The Speed of Light--Nov. 1, 2021

The Speed of Light--November 1, 2021

"Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." [Hebrews 13:8]

One of the hardest things to learn in this life is just how unreliable things really are, including the things we were told were unchanging and permanent.  

Maybe especially those things.

We watch our loved ones grow up... and grow old.  The arms that seemed invincible and strong enough to carry our little bodies grow frail and breakable.  The minds we looked up to in awe once grow dim, forgetful, and cloudy.  The people we counted on always to be in our lives move out, move away or move on.

Even the big structures we assume have "always been there" have a way of changing on us. When I was growing up, there seemed to be this unspoken assumption that the Cold War alignment of the world had lasted for so many decades that it would endure forever... and then walls came down that had seemed permanent and changed our old picture of the world.  We found our assumptions of invulnerability shaken again on a Tuesday in September in 2001, too, and that felt like the world-as-we-knew-it had been changed yet again.  I can even remember the public outrage when Pluto was deemed no longer to count as a major planet but only a "dwarf planet" just a few years ago, and it was on display again: people were upset because the thing they thought was unchanging and solid turned out to be changeable and fluid.  People weren't upset about Pluto because they had strong astronomical evidence to contradict the conclusions of the scientific community--they just didn't like having their picture of the cosmos upended.

I can remember, too, as a high school student, how we went from learning about constant numbers like the pull of gravity and ironclad Scientific Rules like the Law of the Conservation of Mass early in the school year, to discovering Einstein's Theory of Relativity changed everything.  It literally felt like the world I had been counting on to be solid turned out to be slipping through my fingers.

Even the way our faith changes over time can feel scary, too.  As a kid growing up in church, I had all the flannel-board Bible stories in my head, and the childhood certainty of seeing things in only black-and-white.  People were heroes OR villains, saints OR sinners, and rules were clear and ironclad like the Laws of Science.  But growing up--and growing deeper into learning the Scriptures--meant discovering that Jesus had a way of breaking the rules a younger version of myself assumed were necessary for stability.  I discovered, by listening to the voices of Scripture, the paradox in all of us--biblical characters and people all around me every day. We are heroes AND villains, saints AND sinners, dead AND alive, believing AND doubting, all of us.  It was a necessary change for my faith to come to maturity... but it was hard discovering that even my picture of God wasn't as unchanging as I assumed it would be.

It can be really unsettling for all of us to have all these things in flux in our lives--our relationships and the changing circles of our families and friends, our understanding of the world, and even our faith.  Understandably, we want to reach for something that seems familiar and comfortable and promises us same-ness, whether or not it is true.

It can be hard, then, to know what to make of a promise like this one from Hebrews.  I mean, the words are absolutely beautiful: "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." But when we've lived through so many other things that we thought were fixed points and discovered they were unreliable or moving without our realizing it, we can be a little gun-shy about trusting this promise.  How can we put our trust in Jesus as constant when we've been burned before by voices that promised us they would never change but then bailed out on us or let us down?

It's times like these that I find myself turning back to a gorgeous song of Julie Miller's.  She sings these words:

"Time and space are relative
Einstein said, back when he lived
The only thing that doesn't change
Makes everything else rearrange
Is the speed of light... is the speed of light.
Your love for me must be the speed of light."

The science nerd in me (who had been let down by all those other constants turning out not to be so reliable) resonates with that idea: there is a reality that we can rely on--and yet, it makes everything else rearrange.  Like Einstein discovered the constancy of the speed of light, and made everybody rethink their old understandings of the universe at the same time, the presence of Jesus is our constant who throws all of our old assumptions up into the air.  Jesus does indeed remain the same--yesterday, today, and forever--but seeing that will come at the cost of realizing that all the other things we had counted on for stability are not so reliable.  Our family arrangements change, and so do our circles of friends.  Our work routines shift, and so do the institutions we build those routines on.  Our understanding of our place in the world... or even the solar system, is up for debate.  But Jesus remains fiercely faithful.

So here's the truth for us today: Jesus remains the same... even while the world around us, and all the other pieces of it, keep moving and shifting.  The constancy of Jesus can't be co-opted to guarantee that nothing else in your life will change--rather, it's Jesus' fierce faithfulness that gives us the courage to look all the other changes in the eye and acknowledge them without being overcome by fear.

Jesus is like the speed of light that way--he doesn't change, but recognizing that will change everything else about the way we see the world.  

Let's face a changing world with courage, knowing we are held by an unshakable love.

Lord Jesus, give us the courage to hold onto you even when the world around us and our perceptions inside of us keep changing.

Things Not For Sale--October 29, 2021

Things Not For Sale--October 29, 2021

"Remember your leaders, those who spoke the word of God to you; consider the outcome of their way of life, and imitate their faith." [Hebrews 13:7]

Maybe we should make sure we're all on the same page here first: are we disciples of a Master Teacher, or are we consumers of a religious product?  The difference means everything.

We live in a time and a culture that sees just about everything as a product to be bought, from food to housing to shoes to even religious faith.  We even talk about "church shopping," casting ourselves as the customers (who are, by definition in such a culture, "always right" about what we want) who sample different product lines--Protestant or Catholic, Lutheran or Baptist, Presbyterian or non-denominational (which, come on, is itself a "brand" too).  We may fine-tune our church-shopping as well even further--is a congregation kid-friendly or senior-focused?  Liberal or conservative?  High church or low-church?  Traditional or contemporary?  The list goes on and on.  Yeah--we have all learned to treat our faith as a product to be bought, and maybe it never even dawned on us that it could be any different.

You may well have heard that line attributed to the late Senate Chaplain Richard Halverson that says, “In the beginning the church was a fellowship of men and women centering on the living Christ. Then the church moved to Greece, where it became a philosophy. Then it moved to Rome, where it became an institution. Next it moved to Europe where it became a culture, and, finally, it moved to America where it became a business."  If that isn't the default assumption of a lot of our neighbors, I'll eat my hat.

It makes a difference, though, to see a living community centered on Jesus becoming a product that I choose to "buy into" or not.  In fact, it makes all the difference in the world.  That's because a business has to cater to the wishes and whims of its customers, and then it doesn't get to offer any direction, wisdom, guidance, or help for shaping the kind of people those customers become.  The consumer is king, and the marketplace has to find out, through focus groups, market analysis, and advertising campaigns, what the Almighty consumer wants.  And if I want a religion that gives me permission to ignore my neighbors, centered on a Lord who endorses my selfishness and lets me call it "freedom," preached by voices who will only tell me what I want to hear, and set to the music of only the hymns and songs and styles I already like, well, that's "my right"... right?

But on the other hand, if the Christian faith is not a product to be ordered with a click of a button and left in a box at my doorstep, but rather about becoming like Jesus, well, then I'm not the king anymore.  In fact, I'll come to the realization that--<gulp!>--I never was.  And maybe then I'll realize that the point, the goal, of the Christian faith isn't to amuse or entertain me or to meet with my approval, but rather for God to shape me through love into a living embodiment of God's own love in Christ.  In other words, it's not about me choosing to be a Christian because it's the best religious product on the market, but rather it's about God claiming me in Christ to make me more fully like Jesus.

Well, if that's anywhere close to being in the right ballpark, then the way we see leaders will be different, too.  Instead of deciding that the good leaders in church are those who say the things we already like, who don't challenge our prejudices or stretch us to grow, or those who entertain people or cater to what's popular and easy, we'll choose leaders who help us to be more like the love of Jesus... because we see it in them already in some way.  If Christianity is a consumer product, then leaders are just the best salesmen with the best marketing gimmicks.  But if Christianity is about becoming disciples of the One who is Love, then good leaders will help us more fully to embody the Love named Jesus.

