Tag Archives: communal

The end in sight? So is the new

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Since December 21st is a mere ten days away, I paid a little more attention recently to public commentary about the end of the world, sparked by notions of the Mayan calendar ending on the winter solstice of this year.

After listening to several commentators (mostly on CBC Radio), a couple themes stand out:

While most of the academics debunk a sudden, doomsday, one-off catastrophic event ending the world as we know it, they do imply that the disaster has already been happening. They state the general sensitivity and respect the Mayan people hold for the earth and who decry the abuse inflicted on the environment by dominant, economic forces.

The catastophe has occurred incrementally and increasingly in the public awareness over the past few decades around environmental disintegration — melting polar ice caps, acidification of global oceans and lakes, the disappearance of vital coral reefs, etc., etc.

The earth suffers under the weight of these significant changes. Something will need to give. Something will need to end, so to turn the tide and restore a balance in creation. And soon. Soon and very soon.

What will end? What is already ending since the financial crisis of 2008, which continues to this day and is forecast to continue well into 2013? Would it be a lifestyle so charged with materialistic progress that we find ourselves in suffocating debt? Will it be an economy which can survive only on the demand of human greed and acquisition? Will it be our identity and self worth based solely on what we own and protect for ourselves to the disregard of those outside our borders, and without?

If this is the end in sight, then there is opportunity here to work towards building hope and joy in a new thing for all people. New ideas to guide our collective being together. New structures and strategies for social and economic cohesion. Bold action for justice, peace and compassion.

At this time of year when endings are contemplated, feared, even celebrated, a new beginning awaits. What may have to end, may have to be. And this won’t be easy, by any stretch, for any one of us — especially the privileged in the world.

And yet, the new thing for which we wait in the season of Advent is the birth of the divine into the world. Advent yields to Christmas by the longed-for infusion of renewal, life-giving promise that the earth will find its way again. This way is cleared by the God who came into it — the God who created it, the God who loved it, the God who gave up life itself for it.

The earth is hopeful. And we, instrumentally, along with it.

Free-falling into Advent

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After the first snow of the winter I joked with my neighbour at the bus stop that finally the snow tires can get their first, real test. He looked at me – a younger-than-me, responsible father of two school-aged children – and said, “The real test happens when you’re sliding sideways down the road.”

He went on to say that, after putting on the snow tires, he normally finds an empty parking lot late at night to do some doughnuts and skidding tests – just to get the feel of the vehicle on the snow. In order to know at what speeds and angle his car points to keep control of the vehicle, he has to practice losing control to a degree.

And then I was reminded of those car commercials where you see a car careening around a course at high speeds, and the implicit warning comes on the screen that these exercises are done by professional drivers.

Indeed, professional drivers know how it feels to – in a sense – lose control. Good drivers have gone there. That’s how one gains confidence in one’s ability. They do that by going to the edge of their perception of being in control. That’s how you learn – with much preparation, practice, guidance, making mistakes and modelling – you go to the boundary of experience.

My palms were sweating when I watched a couple of months ago the video of Austrian Felix Baumgartner break all kinds of records jumping from the edge of space.

An extreme sportsman, he was experienced in jumping and falling. And for this world-record-breaking event he had prepared meticulously. This was not some reckless, un-thought-through, impulsive act. Despite the millions of dollars spent, the months of preparation, the state-of-the-art equipment used, and the hundreds of support staff employed …

It was still quite the risk. He still faced uncertainty as he looked out into the vastness of space from the safety of the tiny capsule some 39 kilometres above the earth’s surface. With only a parachute on his back, he stepped into ‘nothing’. My palms are sweating just imagining that.

He could have died, and almost did. After jumping from the tiny capsule, he soon went into a lateral spin. Because of the minimal oxygen in the air at that high level of the atmosphere, one small errant move falling out of the capsule determined his course. Unless he could come to control it, his lateral spin would render him unconscious. But he couldn’t know exactly how it would play out until experiencing the supersonic free-fall.

He made it, despite those first two minutes when he lost control and his life was seriously at risk.

Before he jumped, standing on the threshold of the capsule looking down, he mumbled something – I couldn’t exactly hear all of it – but something that sounded like a creed, a statement of belief that focused his vision in that moment of uncertainty; he said: “I’m coming home now.”

Writer Anne Lamott wrote: “The opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty.” True. The logic is pure – if we feel certain about the outcome of our actions, well, what is the need for faith? The practice of faith necessitates a degree of uncertainty and ambiguity.

Evident in Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians (chapter 5) is the confusion of the early church about the coming of Christ. Therefore the focus of salvation in this letter is not on a past and accomplished act, but a continuing and future one (Feasting on the Word, Year C Vol. 1, p.16).

This focus adds to the ambiguity of the season. Because when we commit to a forward-vision of life, we cannot know exactly how that future will play out. There is a certain degree of uncertainty with which we must learn to live, and thrive. Such is the character of this season of Advent – waiting, and watching, for the coming of Jesus into our lives. But we know neither the day nor hour (Matthew 24:36).

