Surrendering Plan A--September 13, 2021

Surrendering Plan A--September 13, 2021

"By faith Abraham, when put to the test, offered up Isaac. He who had received the promises was ready to offer up his only son, of whom he had been told, 'It is through Isaac that descendants shall be named for you'." [Hebrews 11:17-18]

If your religion is just a means toward getting something on your wish-list, you might as well be honest that your real god is your wish-list.  But if your faith would allow you to give up the very things you thought you wanted most for the sake of the God you trust knows what you actually need, well then we've got something more than self-worship.

Maybe before we delve into what this looks like between us and God, let's just consider the difference on a human-to-human level.  From time to time, we all run across people who seem more interested in creating their idea of a "perfect" life rather than actually loving the real people they have around them.  You know, it's the couple where one (or both) just seem to need to be in a relationship with someone, so they latch onto another person even though the other might not be a really good fit, because they have some cookie-cutter picture of being able to go places with a plus-one.  Or sometimes people end up marrying someone who they see as a ticket to a comfortable lifestyle rather than someone they would be willing to give up their comfort for, and that's a red flag.  Sometimes you get the impression people have kids like they are a status symbol, but aren't willing to make the time to actually be around their kids.  (When I hear dads talking about having to "babysit" because their wives are out of town for a day or a weekend, for example, I get this vibe, as though the fathers just assume they don't have a responsibility to be there for the actual raising of their children.)  In any of those scenarios, something just gives the impression that other people are a means to an end: the picture-perfect life, the full social calendar, the feeling of being needed, or the status of being successful.

On the other hand, you probably know people who clearly act with love for the people in their lives even when it comes at great personal cost.  It's the person who is willing to set aside their dream job to move across the country for their spouse to do what their heart is set on, or to be closer to aging parents who need special care.  It's the parents who have their plan of life dramatically changed by a child with special needs, and they adapt or change their career trajectory to be there for their kid without giving into bitterness about it.  It's the parent who rearranges their weekly work schedule to be able to be home when the kids are home, even if it means other work gets done at odd hours early in the morning or late at night. It's the person who chooses intentional empty spaces in their life and calendar so they can be available easily when a friend needs a ride to the airport or a grown-child needs help babysitting their little one in a pinch. In each of those situations, and plenty of others like them, you get the sense that love leads people to let go of whatever Plan A might have been, not because it was wicked or immoral or bad, but because they love the other person more than they love Plan A.  When we trust God more than we want our wish-lists completed, even it means letting go of what we have at the moment, we have arrived in the country of living faith.

I want to suggest that this is the kind of thing the writer of Hebrews has in mind when it comes to Abraham's faith in God.  Even though Abraham had wanted children, and had come to believe that Isaac would be the one through whom many descendants would come, and even though it meant surrendering the very one he deemed most precious, the writer of Hebrews describes Abraham as willing to let go of control of his son Isaac when God called him to.  We'll see as the train of thought continues that Abraham isn't just casually willing to kill his son, but that Abraham dares to trust that God can even raise the dead.  But rather than clutching onto to control to preserve Abraham's wish-list (of children, a heritage, and the prestige of having many descendants), Abraham is willing to trust God even when it means letting go of this one whom he loved dearly, Isaac.

And in a way, that's the question put to us as well: not whether we'll hold a dagger to our children's chests like Abraham, but whether we'll dare to trust God more than we want control over keeping the things we have on our wish-lists.  When we see God as just a means toward getting things we want, we reveal we want those things, circumstances, or perks more than we want God.  When we see our faith in terms of, "I pray in order to get things," or "I go to church and share ostensibly religious memes on social media so that God will be good to us," we reveal that we really want a genie, not a relationship of trust with One who loves us.  That's what Abraham's daring faith pushes us to see--would I rather have my picture-perfect imagined picture of life and use God to get that put into place, or will I dare to trust God even if means letting go of some, or all, of my Plan A designs and plans?

