Judging the Cover of the Book

I am not an incredibly keen observer of people, but I do enjoy the occasional people-watching.  Some like to gaze at the harried travelers who hustle with their bags down the claustrophobia inducing corridors of airports.  People carrying baggage, physical and otherwise, pressing close to those going to different destinations.  Sometimes when I’m in a place with lots of people, I try to see each person as their story, to see what emanates from the lines around their eyes, the ease of their smiles or the accoutrements with which they adorn themselves. 

Once, while sitting on a bus, I noticed a woman in her sixties sitting by herself wistfully staring out the window.  In my mind I tried to write her story – darker skin, she looked like she was from the Indian sub-continent, perhaps she’d been in an arranged marriage to an Indian gentleman who, wanting to escape the overcrowding of his home country, moved his family to Australia.  She wore little jewelry; only a band of gold on her finger and small pearl earrings; her clothes bespoke comfort and usefulness.  Probably her husband was a businessman and her children, a boy and girl, lived comfortable married lives and this woman spent her days looking after her grandchildren.

How wrong I was.

I sat next to her and before I could even begin to ask her about her story, she was asking me mine.  The crow’s feet around her eyes deepened as she, it seemed, had already began to decipher my story. 

“I know you,” she said before I even claimed the seat in front of her. 

“I suppose it’s possible,” I said with a smile, “Do you hang out in the Lockyer Valley quite often.”

She smiled.  “If I knew where the Lockyer Valley was, I suppose that would be true.  No,” she continued, “you have the face of a person I met just recently.”

“Where was that?” I asked.

Her eyes darted outside and then to her lap.  “At the psych ward in the hospital.”

Laughter escaped my lips. 

“I knew that it wasn’t you, but just last week,” she said, “I was going to work – I am a social worker at the hospital – and this man sat on the seat next to me.  He told me fantastic stories of travel and adventure.  He was a very nice man; had a beard just like yours – no accent, though.  Anyway, as we reached the hospital, I stood up and so did he.  Little did I know that he was going to enter the same ward to which I was going.”  Her head tilted sideways trying to see if I indeed was going to follow her to the hospital.

“So, I remind you of him.”

“You could be twins,” she said and pointed to my face.

“I already have two of those,” I said and began to tell my story.

On our ride through the twisted streets of Brisbane, I got to know everything about this woman: her marriage to a man from Zimbabwe.  Both of her sons were born in Africa and they left only when the country began to descend into Mugabe’s thirteenth circle of hell.  I learned that her husband had died not long before and she was supporting herself by helping at the hospital.  One of her sons was successful and living at home with her; the other son was, what she said, ‘chalk and cheese’, meaning that he was the exact opposite of his brother - a drifter bouncing from job to job playing guitar with whatever band would have him.

I learned almost everything about her that I could in a twenty minute bus ride except her name, that is.

Amazingly, you never really know a person until you start with a name.  We are all claimed by a name, the word that labels us, defines us as part of a family.  A name gives us an identity and placement in a world of discord and the person that speaks that name is conscious of who we are and where we’ve been.

I was wrong about this woman’s story – everything that I tried to construct for her  was a judgment of preconceptions that I had learned and inherited from my own cultural background.

We do the same thing as we ‘people-watch’ Biblical characters.  When I read the calling of Matthew, or, in Mark’s second chapter, Levi, we are given a little information which allows us to read the cover of the book. 

Once again, Jesus went out beside the lake. A large crowd came to him, and he began to teach them.  As he walked along, he saw Levi, son of Alphaeus, sitting at the tax collector’s booth…

 

Mark 2:13,14a

 

I already know that this person will eventually end up being Matthew – he who was a tax collector (from his own people) and ultimately became a disciple who followed Jesus.  End of story, close the back cover, that’s all I need to know because that’s all I’ve ever known.  When I look at this brief introduction to Levi, it doesn’t startle me like it would have first century minds.  We don’t have a correlating job description in the 21^st century that helps us to see what kind of disdain that a tax collector received.  Certainly there are jokes about those that pass the bar exam; sometimes we roll our eyes at the antics of politicians, but a tax collector was, in the view of his contemporaries, an outcast and a traitor, often a thief.  To imagine that Jesus would choose a tax collector right after the four fishing brothers is paramount to producing ridicule.  I read these two short verses and I see the end of the story, one that I have filled in by a cursory reading of the Bible, but the true story of Matthew is one of a man who, perhaps, like many of his tax collecting brethren, was treated contemptuously day after day.  Perhaps he had become immune to taunts of those had to visit his booth.  Gradually, as those barbs sunk deeper and deeper snagging on the walls of his heart in turn creating a benumbed man intent on creating a world of financial despair for those that had ruined him emotionally.  Vengeance is incredibly enticing to those who are in pain.

