you can't hold me accountable for how I use the advantages that those things gave me!"  Or any of a hundred different variations on Peter Parker's thick-headed declaration, "I don't have to help--it's not my problem."  We either don't want to acknowledge the advantages we have been given, or we don't want to acknowledge the obligation that comes with having them.

Jesus, however, insists that we see both.

I'll note here that this is not--AT ALL--about doing enough good deeds to earn a spot in heaven, or to make God love us, or to merit celestial rewards.  In fact, it's just the opposite.  It's about recognizing that free gifts call forth a response from us.  It's not, "Do enough good deeds and you'll get something from God," but rather, "Because you've been given so much already, what will you do with the position, the abilities, and the advantages in your hands?"

Now, acknowledging the ways I've been given a leg up in my life doesn't mean I haven't also had other areas of challenge or struggle or hard work. It just means being honest about how much of my life really has been given, and then calling me to be further honest about what I do with those things I have been given.  There are a lot of struggles I will never have to go through because of things like my gender, my skin color, my education level, and my nationality, and owning that means I have a responsibility to use the platforms I have for the sake of others, to consider how others are treated who do not have the same breaks I have had, and, yes, it means that I am called to use my voice, influence, ability, and resources to benefit people other than myself.  And where my advantages are not simply the result of random chance but the systems in which we all live, I bear responsibility for making those systems fair, just, and beneficial for all people... not just for me, or Me-and-My-Group-First.

That is never an easy undertaking.  I resist admitting how much I have been given, because I want to tell myself that everything good in my life is the result solely of my hard work, rather than things I was given.  But Jesus is determined to keep me honest, and that means he will keep being the voice holding me accountable, and forcing me to see where I have been given much... and therefore have much required of me.

And the reason that all of this is, to me, still good news, is that it's all about bringing one another more and more fully to life.  I am required to use my advantages, privileges, and platforms for the sake of helping my neighbor to be more fully themselves--more fully alive.  And they are called to use the things they have been uniquely given to help me to be more fully myself and more fully alive.  This isn't a competition or a guilt-trip--it's a sharing in grace.  I use my strengths for you.  You use yours for me.  Together, Christ is bringing us all more fully to life.

And honestly, that's the kind of life I want to be a part of.  That's a life worth living.  That's... the Reign of God.

Lord Jesus, help us to use what we have been given, and help us to be honest to see just how much of our selves that is.

Confessions of an Honor Roll Jerk--June 24, 2020

Confessions of an Honor Roll Jerk--June 24, 2020

"So you also must consider yourselves dead to sin and alive to God in Christ Jesus.  Therefore, do not let sin exercise dominion in your mortal bodies, to make you obey their passions. No longer present your members to sin as instruments of wickedness, but present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life, and present your members to God as instruments of righteousness.  For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace." [Romans 6:11-14]

Some days it feels like none of us have left junior high school.  Some days it seems like we have chosen not to grow up and move beyond the meanness of those adolescent days.  And that is a real shame... because we were freed, long ago, to walk out the door and leave those old insecure, immature ways behind.  We could... if we dared to believe we really are free from the childish game-playing of middle school.

I'll confess, for my own part, at least, that I was a part of a lot of rottenness in my seventh and eighth-grade years.  (Probably in a lot of ways, I still am.  But God is working on me, and I am, in some ways, less of a jerk today than I was in that earlier era of my life.)  I could be vicious--using well-honed sarcasm to rip someone else apart.  Joining with other kids to find some weak spot in another kid and to keep making fun of them for it, in the hopes that the crowd would go after them instead of me.  We were like sharks at a feeding frenzy--once there was blood in the water, you just did whatever you could not to be the one eaten by the others.  So if some kid had the wrong kind of shoes, or their clothes weren't name brand, or if they liked a kind of music that wasn't popular, or if they wore their hair the wrong way, or if you could make everyone else think they were clumsy or slow or ugly, you would fixate on that and make sure to perpetuate any running jokes about them that you could.  And you did it because you figured that if everyone was targeting some other kid, you would get through the day without being ridiculed or mocked or branded as a loser.  

No, wait.  I can't say "you."  I mean "me."  I did those things.  You may have, too, but I can't hide from the ways I was a part of that kind of cruelty, that kind of meanness, toward other kids, back in junior high school.  I did those things.  I said those things.  I used my smarts to pick apart other kids... in the hopes that I wouldn't get shredded to pieces myself.  I need to own all that.