That's what the writer of Hebrews sees.  When he thinks of what good leaders in the Christian community are, he doesn't say, "You know, the ones who could really pack 'em in the pews and who sold a million books and inspirational desk calendars!"  And he doesn't think of "the people who made their churches rich and got rich doing it," either.  He says, "Look at the lives of the ones who have been good leaders in your life--and look at how they have reflected the love of Jesus into your life, and brought that love out of you as well."  The writer of Hebrews knows what we too often forget--this faith of ours is not a product being sold, but a way of life we learn from others who are along the way with us.  

Think today of people who have been good, faithful leaders like that in your life--who have been the people who have shown you the face and the love of Jesus? Who have been the people who have helped to bring that out of you and to help you to be shaped by that love?  And who might just one day tell their own life story of faith and name you as one of the influences on their journey?

That's a worthwhile way to spend your lifetime.

Lord Jesus, thank you for the people you have put in our lives who shape us in your likeness and bring forth your kind of love from within us.  Help us, too, to be leaders in the roles you offer us, so that others may grow in love, too.

Getting The Last Word--October 28, 2021

Getting The Last Word--October 28, 2021

"So we can say with confidence, 'The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can anyone do to me?'" [Hebrews 13:6]

There are two ways to hear this verse. One is a cheap and shallow willful misunderstanding that pretends God has promised to make us bulletproof. The other is the honest, open-eyed confidence that trusts God always has an ace up the divine sleeve to play, even after death has done its worst.

The trouble is, we have a way of opting for the cheap and shallow, even when we know better. 

The writer of Hebrews certain knows better.  He's under no illusions that faith in God will spare you from difficulty or defeat.  We've already listened as he has retold the family stories of the household of God, and it's been full of hardship and hostility, from Abel being murdered by his brother to prophets run out of town to Jesus himself, lynched on a cross with the approval of the religious and political establishment.  The writer of Hebrews has reminded us that torture, imprisonment, or death are all very real possibilities for the followers of a crucified Lord. So today's verse is clearly not telling us that nothing bad can happen for people who believe in God.  As tempting as it is to tell ourselves that, that's just a deliberate misreading of the whole thrust of the Scriptures.

While we're at it, that also means we don't get to claim that bad things would stop happening--in our families, our communities, or our country--if we would only "take things back for God."  Claiming you believe in God is not a recipe for avoiding trouble--if anything, it's just the opposite (if, indeed, Jesus is being truthful when he says his followers will have to take up their cross and follow him--and I believe he is). So let's dispense once and for all with the damnably bad-faith theological malpractice that says, "If Christians would only rise up and take [back] this country in the name of God, then the economy would get better, violence would stop, the pandemic malaise would go away, and natural disasters would all stop." That's not what it means to claim, "The Lord is my helper, I will not be afraid."  That ain't how it works, and it never has been.

All right, so then... what does it mean to say, "What can anyone do to me?" as the psalm being quoted here in Hebrews says?  If God hasn't made us bulletproof... if being a Christian does not mean I won't get COVID (although a vaccine sure would help your chances)... if faith doesn't mean I can drive recklessly and never get in an accident... if going to church doesn't decrease the likelihood of hurricanes or tornadoes... then what does this verse mean?

I think it has a great deal to do with our God's way of bringing us through trouble, rather than "beaming us up" out of it, a la Star Trek.  God's promised presence is as the One who accompanies us through the valley of the shadow of death while we are going through it, not as some blanket guarantee we'll never have to step foot there.  Ours is a faith story of resurrection that has come through death, rather than of never having to die. The promise here in Hebrews then is not that God will never let anything bad happen to us or to those we love--but rather that God will never let the tragedies of life get the final say.  God insists on there being another word to be spoken, another verse to the song, another chapter to the story.  Like the beautiful line of the Ray Makeever's hymn goes, "Death be now, but never last." That's the way this promise works.  

To affirm, with the writer of Hebrews, "The Lord is my helper, what can anyone do to me?" is to say, "After even death has done its worst, God reserves the right to call me back to life."  It is to sing, along with our older brother in the faith Martin Luther, "Though hordes of devils fill the land, all threat'ning to devour us, we tremble not, unmoved we stand--they cannot overpower us."  They will rage, but God will not let the powers of evil get the last word.  They will threaten, but God will not be intimidated.  They will do as much damage as they can to all of God's good world... but God is committed to mending the universe and transforming its broken places into something beautiful as well, like a master kintsugi artist repairing a porcelain vessel with gold in the cracks.

Today, we can have the courage to admit that tragedies happen, and they happen to people of deep faith as well as to people of no faith.  We don't have to pretend some invulnerability is a selling point of our faith--it's not.  Instead, we can hold onto the way God's promise to get the last word can make us brave--brave enough to tell the truth about the pains and troubles we face in this life, brave enough to share the sufferings of others, and brave enough to keep holding on until God speaks the new word that comes after death does its worst.

Today, we can face honestly whatever rotten things come our way, because we trust that God still gets the last word.

Lord God, make us brave enough to love others and share their heartaches as we trust your commitment to being our helper, now and always.

Lesser Loves--October 27, 2021

Lesser Loves--October 27, 2021

"Let marriage be held in honor by all, and let the marriage bed be kept undefiled; for God will judge fornicators and adulterers. Keep you lives free from the love of money, and be content with what you have; for he has said, 'I will never leave you or forsake you'." [Hebrews 13:4-5]

At first blush, these verses might just seem like a final catch-all of random religious rules being lobbed at us.  No cheating on your spouse!  No sleeping around!  No obsessing over money!  You almost might expect old chestnuts like, "Wait an hour after eating before you get in the pool!" or "Brush and floss twice a day!" or "Always get the extra insurance when you are renting a car!" To our ears, these verses might seem like they are unrelated instructions.  And of course, with the mention of God reserving the right to "judge" when we break those commandments, it surely might sound like these verses are just here to scare us into good behavior in some attempt to avoid going to hell for having had too many dates or too much money.

But I hope by now we've gotten to know the writer of Hebrews well enough to realize he doesn't just toss out thoughts at random in disjointed rants.  He sees connections where we often don't, and at least on this point, I'd suggest we give him the benefit of the doubt in seeing connections rather than just the barking of rules.  And in particular I want to ask us to consider that the common thread here is that when you've encountered the unrelentingly faithful, unfailing love of God for us, it is a damn shame to settle for lesser loves of any kind.

From that vantage point, both the matters of loving money and of casual sex are two pernicious weedy stems from the same root: they are both matters of settling for lesser loves rather than the harder work of loving people faithfully.  In a sense, they are both forms of treating everything else around as an object for our own gratification.  Money, after all, is simply a means of getting what you want--its power is in what it can get you, what it can buy you, and how it can make you feel (secure, important, comfortable).  And casual sex--whether it is cheating on someone you have made promises to, or with people you are just using for your own gratification--is another way of turning people into objects, rather than doing the hard work of loving them faithfully, even when you don't "get" anything out of it at the time.

