The Choice of Paths--June 18, 2025

The Choice of Paths--June 18, 2025

[Jesus said:] "Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother,

and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and one's foes will be members of one's own  household. Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and whoever does not take up the cross and follow me is not worthy of me. Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it." [Matthew 10:34-39]

It's easy to say, "Love your enemies" if you don't have any; but Jesus teaches his followers to love their enemies while at the same time telling them that following him will earn them lots of hatred from folks they used to be close to.  Discipleship is funny that way: it will turn your whole world upside-down.

Now, to be sure, the hostility that will come because of Jesus isn't because he is unfriendly, hateful, or cruel. It's because Jesus says and does things that shake our old commitments, question our old certainties, and force us to see unpleasant truths in ourselves. And once we actually start listening to Jesus, we are going to have to decide if we would rather have our old comfortable ways or let him go overturning tables in our lives. And because there are always people who would rather keep their lives and their world unchanged than let Jesus rearrange their mental furniture, just the mere fact of Jesus' presence in the world will cause division. Jesus is never a jerk to other people, and he never "punches down," so to speak, but other people often decide they can't live with Jesus' truth-telling, system-challenging, all-embracing, hypocrisy-exposing way in the world... and so they part ways.

I am reminded of a line from the graphic novel/movie V for Vendetta from a few years back. I don't often recommend taking life lessons from vigilantes wearing Guy Fawkes masks, but in this case, I'll make an exception, because the protagonist of the story offers this truth: "Fairness, justice, and freedom are more than words--they are perspectives." And I think that's just the issue. Jesus talks in more than glittering generalities, and once he actually gets specific, that's when things start to make us squirm. When we see what Jesus actually means when he talks about showing love, or who counts as our neighbor, or the blessing of God, it makes us uncomfortable, because Jesus insists on reorienting the way we see and think about everything.  And that's where real discipleship happens--in the details and the actual interactions we have with real people, beyond abstractions, hypotheticals, or buzzwords.

At first, it's hard to see why Jesus could ever be controversial--isn't he all about loving people and kindness and goodness and light? Well, yes, of course he is. But Jesus doesn't just offer those words as empty vessels you can fill with whatever definition you like. Jesus pushes our buttons with the specific thrust of his understanding of love... or our neighbor... or even of God. That's what I mean with the line from V for Vendetta: as long as all we ever say is, "We are pro-love!" that's easy for people to nod their head to. But then Jesus pushes us, and he compels us to understand love, not simply as a warm and fuzzy feeling for people I like, but the commitment to doing good even to those who are different from us... or with whom we disagree... or who hate us, well, that starts to rub us the wrong way.  Discipleship doesn't just shout, "Hurray for love!" but rather lets Jesus show us what love really looks like, how it will challenge and stretch us, and where it might lead us.

Or think about Jesus' radical understanding of neighborliness: everyone can support the idea of caring for your "neighbor," as long as that's a fixed (and small) circle of people who are close enough to me geographically or similar enough to me in demographics. That way loving my neighbor is really just a matter of protecting my own interests--you know, because looking out for the people who look like me, live near me, or think like me will come back to benefit me in the end. But Jesus doesn't stop there: and he won't let us stop with a "Me and My Group First" mentality of neighborliness. When Jesus talks about neighbors, he insists on crossing the boundaries that separate "us" from "them," making hated Samaritans into the heroes of his stories and coming to the help of foreigners (you know, folks from the "wrong" racial, cultural, ethnic, and religious groups) time and time again. That started to upset people.  But discipleship means letting Jesus expand our definition of "neighbor" rather than insisting on our old narrow view. And as Jesus acknowledges in today's verses, not everybody is willing to let Jesus do that. They would rather be admirers of Jesus from a distance than disciples who come to share Jesus' perspective--and so some will walk away at this point.

Or, when Jesus starts talking about "blessing" and "blessedness," my goodness, that overturned the apple cart for people. Everybody likes the idea of "blessing," right? But when Jesus starts getting specific, declaring things like, "Blessed are the poor," or "Blessed are the peacemakers," or "Blessed are those who get into trouble for doing the right thing," that started to rile folks up. It's easy--and basically meaningless--to just say as a generic statement, "All people are blessed!" But when Jesus calls attention to God's particular concern for those who are regarded as least, last, and left behind, that made Jesus enemies. That caused division.

If we only look at Jesus from a distance, before we can discern any detail, we can imagine him to be and to say whatever we like. But if we actually let him get close enough to show us his perspective, we are going to run into times where his view of God's world runs counter to ours. And at that point, we will have to decide which is more important to us, keeping our comfortable ways, or being on Jesus' way. Jesus is just honest that there will be folks who would rather keep their "Me and My Group First" mindset than his vision of the Reign of God.  But you can't have both: at some point you have to decide if you are in the "Me and My Group First" camp or a follower of Jesus, because those paths lead in opposite directions. Answering that question--which path we will take--is what discipleship is all about.

And Jesus is honest, too, that no matter what we have to lose when others get upset with us for following the way of Jesus, we will really be more fully alive than we have ever been before. He doesn't pretend that following him, learning to be like him, and coming to see the world through his perspective rather than with mere empty generalities, won't come without a price. It will. Others will be upset by our willingness to surrender the old comfortable routines and rotten systems, because our willingness to let go of them will force them to think twice about their own commitments. Others will choose to stick with greed, or hatred, or apathy, or indifference, or "me-and-my-group-first," and when that happens, they may be offended or irritated or put off. We have to decide if we can bear that, or whether we would rather part ways with Jesus, too.

But to be sure, the life Jesus offers us, even when it brings into focus the differences between Jesus' ways and the perspectives of the world around us, is worth it. It is worth losing everything else for the sake of being a part of his kind of life. After all, it is the sort of life spent where he is... and "wherever Jesus is" is the best possible place to be.

Lord Jesus, help us to take honest looks at ourselves and our lives to see the world from your perspective, even when it is difficult or costs us the illusion of fragile niceness.

The Freedom of Un-Bragging--June 17, 2025

The Freedom of Un-Bragging--June 17, 2025

"Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing in the glory of God. And not only that, but we boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us." [Romans 5:1-5]

Being a disciple of Jesus isn't just hard--it quite often turns us in the complete opposite direction of the world around us.  Just ask the apostle Paul.

In a culture that is practically obsessed with teaching us to brag about our own greatness, it can be difficult to move against the stream without giving in to arrogant ego-inflation. But it's even more difficult to keep your head above water if you do go along with the constant flow of "Look-at-me-I'm-great" messaging we get from everywhere else, from folks showing off the fancy dinner they cooked with photos on social media, to demagogues at podiums preening like peacocks as they take credit for accomplishments they had little to do with, to the voices at work telling us we have to keep doing more and more to make a name for ourselves and get the company more and better PR. It can feel like we are constantly under pressure simultaneously to DO "great" things and to PROMOTE ourselves so that everybody else around will know about just how "great" we are. And it is absolutely exhausting to keep at both. You can try it for a while, but it hollows you out before long, and you find yourself empty inside a highly polished, but eggshell-fragile, surface you've projected for the world to see.

And then along comes a voice like the apostle Paul's, who poses a question that shakes all of that to its foundation by asking, "What if you just didn't have to play their game? What if being a disciple of Jesus freed you from having to worry about what anybody else thinks of you? What if you didn't have to keep inventing reasons or accomplishments or accolades to boast about?" 

In fact, Paul turns the tables and suggests that if anything, we can boast about how good God has been to us even in the midst of all of our weakness, struggle, and suffering. Instead of arrogantly advertising to the world, "Look how great I am!" Paul dares us to imagine being the voices who say, "Look at how good God is, since God has loved me as I am, and God's power is able to take even my worst moments and raise up hope in the midst of them."