And this is the thing I need to be clear about.  I was, by all accounts, "one of the good ones."  Seventh and eighth-grade Steve was on the honor roll, in lots of clubs, went to church, and was student council president.  I was in so many ways the poster boy for being a good, upstanding and exemplary student.  But at the very same time, it was like there was this unspoken code that we all had to be merciless to other kids at the same time, no matter what other things made you look "good" to the adults, because none of us wanted to become the next target of the crowd.  It was like we could be nice and pleasant outside of school, but the moment we walked into the building, a whole new set of rules came into play, and we had no choice but to play it--either be cruel and mean-spirited to others to make them the easy target rather than yourself, or find yourself on the menu.  And in spite of all the other ways I was a good little boy in junior high school, I was also, without a doubt, so insecure in a lot of ways about myself that I was ruthless toward other kids I thought I could make into targets to keep myself out of the crosshairs.

I was both caught in a system I did not design that brought out the worst in me, and at the very same time, I participated in that system and accepted its terms because it was easier to go along and just try not to come out the loser than to be strong enough not to play.

Thank God junior high doesn't last forever.  And thank God that at some point I stopped caring what other people thought enough that I realized I didn't have to keep playing those asinine games that made me into a real jerk.  Thank God that at some point I began to see in myself the things I was so quick (and merciless) to make fun of in others, hoping to keep the attention off of my own shortcomings.  Thank God that old version of me could be outgrown and left behind.

I want to suggest that something like this is the human condition.  The Bible's word for it is "sin."  But we have a way of flattening that complex word into sounding just like a list of forbidden activities or swear-words you're not allowed to say.  But sin is more than just a list of bad actions.  It is so much worse, so much more insidious.  Sin is systemic.  Sin is cancerous.  Sin gets its tendrils into each of us, and all around us until every part of us is infected, even in ways we don't directly choose or realize.  It's an awful lot like being in junior high school.  You get to seventh grade (at least that's when the break in school years was for me), and you step into the system that was there already--a system of kids attacking kids, cool ones picking on the uncool, and a whole bunch in between trying to do anything they can not to become the next target.  And even though nobody I knew in junior high school wanted to be that way toward others, somehow it was like we all just stepped into the systems, the routines, the patterns, that were handed to us, and we just kept all that mean-spirited rottenness going, because we could not imagine things being any different.

Sin is like that.  We come into this world we willingly give ourselves into the system we are presented with, even though the game is terrible, and even though it petrifies us to come out as "losers" in that game, we play along.  It plays on our worst fears, our worst insecurities, and it draws out our meanness to one another, our selfishness, our cutthroat dog-eat-dog side, and it teaches us to do whatever it takes not to be on the bottom.  And so we all willingly give ourselves over to that order of things, and we look for someone else to keep down, someone else to hate, someone else to make into our scapegoat, someone else we can make into the evil "them."  

The thing of it is, we can be, to the outside observer, perfectly nice and friendly in lots of ways at the same time.  We can know how to put on a professional smile, to speak politely and kindly in certain circumstances (you know, like when someone important is watching), but then continue to nurture the rottenness inside as long as we think we're not letting it show.  That's the really insidious thing about sin--most of the time, it doesn't present itself as cartoonishly obvious black-hat-wearing villainy.  Sin has a way of making itself look respectable, and it does a fantastic job of persuading us that when we are selfish... or cruel... or indifferent... or hateful... or greedy... that we are just doing what we have to do in order to survive in the world.  Sin's greatest trick is making us unable to recognize how it works us like puppets, so that we can all tell ourselves, "I'm a good person!  I'm not selfish... or hateful... or greedy... or bigoted... or apathetic... or racist... or crooked!" And as long as we fool ourselves into accepting that lie, we will never see how terribly tangled we are in a system that is killing us.

And so we end up with, well, exactly the world we are living in: a world in which we have learned to look good and righteous (and to persuade ourselves that we are), while at the same time, we participate in systems and game-playing that lead us to do rotten and cruel things, say rotten and cruel words, and think rotten and cruel thoughts, all while we are convinced we have no choice but to give into those things.  In other words, it's junior high school all over again.

But... what if it didn't have to be this way?