I'm afraid too much of popular religion is drive-thru Christianity--that God is there to give me things as I dictate and doesn't get to redirect my desires, and that our relationships with God are basically transactional.  Abraham's story calls for something more daring that is willing to surrender control of our lives and wants in order to let God direct us.  That is surely scary to stare down, but it is also the best possible place to be, too, because God's hands are more sure than our own grip on our lives.

What might each of us be asked to surrender control over, or what kind of consumeristic wants might be we called to let go of, in order to live by trust in the God who loves us?

Lord God, enable us to surrender as you call us to, and enable us to trust that you know what you are doing as we let go.

Refugees Like Us--September 10, 2021

Refugees Like Us--September 10, 2021

"All of these died in faith without having received the promises, but from a distance they saw and greeted them. They confessed that they were strangers and foreigners on the earth, for people who speak in this way make it clear that they are seeking a homeland.  If they had been thinking of the land that they had left behind, they would have had opportunity to return. But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one.  Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; indeed, he has prepared a city for them." [Hebrews 11:13-16]

Somewhere along the way, we forgot who we were, who we still are. Somewhere along the way, the followers of Jesus forgot that we are resident aliens, non-citizens, in the places where we live.

Funny, in that narrow way that things can be both awful and funny at the same time, how easy it can be for respectable religious folks to want to be gatekeepers and bouncers for other refugees and aliens, when the Bible itself has been telling us for two millennia now that we are people without papers here in the world. We are aliens. We are not meant to be at home under the rule of Caesars and Nebuchadnezzars. And that also means we should recognize ourselves as living as foreigners dependent on the hospitality of others around us, because this is not our home.

Now, that kind of talk can be misused. It can be co-opted to sound holier-than-thou, and it often has been--like Christians are in an exclusive club and can look down on the rest of the world. It can sound like Christians are use biding their time to get to some ethereal afterlife rather than living where we are and caring about hungry people, excluded people, justice, and reconciliation now. It can sound like sentimental religious escapism.

But that misses the way the Scriptures really teach us exiles to live. When it was the people of Israel/Judah who had been conquered and taken into exile in Babylon, the word from the Lord was "Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you," which is to say, "seek the welfare of Babylon." The message was that wherever God's people go, we are to be a presence for good, a presence of graciousness in a graceless age. The message was that God's people are to seek the benefit of others exactly because we know that this is where we live our days until that great promised homecoming.

The Jewish exiles in Babylon were called to be good neighbors, just and fair in their business dealings even with the Babylonian citizens next door, and not to resort to violence or hate because they were forced to live under the rule of a pagan egocentric nut-job like Nebuchadnezzar. They were called to be good, but not to ever fall for the official Babylonian party line about how great life was going to be in Babylon, and never to put their trust in the powers of the day. That is what kept the exiles on solid footing, and it was what kept their minds and hearts free: Babylon may have won the day when they captured Jerusalem, but they could not capture the allegiance of the people who were conquered. If your heart belongs to the homeland that is waiting and promised to you, you will not be fooled into giving it away to the powers of the day.

The New Testament borrows all of this imagery to talk about our presence in the world as the followers of Jesus. We are aliens, too. We are called always to work for the good of all around us, but we are called to do it with an eye toward our promised future. And so we will live now according to the constitution of God's Reign, rather than settling for the ways of whatever places we find ourselves in. So, for example: in God's promised future, swords are beaten into plowshares and wolves and lambs lie down together--and so, in light of our promised homecoming, we are called right now, in this life, not to be people of violence but people of mercy. In the Jesus Administration, there is enough for all, and you know who is the greatest, not because they have to toot their own horns and say it about themselves, but because they are the ones washing feet, wiping tears, and taking the lepers and outcasts by the hand.  In the Jesus administration, we know that we are refugees in the world, and so we are called to practice empathy and to do all we can to help welcome and shelter the refugees who come to our doors, our neighborhoods, and our country.  In days like these, when there are an awful lot of folks who had to leave their lives behind in Afghanistan, for example, or who have been displaced by Hurricane Ida even just within the United States, the writer of Hebrews reminds us to see ourselves in their faces--and to care for them the same way we want others to care for us since we are refugees in the world, too.  Care for other refugees in the world is part of our spiritual DNA as Christians, because know what it is like (at least we are supposed to) to be longing for a homeland while seeking the good of the places where we are right now.