It's not that God is opposed to human happiness--this isn't about saying material goods are inherently sinful, or that God wants everybody to take vows of celibacy.  But rather, it's that God knows the ways hearts get broken and people get hurt when we use people and love things.   And God loves the people whose hearts we would go trampling on when we treat them like disposable objects, or when we live our lives simply to get richer.  For that matter, God knows how empty we end up feeling, too, when we spend our lives chasing after more money or sex, only to find that it was in giving ourselves away and seeking the good of others that we really are fully alive.  God knows that the other places and people we go to in order to feel fulfilled will let us down. They'll all bail out on us at some point, or reveal they never really cared about us in the first place.  What we need, most deeply, is a love rooted in the personal promise, "I will not leave you or forsake you."

I think that's the key to figuring out how these seemingly unrelated verses from Hebrews fit together.  It's that promise of God never to leave us or forsake us that shows us what we've been missing when we have been spending our lives seeking after casual sex and made money our love.  Without the commitment of promises that we make and then keep, there's always this fear in the mind of a would-be romance, "Does this person actually love ME--or just the benefit I can give them?"  There is always the doubt, "Will this person stay with me and care for me even if I can't give them something in return?"  It's the promise and the faithfulness that make the difference.  Sleeping with someone apart from promises can't help but leave the other person wondering, "Will I be thrown away like a consumer good when I lose my looks, or the thrill fades, or when a newer model comes along?"  And that turns out to be one more way of loving things and using people.

The world around us, and the cultural and economic systems we live in, may not understand why that is a problem.  After all, it's easy to say, "As long as everyone is an adult and consenting, you can choose to do what you want in life," and then you don't have to think too hard about who gets hurt when someone moves on to a new romance or the next shiny thing that comes along.  It's easy to treat all of our relationships as consumer experiences, because we live in a land that assumes everything is for sale, and the customer is always right. And over against that, I am convinced that the people of God are called to resist defining ourselves merely as consumers--always needing more money to buy the next thing on our wish list, and always using people as means to our pleasure and then discarding them when it gets difficult.  The people of God are meant to build our lives on something different than endless consumption. We are meant to build our lives on promises of unfailing love: first God's, and then by extension, our own. And when we build our lives on the quest for money and casual sex, we're settling for lesser loves.  God wishes our joy--and the joy and dignity of those with whom we are in relationship--that God says a loud and clear "No" to all the ways we try to objectify other people and all the ways we try to give our hearts to bank accounts.

In a culture that teaches us endlessly to want more, in a society that gets outraged at the suggestion that we should want less rather than accumulate more, and in a time when even a lot of Respectable Religious folks have given a pass to public figures who serially objectify women and revel in their impunity, we are called to be something different.  We are called to be people who pin our hopes on the love that will not abandon us, and then to become people who do not abandon others, because our love is not merely another form of consumption.

The bottom line, I think is this: don't settle for anything less than the Love that will not let you go.  That means saying no to building your life around money, which will never love you back at all.  And it also means saying no to the kind of casual sex that treats other people like they are consumer products to be used up and thrown away, too.  It means living our lives by promises, and seeing our lives as being held in the promises of God.  

Dear friends, let us allow ourselves to be loved fully by a faithful God, and then allow that love to transform our own love for others.

Good Lord, love us in your own good and faithful way, so that we will be done with commodifying other people whom you love just as fiercely and faithfully.

Revisions from the Margins--October 26, 2021

Revisions from the Margins--October 26, 2021

"Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them; those who are being tortured, as though you yourselves were being tortured." [Hebrews 13:3]

You have to decide at some point whether you think the teacher's red pen is something to be afraid of... or something meant to make you better.

Flash back with me, will you, to the days of your high school English teachers. Can you remember having to hand in draft versions of essays, only to have them returned to you with a code-like amalgamation of proofreading marks and cursive letters in bold red pen?

All of my high school English teachers were women, and I can remember the similar look of all of their handwriting as they made comments for corrections in the margins of my papers--a forgotten bit of punctuation here, or a misspelled word there. Sometimes it was to help me see where I had flubbed a citation or left a dangling modifier. (I remember once in a short story assignment I had to write, I intended to be describing an old photograph found in an attic being unearthed from among its wrappings, but I had put the modifying phrase in the wrong place. My sentence read, "...found an old photograph in a frame of a woman wrapped in tissue paper..." and my teacher blushed when she asked why the woman was wrapped in tissue paper!)

You have been there, I trust. You wrote something, and turned it in, and then the eagle eye vision of an English teacher called your attention to something you had not seen before--some mistake that was either confusing, or embarrassing, or otherwise incorrect. Now, if your understanding of the whole school process is that you are there as a student to be judged and to squeak through with as few red marks on your record as possible, it is indeed a fearful thing to have your essay returned to you with all of that red pen, highlighting your mistakes and mess-ups. But if, on the other hand, you see the years of public education as something intended to make you a better writer, communicator, thinker, and human being, well then, the red marks are exactly what you need. They are gifts of grace to help you to catch things in the future that you otherwise would have missed. And in that case, the red pen of a good teacher is exactly what you need to learn how to see what you could not see on your own. That is to say, you and I need to be able to "see again"--to re-vise, so that we will catch what we have overlooked. You and I, we need that gift of revision from the margins of the page.

This, it turns out, it not a bad way of thinking about what the writers of the New Testament want to do with us. Sometimes we religious folks have a way of thinking that the writers of the Bible, the prophets, apostles, and evangelists of an earlier era, were only interested in getting souls to get to heaven, like Christianity is just a matter of getting afterlife-insurance. But that's not the case, really. The biblical writers want to do something to us--they want to change us. And among other things, they intend to change our vision--to help us to see from the margins what--and whom!--we have been missing and overlooking. The voices of the New Testament are gifts like high school English teachers, whose red pen marks on the paper help us to recognize what we would have failed to see otherwise. And in doing that, they are not just meant to be judgmental or condemning voices, but rather they are there to make our vision clearer. They are here to help us with re-vision... not just of paragraphs and punctuation, but with our very lives and love.

That's what I love about these verses from Hebrews. They are all about changing our vision--changing the way we see the world, and the people in it. All of it falls under the category of "mutual love," that this chapter began with just a few verses ago. But that idea by itself needs to be fleshed out. So that we don't mishear "love" and think only of affectionate feelings, pink hearts, or an exclusive care reserved only for in-group members, the writer of Hebrews spells out what love looks like. And it includes the folks on the margins that we have all too often chosen not to see.

Just yesterday, we were reminded from Hebrews that we are called to see--and to welcome--those who are deemed "other," "strangers," "outsiders," and "foreigners," and to welcome them as you would receive messengers of God. Love, if it is the real thing, includes folks I would see as "outsiders." That is to say, love is only love if it includes people on the margins. And in the ancient world, where it was already a given that you looked out for your own kin, the command to love strangers--to show love to "outsiders" without other conditions or caveats or fine print--was a way of saying, "We take care of everybody."

But now in today's verse, our author doubles down on the idea of seeing people on the margins that we are likely to have forgotten or overlooked. "Remember those who are in prison," he says, "as though you yourself were imprisoned with them." And not just that--put yourself in the position of those who are being tortured. Notice here that the passage doesn't give any qualifiers as though this is only talking about "Christians who are imprisoned" or "Christians who are being persecuted." Obviously, those folks would be in mind, but beyond that, the writer of Hebrews seems to be including anybody who is imprisoned... and anybody who is being tortured. After all, for as early as the book of Hebrews is being written (late 1st century), it's unlikely that there is official, empire-wide policy of persecuting Christians that would have included torture or imprisonment. That happened, to be sure, in pockets and periods of time, but wasn't a full-blown imperial policy until into the following century. The writer of Hebrews wants us to see again--to revise--the way we see all people, especially those at the margins.