What if I weren't doomed to keep reinforcing the system I inherited?  What if I didn't have to mindlessly accept the pick-on-the-weakest game-playing that keeps leading me to attack others so I won't be made the target myself?  What if I could honestly look at the ways I have participated in patterns that harm others, whether I realized I was doing it or not, in the hope that I could change?

This, dear ones, is what Paul the apostle says we have been given: we have been freed in Christ from the terrible game-playing we have been playing all this time.  We don't have to keep repeating the patterns that were thrust on us.  We don't have to keep giving ourselves to the habits and systems that we were told were "the only way things can be." We don't have to keep seeking to target others to make ourselves feel better. We don't have to keep running away from the uncomfortable truths about ourselves.  We don't have to keep being cruel to others (or being silent when others are cruel, which is just as mean and twice as cowardly).  We don't have to play any of those childish games, because we have been brought to a new life in Christ.

And in Christ, we could be done with the game-playing--except that we keep running back to it.  We can be freed from caring what the crowd thinks of us... and so we no longer have to attack someone lower on the social food-chain to make them the accepted prey.  We don't have to keep doing any of that.  It's just that we do keep running back to those old patterns.  

When we do, it's pathetic.  It's like a high school graduate coming back to their old junior high to go pick on the new seventh-graders, because they never really learned to be comfortable in their own skin. And Paul's warning is much the same: we are free in Christ from having to keep living in those patterns (patterns we inherited without choosing them, but which we are complicit in because we keep perpetuating them), but when we slide back into the old ways, it's as sad and tragic as refusing to leave our junior-high selves back in adolescence.  We are freed from that, Paul says, but we still live with this tempting impulse to keep running back to it.

That's why Paul finds it necessary to be so stark about things: he sees it in terms of death and resurrection.  Our old selves died in Christ, so when we insist on remaining in those terrible patterns and systems of sin, it's like we're choosing to stay in the grave rather than rising up to new life.  And that is a horrible shame.  It's a waste of a resurrection.

You and I, Paul says, have been given a new life. Already.  The old selves that were so insecure they would attack someone else in order to avoid getting attacked ourselves... those old versions of ourselves could be left behind like our eighth grade locker combination and Trapper Keepers.  We could let those old things die and step into the new life we have been given.  But it will mean that we finally decide we are done with the childish thinking that keeps bringing out the worst in each of us.

When you frame it that way, the choice should be obvious: why would any of us choose to stay in the old ways of death?  Why would any of us choose to stay in junior high school and the immature mindset that goes along with it?  And Paul's proposed answer is, quite simply, "You wouldn't!  So don't keep running back to the old ways and let sin keep getting its clutches into you. You are already freed from having to play by its rules.  Dare to live like that's true!"

So that's our daily struggle.  It means cutting through all the ways we try to present ourselves as nice, well-behaved boys and girls to be honest about the ways we are tempted back into the old ways of greed, selfishness, prejudice, hatred, and complacency.  It means being willing to reject the systems around us all the time--like they are in the air we breathe and the water we drink--in order to step into a new way of being human.  It means daring to look deeper into ourselves to see how we have been complicit in a lot of rottenness, and daring to believe we do not have to continue in those ways.

That's the freedom we have been given. Ours for the taking.  It is the freedom to live like we have been raised from the dead already.  It is the freedom to walk out of the junior-high mentality and never darken those doors again.

Come on. Step out into the light.  Take the hand of a just-beginning-to-recover jerk like me, and let us live like we are new people already.

Lord Jesus, help us to see honestly the ways we have given ourselves over to our worst impulses of self-preservation, so that we can be free for you and free to love all.

Hope for Chicken-Hearts Like Me--June 23, 2020

Hope for Chicken-Hearts Like Me--June 23, 2020

"Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it." [Matthew 10:39]

Let me start with a confession and a bit of truth-in-advertising: I am, most of the time, pretty much a chicken. That might not even be fair to chickens--I've seen some pretty brave poultry over time.  But I confess to you that I am often one who takes the cowardly option, who looks for the path of least resistance, and who would rather disappear into the woodwork like a wallflower rather than muster up what it takes to be brave.  

So I am no expert at courage.

But even as chicken-hearted as I am, there is hope for me on the lips of Jesus.  He speaks a powerful and empowering truth that can begin to change things for the bravery-deficient ones like me.  And the truth goes something like this: you don't have to be afraid of losing.  