We create background stories for all sorts of people we encounter.  Usually it is by physical appearance or, in other words, believing we have read a whole book by reading the jacket.  I don’t know how many times I have put down a really interesting book after reading the two hundred word synopsis and then looked at the photo of the author.  For some reason, my brain decides whether a book will be interesting by how well the author sits for his or her jacket photo, steepled fingers looking far off into the sunset.

I hate those photos.

How many times do we see others on the street, or better yet, those who come to our churches, like jackets from hard cover books?  If, in the first moments we meet them, we do not connect with them from hearing their story or even connect with them by their looks, often we have assumed they have nothing to offer us (or worse yet, the church). 

When I was a youth director in Arizona, I remember one Sunday a young man arrived at our worship services.  Decked out in hiking shoes, backpack slung over one shoulder, long red hair unkempt, he stood at the back of the church watching over the proceedings with amused interest.  He stayed for the whole morning, taking in the hymns that proclaimed we were to stand up, stand up for Jesus, we were to reach out to the whole world sharing his love, and then the disconnect hit me as I watched him from the front of the church: not one person talked to him before, between or after the services.

I approached him after the second service.  His backpack was on the ground by his feet, his arms were crossed.  The congregation had to file out past him in order to get to the doughnuts and coffee.  Perhaps a few nodded at him, but he certainly made no effort to engage anyone first.  His jacket spoke of a young man who was wandering his way through life, but I was to find out his story was much different.

It has been many years since this episode happened, but I still remember when I invited this young man to my apartment to have lunch with us.  I expected him to decline and I guiltily guess that I wanted him too.  Just one more thing in a busy day, but he instantly accepted my offer and before I could pack my things into my office, James was asking me questions like, “How did you get involved in a church like this?  Did I find it boring?  Is there a point to singing the songs that they did when they don’t really change anything?  What’s the point of dressing up for church when you dress everyone down with your eyes?”

Usually I’m the one asking questions so I was overwhelmed with trying to sort through what he was asking.  Obviously, James was very intelligent and I wanted to ask him why he was homeless, why he would waste an intellect like his by backpacking across the desert.  But that was my predilection to judgment surfacing.  James, when his story erupted from him, was a young man born to wander, like one of the roaming prophets of early Israel’s time.  His parents had been missionaries and when he was old enough, he left home to hitchhike the southwestern deserts attending churches and speaking out against the hypocrisy of contemporary Christianity.  His questions to me were startling in their simplicity, but they are questions we normally don’t even ponder, but moreso, James’ prophetic word to the church is:

Do not judge the value of a person by how well he or she fits into the inorganic spaces of the church building.  The true church, the Body of Christ, has empty places which can only be filled by people who are every day normal.  Regardless of vocation or location, homeless or helpless, each person has a distinctive place in the kingdom.  One of my favorite passages that I wish the Body of Christ would pay more attention to, which would help it transition from graceless to grace-full, is…

The eye cannot say to the hand, “I don’t need you!” and the head cannot say to the feet, “I don’t need you!”  On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and the parts that we think are less honorable, we treat with special honor.  And the parts that are unpresentable are treated with special modesty, while our presentable parts need no special treatment.  But God has combined the members of the body and has given greater honor to the parts that lacked it, so that there should be no division in the body but that its parts should have equal concern for each other.  If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.”

1 Corinthians 12:2-26

 

Imagine if Levi was treated with more honor because he had to do the undesirable task of retrieving taxes for a corrupt government.  Imagine if he was treated with compassion and made to feel indispensable, how would that have changed his life?  Imagine each one of us on the journey of life treating all people we meet, especially those who are pushed to the very margins of the page of the book of life, with respect and admiration – how would this planet be different?  Those who have been blessed greatly already need nothing else.  They don’t need special recognition; they don’t’ need banquets thrown in their honor; they don’t need extravagant gifts lavished upon them because their names have carried them far.  But those who are the have nots… Imagine how life would be different.

The haves, the ones who had already received special recognition were indignant when they found out that Jesus was socializing with sinners and tax collectors, lepers and those deemed unclean by the freshly scrubbed.  When the teachers of the law saw him sitting and (gasp) eating with ‘sinners’ and tax collectors they asked his disciples (notice, they don’t ask Jesus himself, but the uneducated fishermen who really have no idea what they signed up for) “Why does he eat with these people?”

But Jesus responds as he always does standing up for those who have fallen, standing for and in place of those who spiritual legs have collapsed in the earthquake that is their life, “It isn’t the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.  I have not come to call the righteous but sinners.” 

He comes to call, to speak their names, to know their stories but asking questions, eating with them, hearing their stories and call them to a different life.  He is less concerned for those who have hardened their shells with piety than those whose souls are pliable and willing to look for anything that will give them comfort. 