That's part of the delicious irony of Paul's choice to use the word "boast" here in these verses from Romans 5--words many of us heard this past Sunday. He says that we followers of Jesus have grounds for boasting, but it just about takes the word "boast" and turns it inside out. Instead of "look-at-me-I'm-so-great" kind of thinking, Paul says that even the things others would look down of us for don't need to make us ashamed. We don't have to hide our struggles; we don't have to cover over the messes in our lives, or the sources of our pains. We don't have to invent some fake version of ourselves to make us the envy of our neighbors [and enemies], because we know, fundamentally, that we are already beloved of God as we are--and such love can bring promise from pain.  That's the freedom of "un-bragging" rather than the exhausting burden of always having to boast about ourselves.

The thing is, it's really easy in this life to take our successes and turn them into reasons to get puffed up while looking down on others. It's dangerously tempting to look at your title at work, the degrees on your wall, the size of your house, or the newness of your stuff, and to tell yourself, "I did all this--my awesomeness made this happen!" and from there to tell yourself that all the good things in your life are your just reward for being so great. And from there it's barely a hop, skip, or a jump to infer the opposite--that others who have less, earn less, or struggle more are also getting lesser things as a "just reward" from the universe because they aren't as good as you. It is really easy to take my successes and treat them as proof I'm better than the next person, and their struggles as evidence that they're lazy, or immoral, or just plain bad. Grace has a way of clarifying things, though, and reminding us that the good things we know in this life are gifts of God--and that they are never meant to be hoarded as "just" for me. Grace helps us to see how empty it really is to brag about ourselves or puff ourselves up, but rather to see in our times of deepest struggle that God is committed to staying with us... so that we can hope.  And being disciples of Jesus will mean coming to see our lives through the lens of that grace rather than the lenses of "success," "greatness," or "winning" that the world around us has glued to its eyes.

I know it can be hard to read these words about "boasting in our suffering" and how "endurance produces character" and not hear it as that line of Friedrich Nietzsche that "anything that doesn't kill me makes me stronger," just telling us to fake a smile, suck it up, and toughen up so we can keep bearing the beatings life sends us. But I don't think that's really what Paul has in mind here. I think Paul has in mind, rather, that when you are so exhausted from putting up a fake, polished version of yourself in order to impress others, you can finally discover that God is actually building something good, worthy, and solid in us even though the things we used to cover over or hide. It's not that every instance of suffering automatically makes you tougher--it's that God promises not to leave us to fend for ourselves but takes even the hardships of life [that we used to be embarrassed about showing to the world] and makes a new creation out of us. And when we realize that it's all about God's gracious power working through us, we lose all grounds for arrogantly puffing ourselves up, because it's clear that "success" [whatever that means] isn't a reward for our awesomeness, and "failure" [again, whatever that means] isn't punishment for being inadequate, either. But in that very same instant, we are freed from having to gin up applause or "wows" from anybody else, because we are already beloved by God as we are. God's love has never been contingent on us "making the grade" or "becoming a success" or "winning" in life, but rather has been at work all our lives long even taken our most painful experiences and deepest struggles and fashioning a new creation out of them.

Knowing that allows us to simply stop playing the game of approval-seeking that everybody else seems to be stuck in like a hamster wheel going nowhere for all of that furious spinning. So maybe today's the day we can be done with the exhausting and fruitless labor of "looking like successes" and use that newly freed-up energy to let God shape us more fully into the likeness of Christ--in other words, to let God make disciples out of us.

Lord Jesus, keep us grounded in your love so that we can let you shape us in the likeness of Christ in this day, and always.

Disciples as Truth-Tellers--June 16, 2025

Disciples as Truth-Tellers--June 16, 2025

[Jesus said:] "I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth; for he will not speak on his own, but will speak whatever he hears, and he will declare to you the things that are to come." [John 16:12-13]

"The truth" is more than a random collection of factually correct propositions. "Springfield is the capital of Illinois. The square root of 81 is 9. Mercury is the planet closest to the sun." And so on. Those are all true, but they are not the sum total of what truth is really about. No, "the truth" involves truth-telling about ourselves, including the kind of difficult honesty that we are usually afraid of even attempting.

This, I think, is one of the hardest parts of being Jesus' disciples--that he calls us to be people who tell the truth, not just "out there" about others, but "in here" with ourselves as well. That makes truthfulness also one of the most precious gifts Jesus offers to his followers--the gift of honesty made possible by the Spirit--even though we tend to treat it like a white elephant we don't know what to do with. We live in a time and a place that doesn't always regard honesty as a good thing. Instead, we are surrounded by examples of voices who say whatever puts themselves in the best light, regardless of whether it is true or not. We live in a culture in which "What polls well with your base?" or "What makes me look good?" are more pressing questions than "What is actually true?" and in which our public figures regularly look for someone else to blame rather than owning their own failures, mess-ups, weaknesses, or blind-spots. We live in an era when telling a partial set of the facts isn't just acceptable--it's a survival skill for spinning the narrative for tomorrow's headlines so you can look good at the end of the day.  And like the old line goes, "In an age of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act."

And, in a sense, I completely get it. Covering over our mess-ups, our failures, and our weak places makes total sense if you are afraid of what people will think when they see our flaws and failings. Of course we would want to keep hidden the things that don't show ourselves in a good light, and of course we would rather not own up to the past times we said the wrong thing or did the wrong thing, or revealed the clay in our feet, if we are afraid of what others will say when our broken places are uncovered. Certainly--that may well just be a part of human nature as we know it, because we are all so deeply afraid of rejection.

But Jesus seems to truly think that the gift of the Holy Spirit makes a different way possible for us. Here in this passage from John that many of us heard this past Sunday, Jesus seems to believe that the Spirit makes it possible for us to risk being honest about ourselves, and honest about the way the world really is. And for Jesus, it seems part of the reason is that he thinks (and speaks) of this Spirit as "the Spirit of truth." That is an even richer and deeper idea in the Greek word we translate as "truth." The Greek word is "aletheia," which more literally means something like, "not-covered-up-ness" or "the state of things not being hidden." There is something powerfully (maybe even dangerously) personal in that wording. It points to the many ways we do hide things about ourselves of which we have been taught to be ashamed, or to cover up truths about the world which do not fit our preconceived cookie cutter picture of reality. The Greek notion of truth as "aletheia" isn't some nebulous noun, to be paired with "justice and the American way" as Superman's rather vague job description, but rather "aletheia" is more like an invitation to be utterly real--real before God, and real with one another.

When Jesus refers to the "Spirit of truth," he doesn't only mean that the Spirit only speaks factually correct sentences, but that the Spirit makes us into people who can tell the truth about ourselves and who can be honest and open-eyed about the world in which we live, without rose-colored lenses, self-serving propaganda or other fakery. The Spirit Jesus sends is the Spirit "of truth" because the Spirit makes us able to risk showing our vulnerable spots--something that is possible only because the Spirit casts out fear from us like a demon, and assures us we are held by grace already, just as we are. Once that much is clear and we know we are beloved no matter what, it becomes possible for us to risk being honest even about the things we are not proud of in ourselves. Grace, in other words, makes truth-telling possible.

And in fact, we are freed from having to play that no-win game of, "I didn't want to hurt your feelings, so I kept this thing a secret from you." For one, that never really works since the truth will eventually come out, and for another thing, Jesus' own example shows us that it is better to be honest, even when the thing you have to say will be difficult to hear, rather than pre-emptively deciding someone else won't be able to handle it well. I am reminded of a line from Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner where one character says that lying is really a form of theft, because deception steals the other person's right to the truth. I think something like that is what the Spirit makes possible--a community of people who owe each other the truth and who keep giving it to one another, honestly and vulnerably, because they are no longer afraid of what will happen when the truth is out. As long as a thing is secret, it has an ominous--almost demonic--power over the secret-keepers to compel them at all costs to keep it hidden. But once we can be honest with each other, the demon loses its leverage and can no longer make us do its bidding. In a sense, you could say that the Spirit of truth, whom Jesus sends, casts out those old demons--like the book of First John says, "Perfect love casts out fear." And that's the thing--we are so completely loved, we no longer have to be ruled by fear--not even by fear of the truth.