The fact that the original hearers of the message of Paul were caught in this indecisive understanding of Jesus renders, in Paul’s words, something “lacking” (3:10) in their faith. Maybe they, too, sought a certainty of belief, demanded an unambiguous statement of religious doctrine about when and how exactly Christ would return. As a result, the community there struggled with conflict as different voices offered their own interpretation of how things should be.

But because something is imperfect about someone’s faith does not qualify them for ‘checking out’ from the enormous task at hand. Realizing the perfect scenario for religious life is not a prerequisite for living faithfully. Paul still encouraged the Thessalonians in faith, hope and love.

Just because you don’t think you are good enough for God and God’s church, or have a perfect understanding of the bible, just because you can’t recite scriptures from memory, just because the church is not unified around so many things – does not warrant pressing the pause button until things are perfect again, until you have it right, until all your problems are resolved. Living faithfully is not about standing in the shadows and not doing anything.

How can we make the best of an imperfect, broken situation, a ‘faith lacking’? How do we engage in living faithfully knowing that things in our own life and the life of the church are imperfect and incomplete?

This earliest writing of St Paul that we have in the bible was originally addressed to a group of labourers. Physical labourers. Paul’s message must have resonated among those labouring classes since Paul himself was a tentmaker.

The best way to wait for salvation, for the coming Christ, is to work at something simply, intentionally, faithfully and with discipline.

And so, Paul provides a way forward for a people waiting for the coming of Jesus. As we wait and live in the “already but not yet” in-between time of the ages, as we live in the imperfect times of our lives, we push on. We keep at it. We don’t give up. We remain faithful as best as we can. We do the work.

And the nature of the work is not sensational and complicated and extraordinary. The work is ordinary. The work is doing the little things, faithfully and intentionally.

What is this character of this work, precisely?

“… may the Lord make you increase and abound in love to one another and to all people, as we do to you” (1 Thessalonians 3:12)

The way to restore and complete the faith of Christians is in community. And not just any community – like a club, sporting venture, or social organization – but a community defined by people caring for other people, in the love of Christ Jesus. This is a community of faith that demonstrates mutual interdependence: Where one is weak, another is strong; where friends build each other up, helping one another, working together not apart.

And this kind of work requires preparation, attention, discipline, and commitment.

Paul calls the physical labourers to whom he writes to widen that circle of the faithful. This instruction is not only focused on that particular church in Thessalonica, but even beyond that for all people.

In this inspiring and vital letter Paul expounds the virtues of thanksgiving, boldness, joy and hope … despite evidence in the circumstances of life to the contrary, despite their faith continuing to “lack” in some way, despite living in the in-between time of waiting for the end time.

In truth, what the bible is clear in communicating through the prophets of old, the exemplars of faith, and disciples and apostles of Jesus is that complacency, withdrawal, cowardice, passivity, and despair are not useful nor helpful strategies for coping and growing and living through the present day, no matter what the circumstances of life.

Can we ‘free-fall’ for Christ? Can we do the work of love, be bold in whatever area of our lives needing the grace and healing power of God? Can we step out in faith – not without preparation, not recklessly – but firm in our faith that even though there is ambiguity and uncertainty and sometimes the fright of ‘nothing to hold on to’… ?

God is there. And God’s love knows no bounds. Even in space. Even in the vastness and emptiness of existence. In the poverty yet enormity of the moment when we feel like our life is on the line, the love of God and the love for which we work will surprise us with joy and eternal hope. That is the promise for which we live. And for which we love, and are loved. Forever.

My 1st youth group: A critical invitation

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Our ‘Back to Church 2013’ preparatory group got to work right away. Each of us were assigned homework to complete before our next meeting a week later.

In 250 words we were to journal an answer to the following question: Describe a time when you responded positively to an invitation from the church. So, here is mine ….

I could remember when as a thirteen year old I was very much aware the church had a youth group. But I was the pastor’s kid and, well, I was in worship every week. I had the impression that church leaders sort of expected me to go or at least not give the excuse that “I didn’t know”. I suppose that throughout my childhood and youth my relationship with the church was wrapped up in the enigma of assumptions and presumptions. And it may very well still be!

Frankly, I didn’t know what to do about the start of another year of youth group, meeting every Tuesday night at the church. I remember feeling a little anxious, socially. My father, the pastor, quietly indicated to me that youth group might be a good idea.

But I wasn’t in a space to act on his recommendation alone, although people presumed it would be the most natural line of communication. Their presumption may have given them permission not to bother taking any responsibility in the matter. (Perhaps I’m presuming now, too!)

I observe to this day parents who are down on themselves on account of what they see as their failure not to get their teenage (and older) kids to church. This, even though they would be the first to admit that parents aren’t always the best people positioned for the critical invite.