You'll note, then, that the passage doesn't make any distinction between those who are "guilty" and those who are "wrongfully" imprisoned. And you'll notice that he doesn't give an exception with this torture business to say "well, some people really deserve it, so then it's ok," or that "it's ok to torture people if you think you can get them to give up some secret information." That's what the Romans did. The Romans wanted to make examples of people. The Romans did things to intimidate, whether or not it actually ever got any results. The Romans imprisoned or tortured, not because they were so vigilant about justice, but because they were efficient and wanted to maintain control. So no, the writer of Hebrews doesn't say that we only should care about those who are "wrongly accused" or those who "are innocent but are being tortured." He just says, "put yourself where they are--how would you like it?"

In this age of private-prisons where incarceration becomes an industry, in this age in which we occasionally flirt with violating the Geneva Conventions or advocating torture because we want to "send a tough message to bad guys," it is worth remembering these words from Hebrews. The New Testament wants us to see what we otherwise miss--that these people who are imprisoned, these people who are tortured, are faces, still made in the image of God. Indeed, says the writer, some have even entertained angels without knowing it because they were willing to welcome foreigners rather than turning them away.

We need the red pen of the book of Hebrews to help us with revision--to see from the margins the people who are beloved of God who are too easily looked over: the foreigner, the outsider, the imprisoned, the forgotten. We do just fine at seeing the celebrities, the powerful, the influential, and the familiar. We are not in danger of forgetting to take care of ourselves or our own. That's just our own self-interested hard-wiring. What we do need is the wise and insightful red pen of Scripture, like these words from Hebrews, to train our eyes to see the people, the faces, the lives, we would have otherwise ignored or missed. And like a high school English teacher's red marks on your essay, the whole point is to retrain our eyes so that we will catch the things we had previous overlooked, so that we will not overlook them anymore.

Rather than running from these words from Scripture because we don't like being shown our own failings, what if we were free from the fear of seeing our mistakes and our guilt, and instead saw that the design of Mercy always has been to transform our vision... to give us new eyes... to re-vise the way we look at the world in front of us? What if we considered that there are faces on the margins who are beloved of God--and that we might even be able to recognize the very face of Christ or the flutter of angelic wings when we dare to care for the stranger, the prisoner, and the victims of torture?

Where else might we find God on the margins today?

Go look. God is already waiting there.

Lord Jesus, help us to revise our view of what is in front of us, and to see the faces and lives of those we had overlooked. Help us to see you in the margins.

The Sacrament of the Stranger--October 25, 2021

The Sacrament of the Stranger--October 25, 2021

"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it." [Hebrews 13:2]

Be kind to strangers... to "the other," says the Bible, because you just might have been brought face to face with the messengers of God. All of a sudden the stakes of your short temper with the single mom juggling three kids ahead of you in line at the grocery store just got a lot higher, eh? The writer of Hebrews whispers, "Mighta been angels, the whole lot of 'em. Now... just how important was it that you got your plastic box of pre-washed spring mix salad greens and bag of Oreos three minutes faster if those kids wouldn't have been holding up the line? More important than the way you treat a quartet of the heavenly host?"

Jesus, too, never himself one to fold in a game of cards, doubles down on this train of thought in those familiar words, "As you did it to the least of these... you did it to me." And now all of a sudden, the hungry face I turned away because I thought he might be a freeloader... and the shadowed face behind bars that I ignored because I thought all prisoners were worthy of my condemnation... and the lonely face... and the sick face... and the... uh-oh, stranger's face... all of those faces now bear the eyes of Jesus himself. Jesus upped the ante even from where the book of Hebrews had set it--now the face of the stranger is not just a potential angel. The stranger is Jesus himself... and, of course, as we insist in the ancient words of orthodoxy in the Creed week by week, wherever Jesus is, none other than God is there, too. So now, the way you treat a stranger is... <gulp> the way you have just treated the almighty Maker of all things.

Now, if those stakes weren't high enough, even the word the Bible uses for "stranger" is loaded. Our English translations use the word "hospitality" in this verse--"do not neglect to show hospitality...". But to be truthful, most of us hear "hospitality," and we picture someone who offers a coaster and a glass of lemonade to the company they have invited... or the concierge desk at the hotel who offers bathrobes for use of paying customers. "Hospitality," in those circumstances, is not much of a gamble, and you only have to show it to people who have either given you money to do it, or people who you already like enough to invite to your house. But the Bible's word is more...adventuresome. The word beneath our English "hospitality" here in this verse is the Greek "philoxenia," which is made up of the two words "phile-" (which you probably already know is one of the words for "love," as in Philadelphia or "bibliophile" for book-lover) and the word "xenos," which means... well, "stranger," or "outsider," or "foreigner," or just... "the other." The one thing it does NOT mean is "people who are already like you in every way." Hebrews is not merely saying, "Be nice to other Christians whom you haven't met yet." Other Christians aren't called "stranger" in the New Testament--they are brothers and sisters. For the writer of Hebrews to talk about "strangers"/"xenos/xenia", it means we are, by definition, talking about people who are not already part of the "family" we call church. It is not just a welcome to "safe" people... it is a welcome to "the other." Those are the stakes when the Bible uses the word "xenos."

You know the word "xenos" already because you almost certainly already know the word "xenophobia," the fear of outsiders and foreigners. And even if you didn't know the word for it, you know what it is to live in a culture of xenophobia... because we are living in one. As polarized as we are, often from even the neighbor across the street or down the block, and as much as the loud voices from the screens around us encourage us to fear "the other" as a threat to us... to our way of life... to everything, we are increasingly baited to be afraid of whomever and whatever is different from what I already think, or look like, or believe, or hold dear. We live in a culture that is not predisposed to welcome "the other" these days, however you take the phrase.

And yet--rather than saying, "Beware of those strangers who don't share our culture, our faith, our language, our way of life... they are dangerous!" (and in the supremely cosmopolitan Roman Empire, you couldn't help but cross paths with peoples from all sorts of places, cultures, and creeds), the writer of Hebrews says, those very strangers just might be angels you do not have the eyes to see yet. Like Jesus' own words about "the least of these," the writer of Hebrews dares us see in a new way--a daring, risky way. The "other," the "stranger," the faces who are different, they are the very people we are commanded to receive, to care for, and to love--not out of condescending pity for "those poor souls," but in fact because they may well be the ones God has sent as divine holy messengers across your path.

Curious, isn't it, how we can be so concerned in our Facebook posts about wanting to call our country "back to the Bible"... and yet to forget, stifle, or silence the clear command of Scripture when it comes to how we see the "stranger" and the "other" who cross our path in real life off of the screens. Go ahead, protest about how it sounds impractical or dangerous or foolish to welcome those the Bible would call "foreigners", if you want--but you cannot do so on the grounds that the Bible is backing your argument. The living voice of the Scripture is always pushing us to do things that strike the world as impractical, dangerous, and foolish--that's one of the ways you know it is really the living God and not just our own self-interest talking.

So today, let us dare to hear the words of the Bible in all their force. We are not given an "inspirational suggestion" to "be nice to the guests at your dinner party," but a firm command to love--to love!--those who would get labeled "foreigner," "stranger," "outsider," and "other." And in order to love them, rather than pitying them, we have to follow the other directive Hebrews gives us: we must learn to see the "stranger" and the "other" as quite possibly the very angels of God, come to fill the empty places around us. Let us dare to actually do what Jesus says, and to open our eyes to seeing that "the least of these" bring us face to face with none other than the living God.