A Hole in the Roof

           Jesus had to stay outside of town.  The man previously known as ‘leper’ had told too many people about the miraculous healing so Jesus couldn’t accomplish his mission as preacher without being interrupted by those who needed immediate attention for their ailments.  It’s natural, isn’t it, for people to want freedom from pain, affliction or maladies so that they can re-enter the community where all good things occur.  If there is a chance that a cure is available, you take it, right?

            Naaman was commander of the army of the king of Aram.  He was a great man in the sight of his master a highly regarded, because through him the LORD had given victory to Aram.  He was a valiant soldier, but he had leprosy.   2 Kings 5:1

            Here we go again, this leprosy thing except this skin condition arises in such a surprising fashion:  One who is technically unclean, one who should be an outcast, one who should be shunned is considered by his master a great man.  And, surprisingly, the LORD has blessed this leper with victory – not for Israel, but for Aram.  During the course of events, this man who should not have contact with anyone else captures a young Israelite girl who gives him information on how he might be cured of his disease. 

            I can’t say how Naaman would have felt, but if it would have been my own story, I might have thought to myself, Oh, I suppose it’s worth a try.  There’s no harm in it.  The prophet she’s spoken about will probably have me scrub my skin with dried cow intestines, drink goats milk mixed with various herbs, speak a few magical words over me and then poof I’ll go back to leading my army worrying whether they will still follow me when my fingers, nose or ears fall off.

            The king gives permission for Naaman to check out the course of healing, so he sends a letter to the king of Israel.  Here is the short draft of the letter.

            With this letter I am sending my servant Naaman to you so that you may cure him of his leprosy.

2 Kings 5:6

            The king of Israel receives the letter with great trepidation, tearing his clothes and wondering how in the world he is going to produce a miracle.  He assumes that the king of Aram is trying to pick a fight with the people of Israel and is quite afraid.  Elisha steps out of the woodwork almost in scorn of his king.

When Elisha the man of God heard that the king of Israel had torn his robes, he sent him this message: “Why have you torn your robes?  Have the man come to me and he will know that there is a prophet in Israel.”   2 Kings 5:8

It takes great faith, not just to heal but to be a healer.  Bring this man for a miracle.  No matter that he is unclean by our standards.  Bring him so that God’s glory may be revealed.  Elisha sent a message to Naaman:  “Go wash yourself seven times in the Jordan and your flesh will be restored and cleansed.”

When I read that the first time, I had the same reaction as Naaman.  Anger.  How dare he treat me with contempt.  It’s too easy.  I’ve washed my body for years.  What good will it do for me to wash seven more time in a dirty river.  I thought that he would come out to me and stand and call on the name of the LORD his God, wave his hand over the spot and cure me of leprosy.  So he turned to go in a rage.

There has got to be more to it.  Are there spells and incantations?  Don’t you need a wand for something like this?  Naaman wanted the ceremony and the majesty of the miracle not just the healing itself.  For a man of his importance, the least Elisha could do is show his presence. 

It was much easier to turn his back on the hope of healing than it was to have his pride and ego slain. 

Perhaps we are all like that sometimes.  When we come to Jesus the first time, the second time, or ten minutes ago when I really needed something I thought was incredibly important, we expect that Jesus will make us do something completely exceptional and out of the ordinary in order for healing to occur.  We don’t expect Christ to be telling us, “Child, your sins are forgiven.”

In my own arrogance, knowing my own pain, I come to God seeking healing of heart, mind or spirit, expecting a miracle, an opening of the clouds and a ray of sun beating down on my face glorifying me (not God).  But Christ says to me again before any healing takes place, “Child, your sins are forgiven.”

“But,” I stammer, “That’s not what I asked for.  I wanted you to take away the emotional pain of making mistakes in my marriage.  I wanted you to heal the physical pain in my back from restless nights of sleeping.  I wanted you to give me a perfect spiritual practice that takes only three minutes per day, like the three hundred dollar gym equipment that gives me amazing abs and buns which is now sitting in our shed prepped to be sold for fifteen dollars in our own garage sale.  That’s what I wanted.  I’m baptized.  I don’t need my sins forgiven.  I just want the pain to go away.”

Perhaps that’s what the four friends thought when they took measure into their own hands by hauling their paralyzed friend onto the neighbor’s roof, broke a hole in it and then lowered him down.  Can you imagine the house owner’s thought process at that time?  I knew we should have had this thing at Gary’s house.  My wife is going to kill me.  We’re going to have to have another garage sale to pay for fixing the roof.

In response to the visible faith of the friends, Jesus says to this one young man who cannot move his limbs, can’t feel his arms or legs, hasn’t moved in God knows how long, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

What must he have been thinking?  Is that it?  My sins are forgiven?  He can heal lepers, cast out demons, cut fevers, but when it comes to the big stuff like paralysis, the best he can do is ‘your sins are forgiven?’