Everything changed for me after the youth group leader came up to me one Sunday after worship, and asked: “Would you like to come to youth group on Tuesday evening? I think you might enjoy it.” It was an awkward moment for both of us — for him because I could tell he was a bit nervous; for me, because I wasn’t honestly sure whether I wanted to go and what I should say in response.

In the end, I went. Maybe because I knew some of the youth that were going — and I thought they were pretty cool. But mostly because that core group demonstrated through its various activities and adventures together a really strong connection with each other and their faith in God.

Because that individual (not a family member, not a pastor) asked me, despite my status as the infamous PK (i.e. Pastor’s Kid) who should know all things church, my spiritual journey took the course it did — eventually landing me at the seminary, and working as an ordained pastor for over 15 years now.

If that particiular invitation wasn’t made at that critical time, who knows where I would have gone and done with my life? Let me just say how grateful I am for TS — his quiet courage, his guts, his boldness despite his nervousness. Thank you.

I know as parent today that I have a great responsibility in the spiritual development of my own children. I take that seriously. However, I know from my own experience that it’s not just the parents who will determine the outcome of their children’s faith journeys. Others are just as important, even more so, in offering that critical invitation.

Okay, that was more than 250 words!

Alpha and Omega

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All Saints Sunday – B (Revelation 21:1-6)

If you listen to CBC Radio One, you might have noticed that Jian Ghomeshi concludes most of his daily talk-shows, ‘Q’, by saying: “To be continued.”

He says this despite having completed all the interviews, listened to all the songs, and said everything he was planning to say that day. This is not a case of one of those suspense-filled, climactic endings that leave us hanging at the end of a show. This is not about coming to the end of a TV season finale when we are desperate for some resolution to a crisis, and those annoying words flash on the screen: To be continued …

No, at the end of ‘Q’ there’s no suspense, no feeling of in-completion, no loose-ends to tie up – as if Jian Ghomeshi should say something more. In fact, I often feel satisfied when he signs off. And yet at the end he still says, “To be continued”. Why?

Presuming his statement “to be continued” is something good that will be continued, could that expression be sitting on an underlying hope? That he’ll be around tomorrow to do whatever good thing all over again? Is he expressing a need to state in the present moment, despite having to end his show today, that there’s something worth betting on in the so-called ‘unknown’ future tomorrow? Is he implying that the story of his life and work as a radio-broadcaster is destined somewhere good?

I believe each of us can relate, to some extent. Because beneath all our activity and work, isn’t there a desire to see our lives as meaningful, as worthwhile? So, how do we establish meaning?

We tell stories.

We tell stories about our past, about events growing up when we were younger; we tell stories about the people we’ve met and places to which we travelled; we tell stories about loved ones – our children, our friends and relatives. We tell stories about things we’ve accomplished for which we are proud. We tell stories to make sense – good sense – of it all.

No wonder people are really into tracing their ancestry and genealogy these days – like never before. Web sites like ancestry.ca are getting huge hits for meeting a real human need. These are designed to help us tell our stories of origin – where we’ve come from. We have a beginning, to be sure. It’s worth telling.

I think, though, we have an easier time identifying where we’ve come from. Because we’re less specific, normally, about where we’re going. I was looking through some old history textbooks from high school, and noticed the typical depiction of historical events: an arrow going across the bottom of the page. Along the line are marked significant points in time, certain events worth noting.

But there’s no definite end. The line just points vaguely into the future, suggesting merely that “time marches on”. And I suppose with the hope that the future will resolve itself in subsequent beneficial events in history. Or at least history will move forward in a benign sort of way.

But where, exactly, are we headed? The dominant story of our culture seems to suggest we are headed “everywhere at once, which means of course we are headed no where in particular” (p.234 Feasting on the Word, Year B, Vol 4).

T.S. Eliot wrote, “In my end is my beginning” (East Coker in Four Quartets, New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1943, p.32). The answer to both questions – where we are from and where we are headed – is the same: God. Our ultimate origins are in God, and our ultimate destination is in God as well. Our final destination is the same as where we started.

The book of Genesis begins the Bible – it helps us in broad terms to understand our origins. The book of Revelation ends the Bible – it helps us in broad terms to understand our ultimate destination.

We started ‘good’ with God. When God created everything, as recorded in the first chapters of Genesis, the first thing God says is, “It was good”. Then the Fall, then sin, then our brokenness, suffering, division and violence. We know that story intimately – the in-between parts.

But how well do we appreciate the beginning and the end – the bookends of history, so to speak? Do we choose to have hope that our story does not end in the present, sometimes crappy circumstance of our lives? Do we affirm by our attitude and behavior that the story will continue to its ultimate ending? We affirm at funeral services: “Death has not the final Word”. So it must be back to God – back to union in the goodness of ourselves in God. And not only in some netherworld fantasy. But in a real, meaningful, concrete way ….