You don't have to be afraid of losing--not losing your comfortable position, not your income, not your status, not your reputation, not your privileges, and not even your life itself.  You don't have to be afraid of having any of those things taken away--and when you realize that you don't have to be afraid of losing them, all of a sudden you don't have to be afraid any more about some ominous "them" taking those things away.  You don't have to eke out an existence ruled by fear.  I don't have to be ruled by fear.  And once I climb out from under the fear, I will find myself more fully alive than I have ever been.

It occurs to me that an awful lot of our daily energy is spent clutching onto things that we are afraid of letting go of. I'm afraid of losing my importance in society, so I get upset and defensive at changes in the world that could mean I'm not as powerful or influential.  Or I'm afraid of losing the comfortable and the familiar that I have built my life around... so I get angry at anything that threatens to change my well-worn routines.  Or I'm afraid of considering that I might be wrong about something, and losing face, so I dig my heels in and retreat to my own circles of like-mindedness so I won't have to be challenged.  Or maybe I'm afraid of losing the picture I have of myself as a "good little boy" or a "good little girl," and so I am afraid of hearing from others what they see in me that I cannot see in myself.  Maybe I'm afraid of losing my job, my livelihood, my house, my career, or whatever else is essential to my existence, and so I lash out against anything that I perceive as a threat to those things.  Basically, we live our lives running away from one fear after another.  And it is exhausting.

So Jesus frees us by calling our bluff.  Every time we hold off or step back from following Jesus and living in his vision of the Reign of God by saying, "But what if I lose...?", Jesus just comes back at us and says, "Yes. What if you lost it all? You would still have me.  You will need to decide if I am enough for you or not."  And then he goes on to give us a life that not only meets all our needs, but beyond that gives us a depth and a richness beyond all the fear.  

As long as I am living my life centered on fear of some ominous "them" out to get me, or out to take what I value, I will be constantly looking over my shoulder, clenching my fist, clutching onto whatever I can hold onto, and missing out on what life is really about--which is to give oneself away.  As long as I waste my breath lobbing bitter comments against the people I am afraid of because I do not understand them... as long as I spend my life seeing others around me as competition to be suspicious of... as long as I get fear of losing something guide my choices and actions, I am already a little dead inside.  Maybe more than a little.  But Jesus just pushes back and asks the question my fear didn't want to let me face:  "Would I be enough, if you still lost all those things?"  If I decide Jesus isn't enough, well, then I should probably be honest and admit I'm not really a follower of Jesus, but would like to use him as my personal wish-granting mascot or trinket, like a rabbit's foot or a genie.  But if Jesus really is enough, even compared with losing everything else, then the fear of loss is short-circuited... and I don't have to be overpowered by constant anxiety of losing things.

Jesus' question comes to us like the witness of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace: will we dare to trust that God's presence with us in the fire is enough?  It comes to us like the witness of the prophets, who knew they were going to get run out of town and in trouble with the Respectable Religious Crowd for speaking what God gave them to say... and yet spoke anyway.  It comes like the story of Abraham and Sarah, willing to risk losing their old lives and fortunes headed into a future they could only imagine as they answered the call of God.

As long as I am afraid of losing what I think I possess right now, I'll be trapped in the fear, and will keep doing the chicken-hearted thing when push comes to shove.  But when I can dare to face the thought of losing it all and I realize that Jesus will hold me through it all, then the fear loses its power over me, and it cannot make me do its bidding any longer.  And in that moment, I am free.

And once I am free, it's like discovering you are awake and alive for the first time after having been asleep up until now.  It's like being called to life again after being dead in the grave.  It's a little resurrection that happens in your deepest self.

That's what Jesus gives us--the resurrection to new life that comes exactly at the point where we are no longer afraid of losing our old lives.  Is it scary?  Absolutely I can be.

Is it worth it?  Without a doubt--even for chicken-hearts like me.

Lord Jesus, call to us again and help us to let go... so that we may be more fully alive than fear allows us to be right now.

Defending the Lion--June 22, 2020

Defending the Lion--June 22, 2020

"Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near." [Philippians 4:5]

Did you ever wonder what words come to mind when other people think of you? Did you ever spend a moment considering what traits, what adjectives, what mental pictures, come to mind when the people who know you give you a thought? 