That is really a unique possibility for us in the Christian community: we can be the group of people who don't need to put a particular spin on things, who don't need to be afraid of others seeing our mess-ups. We can be the group of people who don't have a list of talking points to make, but rather can tell the truth even if it makes us look bad. It is all possible if we take grace seriously and know that we are so deeply beloved that even our mess-ups cannot undo our beloved-ness.

So today, as people convinced the Holy Spirit has been given to us, we can dare to be honest with each other. Maybe we will be guarded around strangers still, and maybe we will not give our Social Security numbers to the ex-coworker who was convicted of embezzling, sure. But with one another in this community of faith, we will be honest. We will be real. When someone asks how we're doing, we can skip the pleasantries of just saying, "Fine," back when we really aren't fine, and we can be truthful. When someone else is clearly struggling, we will not pretend we don't see them so we don't have to be bothered by them. And when it comes to being honest about our failures, our weak spots, and our sins, we can put all our cards on the table with each other.

That's at least one piece of what it will mean for us today to be people filled with the Spirit of truth. Let us dare to be honest with each other, no matter how strong the pull of the world around us is to settle for something less.

Lord Jesus, send your Spirit to move in us again and to draw the truth from us, even when we are afraid of what will happen when we are honest.

Permanent Learners--June 13, 2025

Permanent Learners--June 13, 2025

 [Jesus said to his disciples:] “I have said these things to you while I am still with you. But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you." (John 14:25-26)

Truth be told, you'll never graduate from the church. All complaints about how kids sometimes disappear from worship after their confirmation day or when they get into their teenage years, you really never "graduate" from the life of the church.  You may or may not keep coming to worship or participating in church activities, but you never graduate--as in, you will never have mastered all there is to be known, understood, enacted, and shared about the Christian life.  We are never finished; we have never had the last lesson.  We are, in other words permanent learners, perennial students, which is really what it means to be disciples of Jesus.  As we consider this season what it means to be "on the edge of discipleship," we should be clear about that at the outset.  We will never be done learning, growing, practicing, and soaking in the way of Jesus.

These words from John's Gospel, which many of us heard this past Sunday, make that abundantly clear, don't they?  Here, on Jesus' final evening with his circle of disciples before his arrest and the looming cross, you might think this is the time for graduation hoopla and valedictory speeches. This might be the time for Jesus to tell his disciples that they now know everything he has to tell them and they're on their own, or at least to give them a sense that their training is now complete.  They will, after all, be sent out into the world before very long and will become teachers and evangelists in their own right, leading others to follow in the Jesus way, too.  You might at least expect Jesus to say, "I've graded your final exams, and you're deemed proficient to teach the faith to others now. You know enough to be on your own now."

Instead, Jesus makes plans for how they will continue to learn, and even beyond that, how they will continue to be reminded of what Jesus has already told them (but which we are apt to forget if left to our own devices). Yes, Jesus has spent much of his time with the disciples teaching them a whole way of life, like any rabbi would do--but since Jesus knows that soon the militarized police and their deputized brute-squad will be on their way in a matter of mere hours to round him up, he lets his students know their learning will continue by the Spirit's tutelage.  "The Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you," he tells them.  In other words, the cross does not stop the disciples from continuing to learn, and Jesus doesn't seen this moment as an endpoint for their discipleship.  They will continue to learn, and so God, by the Spirit will continue to teach.

It's rather humbling if you think about it that Jesus sees even these guys--who had literally seen miracles and listened at Jesus' feet as the parables and stories were shared--still have more to learn. Of course, then, we will need to continue to grow and learn in our own discipleship.  We don't get to put a period where God intends to put a comma, and that is true of our ongoing growth in faith and deepening of our discipleship.   We are never "done," any more than you can get to infinity, no matter how long you keep counting.

The temptation for us is to imagine that once we have memorized a few Bible verses, know the Apostles' Creed by heart maybe, and have gone through the ranks of Sunday School through childhood, then we don't have anything more to learn from Jesus. It's easy then for us to check out mentally and to presume Jesus has no more surprises up his sleeve, no more insights to give, and no further ways of challenging us.  We can tell ourselves, "I know the Readers' Digest version of this Christianity, so I can pretty much just go on autopilot from here," and then proceed to face the challenges at work, issues of the day, struggles in our family, and surprises of life as though we can just respond with our gut impulses and no further guidance.  It's easy for us to say, "I know the plot points of the Creed, and they offer no specific instructions for how I spend my money, treat my neighbor, or view the world, so I'll just figure out those things on my own..."  In other words, we are great at fooling ourselves into believing that we don't still need God's direction to face the open questions or challenges of our lives, but rather than Christianity is an academic subject you can master like memorizing your state capitals (and then promptly forgetting them once the test is done).

Jesus doesn't let us off the hook that way.  He doesn't think that we ever get to a point of knowing it "all," and maybe for that matter, the Christian faith isn't reducible to a finite list of facts to memorize or propositions to believe.  Jesus seems to think it is a lifelong commitment to his own particular kind of love, justice, truth-telling, humility, and courage--and that cannot be summed up in a lesson or a book. It requires a companion on the journey of our whole lives--which is exactly how Jesus speaks of the Spirit.  The Spirit is the One who accompanies each of us--and all of us together--and who leads us to ask new and deeper questions, to take fresh risks in loving others, to embody the way of Jesus in new situations, and to refresh in us what we have allowed to grow stale.  That doesn't ever reach a finish line, because life keeps raising up new things to deal with, new wonders to explore, and new insights to process. We should be honest here: if we are followers of Jesus, then we are signed up for a lifetime as permanent learners.

I wonder what would happen if we saw ourselves, not as "experts" or "graduates" who have moved on from learning, but as constant disciples who are always being taught new things and being brought to deeper wonder as the Spirit directs, guides, and points. I suspect we would be both humbled and awed all the time, and we would see every day as full of possibilities to grow and learn.  That sounds like a better way to face my life, don't you think?

So here's to whatever the Spirit will teach us today--may we be ready to hear, to learn, and to take it to heart.

O Holy Spirit, keep reminding us of the way of Jesus, and keep surprising us with new things to learn and new ways to grow.

With Great Power--June 12, 2025

With Great Power--June 12, 2025

[Jesus said to his disciple:] "And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever. This is the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, because he abides with you, and he will be in you." (John 14:16-17)

Call it the Spider-Man Rule--you know, that recurring principle from Peter Parker's wise Uncle Ben. "With great power comes great responsibility," he says to the young man who will become Spider-Man. And over the course of several movies, various TV cartoon series, and countless comic books, the web-slinging superhero comes to terms with the truth that he's been given "great power"... which therefore calls forth from him "great responsibility." 

Now, in the case of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, the "great power" is the amazing strength (proportional to a spider's strength at a human scale), preternatural agility and awareness of danger (his "spider-sense"), and in some versions, even the ability to make webs shoot out of his wrists (because, of course). In the comics, ol' Peter Parker didn't have a choice in getting these powers--he was bitten by a radioactive spider (again, makes total comic book sense) and gained all the accompanying powers.  But the character comes to see this change, not as a curse, but as a gift--as a gift that does indeed empower him, as much as it calls for a particular response from him.  In comic book logic, if you've been bitten by a radioactive spider, you gain spider-related abilities--and you are called to use those abilities for the sake of good, rather than harm. The power is never for yourself or your own crass advantage, but for the sake of others.  That's what Uncle Ben would have said, anyhow.