…. should we live our lives today ‘as if’. What if we lived today from the perspective of both our origin and final destination in Christ? What if we lived in the moment in the sight of God who is the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and end? Who sees us as we were originally purposed, originally created? What if we lived today to regard ourselves and the world as God originally intended and to whom we ultimately will return?

What if we embraced our true identity as the “saints” of God? What if we had the gall, the courage, the faith, to affirm daily – especially in the midst of some suffering, even – “to be continued” – towards a good resolution?

One way we affirm our lives “to be continued” in Christ affects our life together — in family, in church, in business.

Wherever now there is division and conflict, we can make decisions based on viewing our existence from the perspective of eternity. We can choose to be bold and make choices however difficult and risky to forge ahead building relationships and communities that work toward a common good.

And I believe deep down we know this to be true. Last week, I was speaking with a Roman Catholic lay person and she mentioned that our Lutheran services of worship are so similar. Even the words we say in the liturgy were familiar to her. After a pause to let her observation sink in, I added: “We really should get our act together as Christians”.

The creation of a new community in communion with God is not the result of history but the purpose of it. Our beginning is our end and our end is our beginning.

Through it all, God’s home is among mortals. God and humans dwell together. This means that our ability to work with others is a part of creation. We have the capacity to cooperate, enabling us to achieve that which would be impossible to the lone individual, to the lone congregation, to the lone denomination, to the lone branch of Christianity.

The book of Revelation is at heart a book of consolation and a vision of comfort for a people in distress and suffering great loss and conflict. The visions in the book point to a particular and hopeful destination for people of faith. That implication alone is power to order and direct our lives in the here and now – to stay on the path, together.

These days, let’s not just be about claiming our individual ‘personhood’; let’s claim our sainthood in Christ Jesus, Lord of all.

Amen. To be continued ….

In Plain Sight

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We were making too much noise.

So our youth leader shooed us out of the large room for a few minutes as he ‘hid’ an ordinary, blue ink, Bic pen somewhere in the parish hall. He assured us that he would place it in plain sight; that is, not underneath, behind or in something that would impede us seeing the pen out in the open. That would mean the pen would be lying on the fire place mantle, shelf, chair, table, floor — somewhere clearly visible.

The rule of the game was once all of us were back in the room, we had to remain silent — not say a word or indicate by our body language where the pen was, once we spotted it. It took me a while of scanning the room for the pen. At first the silence was unnerving as I was self conscious, and preoccupied with what me peers were doing and whether or not they had yet found it.

Then it was a matter of settling down inside of myself and spending my energy not on comparison and competition — which only distracted me further on my quest to find the pen. It was an exercise in observation and practicing the art of seeing what is there.

Afterwards I reflected that the game “In plain sight” required important life skills — to practise mindful presence, to be quiet, to acknowledge that which serves only to distract myself from being, to have the courage to settle down inside of myself, and to pay attention to what is actually in front of me.

I also learned that the answer often lies in the ordinary, the simple, the common. Our world seems to place value only on that which stimulates our senses, makes a lot of noise, and is rife with frenetic movement, speed and action.

But often what we need is exactly the opposite and “in plain sight”, if we choose to see it.

Oh, by the way, the youth leader walked silently around the room with the rest of us, looking around quietly. He put the pen sticking out of the heel of his shoe. It was right there for all of us to see.

Bridging the gap

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Mark 10:35-45

Jesus said to them, “The cup that I drink you will drink…” (Mark 10:39)

When we first stepped on the bridge spanning the wide, flowing river, our ten year old son stopped short. It was windy. He said he was afraid the strong winds could blow him off. He refused to walk over.

A few weeks later when we were giving a walking tour of our new home-town to visiting friends, the path took us over the bridge. Engrossed in showing all the sites to his friends, our son made it three-quarters of the way across before he realized what he was doing. I could see by his wide-eyed expression that he had, for the most part, forgotten his fear. He was focused on his friends rather than himself.

I often miss the extraordinary promise implied in Jesus’ words to his self-absorbed disciples. They had been walking to Jerusalem listening to Jesus speak about his suffering and death. Understandably, those who followed Jesus were afraid (Mark 10:10). Were James’ questions about finding a seat in heaven next to Jesus simply an attempt to find security amidst the ominous implications of Jesus’ words?

Fear of the world often drives us, above all, to find security. We are afraid of terrorism, so we start preemptive wars. We are afraid of failing, so we act to secure our reputation rather than take bold and necessary steps forward. We are afraid of what we don’t understand in others who are different from us, so we cocoon behind fortress walls with like-minded people rather than build bridges of cooperation and compassion.

When Jesus says, “the cup that I drink you will drink…” he is making his disciples a promise – a promise that one day they, too, will no longer be driven by fear; that one day they will act boldly, motivated not so much by self-preservation but by the Gospel.

This, too, is a promise made to me and to you. It’s not an easy way. But when our focus resolves itself on others, we no longer act according to our fears but according to the way of Christ Jesus.