The world will see all of that behavior, and it won't make sense to them. Nebuchadnezzar thought his greatness was measurable in his gold-embossed towers, portraits, and statues. Caesar thought he was lord of the world while a homeless baby was born to two refugees and laid in a food trough, but the baby turned out to be none other than God-in-the-flesh. The followers of Jesus are called to be people who stand out because we live now like life will be in the full Reign of God. We will keep giving ourselves to making "the city where God has sent us" better and better, but we will not let ourselves get entitled into thinking that Babylon will give us a prize for doing it. And we will not simply let ourselves look backward to some mythical time in the past--as Hebrews says, if we "had been thinking of the land they had left behind they would have had opportunity to return." For the followers of Jesus, the homeland we are seeking is not in the past--not in the 1950s, not in the 1960s, and not in the '70s, '80s, '90s, or first decade and a half of the 21st century. We aren't looking to recreate something--we are living now like we will in God's promised future, not a religious nostalgic past. That promised future is our home--right smack dab the middle of God's love.

When I hear these words from Hebrews, I hear the in the voice of the late songwriter Leonard Cohen.  In particular, I hear it echoing a line from his well-loved, "Anthem," comes to mind: every heart, every heart to love will come, but like a refugee." That's us. We are refugees. And because we have been found by Love, we live differently now even before we arrive in our home country. Because in a sense, everywhere Love goes, we are at home.

Lord Jesus, let us live now in light of the promised day when your grace wins and fills all in all.

Paper-Clip Faith--September 9, 2021

Paper-Clip Faith--September 9, 2021

"By faith [Abraham] received power of procreation, even though he was too old--and Sarah herself was barren--because he considered him faithful who had promised. Therefore from one person, and this one as good as dead, descendants were born, 'as many as the stars of heaven and as the innumerable grains of sand by the seashore'." [Hebrews 11:11-12]

We cling to God by faith the same way a paper clip sticks to a horseshoe magnet, held in a power not our own--a power which moves through us so that we can hold fast.

Seriously.  Let's think about how things work if you're a paper clip being gripped in the magnetic field of your standard horseshoe magnet.  You are, to be frank, inert.  A paper clip has no moving parts, no energy source, and no secret supply of chemical combustion waiting to be sparked.  What it has is the potential of being held.  Its molecules can be realigned to get in sync with a magnetic field, in which case it sticks to source of that field.  If the magnet is strong enough, those paper clips can even appear to jump up of their own power to cling to the U-shaped object in the science teacher's hand.  But let's not be fooled about what's happening: the paper clip doesn't bring any power of its own--it receives the ability by the closeness of the magnet.  The power of the magnet makes that leap possible, but the paper clip brings only is ability to be held.

And, again, no disrespect to our ancestors in the faith, Sarah and Abraham, but what they bring to their relationship with God isn't their own power, their own virility, or their own strength. What they bring is the ability to be grasped by God's power, so amazing things can happen.  Faith is like that--it's not a power source that arises from within us to propel us up to God; it's what happens when a trustworthy God moves toward us with a magnetic pull that grabs hold of us so that we hold fast to God.  It might look like we are the ones leaping up to God in faith, but it's all rather like the paper clip and the magnet: the magnet does the pulling, and we paper-clips are given the free ride.