One of the things I have always loved about that sort of comic-book logic is the notion that the powers Spider-Man gets aren't random: they are a direct result of the particular thing--radioactive spider venom--that got into his bloodstream. In other words, in the logic of comics, the spider bite makes you like a spider, but does not make you sprout eagle wings, because that doesn't fit.  If you get hit by a bolt of comic book lightning, you become The Flash, not Beast Boy.  The power that fills you has a particular character to it, and it shapes who and what you become--at least in the pages of the comic books.

And maybe also in the community of Jesus, too--because Jesus is convinced that the particular character of the Spirit who empowers us will also shape who and what we become as well.  In these verses from John's gospel, which many of us heard this past Sunday, Jesus promises that his followers will be given "the Spirit of truth" as an "Advocate" like Jesus is for us.  And while the Spirit's presence within us certainly is empowering, that power is not aimless, but points in a certain direction.  The Holy Spirit--whom Jesus also names "the Spirit of truth"--has a certain character, a certain "personality," you might say, and will move us, shape us, and direct us in ways that fit with that character.  Since this is the Spirit "of truth" that we are talking about, we will be shaped more and more into people who tell the truth, live with integrity, and act with honesty toward others.  We will not just settle for listening only to the voices who already tell us what we want to hear, or for just accepting whatever the loudest person in the room says. It means we will resist giving into propaganda or passing it along (like unchecked memes and conspiracy theories on social media).  It means we will do some research and check facts before we pass something along, whether on a screen or in whispers of gossip to people around us.  It means we will stop ourselves from just believing the narrative that fits with our preconceptions, but will take the time to learn the real facts, backstory, and context of things rather than forcing facts to fit our existing presuppositions and perspectives.  We will become people who care about telling and listening to the truth, because the One who fills us is none other than "the Spirit of truth."  See--it's Spider-Man logic all over again.

For that matter, we could look at the kinds of character traits and virtues that the New Testament calls "the fruit of the Spirit."  In his letter to the Galatians, the apostle Paul says that the Spirit's indwelling presence in our lives will bring forth things like "love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, generosity, faithfulness, and self-control" (see Galatians 5:22 and following).  And the point there is the same as with the truth--because of who the Spirit is, our character will become more like the Spirit's own love, joy, peace, patience, and all the rest.  If the spider's bite leads Peter Parker to become "Spider-Man," then the Spirit's indwelling of us will make us like the Spirit: truth-tellers, authentically loving, joyful peacemakers, and more.  The power of the Spirit is not like a genie's power, for us to harness for our own agendas or wish-lists, but rather comes with a certain kind of responsibility, and a certain direction in our lives, which come from the character of the Spirit: truthful, loving, creative, and bold.  To be a disciple of Jesus, then, is to let that particular Spirit make us into that kind of likeness, which turns out to be more and more like Jesus.

More often than I would wish, I hear Respectable Religious Leaders invoke the Holy Spirit for things that sure don't sound like Jesus and don't look very much like the fruit of the Spirit, either.  When agendas marked by cruelty and greed, domination and avarice, boastfulness and apathy toward the needs of others are promoted as God's will or blessed by Christ, it sure sounds to me like we have lost the plot.  And when loud voices around us stop caring about what is true in the service of what helps them hold onto power or status, and then claim divine favor when they do it, it is a sure sign that they are not listening to "the Spirit of truth." With great power (from the Spirit) will always come the great calling and responsibility (enabled by the Spirit) to more deeply embody the character of Christ.

But you and I have been filled with the Spirit, and that very same Spirit is at work right now, with a power that is making us into new creations with the courage and grace to love like Jesus.  What do you suppose that might look like... today?

Lord Jesus, fill us with your Spirit anew, and allow us to become more fully like you.

The Form That Love Takes--June 11, 2025

The Form That Love Takes--June 11, 2025

[Jesus said:] “If you love me, you will keep my commandments. (John 14:15)

Well, that gets right to the point, doesn't it?

I can imagine that such a direct and simple statement from Jesus might make us start to squirm a little in our seats.   Maybe for a host of reasons.

I mean, for starters, at first blush, this sounds too much like the way manipulators talk: "If you really loved, me, you would buy me that new car..." or "If you really loved me, Mom and Dad, you would let me stay up past my bedtime and give me candy."  It may well turn out that Jesus is doing something different here (read on to see what I think that is), but Jesus' words sound precariously similar.

Another concern that we might raise--especially we Lutherans--is that it sure sounds like Jesus has a list of requirements we have to carry out before we can be in a right relationship with him.  This verse might set our Lutheran Spider-Sense tingling, since it could sound to our ears like Jesus is saying, "If you want to be included in my love, you have to prove your worthiness by following my rules and obeying my commands." And that would sure seem to run afoul of the Gospel's insistence (especially as Saint Paul would put it) that we are put in a right relationship with God apart from our earning it, and that we receive God's love as a gift of grace, not a prize we earn.  Now, again, it may indeed be that Jesus isn't saying what our first reaction takes him to mean, but we should acknowledge that it does sound like he is saying we have to earn our way into his love by our obedience.

And maybe underneath all of that is just the honest nervousness we have about surrendering our lives to Jesus.  There is some part of us that doesn't want to give up control of our lives, our priorities, and our choices to doing what Jesus says.  Some part of us wants to protest, "Ok, Jesus, but what if I don't WANT to do what you command?  What if it doesn't fit with my plans or work into my schedule? What if you call me to love people I do not want to love... or speak up for people when I would rather keep quiet?  What if keeping your commandments rearranges how I spend my money, my time, and my energy?"  And I'll be honest with you here: I don't think this reason for our nervousness is going away.  We really are going to have to wrestle with the question of whether we will do what Jesus calls us to do, even when it challenges our old understandings... even when it pushes us out of our comfort zones... and even when it leads us to people and places we were afraid of.

As for the first two concerns, yeah, let's deal with them and get them out of the way.  We'll come back to our hesitancy to let Jesus actually direct our lives in a bit.  First off, there's the question of whether Jesus sounds like some kind of emotional manipulator with this verse.  When he says, "If you love me, you will keep my commandments," is it the same as a scheming gold-digger or a greedy child demanding a present or a favor as "proof" of love?  

I don't think so.  Jesus doesn't say this to lay a guilt trip on us, but rather to say, "This is what love for me will look like--you'll want to do the things I would have you do."  When I am trying to do something kind for my spouse, for example, there is some part of me that knows it would be a big help if I would take the trash out, do the laundry, or run the vacuum.  Because I love her, I want to do things that will be helpful to her--and to our household.  When I am trying to do something kind for my kids, I know already the kind of special drinks or snacks to get at the store--if I come home with only MY favorite kind of snacks and leave them nothing, I'm showing them that I'm deliberately making the choice only to look out for myself.  Love isn't about earning your place by measuring up, but it certainly does involve finding ways to express it.  And part of loving someone means knowing them well enough (or growing to learn them well enough) that you can tell what things would matter to them, and what things would not be on their wish-lists.  You learn to speak their "love-language," as they say.  So when Jesus says, "If you love me, you will keep my commandments," it has the thrust of saying, "I don't need you to carve marble statues of me, set up giant cross monuments, or build an empire in my name--the way to love me is for you to love other people."  That's not being manipulative; it's cutting to the chase.