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On whom have I given up?

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“First of all, I urge that thanksgivings should be made for everyone (I Timothy 2:1)

Let’s face it. Even the most mature, enlightened and experienced of us need to confess: There are those we have given up on.

Mitt Romney may have given up on half the population in the United States. Unwise to admit, politically.

And yet haven’t we all, personally? That is, given up on those who annoy us to no end. On those who are different from us. On those whom we know we can’t change for the better. On those who appear to threaten our sense of security and stability. On those who are very near and dear to us who have fallen away from the faith. On those we pretend to have some measure of control or influence over, but who have rebelled against our wishes and desires. On the infirm, the elderly locked away in their homes or on the ward. Those in prison, incarcerated for committing some crime. On our political leaders. Have we given up on them?

Have you given up on that dream, a hope for your life? Have we given up on ourselves, tragically, when all options seem closed to us?

There’s a kind of resignation that comes with giving up. After having argued, reasoned, persuaded and tried oh so long and hard. After having endured tension and animosity for a long time. After trying so hard and so long.

Finally, enough is enough. We find ourselves at the end of our rope. I give up on them! I don’t want anything to do with them anymore. I don’t want to dream anymore!

Talking about politicians, I think it was Bill Clinton who said, “You become old when memories of the past outweigh your dreams for the future.” Have you given up?

And we turn to the scriptures to justify our resignation, where Jesus counseled his disciples in a specific situation to “shake the dust off your feet” (Mark 6:11); Jesus, who gave us words we use to rationalize not caring for the poor (Mark 14:7). We turn to Paul, who in another situation encouraged his followers not to associate with the ‘immoral’ (1 Corinthians 5:11).

Our anger, fear and anxiety lead us to insulate ourselves from others — creating fortresses and cocooning in places and routines that preserve our sense of self. As our world gets narrower and we dig ourselves deeper in the rut of isolation, our hearts harden and we fight harder to exclude others from our vision.

And then, surprise! We encounter the Gospel which states in no uncertain terms that in “God’s world there is no them and us. There is no them. Only us.” (@JamesMartinSJ)

In Paul’s first letter to Timothy Paul encourages Timothy to pray for all people, for God desires ALL people to be saved (1 Timothy 2:1,4). Not just our friends. Not just those who agree with us. Not just those with whom we get along and are just like us.

But those very people who annoy us. Those who are different from us. Those with whom we have little in common. Those who do not listen nor agree with us. Those who intimidate us. ALL people.

Maybe I need to keep praying for these folks, and not give up on them. Because God Almighty Maker of heaven and earth surely hasn’t. God has not given up on them.

Maybe what I need to give up, if anything, is the presumption that somehow it is I who is going to save them, change them and make them into the person I want them to be. Maybe what I need to give up is the belief that it is I who will manufacture the life I want to live.

Maybe my job is to keep hoping, keep praying, keep being the person God made me to be. Maybe my job is to persist in a gracious disposition to those I encounter in my day. Maybe my job is to take the risk to reach out in love — and leave the rest up to God. Maybe my job is to let the Christ in me see the Christ in you.

Yes, that’s my job. But it is not my job to ever, ever, give up on anyone — including myself. My dreams. And God. And the person who I can’t stand.

How can I do this, and maintain this sense of compassion for all?

Listen to this story entitled, “The Old Man and the Gulls”, written by Paul Aurandt (in ‘Paul Harvey’s The Rest of the Story’, quoted in ‘Heaven Bound Living’ Standard Publishing, 1989, p.79-80):

It is gratitude that prompted an old man to visit an old broken pier on the eastern seacoast of Florida. Every Friday night he would return, walking slowly and slightly stooped with a large bucket of shrimp. The sea gulls would flock to this old man, and he would feed them from his bucket.

Many years ago, in 1942, Captain Eddie Rickenbacker was on a mission in a B-17 to deliver an important message to General Douglas MacArthur in New Guinea. But there was an unexpected detour which would hurl Captain Eddie into the most harrowing adventure of his life.

Somewhere over the South Pacific their plane became lost beyond the reach of radio. Fuel ran dangerously low, so the men ditched the plane in the ocean…For nearly a month Captain Eddie and his companions would fight the water, and the weather, and the scorching sun. They spent many sleepless nights recoiling as giant sharks rammed their rafts. The largest raft was nine by five. The biggest shark…ten feet long.

But of all their enemies at sea, one proved most formidable: starvation. Eight days out, their rations were long gone or destroyed by the salt water. It would take a miracle to sustain them. And a miracle occurred. In Captain Eddie’s own words, “Cherry,” that was the B- 17 pilot, Captain William Cherry, “read the service that afternoon, and we finished with a prayer for deliverance and a hymn of praise. There was some talk, but it tapered off in the oppressive heat. With my hat pulled down over my eyes to keep out some of the glare, I dozed off.”