But that’s me putting my own thoughts into this man’s mind.  Mark’s gospel doesn’t give this man a name or a voice; he is simply the object of Jesus’ affection.  His compassion is pronounced and even though the room is filled with teachers of the law who Jesus comprehended were assembling to do battle against him, he queries them,

Why are you thinking these things?  Which is easier to say to the paralytic, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Get up, take your mat and walk?’  But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins…” He said to the paralytic, “I tell you, get up, take your mat and go home.’  He got up, took his mat and walked out in full view of them all.  This amazed everyone and they praised God saying, “We have never seen anything like this!”

Mark 2:8b-12

You mean that’s it?  Because of the faith of a few friends and the forgiveness of the Son of God, wholeness can begin?  Does it say something about the priority in life?  Is not healthiness of the soul of more importance than health of the body?

 

The Leper

I have met many lepers over the years.  Social pariahs, outcast by society, outcast by self, these people soldier on through life as if the import of others words does not affect them, and the attitudes toward their malady, from which its onset they are completely innocent, destroy them faster than the disease itself.

I’m not talking about the various skin diseases the Bible mentions as ‘leprosy.’  For those who had eczema, psoriasis or, yes, leprosy, life was miserable.  Not only did their outward appearance exclude them from any social, theological or emotional discourse, it cut them off from everyone else.  Everyone, that is, except those who carried the same marks of the disease.  In communities they were kept outside of villages left to wander and beg shouting “Leper!  Unclean!” so that those who would approach would know that they would be contaminated by interaction.  Imagine the shame of pronouncing your innocent guilt – being cursed with leprosy not because you’ve done anything wrong, but that’s just the way the football bounces sometimes – when those that pass by you are guiltier of worse: slander, envy, greed, lust… you’ve heard of all seven, probably, but because they occur from the inside, they can be hidden, to a point.  While these lepers wander in colonies, trapped by their skin and their words, they are left to ponder the fairness of life.  Why has it come to this?  Where did we go wrong?  What have we done to deserve ostracision and rejection?

No, we don’t have many lepers any more, what few that inhabit the earth are constrained in villages cared for by people who are the truest of living saints.  But leprosy runs rampant in every country, city, town and village in the world.  It is not chained by any human emotion and its evidence seen visibly on the epidermis.

It is old age.

Think about it.  Instead of leprosariums, we have nursing homes.  By and large, they are wonderful places inhabited by excellent people, but society has cast out the aged simply because their wrinkles are a representation of the sin of the genome.  We cannot escape death so we push those who carry the mark as far as possible from us.  What used to be a sign of wisdom and erudition is now a symbol of the curse of death.

 

Gray hair is a crown of glory; it is attained by a righteous life.  -  Proverbs 16:31

The glory of young men is their strength, gray hair the splendor of the old.  -  Proverbs 20:29

 

Our Bible states it clearly: with age comes various benefits and for the vast majority of time, the elderly will looked with reverence.  Their opinions were always sought when any decisions were made.  They lived with their children when age dug furrows in their furrows, stamped crows’ feet around their eyes and stained their hands with liver spots.  But the leprosy of agedness has brought about the idolatry of youth like no other age.

In the last fifteen years, cosmetic surgeries have increased by almost 200 percent in the United States.  Ten billion dollars was spent, over half of which was dedicated to surgical procedures, 1.7 billion dollars on injections, 1.6 billion dollars on skin rejuvenation and a measly $360 million spent on other non-surgical procedures.[1]  Americans spent ten billion dollars on converting our epidermises to plastic, making sure our breasts don’t succumb to gravity, sucking out fat cells so our designer clothes will fit and abrading our skin so that we look ten years younger. 

Talk about a fear of death.

Vanity.  It’s all vanity wrapped in the cloak of despair.  We are uncomprehending of the life after so we are perfectly comfortable abandoning sense so that this life ‘looks’ better.  Too bad there isn’t cosmetic surgery for the soul.

I remember one ‘leper’ very well.  Her name was Katherine.  During the time between my first two years of seminary, I was required to Clinical Pastoral Education, which basically meant I had to spend the summer apart from my family and choose a place where I could learn to listen, learn to ask questions and basically crucify my own ego. 

Yes, it was that much fun. 

Our family had just increased by one as the birth of our daughter, Greta, occurred in my first year of seminary.  Needless to say Christine wasn’t all that excited about doing all the domestic activities for three children all younger than four years of age.  But, CPE was required so I opted for the place that was closest to Wartburg Theological Seminary (which didn’t seem that logical at the time).  I chose a nursing home in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.  I just wanted to get my CPE over with; there were no night duties, no weekends and I had a place to stay.  Each week I’d leave Monday morning at 4:00 a.m. and return on Friday after work.

Working with elderly?  No problem.  My parents had raised us in a community and church that was predominantly crowned with glory, ahem, gray haired nobility.  From the time of the novelty of our birth, my brother, sister and I had been parcelled out to homes of various baby sitters so we were comfortable with conversing with those much older than we.  But working in a nursing home, that’s a much different story.