I think that helps address the second concern--the case of the Lutheran Spider-sense that worries about having to "earn" God's love with our good deeds.  Because when we actually listen to what Jesus says, there is no discussion at all about how we acquire God's love.  We already have it, after all.  Jesus doesn't say, "If you want God to love you, keep my commandments," but rather, "If you want to love me, the way you do that is to make my way of life into your way of life, to love the people I direct you to love, to trust that my directions are good for you and everyone all around."  It is manifestly not about what we have to do in order to get into relationship with God or earn God's love.  It is instead about what happens when we realize we have been loved already and find that God's love for us calls forth from us love in response.  And in that case, it's a perfectly appropriate question--"indeed, right and salutary," as the old liturgy used to say it.  After all, I can't show love to Jesus in most of the ways I show love to other people in my life.  I can't make Jesus a grilled cheese sandwich like I do for my daughter. I can't drive Jesus to soccer practice or basketball camp like I can for my son.  I can't go on a walk at sunset or save the last piece of pie for Jesus like I can for my wife.  But what I can do is to love the people Jesus has put in my life--not only my family, but also neighbors, strangers, and enemies, too, since Jesus has commanded me to love all of those folks.  None of those actions are about "earning" anything--they are simply the form that love takes in different moments and different relationships.  And as you know if you have ever loved anybody in this life, the chance to show love to them isn't drudgery or dues-paying, but the greatest privilege there is.  When you love someone, you want to do the things that will bring them joy.  You're not gaming the system or angling for some kind of perk; you are simply doing the most natural thing in the world in response to the way you have been loved.  So we can put away our well-intentioned Lutheran worry about "works' righteousness" and any thought that Jesus is trying to get us to work our way into God's love. He ain't.  Instead, Jesus is simply telling us, "If you are looking for ways to show love to me, the thing I have in mind is that you do the kinds of things I taught you all to do."

Now, with both of those concerns out of the way, we can face the one that is left: to be honest, sometimes we just don't like the idea of surrendering control of our lives to Jesus.  If loving Jesus means doing what he has taught us to do, then we know we are committed to leading by serving, forgiving debts, owning up to our failures, crossing boundaries to reach out to outcasts, loving the unlovely, and sharing our abundance.  And--again, to put cards on the table here--some part of us is scared at the prospect of any of that, because the conventional wisdom around us thinks all of those practices are foolish, weak-looking, or the kind of thing that "losers" do. There's the rub: we are afraid to do what Jesus has actually directed us to do, and some part of us doesn't want to face the fact that Jesus says those are the ways to show that we love him, and not the large majority of religious baggage we have piled on over the centuries.  We would rather put on a good show than just love our neighbor.  We would rather wear the cross necklace and scowl at sinners than actually doing what Jesus calls us to do.  That's what really frightens us, I suspect, about Jesus' clear statement, "If you love me, you will keep my commandments."

Maybe today is a day to face those fears, deal with the discomfort, and dare to make Jesus' way of life to be our own way of life anyway.  We might still feel uncomfortable. We might have to work at unclenching our fists from control over our lives.  We might have to accept that it will be a daily struggle to make Jesus' way of life our own more fully and deeply.  But when you love someone--or even when you discover you have been loved already--somehow it feels like it is worth the struggling to spend your energy on the things that matter to your beloved.  So maybe today is a day to love Jesus, by loving the people who come across our path, and see where things go from there.

It's worth a try, don't you think?

Lord Jesus, enable us to love you more fully and deeply, by doing what you have directed us to in this day.

Dared To Go Too Far--June 10, 2025

 

Dared To Go Too Far--June 10, 2025

[Jesus said:] "Very truly, I tell you, the one who believes in me will also do the works that I do and, in fact, will do greater works than these, because I am going to the Father." (John 14:12)

Jesus challenges us--he dares us--to go too far. Farther, at least, than he did in the span of his years and miles in Galilee and Judea two millennia ago.

That is an essential part of how Jesus leads--he takes us by the hand and gives us a push beyond.  And part of what it means to be disciples of Jesus, who move beyond passive observation to active participation, is to let Jesus lead us further than we ever thought possible before--even when, yes, that leads us beyond our comfort zones.

Now, to be sure, Jesus is more than a leader--certainly. He is more than a good example of managerial skill or adept administration. And there more, vastly more, to the Christian faith than simply seeing Jesus as a model for good leadership.

But, he is at least that. Jesus is indeed the Savior of the World, the Incarnate Word, the Messiah and Lord of Lords, the very presence of God-with-Us, and the Resurrection and the Life. Yes. Amen to all of those. But in addition, he is also a good--and challenging--leader. And at least part of letting him lead us to the edge of discipleship, as we are trying to do in this new focus of our "Life on the Edge" year together, is to pay attention to the way Jesus leads. Disciples, after all, go where their rabbi goes--and they learn to do what the rabbi does, even if it is uncomfortable.  Even if it feels like "too far" at the moment.

In particular, Jesus is the kind of leader who brings the best out of us, rather than using us a props for him to show himself off. Good leaders propel the people with whom they work to go farther, grow deeper, and to love bigger. Good leaders bring the best out of their people, rather than nurturing the worst in us.

It is a rather sad thing that this kind of trait needs to be highlighted, but it does. A good leader does not kindle the worst in us in order to channel our rottenness, fear, greed, bitterness, envy, and anger for their own ends, but rather challenges us to be more, to be better, to be authentic. That kind of good role model and example may well be in short supply in the public sphere, but Jesus shows us how it's done. Jesus challenges us in a way that both encourages us for how far we have come and also stretches us to move further, almost like a physical therapist for the soul. He brings the best out of us--he pulls on us and pushes us to gain mobility when we have seized up and clenched our hearts in tight, even enabling us to move like him further than we thought was possible. He told his followers as much on his last night with them.

This verse from John's Gospel, which many of us heard in worship on Sunday, is one of those ones that can make supposedly humble Lutherans nervous. Jesus does, after all, talk about his followers (us!) doing "greater things" even than he did, and our sense of piety doesn't like that. We have all learned the "right" Sunday School answer that whatever Jesus did was the greatest, and that we cannot ever hope to live up to Jesus and the big shoes (or sandals) he has left for us to all fill as the church. We have all learned that if Jesus did the saving at the cross, then there is no way any of us could do anything "greater" than the salvation of the world, and so we don't like this idea that we, mere measly disciples, could ever dream of doing something greater than Jesus did. That smacks of the sin of pride to our pious and polite ears.

Except, here's the thing... Jesus said it.

He did. It's right there on the page. As John tells the story, Jesus says that his followers will not only learn to do the kinds of things that Jesus himself did, but "greater works than these." And amazingly (and perhaps this is another lesson for us if we are trying to learn from Jesus' way of life), Jesus doesn't feel threatened or insecure in the slightest at the idea of his followers doing "greater things." Jesus is simply concerned to bring the best out of us, and he is free from the ego that needs to one-up everyone around him.  Jesus is not so insecure that he would need to obsess that only his accomplishment are "great," but in fact calls his disciples to outdo him--to go bigger, to love bolder, and to embody the Reign of God in ways that go beyond what his first-century years in Judea could accomplish.  He literally says that we will do the same kinds of things he did, and then "greater works than these."

Like Jedi Master Yoda says about students to an age-weathered Luke in the Star Wars movie The Last Jedi, "We are what they grow beyond. That is the true burden of all masters." And while we may never "grow beyond" Jesus, he does insist that his followers will "do greater things" than he had done because the Spirit Jesus sends gives us the capacity for it.  Whatever we see Jesus doing in the Gospels, he dares us to go beyond it--even if others thing it is "too far."