The writer of Hebrews doesn't mince words about this.  Like other New Testament voices (Paul, for example, will also use the phrase, "as good as dead" to describe Abraham), our writer here underscores that Abraham didn't bring faith as a superpower that God somehow needed or harnessed or accepted in payment for giving him a child.  It was rather the faithfulness of God which enabled Abraham to have faith.  It was the trustworthiness of God which enabled Sarah to trust.  That makes all the difference, because it means that we will be held, even when our faith is wobbly or sputtering (which happens, let's be honest), because the thing that makes us "sticky" isn't our own power, strength, or capacity to believe in God.  It is the other way around--God's grip on us enables us to hold onto God as well as we can.  Rather like a squirmy child's hand fidgeting at the crosswalk in the grip of a loving parent's hands, what keeps us safe isn't how hard we are holding onto the One who loves us, but rather how strong that Love is holding onto us.  Faith is about being held, being drawn, being gripped by grace--it's never our achievement or accomplishment or even our ability.

Getting this straight honestly makes all the difference between Gospel good news and religiously-dressed self-help.  If Christianity ends up being about how well or accurately I believe a list of facts about God, I'm always going to be worried I haven't studied hard enough for my postmortem theology exam, and in the end, my being saved will be a matter of my own achievement on that test.  But if the life of faith really is, as Hebrews says, about trusting Someone who is trustworthy even when I bring no power or strength or energy to the table, then it means my being saved is a gift of grace.  And if it's all a gift, I can rest assured I can't lose it, and I can't wriggle out of God's mercy.  It is about being held in, as the old hymn puts it, the love that will not let me go.

Today, let's allow that idea to just steep into us like a cup of strong hot tea:  faith isn't your power, but a gift you receive.  Holding onto God isn't something you achieve, but a sign you are held in the goodness of God like a paper-clip clinging to a magnet.  The power comes from the thing doing the holding, and we bring the ability to be held.  So even poor old decrepit Abraham can be empowered in amazing ways--even to become the ancestor of countless descendants--because it was never about his ability. It was always about the strength of the God who drew him close.  

Today, then, be a paper-clip, held in the grip of God's powerful goodness.  And as you find yourself drawn close to this God more fully in life, recognize where that comes from.  You are being held in the force-field of grace, and even your ability to trust God is a gift God give us.  You and I are paper-clips, stuck to the One who calls us beloved.

Lord God, hold onto us with your own strong power, and help us to rest in your assurance that you will not let us go.

Constructing Canopies--September 8, 2021

Constructing Canopies--September 8, 2021

"For he looked forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God." [Hebrews 11:10]

One of the recurring roles that has been entrusted to me in church life that I never envisioned back in seminary was "Canopy Tent Assembly Worker."  But it's a role that has taught me a great deal about life and deepened my faith, even though there aren't any classes offered in divinity school on the subject.

The two congregations I serve jointly own a decent sized canopy tent--it probably covers a twenty-foot by fifteen-foot rectangle, and rises ten feet in the air at the peak.  Its posts are made of sturdy metal tubes about three inches in diameter each, which connect with various elbow joint pieces of equally sturdy cast metal, and then the whole thing gets covered with a huge tarpaulin that secures in place with special bungee cords and grommets.  It's big enough that set-up and tear-down are pretty much a four or five person job, and that's usually a rotating cast of different church volunteers--whoever happens to be available in advance of whatever church function we are using it for, from a craft fair to Bible School to a concert in the park.

So as a result of all sweaty Saturday mornings or Sunday afternoons I've been a part of crews putting up that tent and pulling it down again, I have learned the difficult work of building temporary structures well.  The challenge there is the word "temporary."  It means we have to construct something that will stay up, reliably and durably without risk of collapsing on someone or getting pulled apart in a strong wind, but also we have to be able to take it all down when the time comes, so that the traveling road show of church activities can move on to the next thing, and the next after that.  To assemble a canopy tent means putting something together that you know won't last forever--because it isn't meant to--but to put it together correctly so that it will serve its purpose rightly and shelter people when you need it to.  You have to take good care of your tarp and poles and elbow joints because you'll need them again, but you also have to remember that you're not building a cathedral that will stand for a thousand years, either.  It's a difficult dance to get right, honestly.