Most of the people that arrive in a nursing home are not there by their own accord.  Either they’ve become ill or unable, and their children have forced them into their cells, I mean rooms; or, the hospital convinces them that they are no longer able to support themselves at home.  Their home has become the enemy: the place where they raised their children, lived with their spouses, collected the dust of memories – this place is no longer available to them.  They are allowed to bring a nice recliner, perhaps, and a quilt they made fifty years ago.  The rest of it is put on the garage sale or divided between children like vultures hovering over roadkill. 

Perhaps I’m being harsh, but there is no greater damage that occurs to families when they squabble over things, whether knick knacks or Great Great Grandfather Vernon’s rocking chair.  The one who is hurting the most, the aged mother or father being confined and condemned to a foul smelling place, is left largely out of the equation.  Power of Attorney means Power of Division.  So, the elderly leper is left to sleep his or her days away interrupted by meals and sporadic games of Bingo.

I met Katherine at Bingo.  In the first few weeks of working at the nursing home (or ‘assisted living facility’ as they are called in all political correctness), I had been encouraged to interact with residents (another word I despised for some illogical reasons) or ‘inmates’ as Katherine called them.  In her wheel chair, Katherine relaxed, almost melted, into the plastic where she had sat every day.  I asked if I could sit next to her and she looked up at me through Coke bottle glasses.  Her eyes had that watery look like her eyeballs were perpetually swimming in tears. 

“Suit yourself,” she said with the typical raspy voice of the aged, “But don’t touch my cards.” 

A friendship was born.

Roughly once per day I made my way to Katherine’s ‘cell’ where we could talk, laugh, share stories of life or sometimes she would even have me play the piano for her.  It would be expected that I’d push her wheelchair.  She never asked, but she sat on that chair as if it were the throne of England.  Proud and short she sat, her legs covered by a blanket she had crocheted countless decades ago. 

One afternoon I played piano for her and as she sat to my right amidst the plastic Easter Lilies and faux palms, a tear slid down one of her cheeks.  At first she was embarrassed, but then she recovered quickly when she noticed that I had noticed.  Waving a wrinkled hand at me she said with trembling voice, “Don’t you worry about this eighty-eight year old lady.  She’s just leaking at the seams.” 

I stopped playing.  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

Pausing for a moment, she motioned for me to sit next to her wheelchair.  After capturing my eyes for a moment, she pulled back the blanket from her legs. 

She was a double amputee.  I had never noticed and never asked.

“When did that happen?” I asked after getting my bearings.  “I mean, what happened.”

Katherine covered the stumps quickly so as no other ‘inmate’ would notice.  “I’m diabetic.  They’ve been taking parts of me for years.  Pretty soon alls that I’ll have left is my heart and my head.  I’m not sure they’re worth taking.”  She coughed out a harsh laugh.  “Reid, I’m dying,” she said at last.  “I’m not sure how I feel about that, but anything is better than this,” she punctuated the statement by patting her stumps.

“It’s hard being without your legs, isn’t it?” I asked from a very youthful, inexperienced perspective.

“Not that you’d know,” she responded, “but it’s not the lack of legs that bothers me, it’s the lack of visitors.  As soon as my legs came off, my extended family stopped coming.  After a while, even my children stopped visiting.  Sure, they’d call or send a card; sometimes flowers would be delivered.  But to them, I think, I’m already dead.  They just want the mother, or sister, or aunt, or friend that used to be around thirty years ago.  But I’m not that person anymore.”

I nodded my head.  It was all I could do.

“They act as if what I’ve got is catchy.  Infections, I think that’s the word.  Not the diabetes, but old age.  They act as if when they come near me, they’ll catch my old age.  That’s the worst of it.  Not dying, but dying alone.”

Katherine died two weeks after that conversation.  She was alone when she died.

---

[1] From the American Society of Aesthetic Plastic Surgery.  Notice the name of the society is all about ‘aesthetics’ – looking better.

Demons in Church

I always find it fascinating, and a little frightening, that if I read the scriptures a little closer, deeper truths will jump out at me.  It’s frightening because I don’t read the scriptures very closely very often.  Too many times I set out to read what I think I already know and end up missing the very thing that Christ is trying to transition me to do.  Take for instance the freshly scrubbed disciples’ first foray into public ministry.  Thankfully, Jesus isn’t asking them to do much but watch.

They went to Capernaum, and when the Sabbath came, Jesus when into the synagogue and began to teach.  The people were amazed at his teaching, because he taught them as one who had authority, not as the teachers of the law.  Just then a man in their synagogue who possessed by an evil spirit cried out, ‘What do you want with us, Jesus of Nazareth?  Have you come to destroy us?  I know who you are – the Holy One of God!” 