Lord Jesus, help us to see you and to see your messengers everywhere you show up... let us recognize your real presence in the sacrament of the stranger.

The Choice to Love--October 22, 2021

The Choice to Love--October 22, 2021

"Let mutual love continue." [Hebrews 13:1]

My goodness--could it really be so simple?  "Keep on loving one another."  Just like that.  So perfectly, succinctly elegant.  Continue loving each other like siblings in a family--that's all.  For a guy who can wax theological about the tiniest details of obscure stories from the ancient Scriptures, the writer of Hebrews sure seems to have kept it short here.  Is it really that simple?

Well, simple, yes--in the classic sense of simplicity meaning, "Without lots of moving parts."  Simple, yes--but easy?  No.

Keep on loving is a brilliantly clear direction for us.  The trouble is in moving from the words on the page to the lives in which that love is supposed to be brought to life.  I wear a face mask every day that says, "Love your neighbor," and a button that reads, "Love your enemies" most days, too, but that doesn't mean I can always do a half-decent job of it.  It turns out just wearing the words doesn't stop me from being a jerk sometimes, or being self-centered deep down, or refusing to give someone who really upsets me the benefit of the doubt before I ridicule them in my mind.  The instruction to love isn't complicated in terms of steps to follow, or calculations to be done--but it is hard to live it with much consistency.

Maybe we should event back up for a moment and consider what it means that the Scriptures see "love" as something that we can be commanded or instructed to do.  I suspect our first hang-up is right there, because we are so used to hearing the word "love" merely as some kind of emotional response to chemicals firing in our brain.  We hear the word "love" and instantly go to the mirage we call "romance," or we think "love" means "liking someone" or "being similar enough to someone else in viewpoint to agree with them sufficiently," or "feeling good when you around someone."  

We 21st century folks have a way of turning the notion of love into just a gut reaction, and if that case, the idea of a commandment to love seems like nonsense.  How can you command someone to feel a certain way?  How can you require their brains to pump out the proper endorphins on your say-so to trigger an emotional connection with someone?  How can you ever instruct someone to show "love" to anybody, if you don't know how they FEEL about that person or people already?

Well, this is the point for us to rip the band-aid off, as cleanly as possible:  love ain't about our feelings, at least not primarily or initially.  The writer of Hebrews isn't commanding us to "feel" a certain way about other people, but rather to choose actions, words, and habits that seek the good of others.  Love is a verb, not an emotional state, in other words.  Love is about the constant, consistent choice to seek the well-being of others, even when we don't feel like it, and even when we don't particularly like the people we are loving. As Valarie Kaur says, "We do not need to feel anything for our opponents at all in order to practice love. Love is labor that returns us to wonder--it is seeing another person's humanity, even if they deny their own. We just have to choose to wonder about them."

In that light, there's a new clarity to these words from Hebrews 13--the writer isn't telling us we all have to feel a certain warm, fuzzy feeling toward one another.  But rather, even in spite of the times and the ways we irritate, disappoint, or wound each other, we are called to continue to seek the good of everybody else around the circle--even when they have not extended that same kindness to us, and even if they never do.  That's actually part of the beauty of how love really works--if it is the real thing, it always has a certain reckless unconditionality about it, that says, "I seek your good even when you don't seek mine."  

All of this is especially true in families--which, by the way, is the kind of love hinted at in this verse, since the word translated "mutual love" here is the Greek "philadelphia," which is a word for love between siblings in a family.  And a family, unlike a social club, a business with employees, or even a friendship, has a certain inescapable gravity to it.  You are stuck with the siblings you have in this life, and that is a beautiful (if also sometimes frustrating) thing.  Your belonging in the family doesn't depend on whether your sisters and brothers like you at the moment, and their belonging doesn't depend on your vote either.  It is the love of your parents that creates a family and says that each of you belong, and that therefore you belong to each other, no matter what.  We learn, in a manner of speaking, how to love even when you don't feel like it from the earliest experiences we have in our families.  They show us what it is to be loved even when we have been nothing but ornery stinkers to the people under our roof. And they teach us the skill and practice of doing good to them even when they have been ornery stinkers.

That's the thing: we have been taught already, all our lives, to love the people in our families even when we don't particularly feel like it.  The move that the writer of Hebrews makes is simply to take that same spiritual muscle memory and widen it to apply to everybody.  We're called to show the same commitment to doing good that we have been raised to do for our biological family with everyone that belongs in the family of God.  That kind of love isn't dependent on how you feel about the other people around you, and it doesn't depend on them being enough "like" you or "like-minded" to be worthy of it.  You don't have to agree with someone's perspective, their politics, or their preferences still to seek to do good to them.  You don't have to decide someone else is "worthy" to receive kindness from you in order to extend the kindness. You don't have to let the stinginess or mean-spiritedness of someone else's heart infect your heart to be stingy or mean back.  That's not an endorsement of their meanness or stinginess, but actually just the opposite: it's a refusal to let them set the terms of engagement.  And refusing to answer someone else's selfishness, crude-ness, bitterness, or bigotry with more of the same is exactly how we defeat those things.  It is what it looks like to love continually--not just when it is convenient.

Today, the direction we are given is pretty straightforward, but not easy by a long shot.  Love today.  Love the way God loves you--with reckless abandon and unconditional grace.  Love the way you have known the love of Jesus--which sought us all out even when we were dead-set turned away from him.  Love everybody the way you were raised to love the siblings in your family--simply on the basis of their belonging, and not whether you felt like it in the moment.

This is how God transforms the world.  You and I can be a part of it today... right now.

Lord God, give us the strength to love as you do, today and always.

If the House Burns Down Tonight--October 21, 2021

If the House Burns Down Tonight--October 21, 2021

"At that time his voice shook the earth; but now he has promised, 'Yet once more I will shake not only the earth but also the heaven.' This phrase, 'Yet once more,' indicates the removal of what is shaken--that is, creating things--so that what cannot be shaken may remain. Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us give thanks, by which we offer to God an acceptable worship with reverence and awe. For indeed our God is a consuming fire." [Hebrews 12:26-29]

There's a tune by the band Switchfoot playing in my head as I write--a song that comes back to me when I read these words from Hebrews.  The opening lyric goes, "Ashes from the flame, the truth is what remains..." And then in the heart of the song, lead singer Jon Foreman belts out, "There's a fire coming that we all go through--you possess your possessions or they possess you. And if the house burns down tonight--I've got everything I need when I've got you by my side.... and let the rest burn."

Sometimes it takes the loss of everything you didn't need, in order to find out what you couldn't live with out.  And in those times, maybe the thing that makes us let go of the baggage turns out to be a good and necessary--if also difficult and even painful--reality.  Sometimes we need our foundations to be shaken to remind us of what we shouldn't have been treating as load-bearing in the first place.  Sometimes we need the disruption of our old routines to wake us up and make us pay attention to what matters.  Sometimes, we find ourselves agreeing with that line of Marilynne Robinson's narrator in Gilead, who says, "Grace is a sort of ecstatic fire that takes things down to essentials."

I think that's what the Switchfoot song and the writer of Hebrews have in common here--they can look ahead to the event that shake us to our core, not with fear, but with a sense of purpose.  When God says that the heavens and the earth need to be shaken, the writer of Hebrews doesn't see that as a punishment so much as the gift of clarity--a way of removing the rubble that we shouldn't have been trying to build our lives on.  Maybe we need that more than we realize.