And like I say, I think there's a lot to be learned about our posture as people of faith in that mindset.  For the people of God, we are called simultaneously to live our lives well in this world, taking care of our bodies, our neighbors, our planet, and our resources so that they will last and work rightly... and yet at the same time, we are called beyond any particular instance of "the way things are" in this life, too.  We are called to remember that our lives, our bank accounts, our job titles, our diplomas on the wall, and our piles of stuff will not last, and that they can't be all we build our lives on.  And yet we are meant to be good stewards of what has been entrusted to us so that each thing can serve its proper purpose.  We are constantly setting up canopies in this life, and the challenge is to remember they aren't meant to last forever, but they need to be able to stay up and shelter people underneath for as long as necessary.

The writer of Hebrews sees old wandering father Abraham as a good example of just that.  He literally lived in tents for many years of his life, knowing that they had to be sturdy enough to provide shelter from the elements when they were set up, but also portable enough to carry in the caravan from place to place as his household migrated in a foreign land as foreigners themselves.  He looked forward to the promise God had spoken that one day his family would find rest in a place they could call home, but he also knew that he would spend all of his days setting up and pulling down those temporary tents along the way.  And that meant at every stop, whether by a spring or an oasis or the "terebinths of Mamre," he had to make sure the tentpoles would stay up when they were camped but would be able to come down when it was time to move to new pastures as God directed.  It's a way of life that has to be both responsible to the present and also attentive to the future at the same time.  In other words, it's a life marked by faith in the God who makes promises.

An awful lot of our troubles arise from missing one or the other of those two--our responsibility in the present and God's promise of the future.  Sometimes Christians make it sound like we are supposed to wreck the world we live in as a show of our faith in the world to come, and that makes for irresponsible tent-building for the work we have been given right now.  On the other hand, if all we are focused on is making more money, having more stuff, or impressing our neighbors, we're in for a rude awakening when none of those things turn out to really matter.  If we treat God's creation like we can waste or ruin it, something has gone wrong.  If we pretend we don't have a responsibility to our neighbors and their well-being--whether helping prevent spreading COVID to them, or making sure they aren't been mistreated, or bringing over a meal when they're going through a crisis, or whatever else--we are missing the point of this life.  And at the same time, if we're so obsessed with what we possess, earn, or control in this life, we'll have wasted our lives when all those things get pulled down at the end of this life.  

Forget about the need to assemble your tent poles correctly now, and they'll come crashing down in the middle of your bake sale.  Try and make the tent into a permanent construction and you'll be let down when it doesn't last as long as you want it to.  The trick is to remember that the God who promises us a future and a home in the new creation is also the God who has placed us in this present moment, in this world, with these people and creatures and resources to care for.  It's not a choice between future glory or present life--it's about how we live responsibly in one while remembering that all we ever do in this world is set up temporary dwellings, not eternal monuments.

When you are clear on that, you can live this life well, steward your resources faithfully, and love your neighbors deeply, while knowing you are still headed for home.  And in the mean time, we are free to travel light, ready to go where God leads.

Lord God, give us the wisdom and courage to use this day well, while always looking forward to your promised future at the same time.

Immigrant Faith--September 7, 2021

Immigrant Faith--September 7, 2021

"By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to set out for a place that he was to receive as an inheritance; and he set out, not knowing where he was going.  By faith he stayed for a time in the land he had been promised, as in a foreign land, living in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise." [Hebrews 11:8-9]

So, here's one of those obvious Bible facts that we should probably spend more time thinking about than we currently do:  the man to whom both Christianity and Judaism look back as their founding ancestor of faith (and Islam as well, if you want to be technical about it) never owned the land he lived on. Abraham immigrated from his home country and just went to make a new life in a new country, with no authorization, no documentation, no legal right, and no demonstrable claim--and raised his children and grandchildren to do the same--all solely on the belief that God was leading him there.

I don't want to derail our conversation here into a policy discussion of the complexities of contemporary immigration policy in the United States, a subject about which I will not pretend to be an expert in at all.  About such a thorny and nuanced subject, I can only suggest as a pastor and student of the Scriptures that people who claim to worship the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob would do well to make sure that their policies would not have sent Abraham away if he showed up in our community tomorrow.  And indeed, the Scriptures do have repeated and crystal-clear commandments from God that we are to provide for the needs of foreigners without qualification, to welcome immigrants as though receiving Christ himself, and to remember that either we or our ancestors (or both) were strangers at one time.