“Be quiet!’ said Jesus sternly, “Come out of him!”  The evil spirit shook the man violently and came out of him with a shriek.

The people were all so amazed that they asked each other, “What is this?  A new teaching – and with authority!  He even gives orders to evil spirits and they obey him.” 

Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think, that Jesus just waltzes into church, in some strange town and begins to teach.  The people seem pretty receptive – most of them anyway – they probably were tired of the pastor that they had; he’d probably been recycling sermons for quite a while, not done enough pastoral visiting.  Jesus words bring about amazement, awe from a congregation that was used to being talked at by preachers of the law.  Sounds kind of familiar, doesn’t it?  Preachers of the law – that includes me, at times, when I recklessly pound the Bible as the way to transition to be a better person, or a better thinker.  But Jesus was not just a preacher of the law, but of the good news, the authority of the way that God was going to make it all right, and righteous, and it wouldn’t be with regards to following the law…

It was following the Christ.

But there is always one in the crowd.  Maybe more than one.  I sometimes wonder how many people in our Christian congregations worldwide who are possessed by evil spirits, those that cry out, ‘What do you want with us, Jesus?  Have you come to destroy us?’  What they are saying is, “What do you want with us, Jesus?  Have you come to destroy our traditions that we’ve meticulously tended for all these millennia? Have you come to destroy the idolatry of our worship where we worship the service rather than the God who has been invited?  Have you come to destroy our comfortable lives, our comfortable places of worship, our comfortable places of repose where we imagine that you are a God that simply loves to live on the fringes of life and one who doesn’t really want to capture us with his imagination of the kingdom of heaven right here and right now?  Have you come to destroy our castles made of sand?  We know who you are, but don’t destroy all this that we’ve built!”

It works on a very personal level also.  There are parts of me, perhaps parts of all of us at times, that catch a glimpse of the Holy One, or hear the Spirit speaking the deepest crevices of our souls and we gasp and hope that Jesus is not really speaking to us.  Somehow he overlooks the evil spirit that might not necessarily possessing me but it is certainly directing my thoughts.  Whether or not its claws sink deeply into the epidermis of my psyche is irrelevant; my thoughts are often directly influenced by that still loud voice that continues to say to me sweetly (not in the exorcist kind of demonic way) “This is your life.  What does God have to do with it anyway?  Has he not given you dominion over all things?  Why would he stop at the animals?  Why not you, also?”

All too often, I tap my foot and nod my head to the rhythm of the demonic voice, “You’re right!  Why would God put me on this earth if it not to enjoy myself?  And if I’m going to enjoy myself, I’m definitely going to make hay while the hay is worth making.  I’ll get to God when I’m good and ready.”

Jesus brushes this away with a swat of his hand as if both the demons sentence and my response are a gnat swirling in front of his face.  “Be quiet.”

But my brain won’t give up that easily and the war that goes on within me when Jesus requests my silence is anything but noiseless.  Screaming loudly in the midst of a crazy life, I want to tell Jesus that sacrifice is a thing of the past.  Giving things up for the sake of religion – that’s what weak people do, and I certainly do not want to appear weak.  With a shriek, my heart, soul, mind and strength scream out in agony…

I just want to be happy.  Nothing I hear about Jesus seems to bring happiness to anyone.  I don’t want to give up any of my freedom because if I rely on Jesus, I have to relinquish my hold on control.  In that way, I am like those who have to come to terms with a God that demands something, no, demands everything.  Yet, most Christians I know seem perfectly willing proclaim their reliance on God and yet live as if every day is independence Day.  Perhaps the body of the church is possessed by its very own demon.  Perhaps that demon is Self Interest. 

But from Jesus only six words are needed:  Be Quiet.  Come out of him. 

A transition to silence.  A transition to emptiness.  You gotta fill it with something.

 

 

 

Fish Story

“Follow me.”

It wasn’t about striving to make one’s way through the world, an immense journey that ends in satisfaction or disenchantment; it was about Jesus first two words to the disciples that spoke entire worlds to those who would be disciples.  Follow me.  At this point, forget about leading, working on five year projections or mission statements or any other kind of tomfoolery that gets in the way of the correct positioning to Jesus.  The immediacy of Jesus statement still resounds to this very day.  It’s about following – practicing and imitating – the ways that Jesus portrays how God loves the world.