And, now that we’re going down that trail anyway, have you ever given thought to what words you would want to come to mind when your friends, your family, and your co-workers hear your name mentioned? I’m not talking about pretending or puffing yourself up to be something you are not, but honestly, what traits about yourself to you think rise to the surface? When other insightful, perceptive people around you read your life like a book, what kind of book is it? 

I ask because Paul has an answer for what he would wish to be toward the top of the list for followers of Jesus. And frankly, it is not always (or even often) at the top of ours. Paul wishes that we Christians would be known for our gentleness. And for him, that gentleness is connected with his firm belief that Christ is coming again soon. “The Lord is near,” Paul says, and so therefore, we are to “let your gentleness be known to everyone.” In other words, he is saying, Live your life in such a way that when people think of you, at the top of their description is, “Oh my, what a gentle soul!” Because after all, Jesus’ coming is near. 

That is not often how Christians act, to be honest. All too frequently, our reputation is not for being gentle, but for being, among other things, hypocritical, angry, critical, dour, sour-faced, or whiny.  More often than we would like to admit, Christians are known for being loud... or for complaining that they aren't getting special treatment... or for being co-opted by partisan politics.  “Gentle” does not often crack the top ten, if we are going to be truthful about things. 

And especially when “religious” people get to talking about Christ coming again, we often sound especially vitriolic and angry. Listen for very long to the religious voices on TV and rsadio as they talk about the world going to hell in a handbasket and how “true believers” (meaning people who believe exactly like them) won’t have to worry about the disasters happening on earth because they’ll be watching the carnage from the safety of their seats in the a heavenly loge while others get “left behind.” (Never mind for a moment that the whole notion of a secret whisking away of believers is a misreading of the New Testament—that whole “rapture” business is a conversation for another day.) 

At any rate, when the watching world thinks about the supposedly Christian voices they know, and especially when those voices are talking about Jesus’ coming again, they don’t usually think of us being “gentle,” but often rather bloodthirsty-sounding, and using the talk of Jesus’ coming as something frighten people into faith with—as if it were possible to scare someone into salvation. 

And yet, there’s Paul, who has the return of Jesus at the forefront of his mind, and he pictures Christians being known for their gentleness in light of how “near” the Lord is. It’s funny, almost, that Paul doesn’t feel any need at all for himself, or for any of the rest of us Christians, to get defensive or bitter or ornery or to rude, as he thinks about Jesus’ coming. He really seems to think that—in light of Jesus’ imminent return—the best thing for Christians to be known for is not our end-times diagrams or our religious scare-tactics, but our way of being gentle with others. 

It sort of reminds me of the old saying: How do you defend a lion? You just get out of its way. If there is a lion threatened by poachers, let’s say, you don’t need to stick yourself in the situation and put up your fists trying to make yourself look tough for the lion’s sake. The lion is going to be just fine all by itself. The lion has the power to take defend itself—you can just let it make the call about how or when to use it. And you, in the meantime, can be calm and at ease and relaxed. Or to use Paul’s word for it, gentle. 

For us, the followers of Jesus, our hope in Jesus’ coming again means that we don’t have to get ourselves bent out of shape in angry tirades trying to come to Jesus’ defense. He’s the lion—he doesn’t need our fists. And frankly, our attempts to “defend” him probably get in his way more often than not. 

Instead, we are called to be witnesses of Christ—yes, the Christ for whom we are waiting to come in glory and triumph—through our gentleness. We are called to point to Christ in the ways our presence can lessen the anxiety in the room—or at least, not add to it! We are called to be examples of Christ in the ways we can sit in quiet with others in those holy, vulnerable moments of life. In a time when it is easy for tempers to flare, and when so many representatives of Respectable Religion end up defending unchecked bombastic insecure anger as though it were compatible with Jesus, we can be voices of calm and clear-thinking compassion.  We can be the ones known for our gentleness, rather than trying to convince the world of our supposed "greatness." We are called to be living pointers to Christ in the way we just “show up” for others when they need us, without making a fanfare or a fuss over ourselves. 