But for now, I want us to follow the train of thought that the writer of Hebrews has traced for us, and to look at immigrant Abraham as a model of living faith for us.  We who reside in the same place for long periods of time, who live with mortgage payments or monthly rent and lease agreements, we have much to learn from the lives of Abraham and Sarah, and modern day immigrants as well, because of their willingness to stake their lives on a hope they cannot see yet.  I have been thinking a great deal these days about the courage of those Afghan families and individuals who have had their lives thrown into chaos in recent weeks, and who have nothing to start over from scratch in a new place, except the hope that they can build a new life.  Or the many people over decades who crossed over land and sea to come here in hopes of creating a better life for their children.  It takes a great deal of courage to go forward step by step into a future you can't see, simply on the promise that there is a home waiting for you.  And for us whose lives are more predictable and patterned, we may not really know what it is to have to build your life on that kind of promise.  When I head home at the end of a work day, I know there is a building where I can bring my children to eat, to rest, and to sleep; I know there will be a safe place to wake up in when the sun rises. I don't have the daily demand on me to step forward on a journey, because my daily routine brings me right back to the door where I started when I left the house.  

I need to learn from the lived experience of our migrant ancestors, like Abraham and Sarah,  Isaac and Rebekah, and Jacob and his family--they had to trust day by day, not only that there would be provision for their daily needs, but that the living God was really leading them on this journey and was actually taking them somewhere.  We who practice our faith in century-old buildings under respectable steeples and who reminisce (or grouse) about "how we've always done things" need to listen to the lives of sojourners and migrants like Abraham and Sarah and their descendants who rely on God's guidance day by day and who takes us to new destinations rather than leaving us in the familiar.  We who are used to routine may need to recover a sense of faith as a daring adventure, rather than a pious rut we just can't get out of.  And I suspect we need to recapture our awareness that the point, the goal, of faith isn't to make God prop up the predictability of life-as-we-know-it or to underwrite our illusions of self-sufficiency, but to lead us in new directions, trusting that the One who leads us will give us daily bread along the way.

That's at least part of why we tell the stories of Abraham and Sarah and all their immigrant progeny--so that we whose lives are in so many ways different (and so often, more complacent) compared to those ancestors in faith can learn again how to live by faith rather than mere routine, and to rely on God rather than to take God for granted like a piece of living room furniture.  We tell their stories so that we might mean the words of the well-worn prayer from the Vespers liturgy and make them our own:

"O God, you have called your servants to ventures of which we cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown. Give us faith to go out with good courage, not knowing where we go, but only that your hand is leading us and your love supporting us; through Jesus Christ our Lord."

It Could Be Different--September 3, 2021

It Could Be Different--September 3, 2021

"By faith Noah, warned by God about events as yet unseen, respecting the warning and build an ark to save his household; by this he condemned the world and became an heir to the righteousness that is in accordance with faith." [Hebrews 11:7]

It takes faith to imagine that things could be different.  And it takes even more faith to act in anticipation of that alternative future before anyone can see it.

In that sense, Noah's story speaks volumes to each one of us, because we are called as well to grab hold of the vision of God's new creation--what we sometimes call the "Reign of God" or "the kingdom of God"--and to live now in light of that promised future.

Our specific work in light of that future will be different from Noah's: he was famously called to build a boat in which to keep animal life safe and to preserve his family, so that creation could begin anew after the flood.  You and are likely not called to build a gargantuan floating zoo.  But we are called, as Noah was, to do the difficult work of simultaneously holding onto the world as it is, which God still loves, and to strive forward toward a new creation, a new order of things, a new way of life, where justice and mercy are at last at home.  Noah does both, and of course, both are part of God's commission to him:  building the boat anticipates the future flood and the new creation that will begin again when the flood is past, and at the same time, the menagerie of animals to be kept on board is a clear rooting in the world that God had made and which God still sought to preserve.  At one and the same time, he is called to look forward and act in light of the future, and to protectively guard the creatures of the old world--to look forward with hope and backward with love at once.