In so many ways, it feels like the last year and a half in the time of COVID have done some of that shaking to our lives in a smaller scale.  As hard has it has been, and as wearying as it still is to live in this limping emergence from a pandemic, it has shaken things that maybe needed to be shaken in us.  Things, events, and people that we had been taking for granted have been missed, and it has forced us to decide how and where--and with whom--we most truly desire to spend our energy and lives.  There has been a difficult, but maybe necessary, clarity in our lives as we've seen some people head in different directions from our paths, and others get closer to us in these days.  We've had to decide what are the core activities, causes, needs, and commitments we would find a way to keep doing... and which were the ones we had been doing on autopilot with little real investment.  

Maybe the unrest of the last year and a half of our histories has also forced us to see where we have let our faith in Jesus become one more bit of kindling in our lives, ready to go up in smoke, and where we need to let our faith lead us in bolder and more daring directions that go to the heart of who we are.  Maybe we have had to look at the places we have settled for just being "admirers" of Jesus or "fans" of his, but not "disciples."  Maybe we've been forced to see that adolescent complaining about "me and my rights" pales in comparison to the non-negotiable call for us to love our neighbors and seek their good above our own convenience or comfort.  And maybe--even if it's uncomfortable for the preacher to say it--we have needed someone to come along and shake us out of our complacency... and all the things we've been trying to build on that just couldn't bear the weight of what we need to endure.

Going through times like ours is never easy--and we may wish, like Frodo in The Lord of the Rings, that difficult things not have happened in our times.  But maybe we can see in the difficult--and sometimes fire-like winnowing--times we have been given to live through, the gift of clarity to decide what is worth spending our lives on, and what isn't.  Maybe the fire that burns the house down helps you to see that you have all you really need in the person who loves you and takes you by the hand out to safety.  Maybe the earthquake that shakes the very creation to the ground shows us not to have put our trust in the Almighty Dollar, the notion of eternal abundance on the shelves at the store, or the powers of the day in the first place.  Maybe we have needed all along to lose or let go of them all... so that we could find ourselves surely in the grip of an unfailing, unshakable God.

It turns out, I do believe, that being in the hands of such a God is the best possible place for us to be anyway.

Lord God, let us rest in your goodness, and then let the rest be shaken as it needs to be.

From the Place of Love--October 20, 2021

From the Place of Love--October 20, 2021

"See that you do not refuse the one who is speaking; for if they did not escape when they refused the one who warned them on earth, how much less will we escape if we reject the one who warns from heaven!" [Hebrews 12:25]

One of the most humbling things about growing up is how often you find yourself thinking, "My parents were right!" 

Early in life, it often starts with little epiphanies--if I leave my laundry all over the floor, I won't have any clean clothes when I need to get dressed for school!  In high school, we probably learned that their warnings, "You need to do your homework before you do fun things with your friends, or you'll regret it when you wake up in the morning and forgot to do it!" were right, even if we didn't want to admit it.  And as the years go by and the stakes get higher, we often find that our parents' warnings, whether about extended warranties or hanging out with the wrong crowd, or whatever else, were worth listening to.  We also come to realize that the times when they warned us of the consequences they would impose--"Don't be late, or you'll be grounded!"  "Don't lie to us or you'll break our trust!" "Don't drive recklessly or you won't be allowed to borrow the car!"--all came from a place of love.  The warnings we are given by our parents, even when it's in the form of negative consequences meted out for our bad choices, are intended so that we avoid the punishment they threaten.  Our parents, after all, are entrusted with helping to shape us into decent and mature human beings, not being our doormats.

So often as a parent now, I feel that tension with my own kids.  There are times when I can warn, "Please don't continue doing that--you will not like the consequences that are given to you if you keep it up." and so often, the young minds of children assume they know better or that facing consequences is being "mean," rather than intended to shape the kind of people they become.  When I warn that the Nerf gun will be taken away if it is used in the living room (or pointed at a sibling's face), it's really not because I greedily want to steal my children's toys or sadistically want to see them suffer.  It's because I want my children to be responsible humans who take care of each other and our belongings.  The warning is meant to prevent pain, even if it feels unpleasant to hear it.

I think we sometimes forget that when we hear about warnings in the Scriptures.  Sometimes we think of God as some cosmic executioner, just salivating over the possibility of zapping us when we least expect it for some minor infraction of the rules.  But as dire as the warning is here from the writer of Hebrews, this is still the same older brother in the faith who just told us at the start of this chapter that God is like the consummate parent who seeks to help us grow into spiritual adulthood ourselves. God isn't looking to zap us, shoot us, or punish us.  And God isn't some aloof, disinterested judge doling out death sentences, either.  This is the God who knows the pain we will cause ourselves when we choose badly, the same God who knows how our rotten actions will also hurt others whom God loves, and the God who also keeps taking the risk that we will reject God's good intentions and hurt with us when we bear the consequences of our choices.

This is the same God, after all, who longs to gather us like a hen gathers her brood under her wings to protect them from danger in the face of a fox or a fire, only to watch us repeatedly refuse and walk away. And when you know that the one who is warning you loves you and wants to spare you or others pain, it changes how you hear their words--even if they are still hard to bear.

So when God directs us not to cheat each other, not to make our money into our god, not to abuse or harm our neighbors, or when God commands us to do justice and love mercy, it isn't from the lofty throne of a dictator who just loves to give commands and punish those who don't comply.  It's from the place of someone who loves and wants us not to learn the lesson the hard way.

Trusting someone who loves you when they are trying to help you grow is a less painful way to mature than wandering off on your own way and having it all blow up in your face.  Maybe God is trying to spare us pain and to point us in the right direction today.

What choices have you been wrestling with today where you already know what God would have you do, but have been ignoring?  What will you do today in response to God's voice?

Lord God, give us the wisdom enough to know to listen to you.  Give us the assurance that you love us when you speak.

A Second Sentence--October 19, 2021

A Second Sentence--October 19, 2021

"But you have come... to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel." [Hebrews 12:22a, 24]

If the last word to be spoken condemns us for our rottenness and hatefulness, it might be the truth--but it wouldn't be good news.

And if the only word to be spoken covers over the crookedness of our hearts rather than dealing with it, it might sound pleasant to our ears--but it wouldn't be the truth... which is necessary for news to be good.

In so many words, that's how the Gospel's story goes--first, with the truthful (but painful) announcement that there is blood on our hands, and then as a second act of the plot, the declaration that our worst is not the end of the story, but that we are beloved enough to die for anyway.

The tension here is so powerful in these verses from Hebrews.  Like Abel's blood in the ancient tale from Genesis, crying out from the ground to God to accuse his brother Cain of killing him, the truth cries out that all of us are guilty of rottenness in our hearts, apathy in our spirits, and violence with our hands.  Often we do not want to face that truth.  Often we want to skip over that first sentence and its need of naked truth-telling, and just hear "Everything's fine, and God will look the other way while you step on your neighbor."  We want to hear the word "grace" as divine permission for me to take from others, exploit others, consume endlessly, ignore the damage I'm doing to the world around me, and tune out the needs of neighbors apathetically.  We don't want the truth that says, "No!  These things are NOT ok, and you cannot continue in them!" We don't want to own up to our responsibilities toward the needs of our neighbors, the care for the world in which we are placed, or our obligations to the people who come after us.  There is some part of us that--understandably, but not excusably--does not want to have to hear from Abel's blood crying out from the ground against all of us.