 I would have loved to be a professional fisherman.  There is nothing better than exiting the resort, fishing pole in hand, smell of the lake (or whatever body of water that beckons) the sound of the water and freshness of the wind every day.  Imagine what a beautiful thing to wake up to the thought that the only thing you would be doing for the day was to toss out a line, perhaps catch a few wriggling fish, toss them back and return to solid ground for a shore lunch.  I can’t imagine getting tired of the fishing life,

But I bet some of the disciples did.  It doesn’t sound like it took much convincing to have Simon and Andrew, James and John to drop their nets and hurry after the one who had been proclaiming a gospel, a good news, to the people.  Repent – drop everything and everything that you’ve known before and follow.  Mark’s recounting tells the whole story, and it doesn’t take many words for the first four to find their way into Jesus’ nets:

When he had gone a little farther, he saw James, son of Zebedee, and his brother, John, in a boat, preparing their nets.  Without delay, he called them, and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men and followed him.  Mark 1:19,20

James and John were doing what professional fishermen have to do: they have to prepare for the next day’s work.  There weren’t sitting in the coffee shop drinking their third latte as the crew assembles the boat, gets the gear ready and makes sure the coordinates to the fishing hole are entered of the GPS.  In order for life to occur, James and John have to do the hard work themselves.  Preparing nets is tedious and back-breaking work, holes are spotted and mended, and each net must be disentangled before they are tossed back out over the water.  An overlooked hole or kinked rope could mean the difference between a day’s catch and a day’s discontent.

It is no surprise that when Jesus approaches them presumably with the competition (Peter and Andrew) in tow, that James and John throw their nets to the hired men and make their leave.  Of course they would be back, but this diversion is probably something that they’d been dreaming of: no fishing for the day.  Or, more importantly, no fixing nets, no fish smell, no waves, nothing to remind them of any other day.  Now, this slightly famous person, this Jesus, is calling them from the boat telling them that they will fish like they’ve never done before.  All that they need to do is follow. 

Follow.  It really is the key word, isn’t it?  When we talk about churches who want to delve deeply into what they believe to be discipleship (ironic that the word ‘ship’ is at the end of ‘disciple’ as if somehow discipleship should be the method of locomotion for the church) we have this picture of a committee of people who sit in a dark room trying to figure out the correct conditions for when fishing for men and women will work.  They might scratch their heads taking the temperature of the water:  Do we have any volunteers who will go door to door?  Does anyone do that anymore?  What’s the weather right now?  How is the pastor doing?  Is she or he setting the course correctly?  Do people see the vision that he or she sees; do they see the storms that are brewing?  How about the equipment – has the stewardship committee been doing its job?  Do we have enough money for the correct (al)lure of programs that will draw people into the building?  Maybe more importantly, what is the condition of the boat?  Is it leaking?  Has it been taking on water or is it seaworthy?

These are all questions that most churches ask before they even begin to think about what a ‘discipleship program’ looks like, and yet how often do they (we) ask the question, “Who are we following?  Where is Christ leading us?”

For some reason, Christian discipleship in most churches looks like this with regards to the fishing analogy:

A church trolls the local waters, usually in the more affluential parts of the city, seeking the trophy fish (a.k.a young families).  Churches want to see young, middle class people, with young, middle class children to have old, middle class churches that have little connection with where God’s word is leading them.  The lure is usually a youth program or a slightly more contemporary service that sheds tradition like ballast so that the young families can see that there is something more ‘for them.’  Forget about sacrifice and forget about ‘commitment’; we’re just glad you’re here! 

The church might attract this young family, snag them, if you will, and get them to come to church for a while.  After some time together, the congregation will assume that the young family is now on board; they’ll take their picture, as if this young family truly was a trophy fish, put the picture in the newsletter like a fisherman posts his trophy snapshot on Facebook, and enjoy how much work they’ve done.

Meanwhile, this family, which now seems very much like a fish, is put in the live-well, or worse yet, dragged behind the boat, until it is half dead.  When they first attend the church, they don't remember these ideas: We just want you to know that we are not expecting anything of you other than to show up, put your tithe in the offering plate, bring your kids to youth events and join a committee.  Oh, it would be good if you could be involved in the women’s events and perhaps come to the men’s breakfast and if the kids aren’t doing anything else, they can serve meals at every opportunity.

This family, this trophy family to the church, is as good as dead and will swim away at any chance.  It’s not as if they haven’t gotten anything out of the church – they’ve gotten a good beating and a nice understanding of how church politics work – but they haven’t gotten a meeting with the Christ who longs for them to follow into deeper communal relationship.

When Christ called the disciples, he said ‘Follow me and I will make you fishers of men and women.’  Where is Christ leading the church today?  How are we part of the S. S. Discipleship?  How can the church of today realize and remember that when Jesus said ‘I will make you fishers of men and women’ he meant it was catch and release?

Sell! Sell! Sell!

Jesus was never particularly soft on rich people.  “Good teacher,” the young man asks, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” 

His question is one that all the faithful ask at one time or another; the rich young ruler’s words are echoed in my own thoughts.  His question resounds with the individuality that we’ve come to expect today; it is doused with a liberal dose of flattery.  “What must I do…?”  There is no need to hear what anyone else should do; the only important person is me.  All the others who are listening are inconsequential to me because I have everything – I am young, I am rich and I am in charge of a rabble much like this. I know just enough to be dangerous and I am pious enough to fake my way through the religious shallows of life.