Now, what exactly would count as a "greater thing" is an open question. We might point to the global reach of Christ-followers to share the Good News all across the world, rather than the relatively limited geographic reach of the historical Jesus' movement. We might note how the church crossed boundaries, and keeps crossing boundaries, beyond the mostly Jewish circles of Judea and Galilee, so that within a very short time Samaritans and Gentiles, men and women, rich and poor, and everybody and anybody came to be included. We could say that the relief work, the disease prevention, and the digging of wells for impoverished villages around the world, all done by followers of Jesus seeking to carry out his mission to save and heal and bless, all go further than the wildest dreams of Peter, James, John, and the rest. The immense breadth, depth, and diversity of the body of Christ today is a sign that indeed, we are going farther than Jesus and his band of twelve Jewish men ever did... and to hear Jesus tell it in this verse, that is exactly as Jesus intended it. Jesus keeps challenging us to go "too far" in the eyes of others--further than the old boundaries, further than the old limits, further than the old possibilities, and definitely further than our old comfort ones.

Jesus reminds us here, too, that he doesn't simply call us to duplicate what he did in Palestine two thousand years ago. We aren't still fighting the battle of letting Samaritans "in" to our religious club, or addressing the question of helping people on the Sabbath day, like Jesus often found himself dealing with. We are called to new challenges, wider reaches, and bigger signs of love and grace. And we do it, not to toot our own horns or to accomplish our own agendas, but because Jesus himself is spurring us on to do it, by the Spirit.

And if that weren't enough of a challenge for us today, Jesus also challenges us by his example as a leader, to be secure enough and grounded enough in the love of God that we can also bring the best out of people. Jesus challenges us to be the kind of leaders ourselves who draw out the best traits, who kindle the greatest virtues, and who model the noblest character for others, so that they can grow as the Spirit nurtures, beyond even what we imagined or dreamed. Jesus is so secure in who he is that he isn't threatened by the idea of his followers doing more than he did in their ministry and mission, and he isn't so needy for his own approval as to stunt the spiritual growth of his disciples so that they will never come to maturity. Jesus wants us to grow. He wants us to go farther. And he definitely wants to kindle what is good in us rather than feeding what is worst and most vile in us.

That's the kind of leadership each of us is called to as well. We don't want fellow disciples to resort to crude name-calling or bitter insults... and so we won't resort to that ourselves, either, because we want to bring out the best in others, rather than the worst. And since we don't want our fellow disciples just selfishly looking out for their own interests, we also will not look out for our interests alone. We don't want other disciples to live ruled by fear and intimidation, so we won't use those tactics to get our way, either. That's all part of what it looks like to cultivate the best in others, rather than to feed the worst impulses in our hearts.

So that's what we are dared to try today, as we follow Jesus. We are called, each in our own way, to be leaders, and in particular leaders who encourage others to go beyond and grow beyond us. We are called to let others learn from us and at the same time grow further than we could see. We are called, in other words, to let others go "too far" in Jesus' name, and to discover that "too far" is often just another word for "greater works than these."

Lord Jesus, we ask you in all humility to enable us to do more, to live more faithfully, and to share your word more fully.

In Every Language--Devotion for June 9, 2025

In Every Language--Devotion for June 9, 2025

"When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. Now there were devout Jews from every nation under heaven living in Jerusalem. And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each." [Acts 2:1-6]

There is no official language of heaven.

Hmmmm. Just let that thought sink in for a moment. As the New Testament describes it, there is no single official language of God, but rather, when God works with human beings, God is willing to speak to us in a whole host of languages--whatever it takes to get through to us. We can't ignore that part of the Pentecost miracle story, because presumably God could have done it differently. You have to figure that any time you get a scene of unmistakable divine intervention in a story--like an unexpected wind, hovering flames, and supernatural language skills--that God chose to do things this way rather than some other way. And it sure does seem telling that on the Day of Pentecost, the gathered crowds from all over the world could hear "in the native language of each," rather than God making them all learn the language of Simon Peter and the disciples.

You see that, right? The crowds ask, "How is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language?" rather than asking, "How is it that each of us has learned to understand Aramaic that this Simon Peter guy is speaking in?" The direction of the miracle is significant--it is God's choice to let every one there continue hearing and understanding in their own language, rather than supernaturally giving them all a crash course in a single "official" language.

That's actually a big deal that sets the New Testament faith apart pretty significantly. In Judaism, for example, one of the deciding factors for which books were understood to be "Scripture" was whether they had first been written in Hebrew or not. The books that were originally written in Hebrew had a stamp of authenticity, even though translations into Greek, Aramaic, or other languages eventually happened, too. Or in Islam, the Qur'an is required to be in Arabic, or it is considered a not-quite-as-authoritative translation. Even in medieval Christianity, we let ourselves get duped into believing that only Latin was acceptable, and therefore that only those who had been trained and educated in Latin (priests, bishops, and monks--curiously all men, too!) were able to "correctly" read the Bible.

But from its Spirit-led beginning, the Christian community has been different: there is no "official" language, but rather God keeps choosing to meet people where they are and to give them full participation in the Christian faith regardless of whatever their native language was. That's a big deal. It means that God chose not to enforce uniformity, even though that surely could have made things easier for the early church. If there had been a language requirement, there would have been less potential for confusion when things got lost in moving from one language to another... and we wouldn't have Christian groups fighting over whose translation is the "right one"... and we would all know all the songs in the hymnal without skipping over the ones with words we can't pronounce. Yes, all of those things could have happened if the Spirit had tweaked the miracle just a bit to give all the hearers the ability to understand one "official" language, rather than giving the speakers the ability to speak in many "un-official" languages. But that is not how the Spirit chose to do things.

And I am convinced that is important. We have a way of wanting to use language as a litmus test for acceptability so that we can be gatekeepers. "You want access to the good things we have? Then you must learn the official language. You want to share in our way of life? Then learn to talk like me." If that's not conventional wisdom, I'll eat my hat. We do it with actual literal languages sometimes, and we do it with the code languages of church life, too--the way we church folk slide into jargon without explaining the strange words and phrases we use, from "narthex" and "liturgy" and "intinction" and "Advent," to "being washed in the blood," worshiping a "Lamb who was slain," or striving for "stars in my crown." And we don't even realize sometimes how much we use that language to keep people out, to control who "really" belongs, or to puff ourselves up with mastery of the "in-group" language while expecting new faces to learn it all by osmosis somehow.

But when the Spirit was poured out at Pentecost, God made a decisive break with all of that kind of thinking. The early church was, from the moment of its inception, multilingual. Yes, that means we have additional work to do--we have to translate our Scriptures into whatever language is being spoken in whatever place we go to... and we have to learn hymns and songs from all over the world instead of only from my country and style... and we have to learn to accept the fact that God's vision includes people of different languages, backgrounds, cultures, and languages. And apparently God thinks that is worth it.

We forget, too, we American Christians, that this policy of God's is what allows us to be welcome as we are, too. We sometimes assume that, as inhabitants of a superpower/empire in the 21st century, that the dominant language of our culture is God's language. There are more than a few Christians, too, who will swear up and down to you that the old 1611 King James Bible is the Bible God reads. But the Christian faith didn't start with us--and it will not end with us. The Gospel wasn't first spoken in English--nor is it the most widely-spoken language for Christians even today! But the fact that we can think and read and pray and sing to God in English, the fact that I can write about God in English, is only possible because God made the choice not to require us all to learn Hebrew... or Greek... or Latin... or some angelic dialect of heaven. Keeping that in mind--that I as an English speaker am a relative newcomer, and that my language was once the "new" tongue someone had to translate the Gospel into--maybe, that will keep me appropriately humble in the ways I deal with other people around me today. We are often harshest toward those we see as newcomers when we have forgotten that we were newcomers and late arrivals to the party ourselves. And that hypocrisy does not look good on us; the body of Christ was never meant to be draped in it, and yet so often it is our go-to outfit choice.

It is worth remembering that God's chosen policy on the multiplicity of our languages and ways of speaking of God is to meet us where we are and to find a way to get through to us with the words we already speak, rather than making us all learn an "official" language of heaven. That is simply how love works: it goes to whatever lengths it needs to in order to get through to the beloved. And, dear one, you, and I, and this whole world of billions and our many tongues, are beloved.