It's hard to do either of those well; it's even harder to do both at the same time. And I think that's something about Noah's story we could take a page from.  For all the other ways that Bible story is difficult and heartbreaking as well as hopeful, there is something really powerful about the way God's call to Noah holds together both the belovedness of this pitiable world and the desperate need of this world to be set right in all the places it is broken and crooked.  It's hard for us to take a look at the hurt of this world in which we live, or the circumstances and systems that we take for granted as "just the way things are," and to dare to imagine it could be made better, more just, more compassionate, more alive.  And it is also hard to look at the brokenness of the world and still to love it and to want to preserve the lives of creatures God love within it.  But we are called to do both.

I had never thought about it this way until rereading these verses for today, but that makes Noah something rather like German-Lutheran-pastor-turned-resistance-member Dietrich Bonhoeffer, or like formerly-enslaved-Underground-Railroad-conductor Harriet Tubman in our own nation's history.  Bonhoeffer chose to go back to his native Germany when he had a comfortable (and safe!) teach position here in the United States, because he knew he had to be a part of his country's struggle if he wanted to create the possibility of something better than the Nazi war machine.  He loved his people enough to suffer with them and to seek their well-being, but he also resisted the evil of the Reich and worked to overthrow it from within, even to the point of participating in a plot against Hitler.  Bonhoeffer both loved his people and wanted them to be preserved, and also knew he had to help tear down the evil to which they had succumbed--indeed, in which they were complicit.  And in a similar vein, I see a connection to Harriet Tubman, who didn't merely escape to freedom from enslavement herself, but went back on numerous rescue missions to liberate other enslaved people in the South, and also worked for the Union as a spy to help bring down the wickedness of the Confederacy.  It's that love for people in the present tied up with a passionate hope for the possibilities of the future that spurred her on, rather than only looking out for herself and her own freedom.

So, sure, it may not be our calling to build a giant boat or tend a zoo full of animals.  But like Noah, like Harriet, and like Dietrich--as well as countless other saints whose stories are waiting to be told--we are called to dare to imagine that things could be different in this hurting and crooked world... and also to love that world despite its brokenness and to seek to preserve its goodness, too, as something to become a part of the new creation, too. That's how Noah lived by faith--and that's what we're called to do with our lives as well.

What could that kind of faith look like? Maybe it starts by looking, honestly, at the things that are broken around us and daring to imagine that they didn't have to be that way.  Could we imagine a society where nobody is homeless? Could we imagine a way of life that isn't built on taking from someone else, leaving someone out, or pitting the world into "us" and "them" categories? Could we imagine a community where everybody is able to feed their kids?  Could we imagine a culture where kids don't have to have active-shooter drills in school, or where everybody went the extra mile to protect the most vulnerable around them?  Could we imagine raising children who don't view "success" solely in terms of making money or owning the next piece of technology?  Could we dare to envision living in balance with creation, so that all the creatures Noah worked so hard to preserve could have a way to thrive, and so that wildfires and hurricanes would not be aggravated or intensified by our choices?  Could we picture ourselves being people who reflected Jesus all the time?

And if we can start to imagine that, then we'll have to ask the follow-ups:  What might we need to let go of, revamp, or tear down and rebuild, in order to let those visions become real?  What might need to change in us--in me--for those things to happen?  How do we care about the people and creatures God loves even while rooting out the systems and structures and routines that become so soaked in sin and self-centeredness?  Who and what will we want to make sure to guard and protect like Noah bringing his menagerie on the ark?  Those are at least some of the right questions to ask to shape our actions today--so that we can live by faith like Noah did.

It all starts by daring to look at the world's heartache, greed, and hatred, and saying, "It doesn't have to be this way," and then acting today, right here and now, in light of the promised future of God's new way.  