But we need to hear that first word. We need the truth of it. Like James Baldwin wrote, "Not everything is lost. Responsibility cannot be lost, it can only be abdicated. If one refuses abdication, one begins again." Abel's blood refuses to let us off the hook for the ways we harm one another, or for the ways we simply try to ignore the way our choices affect others.  Abel's blood crying out is the voice won't let us get away with saying, "I'm not my brother's keeper--you can't make me care for the needs of other people!"  Abel's blood forces us to come face to face with all the ways we have treated others as expendable--as acceptable collateral damage--in the name of me keeping some illusion I call my "freedom" or the idol of my own insatiable greed to consume. And each of us need to face that truth. Each of us needs to own our complicity in the brokenness of the world and our role in harming neighbors near and far.

And yet--that cannot be the last word spoken, or else we will give up in despair.  If Abel's blood alone is given voice, all we will have is the unchanged record of ways we have hurt each other and tried to abdicate our responsibilities for it.  We need there to be another word to be spoken--a "better word."  We need there to be a second sentence.  We need to be able, as Baldwin says, "begin again."

That, I am convinced, is what the writer of Hebrews means when he points us beyond Abel to Jesus.  We cannot skip over the truth-telling of Abel's blood.  We cannot pretend we do not have its stains on our hands and on our lives.  We cannot run from the responsibility he places squarely on our shoulders for caring for one another.  But responsibility is meaningless if it does not also include the possibility that things gone wrong might yet be set right.  And so we are given "a better word" and a new covenant--a new possibility of relationship.  We need, not divine permission to ignore our past rottenness and present entanglements, but to know that our condemnation is not the end of the story.  Like Abel, Jesus too is an innocent whose blood was shed by anger, hatred, and power.  But Jesus offers a power that Abel's blood did not have--Jesus offers the possibility of transformation, that we do not need to endlessly repeat the same old cycles of violence and greed that lead brother to rise up against brother, communities to rise up against communities, or nations to rise up against nations. Jesus' new sentence can only come second, only after Abel compels us to see what we had wanted to ignore.  Jesus' new beginning does not pretend our past wrongs have not happened--but rather (again, to paraphrase another line of James Baldwin's), make possible a change because those things have been faced. 

If you find yourself looking at the brokenness and hurt of the world around us and sometimes feel it is too overwhelming to know where to begin to make things better, Jesus' blood speaks the hope that we need.  Jesus, after all, knows the truth about us and loves us anyway, without pretending we are perfect peaches and yet without waiting for us to improve ourselves enough to become "worthy" of love first.  Jesus refuses to let our hatred, our violence, our greed, and our rottenness be the last thing said about us. And Jesus refuses to let our indifference toward the needs of our neighbors be the last word spoken of them, either. His love, even in the full face of our unloveliness and lovelessness to others, initiates a new creation. Jesus brings us a second sentence, day by day, so that even right now, we might begin again.

Lord Jesus, help us first to face our failures and own our responsibilities.  And then speak your new beginning over us, and make us new.

The Mystery and the End of This Book--October 15, 2021

The Mystery at the End of This Book--October 15, 2021

"But you have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering, and to the assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven, and to God the judge of all, and to the spirits of the righteous made perfect...." [Hebrews 12:22-23]

I can remember my childhood bookshelves included a classic that I've now passed along to my own kids--the Sesame-Street-inspired picture book, "The Monster at the End of This Book." The premise is simple: our lovable blue-furred Muppet friend Grover has seen the cover of the book itself, and is afraid of getting to the end of the book and meeting the "monster" from the title.  He pleads with the reader, warns the reader, and attempts to nail, board, and brick the pages shut so you won't be able to get to the end, because he is so afraid of this monster.  But alas, when you get to the final page--after a great deal of drama from Grover--everyone discovers that Grover himself was the "monster" at the end of the book.  Grover is a "monster" only in the sense that the other furry puppet creatures on Sesame Street are all classified as "monsters," like other dear friends Telly, Harry, Elmo, and Cookie Monster. 

In other words, the title of the book gets both the reader and the fictional character Grover all worried that the "Monster at the End of This Book" will be something terrifying, when in reality it is our lovable furry old pal Grover... the very same one who has been with us all along as we read the book.

There's something of a reveal like that here in Hebrews, too.  The author started last time with the imagery from the appearance of God up on Mount Sinai back in the Exodus story.  He said, "We haven't come to something like Mount Sinai was--you know, the blazing fire, the darkness and gloom, the storm and the blaring sound of the trumpet that made all the people quake in fear."  With that as a lead in, we're kind of worried about what it is we ARE being brought face to face with.  After all, the ancient Israelites had to endure all of that frightening stuff in order to come into the presence of the God who freed them from slavery--we might well expect that we'll have to go through something at least that intense, right?  It's rather like we're being told, "There's a Mystery we are being led to in this life of faith, and it's even more awe-inspiring than the fire and storm and spectacle of Sinai." 

It's hard not to react like Grover in a moment like that--what are we being led into?  Will we be safe?  Will we be able to bear being in the presence of the Almighty God?  Will we tremble with fear?  Will our hearts melt within us to be seen as we truly are?  The tension is immense!

But at long last, here's the big unveiling.  We have been brought, not to something meant to make us afraid, but to the party in all its raucous fullness.  We have come to the bustling city of God, full of all those ancestors in faith we have heard about and those we have known and loved. We have come to the dwelling place of the One who sees us, just as this same God first saw Hagar in her distress long ago.  We have been welcomed to the resurrection feast that has no end, at God's table where there is room enough for all.  We have been drawn face to face with the Mystery who is the goal of all of history--and it turns out to be the same God who has accompanied us all our days, through all of our life stories.

All that Grover-like worrying, and it turns out we've been in the company of the One we've been waiting for all along.

If all of the universe's history is a story, it's easy to wonder whether we are living in a tragedy or a comedy--whether there will be a happy ending or a tragic one, when all is said and done.  Well, for the days when that wondering becomes a panicked worrying, the writer of Hebrews reminds us where we are being led.  

We are going home.

Home, not because we are coming to a place that is familiar, but because wherever God dwells is our truest home.  The Mystery for which we have been waiting all our lives has a face we'll recognize.  Now, perhaps we'll open our eyes in the day in front of us to recognize that face at our side for today's part of the journey.

Lord God, all our journeys find their destination in you--help us to see you along the way as well.

More Than Spectacle--October 14, 2021

More Than Spectacle--October 14, 2021

"You have not come to something that can be touched, a blazing fire, and darkness, and gloom, and a tempest, and the sound of a trumpet, and a voice whose words made the hearers beg that not another word be spoken to them. (For they could not endure the order that was given, 'If even an animal touches the mountain, it shall be stoned to death.' Indeed, so terrifying was the sight that Moses said, 'I tremble with fear.')" [Hebrews 12:18-21]

God isn't the Wizard of Oz--thank God.

You know the famous scene in the movie, where Dorothy and her friends arrive in the Emerald City seeking a meeting with "Oz, the Great and Powerful," hoping for a way home, and a heart, and brains, and courage.  The ominous floating head of the Wizard is surrounded by fire and flashing lights, and his loud, booming voice frightens them before they even get around to making their petitions.  

Of course, before the story is all over and the credits start rolling, Dorothy and company discover that the Wizard isn't what he first appeared to be. All the pyrotechnics--the spectral, almost alien face, the sound effects, and the flames--were just a show.  They were all intended to intimidate and frighten those who dared seek an audience, so that they wouldn't notice the real "man behind the curtain" was merely a short old man pulling levers and turning cranks.  The noise and the spectacle were all a show--an illusion.