So... what is the language of God? Yours. And hers. And his. And theirs. That is by God's choice.

Lord Jesus, send your Spirit among us again to reach out to people whose words are different from ours, and to go to whatever lengths are necessary to learn to listen to one another, as well as to speak each other's languages.

Asking A Better Question--June 6, 2025

Asking A Better Question--June 6, 2025

Suddenly there was an earthquake, so violent that the foundations of the prison were shaken; and immediately all the doors were opened and everyone's chains were unfastened. When the jailer woke up and saw the prison doors wide open, he drew his sword and was about to kill himself, since he supposed the prisoners had escaped. But Paul shouted in a loud voice, 'Do not harm yourself, for we are all here.' The jailer called for lights, and rushing in, he fell down trembling before Paul and Silas. Then he brought them outside and said, 'Sirs, what must I do to be saved?' They answered, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved, you and your household. They spoke the word of the Lord to him and to all who were in his house. At the same hour of the night he took them and washed their wounds; then he and his entire family were baptized without delay." [Acts 16:26-33]

This is how the world is changed.

Look, it's simple common sense: if circumstances present with you with an open door and unlocked handcuffs, you make a break for it... right?

And if the guy who was responsible for overseeing your torture and wrongful imprisonment is about to kill himself when he thinks the Romans will do worse than that to him for allowing a jail break, well, again, common sense just says, let him do it to himself--that's not only saving your own skin, but a bonus side order of revenge thrown in there, too. And all you would have to do is hold your tongue when the jailer walks in.

It's common sense, it's conventional wisdom--really, it's just the plain natural inclination of all of us who are bent in on ourselves, either to run, or to stay silent, or to get even.

And while we're talking common sense here, if you and I found ourselves in the predicament of being wrongfully detained like Paul and Silas were here in Acts 16 in this passage that many of us heard in worship back on Sunday, and we had some impulse to pray, I suspect our prayer would have been something like, "Dear God, get me out of here! And punish the people who did this to us!" We would have had our own necks as our number one concern, and a good ol'-fashioned divine smiting for the people who had persecuted us as a close second, I'd wager. Right? It's all just so obvious.

In this life, you gotta look out for Number One, especially when your own life is on the line... right?  "Me and My Group First" is the logic of the loudest voices of conventional wisdom in our time, too, after all.

Well, friends, this is what makes Jesus' way revolutionary. This is what makes the new creation begun in the resurrection actually new. This is what makes the Reign of God both scandalous and beautiful, both seemingly absurd and sublime. Jesus' movement turns the world upside down in the process of making a new creation: his way of life leads us to question what everybody else calls "common sense" about looking out for ourselves first... and instead, points us to a new question: "What could God be up to for good in this situation?" Instead of running away from difficult situations, and instead of looking for revenge, the followers of Jesus ask, "How could the Reign of God be made present in this moment? How could God reveal a glimpse of the new creation right here and now?"

That's different from asking, "Why did God make this [fill in the blank with something bad] happen?" And it's different from asking, "What's the one 'right' answer for what God wants me to do in this moment?" Because, in all honesty, sometimes we don't get answers like that. And sometimes, we don't get to see what ripple effects our words and actions will have. But the truly revolutionary power lies in the change of orientation in our questions--from "How can I get what is in my best interest?" to "How could God be at work in this situation, since God is already making all things new?" When we dare to ask that question, we break the pattern of fight-or-flight, the cycle of returning evil for evil, the damned (and I mean that literally) vicious circle of me-fearing-you-which-leads-you-to-fear-me. The new question, "How could new creation be taking shape here in this situation?" forces us to pause and breathe before we break into the old tactics of running away, staying silent, or seeking revenge.

That is what makes this amazing story from Acts so radical. This is the hinge on which a miracle of grace turns. When Paul and Silas are presented with the chance to simply save their own skin, they don't. Not because they are stupid, not because they are unaware, and not because they are gluttons for punishment. They stay in their cells, turning "common sense" upside down, because of the chance they will have to witness to a better way. Their staying in their cell is not an admission that they are guilty of anything, or even a matter of giving up hope of going free. It is an act that allows them to show love to the jailer--real, genuine, world-transforming, self-giving love. From this momentary pause, Paul and Silas catch the jailer's attention, save his life, show him in concrete action an example of the love they have known in Jesus, and then to top it all off, they have the chance to share their faith with this jailer and his family. And what do you know--by the end of the night, he and his whole family want to be followers of Jesus and Paul baptizes the very man who had overseen his torture.

Common sense would have told them to run when they had the chance, and to let the jailer suffer. Common sense would have said, "Look, it's fine to be polite to everybody, but these people who beat you and locked you up, they are bad guys, and your life has to be more important than the bad guys!" Conventional wisdom would have said, "Look, it's him or you--you have to save yourself!" Every natural instinct in Paul and Silas would have said, "You have suffered enough--these terrible, closed-minded people in this city assumed you were a troublemaker and detained you because they were afraid of what you might do and they didn't like your religion, and you suffered already for their prejudice when they locked you up! Just leave them to their own devices now!"

But, no... the revolution carries on. No--love finds a new way. No--the new creation overrules the old one's tired logic of "kill or be killed." No--mercy keeps on moving Paul and Silas, and so they are no longer satisfied to simply ask, "What's in it for me?" Instead, their question became, "How could the new creation be visible in this moment, and how could we live like it is real, regardless of our supposed self-interest?" And because of that pause to ask a new question, look at the wondrous things that happen! An enemy becomes not merely a friend but a brother. And from there, the followers of Jesus start a community in that city--the city of Philippi--the first toeholds of the gospel on the continent of Europe. And from there... well, you and me. Our story and our faith, our belonging among the people of Jesus, probably was made possible because of what happened there in Philippi... because two people praying together in jail dared to ask, "How could God's Reign happen here in this situation, even in the face of deep hatred, real wounds, and long-ingrained prejudice?"

Of course it was dangerous. Of course it was risky. Yes, it meant the possibility that Paul and Silas were allowing someone who might have wanted to do them harm to get close to them. The Gospel has always looked like a gamble to the self-centered perspective called "common sense."

But, look--look, and see--what happens when people dare to let the living Jesus turn the old common sense questions upside down. This is how the world is changed--this is the only power that is really new that can change anything: the power of self-giving, cycle-breaking love.

How will you so change the world where you are today?

Lord Jesus, before we run... or stay silent... or look for revenge, show us how your Reign of love, your movement of mercy, could be present in this day, in this hour, in this moment.

In That Deepest Darkness--June 5, 2025

In That Deepest Darkness--June 5, 2025

"When they had brought [Paul and Silas] before the magistrates, they said, 'These men are disturbing our city; they are Jews and are advocating customs that are not lawful for us as Romans to adopt or observe." The crowd joined in attacking them, and the magistrates had them stripped of their clothing and ordered them to be beaten with rods. After they had given them a severe flogging, they threw them into prison and ordered the jailer to keep them securely. Following these instructions, he put them in the innermost cell and fastened their feet in the stocks. About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and signing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them...." [Acts 16:20-25]

Sometimes, Thelonious Monk and Ella Fitzgerald are my conversation partners in Bible study. They have a lot to teach me, and I have a great deal to learn.

Many of us heard the story of Paul and Silas in prison and the Philippian jailer's eventual coming to faith this past Sunday in worship.  And even though the ending is a happy one, which I have heard many times, something catches my attention earlier on in the story first.  Before the "happily ever after" moment, there are these words from Acts, about Paul and Silas in prison and how, after being beaten by the police and thrown into the maximum-security section of the prison, they find themselves singing hymns to God "about midnight." And all of a sudden, all I can hear is Ella Fitzgerald's voice and Oscar Peterson on the piano, crooning the old jazz standard-and-lament, "Round Midnight." (If you don't have that recording in your collection, do a quick search for it and given it a listen--go ahead, I'll wait.)