And there is a reason for all of this, a reason that we do not need to get ourselves all worked up and tense and harsh for Christ, even besides the fact that the only way to defend a lion is to get out of its way. And the reason is this: even though Jesus is the Lion (indeed, even “the Lion of the tribe of Judah” as the book of Revelation calls him), he is also “the Lamb who was slain.” And in the scene from Revelation where the voice calls out, “Hey everybody, look, it’s the Lion!” everybody turns their heads, and there is no one there but a Lamb, having been slain, but alive again (see Revelation 5 on this subject). The Lion is announced, but it is a gentle Lamb who shows up, because Jesus’ way of being victorious is through his gentle self-sacrifice and suffering love. We are supposed to be gentle, because the One we are waiting for saves and reigns and rules through gentleness, too. Jesus' way of bringing life is not to destroy or kill, but to lay down his own life, gently, in suffering love.  If we are going to be like Jesus, then, we will be called not to be crude, petulant jerks full of their own sense of religious entitlement... we will be gentle.  You know, like Jesus is gentle.

So… what will people remember about you today, do you suppose? When they think about the fact that you are associated with this Jesus person, what words will come to mind to describe you? And can we dare today to defend the Lion/Lamb, Christ, in our own peaceable love? Can we dare to be so bold as to be known for our gentleness? 

Lord Jesus, let our lives today be reflections of your own peaceable, suffering love and your gentle reign.

A Juneteentheology--June 19, 2020

A Juneteentheology--June 19, 2020

"For since death cam through a human being, the resurrection of the dead has also come through a human being; for as all die in Adam, so all will be made alive in Christ." [1 Corinthians 15:21-22]

I am thankful for today--more and more thankful, in fact, each year when it comes around on the calendar.  In addition to what Juneteenth means to our national history, and in particular to the descendants of formerly enslaved people here, this day and its story have helped to deepen my theology and to awaken my faith--moreso, I dare say, than any other holiday or observance on the secular calendar that's not first and foremost already a sacred observance.  That is to say, over the last eighteen or twenty years since I first learned about (not in school or even in college, mind you), in addition to better understanding our nation's history because of this day and its story, I have also come to understand the Gospel better because of Juneteenth.

Even a short summary version of that story is compelling.  Most of us learn in school at some point that Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863, and in that edict declared all enslaved persons held in the treasonous Confederate states to be set free.  (Now, that by itself needs a bit of clarification: Lincoln's proclamation did not liberate slaves held in states that remained in the Union, like Kentucky or Maryland.  You could argue that this indicated the direction of the trend of things, but for Lincoln this was a move first and foremost about trying to weaken the power of the states that had seceded from the Union and to bolster the cause of the Union with a moral urgency.)  In any case, many slaveholders in the Confederacy simply refused to comply, or moved west to places like Texas, where there would be even less chance for the Union to enforce the Proclamation.  So even though Lincoln's decree was made at the very start of the year 1863, it wasn't until June 19, 1865--a full two and a half years later--that news of the liberation finally reached Texas.  There, in Galveston, Major General Gordon Granger made the announcement that those who had been held in slavery had been--already--set free. Now, mind you, this was not only two and a half years after Lincoln's declaration, but it was even more than a month after the surrender of the traitorous Confederacy at Appomattox in May of 1865!

At one level, I am just fascinated by the sheer historical impact of that story.  We who live in an age of instant communication, where a word can be said and the communicated around the world in a matter of moments, we forget that for most of human history, there were delays in messaging, even in world-shaping, life-changing news like the liberation of the enslaved.  And at another level, just from a historical point of view, this day speaks both of deep joy for those who were freed from chattel slavery and also the deep and tragic injustice that even in being set free, there were delays and hold-ups and stalling tactics at work by those who wanted to keep others, made in the image of God, enslaved and owned as property.  To celebrate liberation, after all, requires the acknowledgement that there was a need for it in the first place, much as the celebration of resurrection requires the acknowledgement of the injustice and sorrow of the cross and the grave.  Even just at the level of the purely historical, I am grateful as an American for the story and observance of Juneteenth, because it continues to make me think more deeply about how long-lasting and persistent the powers of evil are, and how they insist on holding people in its greedy clutches for as long as they can.