Look around.  It doesn't have to be this way.  What will you do, today, to anticipate the birthing of God's new creation?

Lord God, give us the faith like Noah's, to step into your vision of a renewed creation for your beloved world.

An Accompanied Journey--September 2, 2021

An Accompanied Journey--September 2, 2021

"By faith Enoch was taken so that he did not experience death; and 'he was not found, because God had taken him.' For it was attested before he was taken away that 'he had pleased God.' And without faith it is impossible to please God, for whoever would approach him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him." [Hebrews 11:5-6]

Some of my most treasured memories with my kids are just taking walks with them.  Some of my dearest memories from my own childhood are walks, too--with my mom or dad, or with my grandfather.  It's funny, though--what stays in my memory isn't the destination in those walks, but just the recollection of going side by side on the road together.  In those times, when there is nothing else in the way, or occupying your attention, you can simply be with someone else, even if you end up exactly where you started.  The walk itself is the point.  The accompanied journey itself is enough.

The Scriptures invite us to think about our faith in God in much the same way.  It's not about us "getting" something from God, or about God "needing" something from us.  There's no transaction, no deal, no quid-pro-quo.  It's about a walk together.  Faith is living our whole lives as an accompanied journey with God--aware of God's presence, and choosing to set our pace and our course with God as our companion on the way.

This is at the core of what Enoch's story in the Bible is all about.  Enoch is, to be sure, one of the less-well-known figures of the Bible, because he gets all of two sentences' worth of mention in the early chapters of Genesis, and he is often overshadowed by Cain and Abel earlier or Noah and the ark later.  We know very little about his life, other than, as the writer of Hebrews notes, that he "pleased God."  The writer of Genesis says it this way: "Enoch walked with God."  That's it--no mention of doing favors for God, no religious rituals that won him God's approval, no sacrifices or particular good deeds done, and no mention of how many Bible studies Enoch had attended, and no record of what specific theological propositions he believed.  All we get is that he "walked with God."  

In fact, the way the writers of Scripture tell it is simply to say that Enoch walked with God all his life long, and then at some point, God just said to Enoch, "How about we keep walking to my house, and keep this journey going?"  He's one of a very few people mentioned in the Bible who don't "die" per se, but who are somehow taken right into the presence of God without the misery and messiness of our usual way of talking about death.  They were just walking along, Enoch and God, first in Enoch's neighborhood, and then they just continued right on into God's.

I think that's a poetic way of saying that Enoch was someone who tried to live his whole life with God as conversation partner, sharer of the journey, and participant in what he did and said.  To live by faith is to recognize that all of our lives matter to God, and there's no part or fraction of our lives we get to box God out of.  We don't get to "allow" God an hour of our Sunday mornings and then tell God, "But you don't get to tell me how to live my life or treat other people in the rest of the week--I've got my personal freedom, y'know!"  To live by faith is to share the walk of our whole lives--every facet of our existence, every mile of the journey.

Sure, there are times when we mess it up and try to elbow God out of our way.  Sure, sometimes we tell ourselves we can't reasonably follow the way of Jesus in this or that area of our lives because it would complicate our lives... or make us look "weak"... or because it would rearrange our priorities.  But seeing faith as a lifelong walk with God means that when we realize we have parted ways with God like that, that we try to get back in step with God and continue our walk together.  That means repentance and forgiveness are less about appeasing an angry deity through the mechanisms of sacrifice or prayer or good deeds, and more about getting back in step with the One we were meant to be walking with all along.  And it means the only thing necessary to get "back" toward walking with God is simply taking the next step... and then the next... and the next.

How would it change your day today to see every moment of it shared with the God who walks with you--through your choices at work, in the midst of your conversations with strangers and friends alike, beside you as you deal with the people you really struggle to be kind toward, and on the journey with you as you look down the road to the horizon?  Let's dare to live this day with that vision.

Lord God, go with us on our journey, both today and all our lives. Let us walk with you today, as we trust you accompany us, too.