"It begins to tell, 'round midnight," Fitzgerald sings to Monk's composition, "I do pretty well till after sundown... Suppertime I'm feelin' sad, but it really gets bad... 'round midnight." Midnight is that low-point, that deepest darkness of the night, the loneliest hour and the time when hope ebbs almost to the point of vanishing. It is telling, I believe, how much of the Bible's story takes place in those times of weary midnights, and how much of the lives of the wisest and most faithful saints was spent in what John of the Cross called "the dark night of the soul." When we are just plain worn down--worn down by life, worn down by adversity, worn down by dealing with so much swirling hatred and anger and hostility, and worn down by the absence of friends, the absence of support, the absence of help--that's when you know it's 'round midnight in your heart.  We might not want to admit it, but often we find ourselves--yes, even we lifelong Christians--in that deepest darkness that feels like permanent midnight.

And in that midnight hour, sometimes it is all you can do just to keep singing your blues and pouring out your lament. Sometimes just continuing to exist, just continuing to live for a little bit longer despite the suffocating night around you, sometimes that's the most victory you can muster. Just keeping on keeping on.... round midnight.

That's where Paul and Silas are at this moment. It is literally about midnight, as our narrator Luke tells us, but deeper than that, it is as dark a night of the soul as you'll find. This is a scene we may not want to think much about, especially not about how these two evangelists came to this predicament. There are old gospel anthems and Sunday School songs about the next scene in the story, when an earthquake comes and breaks open the prison doors and busts their chains wide open (although, we should note, Paul and Silas do not escape, but use the moment to show compassion to the jailer who had been responsible for their torture). But what brought them to this moment was that some respectable business owner in Philippi was upset that Paul and Silas were a threat to their profits, and they start accusing the two of them of disturbing the peace. The angry accusers cast them as dangerous lawbreakers who are only causing trouble, and on top of that, they single them out for being the "wrong" ethnicity, too. You can hear the code-words in their accusation: "These two are Jews!" (In other words, they aren't like us--they are "foreigners who don't have a legal right be here in our town;" they are not "our kind of people," they say, to the judge and the chief of police, winking in confidence that the authorities will get their meaning.) The accusers don't want their kind around, and they want to make an example out of them. So the police, along with the angry crowd that has formed by this point, all humiliate Paul and Silas by stripping them naked and now beating and flogging them, all with the clear permission of the local government authorities, too. Those whose job is to protect the innocent and ensure justice--the ones you might have hoped would keep you safe from an angry mob--they are the ones condoning the abuse and making it happen, because to them Paul and Silas don't really matter. They are "other." They are just some faceless foreigners who can be made to disappear in the darkness of a prison cell and forgotten about. They are... expendable.

So yeah, it gets pretty bad 'round midnight.

But this is what gets me about this part of the story. Paul and Silas, despite their weariness and the violence they have suffered--at the hands of "law and order" no less!--they bring it all to God. And they keep on keeping on. That is the seed of their victory, their rescue, their vindication. They bear what they have been subjected to by bringing it to God--they pray, they sing, and they sit in silence, too. I have to think their songs have the cadence and ache of the blues, too. I don't think there's reason to assume that the "hymns" they sing are all peppy up-tempo praise choruses--I think they just bring what they are carrying to God in words and melody, and they cry out for help there. And yet, that is exactly what is needed in that moment. They survive by honest lament, by calling out to God for help, by singing their faithful blues at midnight and bringing into God's face all that they have suffered and endured.

All too often we just want to skip past the pain of this story, the terror of the injustice, and the utter fear that must have been all around Paul and Silas in that place at midnight. We want to jump ahead to, "And it all worked out because, you know, earthquake." We want to skip the parts that make us squirm, that make us think, that make us look at ourselves with terrifying honesty. We (at least we Respectable Religious folk who have been given a lot of privilege in life) want to forget, I think, that our movement began with scenes like these--with the followers of a rabbi who was killed by the state then getting singled out for their ethnicity, too, and being brutalized by the authorities in town after town all across the empire. I don't think we want to remember the parts of the story that happen 'round midnight like that--before the earthquake comes--because if we remember them honestly, we'll be compelled to make connections to our own moment that we would rather not face. And I think we are afraid of the solidarity we will need to commit to if we face all that--a solidarity with those who suffer, with those who are dismissed as "troublesome foreigners," and with those who sit in cells waiting for justice that never comes from within the system.

But being followers of Jesus calls for just that kind of honest courage, so let us face it. For a lot of us church folk, we have simply chosen to ignore or willfully forget that Paul and Silas (and Jesus himself) have much in common with those in our time who are rounded up and made to disappear into the darkness of distant cells, under the pretense that they were "dangerous and subversive foreigners," which is exactly what they accuse Paul and Silas of being. I have ignored it, I know. And we have also chosen not to think about how many people there in Philippi saw Paul and Silas getting beaten by the civil authorities and just stood there, letting it happen, convinced that "they must have done something to deserve this." We choose not to think about it, because we do not want to consider that so many times, we are more like the watching crowd in Philippi, condoning violence as long as it is done in the name of "law and order" for people like us, than we are like Paul and Silas, the actual disciples of Jesus in this scene.

And once we modern religious folk face up to how much we are like the angry agitators rather than the apostles, well, we find ourselves in our own spiritual hour of midnight. And yes, I get it that we are all already each carrying a whole other list of ways we feel like we are worn down at midnight with a host of other worries and troubles. We can be both like the angry crowd and like Paul and Silas at the same time. The question, it seems to me, is, What do we do about it?

What do we do at that hour of deep lonely darkness that comes to our souls 'round midnight? Paul and Silas have a word for us, it seems. They have the same response that the enslaved Hebrews had during their midnight in Egypt... the same response the three young men had in the fiery furnace... the same response Daniel had in the lions' den... and the same response even Jesus had while he suffocated to death on a state-sanctioned cross. They carried their weariness to God--they prayed, and they sang, and they prayed and the sang. And even before help came, the truth-telling kept them going. Even before their shackles were broken open, the act of bearing their weary souls to God enabled them to keep on keeping on. Even before the prison doors swung open, they were sustained by lifting up lament to God, calling on God to be present with them in that dark place in the moment between days.

It would seem that is our place to start, too. Our prayer may well demand confession from us as well as lament; we may have to own the ways we are more like the crowd than the Christians in this story. But we can also bring our worn places, our threadbare spirits, and the places we are just running on empty. We bring them to God, we name them, we speak them out loud, and we find strength in naming them all. That's what Paul and Silas do. They take what they have lived through, and they lay it before God with empty and open hands. And that keeps them going long enough until help breaks through and transformation can begin.

I don't have easy answers for how we solve the many things that make us weary and worn. I don't have some trite religious "fix" for how we'll deal with the anger or the despair brewing inside each of us all the time, or the fear that seems as infectious as any virus. And I sure as heaven can't pretend that if we will only pray harder or do more religious-looking things, all the bad stuff will vanish. That ain't how it works, and it never was. But it does seem to me that a starting point is that we take all that we are carrying on this dark midnight of the soul and bear it up to God, both the laments of what feels so wrong and unjust, and the confessions of the ways you and I have each been a part of making things the way they are. We will lift up to God both the ways we are the violent crowd and the weary, abused apostles, and we will trust that in the darkness, God hears.

God is there--or rather, God is here with us, and with all who are sitting in dark cells longing for hope 'round midnight.

Lord God, we lift up to you all that we are carrying, both our failures and our hurts. Tend to them all, and meet us in these times we feel lost in the dead of night. Be our hope, and bring us into your new day. We pray it in the name of your executed Son, Jesus.