Now this is still Captain Rickenbacker talking…”Something landed on my head. I knew that it was a sea gull. I don’t know how I knew, I just knew. Everyone else knew too. No one said a word, but peering out from under my hat brim without moving my head, I could see the expression on their faces. They were staring at that gull. The gull meant food…if I could catch it.”

And the rest, as they say, is history. Captain Eddie caught the gull. Its flesh was eaten. Its intestines were used for bait to catch fish. The survivors were sustained and their hopes renewed because a lone sea gull, uncharacteristically hundreds of miles from land, offered itself as a sacrifice. You know that Captain Eddie made it.

And now you also know…that he never forgot. Because every Friday evening, about sunset…on a lonely stretch along the eastern Florida seacoast…you could see an old man walking…white-haired, bushy-eyebrowed, slightly bent. His bucket filled with shrimp was to feed the gulls…to thank and remember that one which, on a day long past, gave itself without a struggle…like manna in the wilderness.

This story is about ‘not giving up’ — on several levels. Not giving up on life — even in the midst of desperate circumstances. Not giving up on God — for before the sea gull was caught, the surviving men praised God, said their prayers and sung a hymn. Not giving up on hope, even when all seemed hopeless.

And, finally, not giving up on giving thanks. The persistence that trumps a ‘giving up on’ kind of attitude is giving thanks over the long term. Not-giving-up is born from an attitude of gratitude. Thanksgiving is grown in the heart, over the long haul. Captain Eddie Rickenbacker didn’t start living gratitude after his miraculous survival story; it was already being cultivated before it. It is about learning to see whatever good there is, even in the direst of situations — and giving thanks for any glimmer of grace therein.

I like the way Mary Jo Leddy in her book, “Radical Gratitude”, wrote about the gratitude expressed by the birds at the start of a new day; she writes:

“There is a moment each day when it is morning before it is morning. Darkness still hovers over the deep. Those who wait for the dawn can hear it even before they see it. At first there are only the slight sounds of attunement as a chorus of birds assembles: twits and trills, chirps and peeps, and even the occasional squawk. Slowly they gather into one great concerted song of supplication: Let it begin! Let us begin! May it begin again! They are of one accord. They do not take the dawn for granted. When it bursts upon them, once again, as on the first day of creation, they give thanks once again for this once only day, to begin. The birds know, as we sometimes do, that the light does not dawn because of our singing. We sing because the dawn appears as grace.”

Is there someone you’ve given up on? Is there a dream, a hope, for your life you are on the verge of ditching. Make a list. And then, sometimes this Thanksgiving weekend, go down that list slowly and give God thanks for each of the people you’ve named there. Give thanks for each of those dreams and hopes you have listed there.

And then pray that their hearts, as yours, will be opened to receive the grace, love and light of God. And God will give you your heart’s desire (Psalms 20:4 & 37:4).

Amen.

Prayer is a subversive public act

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When I compare popular notions of prayer today with the original purpose and description of prayer in the Christian tradition, I see a great divide. Popular understandings of prayer suggest it is private, that it is done as a means to cure a disease, and that its public face is often divisive.

Let me clarify some of the basic biblical understandings of prayer. I base my commentary on the letter of James (5:13-16) in the Bible, since it is one of the texts which will be read in many mainline churches this Sunday.

I find that the biblical witness debunks prayer as a private act, prayer for the sole purpose of curing medical diseases, and prayer as a divisive tool in a multiple-voice culture. Practiced as fundamentally a public act whose unifying purpose is wholeness and restored relationships, prayer as such counters popular notions and is therefore a subversive practice.

First, prayer is fundamentally public. Time in prayer is not “my time”. Prayer is not exercised in some other-worldly state that separates one from social reality and relationships. Prayer is not, according to some spiritual mythology, done in some sequestered, secluded and isolationist context. Prayer is not withdrawal from reality in order to satisfy some escapist, narcissistic compulsions so evident in the pathology of our contemporary culture.

In James’ commentary, vivid images of prayer involving the “laying on of hands” and the “anointing of oil” makes  prayer a visceral act that invades the space of individuals, one to another. Prayer is inherently relational. It gets down and dirty in the bodily reality of our lives, one with another. It is about touch. Prayer is “our time”, and for the sake of the “other”.

Another scripture that will be read alongside James this Sunday is from the Gospel of Mark (9:38-39). Powerful, effective deeds are done “in the name of Jesus”. When we call on the name of the Lord, we are entering a power and reality that is beyond us. Everything we do as Christians is for and about the “other”. Prayer leads us beyond exclusive concern about our own individual lives; it draws us out of ourselves and into the needs and realities facing other people.

We can pray by ourselves, to be sure. But the power of prayer, which is clearly evident in the casting out of demons from the Gospel, is seen most clearly when it is communally, not privately, done, when it is done in the name of Another besides ourselves, when it is done together.