Now, at first blush, you might think that the biblical stories of God's presence on Mount Sinai were just more of the same.  After all, in the storytelling from Exodus, when the Israelites go to the base of the mountain so that Moses can meet God at its peak and receive the commandments, there are all those same sort of ominous signs.  There's the fire, the billowing smoke and darkness, the blaring sound of God's voice that rang out like a trumpet and sent the Israelites scattering like little children at the sound of thunder.  And rather like Dorothy timidly approaching the entryway to meet the Wizard, Moses himself seemed rather unnerved at the prospect of coming face to face, as it were, with the presence of the living God--the One whose self-given name is, mysteriously, "I AM WHO I AM."  The similarity is enough to make you wonder, "Is God going to turn out to be just some traveling salesman behind the curtain, trying to scare people from seeing too closely?"

Well, in a sense, it does turn out that God is more than the pyrotechnics and special effects.   But that's just it--God is more than the spectacle and show, not less.  The Wizard of Oz is something of a fraud, of course--he uses the fire and lights and sound effects to make himself seem more than he really is. But with God, it's different--it's more that the thunder and lightning, the fire and the the blare of the trumpet, are all inadequate to capture the fullness of who God is.  They are attention-getters, to be sure.  They are signs for the ancient Israelites that after having been hoodwinked by the bluster of Pharaoh who claimed to be a god but was no more than a pompous blowhard with a good P.R. department, that now they have come into the presence of the Real Thing.  The real and living God is meeting them on the mountain, and the real God doesn't need to rely on Pharaoh's propaganda to convince anybody about being God.  Creation itself puts on a display to recognize God's divine presence, but the booming sounds and flashes of fire aren't meant to fool anybody.  They are pointers to the Reality beyond them--they say, "The real and living God is more and bigger than all of this."

If all we had was a special effects show from God, our faith would be pretty hollow.  After all, flashes of light and booming noise can make you afraid, but they can't love you.  A blaring noise from the mountain can frighten you, but if it makes you too scared to listen, it will be hard to have a relationship with the Source of the sound.  We worship more than a spectacle, and we believe in more than good fireworks display.  As the writer of Hebrews puts it, we haven't come into the presence of any of those things--there is more we have been waiting for.  We have come into the very presence of God in Jesus, the God who, yes, was fearsome and transcendent on Mount Sinai, but also who is infinitely more, fuller, and more mysterious than just the light and noise on the mountain.  We have come into relationship, not with a clap of thunder or a flash of flame, but with the One who chooses to be in relationship with us.  God is surely beyond our comprehension and understanding, and yet God also chooses relationship with us.  Like C.S. Lewis said of his Christ-figure the lion Aslan, "He's not tame... but he is good." The real and living God will always leave us speechless, much the same way standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon or peering out into the vastness of a starry night sky will move you to awe, but God is always more than those impressive visuals.

We do sometimes need the reminders that God is bigger, wilder, freer, and more mysterious than we think, especially when we try to make God fit our boxes and expectations, or turn God into our wish-granting genie.  But it is also good news to know that, too, because it means that God is more than the spectacle of the Wizard. God is the Real Thing beyond the smoke and mirrors or the man behind the curtain in Emerald City.  We haven't come to just some noise and lights.  We have been brought into relationship with the living God.

Wow.  Just... wow.

Lord God, help us to be conscious of your presence--holy, mysterious, and yet good--in the midst of this day.

Throwing Good After Bad--October 13, 2021

Throwing Good After Bad--October 13, 2021

"See to it that no one becomes like Esau, an immoral and godless person, who sold his birthright for a single meal. You know that later, when he wanted to inherit the blessing, he was rejected, for he found no chance to repent, even though he sought the blessing with tears." [Hebrews 12:16-17]

I've got a soft spot for sad songs, especially ones of lost or unrequited love. They help me, as it turns out, to hear the words of Scripture in a new way quite frequently.  A song that comes from a broken heart helps me hear the pleading of God's Spirit, calling to us over and over again, even though we keep bailing out on that same God and chasing after what won't satisfy us.  Lyrics that come from a place of loving vulnerability help me to hear that same kind of woundedness in God's own heart, as God keeps loving us even through pain and betrayal, whether it's thirty pieces of silver, a golden calf, a bowl of lentil stew like with Esau, or the latest shiny thing to come along and make us empty promises.

So I'm not exactly surprised, that another lost-love song has been singing to me alongside these words from Hebrews.  Lately, I've been listening on repeat to a tune of Brandi Carlile's, called, "Throwing Good after Bad," and hearing clear echoes of the heartfelt admonition from Hebrews not to throw away something good and enduring for something that sparkles and fades.

The song starts simply and plaintively: "I know you're leaving me, I know I'm not your home. You want a movie dancer, you want blood from a stone."  (She's got me hooked from the get-go, I'll confess it.)  But then she addresses her beloved further, and there's this plea not to throw away the good thing they have: "But I'm onto you--and you will pour your heart into any shimmering fad... throwing good after bad."  The song continues, "People get addicted to the rush, the chase, the new--just hoping that all that chaos will lead to something like this..."

And with that, I know that she's got all of our number.  It's not just the lover in the song--we all have this way of throwing away the good thing we have with the One who loves us to go chasing after the latest distraction that promises us something good... but always leaves us feeling empty inside.  That's what the writer of Hebrews has in mind when he alludes to the story of Esau, the elder twin brother of Jacob, who famously sold his brother his birthright when he was hungry for a bowl of lentil soup... only to regret it later.  (Now, we can certainly have a conversation later about how Jacob should have just given his brother some soup instead of being a jerk and a schemer trying to cut a deal with Esau, but that's for another time.) Esau comes to epitomize that penny-wise-but-pound-foolish thinking that trades something of lasting worth for something that only satisfies in the moment.

It would be easy to hear the writer of Hebrews just scolding us here, but I think there is something much more tender than just a lecture in the principal's office in these words.  I hear the heartache of a love song here.  I hear Brandi Carlile's jilted narrator asking her beloved not to throw away the good thing they have just for the chase of someone or something new.  And I can't help but think that's how God seeks after us and pursue us--not threatening with a bolt of lightning to zap us if we go astray, but knowing that we are setting ourselves up for disappointment and heartbreak if we go chasing after "any shimmering fad" that comes along to lure for for a moment.  It's that vulnerable God--who bears the wounds from our unfaithfulness--who calls us not throw away a good thing.  It's that (dare I say it?) woundable God who wants to spare us the pain of being let down by the smooth-talkers peddling "the rush, the chase, the new."

If you have been there before--if you know what it is like to be discarded by someone you once held dear--then you can hear the same tender warning here from the Scriptures like it's a song of lost love: "Don't go throwing away a Love that would last, a Love that would give its life away for you, just because you think someone new will come along to dazzle you." And maybe we can also hear the quiet, but still very real, offer of a new beginning, adding a new verse that says we can start over... you are always welcome here... love is still here waiting for you."

That's the tragedy and the comedy of a love story like ours with God: for God (or a biblical writer) to say, "Don't throw good after bad" is also to say, "You've already got something good in your hands right now!  Please don't waste it or discard it. Please don't throw away the One who loves you even for all your fickleness and faithlessness.  Please don't cause yourself that pain."

You have a gift in your hands right now--you are given the gift of God's faithful, enduring love, when others are going to bail out on you.  Today, treasure the love you have been given from this God, and don't throw it away. Don't go throwing good after bad.

Lord God, let us say Yes back to your unabashed Yes of love to us, and don't let us take your love for granted.