I stand back in the shadows of this story, smirk on lips, as Jesus brings this arrogant young man back to reality.  Enough of the flattery – don’t presume to know who I am by simply because you’ve heard my name in the streets:  “Why do you call me good?”  You don’t know anything about me.  You’ve been raised in a religious family.  You can repeat the commandments, I’m sure – “Do not commit adultery.”  Interesting that Jesus puts this commandment first for the rich man because he is probably unaware that his own love affair with himself and his wealth had broken the back of the commandments in his life for most of his adult existence.   “Do not murder, do not steal, do not give false testimony, honor your father and your mother.”

Jesus doesn’t even put the commandments in the right order.  Didn’t he ace his confirmation lessons? 

My guess is that Jesus was watching this young man very closely.  Inwardly, the young man might be checking off the list of the commandments on his fingers and piously - and shallowly - examining his own life. 

You can almost see him blowing on his knuckles and polishing them on his chest.  “All these I have kept since I was a boy.”  Maybe his voice was raised so that the entire crowd could witness the blessing that would be coming from the ‘good teacher’ for his righteousness from birth.  It was obvious, wasn’t it, that he was born under a lucky star – fame, fortune and glory followed him.  Now, it was only a matter of time that God’s almighty presence would bestow spiritual glory also.”

“You still lack one thing,” Jesus says. 

Standing the in the back of the crowd, the shadows wrapping me and my voice like a blanket, hiding me from the rich ruler’s eyes, “Yes, Jesus, give it to him.  He lacks humility.  He lacks empathy.  He lacks generosity.  He lacks all the good things that any self-respecting Christian would covet – peace, patience, meekness" – I use my fingers as counting tools, checking them off in my own external judgment of this man that I so desperately want to be.  I want his looks, his past, his future, his money – I feel dis-comfortable with my own lack of resources which make me doubt God’s existence and blessing.

And in my own casting of the first stone, I would guess that Jesus eyes turn towards me and he points the same finger at me, “Sell everything you have and give it to the poor and you will have treasure in heaven.  Then come, follow me.”

To contemporary western Christian culture there are no harder words that Jesus spoke.  Sell everything – not just the things that you’ve outgrown and grown to dislike – but everything.  Sell it all and give it to the poor.

Surely Jesus isn’t serious.  Selling everything would swap me positions with the poor.  Then I would be one of them.  Then I would have to depend on other people.  Then I would have to depend on God…

Then, I get it.  The impossibility of the scenario that Jesus places before us is that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God – whatever (and wherever) that is.  All the storing up that I’ve done for myself, my addiction to having enough for tomorrow and the next day, all the manna that has fallen from heaven into my lap, the blessing of God’s daily goodness, has been stored up and rotted because I have collected so much stuff that I no longer need God. 

My soul has begun to decompose under the detritus weight of my idolatry.

Those that no longer need God no longer see the kingdom of heaven as a treasure and they then fail to realize that the pressure of protecting the things with which they been gifted is a betrayal of God’s blessing in and to this world.  When all of our treasures on earth are rusting and our clothing becomes moth-eaten and moldy, we recognize how traitorous we have become.

Back to the garage sale, I guess.  

If Jesus says to the rich man (and I certainly am one of those attempting to hide in the crevices of affluence) “Go and sell all that you have and give to the poor,” I guess it’s time for one more excruciating episode of hauling what I once thought to be treasures out the door to be sold on the pavement of my driveway for less than one hundredth of what I bought them for.  Each item, whether table or table cloth, with memory attached, will be priced to sell.  Early morning garage sailors will be swarming around our lane, picking through our things before we’ve even put up the sign.  I want to slap their hands away, chastise them for their rudeness because I know in my heart of hearts that they aren’t the poor that Jesus is talking about.  I pull out the garage sale chair, watch baseball with my little girls,and hope that Jesus can see my sad face as all these memories are sold.

But then I read a little farther in the New Testament, in I Corinthians 13, the amazingly repeated scripture that is used ad nauseum at almost every wedding that I’ve officiated.  Almost always we start at verse four: love is patient and kind – check… but almost always we skip the first three verses.

Let me show you the most excellent way.

If I speak in tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.  If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.  If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.

 

Shedding my things might be hard, but added to the recipe is a full measure of love.  That might be even more difficult.  But when we truly understand love in this world, a love that always looks outward and away from self: an agape kind of love expressed by God in his son, Jesus, the pain of loss morphs into something different.

Joy.

Not happiness.  But joyful contentedness in whatever might happen and the true blessing of shedding that which is conceivably dearest to me is a genuine need to depend on God and others.  In those dependent relationships we find freedom.  Strange, isn’t it?  The bondage of mammon enslaves us to selfishness, but the freedom of a Christian binds us to God.