Which leads to the second aspect of prayer, addressing our understanding of healing. And here we have to be honest about our modern approach to illness and its cure. I don’t, for a moment, doubt God’s ability to cure our diseases, especially when offered in a prayer of faith. God is able in God’s freedom to cure anyone. And we’ve all heard, I suspect, of such miraculous healings. Certainly, the Scriptures reveal such astounding events.

And yet, the biblical witness shies away from making this God’s central way of healing. For one thing, after many of such cures that Jesus performs he often instructs those whom he cures to be silent and not tell anyone. And, while affirming that the “weary will be restored” (James 5:15), the kind of healing God is about does not emerge from a modern, Western, understanding of illness and healing. The kind of healing James is talking about is substantially more than merely prescribing antibiotics or applying scientific medical knowledge to a ‘problem’.

The restoration of which James speaks assumes a relationship between sin and sickness. It is a redemption that only God can accomplish incorporating all that we are. This holistic approach to healing involves our social illnesses as much as our internal chemical imbalances; it has as much to do with our spiritual and psychological health as it has our physiological and corporeal brokenness.

In the Mediterranean culture out of which Jesus and the biblical witness came, healing of broken and ailing bodies is not so much about fighting invading microbes, but of restoring community and social relationships so that people could live the good life intended by God. (John Pilch, “Healing in the New Testament”, Fortress Press, 2000).

This means that should one seek healing today, especially within the church, the way of healing must include awareness of and action toward restoring broken relationships — the relationship between the individual and her/himself, the relationship between the individual and others, the relationship between the individual and the earth, and the relationship between the individual and God — to name but a few of some basic relationships.

When appreciated in the context of the whole web of life on earth, prayer is a powerful and effective force in realizing the healing of our lives, diverse as we are. Prayer is mindful action toward bringing together that which has been divided.

Therefore, prayer functions as a unifying force. Often in our society prayer is used as a weapon to take a stand over against other Christians, a secular culture, or another religion. The fights over public school prayers, for example, give prayer a bad name. For one thing, it betrays a misunderstanding of the diverse yet unifying truth about our connection with God and others.

Prayer is not divisive, though it is diverse in form. There are various, legitimate forms of prayer: We offer verbal petitions in our devotions, in liturgical orders of worship, the Eucharist — these are some traditional forms. But meditation, walking prayers, art, music and even social action can also be a prayer. Any activity, for that matter, entered mindful of God’s abiding presence (i.e. done “in the name of Jesus”) are also forms of prayer often overlooked and undervalued.

The Book of James begins with an address to those who are “dispersed” (1:1). James continues his letter to address the divisive consequences of an “unbridled tongue” (3:6ff) and considers the reasons for the “conflicts and disputes” among the people (4). James’ letter is about divisiveness, disconnection and the splintering of our lives.

It is very suiting, and I believe not without purpose and inspired intention, that James ends his letter in chapter 5 with an appeal to prayer. And not only because prayer is the one activity among diverse Christians that we share. But in recognizing the diversity of form prayer takes, we can affirm the unity we share in Christ Jesus, in our prayerful living.

Thus, a book that begins with division ends with blessings promised those who restore another “wandering” sinner within the community of faith (5:20). Some remark that this is a rather abrupt ending to the letter. But with good purpose.

Because the abrupt ending can remind us that though the world today is still full of sin and death and those who wander, Christians, through prayer, continue “to engage the world in hope for a time when what has splintered can be reunited.” (p.114, “Feasting on the Word” Year B Volume 4)

Cold sores and family

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A highlight for me this summer was the family reunion at Wasaga Beach. We had been unable to attend this annual reunion the last few years, so it was a while since I had last connected with many people on my spouse’s side of the family. And as is consistent with my personality style, I was worried about making a good impression.

God has a funny way of challenging us where we need to be challenged. Because at about the time we decided to attend (which was a last minute thing on account of our recent move), I woke up with a big, festering cold sore on my lip.

Now, I had not had a cold sore for the last several years. It had also been a while since I knew what a cold sore was all about: irritating, itchy, never letting you forget it’s there (for a fleeting moment I wondered whether family reunions and cold sores had something in common!).

The cold sore has about a ten-day cycle, from initial growth to its drying, scabby end. I was to hit the high point of visible grossness the day of reunion. Everyone with whom I would have a conversation would have to be blind not to see the bulbess thing hanging from my lip. What would they say to me? (“Aahh, Martin, wipe your mouth man! Too much salsa for lunch?”) How would I respond? (“Awwh shucks, it’s nothing, really”) What would my extended in-law family think of the man their wonderful daughter had married?

As it turned out, God also has a funny way of reminding us of what is true, what is good, and what speaks of God’s love for us all. You see, my obsessive preoccupation with how I looked turned my conciousness away from others and the whole meaning of the event. Martin Luther defined sin as “being turned in on oneself”. I guess I was sinning: I was preoccupied with myself.