But something else happened for me on that day, a little less than two decades ago, when I first learned the story of Juneteenth. And even though the previous generations on my family tree are about as white as they come, tracing back to England and Germany for as far back as anyone has record, I have come to see something essential in the Juneteenth story that makes me see it as vital good news for all of us, regardless of where our ancestors came from or the color of our skin.  And that learning, for me, is just as voices like Dr. King and Emma Lazarus each famously put it:  "No one is free until we are all free."  The story of Juneteenth has made me see that the Gospel itself is not just individual good news, but it is about God's work to set all people free, to rescue all humanity from the power of death, and to bring resurrection and restoration for all of creation.

That's essential for us to be clear about, because so much of popular religion in our consumeristic culture is peddled as an individual product for single-serving consumption.  In our day, most of us have been bombarded with messaging from the Respectable Religious voices around us that says the Gospel is pre-packaged for individual consumption.  It starts with Jesus' resurrection--good news for Jesus, right?--and then God just makes the offer to us as individual consumers to accept the "deal" God is offering, and if you are lucky enough to live in a place where it is offered to you easily (like near a church), good for you.  And if not, well, hey, there's nothing that can be done about it.  Some version of that is how a lot of us heard the Christian faith growing up--that it offers salvation a single-serving commodity, and that you can be free from death and sin and the powers of evil, while having no obligation or connection whatsoever to the people near you.  You and your relationship with God is a separate transaction from anybody else, and your choice to accept the "deal" is all that the transaction requires--there's no connection to helping bring life to others around you, because, you know, "that's their problem."

But the story of Juneteenth helps me to see what was so evident even to the apostle Paul in the New Testament itself: we are all connected, one to another, so that God's work of redemption and resurrection isn't done with Jesus alone, but always pushes toward reaching everyone.  That means my freedom isn't complete until and unless all are free.  My hope of life in Christ is never just a single-serving--it is part of the great sweeping movement of God to bring life to all.  And much like freedom for the enslaved peoples in the Confederacy wasn't "done" until the word actually reached the last of the holdout plantation owners in the last pockets of resistance to that liberation, God didn't stop working to bring new life once Easter Sunday was done.  The resurrection of Jesus, like the Emancipation Proclamation, announces God's declaration to set free all humanity from the powers of sin and death--but that work is still happening, as the power and presence of the Spirit works to bring all people to freedom, all people to release from the power of death, and all people to newness of life.

Without the story of this day on the calendar, I was well on the way to just uncritically regurgitating the consumeristic gospel of single-serving portions of "salvation" that had been pitched to me in pop religion from my infancy, the same bad deal-making theology that's been popular in our culture for a couple of centuries.  But the story of Juneteenth opened my eyes to see what was already there in the Scriptures, but which I had not been able to see: that God's work of redemption is always corporate--for all creation, all peoples, all nations, tribes, and tongues--and that God's work isn't done with Easter, but is just getting going.  My freedom in Christ isn't full until all are free in Christ, and my ability to have life in the full is not accomplished until all experience that abundant life.  And I don't have permission to shrug off the needs of my neighbor just because I think, "Well, that's their problem--my needs are already met, because I already know Jesus."  Just the opposite: if I am convinced that Jesus has made a difference in my life, then I am compelled to work for letting all people have fullness and abundance of life around me.

And maybe there is one other really important thing I need to keep learning in my faith because of the story of Juneteenth:  it's not all about me.  God doesn't rest with just bringing me to life and faith in hope, but God keeps reaching out, seeking, saving, restoring, and redeeming all people.  I can rejoice over the way God is at work for good in others' lives, even if that doesn't directly benefit me, because I get it: it's not all about me.  I'm not the center, and I'm not the end-goal for God's work of restoration.  I am a part of it, but God doesn't stop just because I have now come to faith.  And similarly, I don't get to say, "Well, my life and my immediate interests are covered, so I guess I don't have to care about anybody else." No, my neighbor's well-being and mine are intertwined.  The Gospel was already telling me so--that is my hope, in fact!--but it is all-too-easy to ignore that reality if all we are listening to are the sale-pitches of consumeristic individualist religion that calls itself Christianity.

My well-being is caught up in the well-being of all.

My life is entwined with Christ's resurrection--and with God's work for "all" to be "made alive in Christ."

And none of us are fully free... until all of us are free.

Thanks be to the God who keeps freeing the enslaved--from Pharaoh' Egypt to Galveston, Texas, to the enduring power and presence of evil even today.

Lord Jesus, keep widening my vision as you keep making all people free and restoring all creation to new life.