And yet, by the end of the day and contrary to my initial expectations, I felt accepted, loved and part of a family. No one drew attention to the cold sore; it was a non-issue. They were just happy to see me and my famly there! “It’s been too long!” That was the main thing: being together at the reunion. I felt like the Psalmist who expressed: “Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself where she may lay her young” (Psalm 84:3).

According to the Psalmist, it was the relatively insignificant, common, plain-looking, rather small sparrows who found a home among the rafters and ceiling crevaces in the tabernacle. It wasn’t the eagles, hawks, larger birds with colourful, attractive plumage.

What does this image suggest about who finds ‘home’ in God’s presence? The great? The mighty? The successful? The seemingly perfect? The beautiful?

By the end of the reunion day, I had almost forgotten about my cold sore because I was more focused on this collection of diverse people who found there way to Wasaga Beach on a sunny, August day: There were some fifteen youth and children under the age of twenty in addition to some twenty adults and seniors. And this collection of people spanned the whole socio-political spectrum and North American continent …. You get the picture.

Immersed in this blessed diversity I forgot about myself, because it wasn’t about me to begin with. This reunion was bigger than the sum of its individual parts. There was something more going on here.

The basis of our unity was not the visible aspects of our togetherness, otherwise we would all look the same! The basis of our unity was something we shared on the inside that was manifested on the outside. And what is true on the inside of our lives gets expressed on the outside by way of attitude, by way of our beliefs, by way of the nature of how we relate to one another.

“As it is on the inside, so shall it be on the outside,” as Michael Harvey explains (@Unlockingthegrowth). While mortals look on the outside, the Lord looks upon the heart (1 Samuel 16:7).

Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. This notion from the Lord’s Prayer suggests that heaven (the invisible, interior reality) leads to a corresponding visible reality on earth. Like in the Holy Eucharist, Baptism — any Sacrament — an inner truth reflected exteriorly, in water, bread, cup, meal.

Over the past month we have heard scriptures from the sixth chapter of the Gospel of John reflect on Jesus as the “bread of life”. We conclude today this teaching of Jesus from the synagogue in Capernaum. And the disciples, it is reported, had difficulty with it (John 6:56-69).

Admitedly, I think for us, too, it is much easier to deal with external, material reality: we can touch, taste, manage, something on the outside of us. It is easier to make judgement on a crooked picture frame hanging on your wall; but to reflect on why that particular picture is there in the first place and who painted it, for example, takes much more work that often, quite frankly, we’re not up for.

To approach the inner realm of our lives can be dumbfounding, intimidating, overwhelming a prospect. And so we avoid this work and get ourselves immersed in unreflected, unexamined action and busyness. Because that’s easier.

Yet Jesus emphasizes the truth of the inner life giving reason and substance to the outer life. In his words, “It is the spirit that gives life; [without the spirit] the flesh is useless.” (John 6:63). The beginning points of all meaningful and effective action are prayer, contemplation, reflection, engagement with our inner lives in relationship with God and others. The spirit gives life.

And this is how to understand that more famous text from Ephesians 6 about putting on the armour of God. We put on the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the shoes proclaiming the gospel of peace, the shield of faith and helmet of salvation and sword of the spirit, NOT in an aggressive, confrontational, external stance against enemies of the flesh. “For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but … against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places” (Ephesians 6:12). Again, the beginning point of faith is in the internal, invisible reality of our lives.

That is not to say that sometimes when we don’t feel inside any stirrings of the spirit, we ought not do anything. Sometimes the reverse is true: we need to engage in right action despite our feelings or what might or might not be going on interiorily; our external action, then, may affect positively what is going on inside us. After all, Jesus doesn’t exclude one or the other: “The words that I have spoken to you are spirit AND life” — internal AND external are both vital, to hold in balance. Not either/or, but both/and.

As I said, the exterior reality that reflects the inner truth is that of attitude, and the quality of our relationships. And, more to the point, this attitude is pointed to the quality of our relationships with those whom we invite to church and those to whom we are strangers and happen to cross the threshold of our church.

These people, too, are part of God’s creation, loved and cherished. Every person on the planet can claim the passage from the Psalms: “I am fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14). And therefore they are among us for a divine purpose.

More Christians are raising concern about equating the church with ‘family’ – presuming the analogy refers to a traditional father-mother-children unit. For being exclusively defined as such, I agree with their objections. Because the family of God is so much more.

It is not our job to judge their status in the family. It is our job to invite them. To be an invitational church. That family reunion at Wasaga Beach happened because an invitation to come went out. I am grateful for that invitation.

Because we are a church that belongs to Jesus Christ, there is a place for you and everyone else here. “You did not choose me,” Jesus says, “But I chose you …” (John 15:16).

Christ’s invitation is about joining in God’s mission. And this mission is not just the purvue of the rich, the famous, the successful, the educated, those who have unblemished bodies, those who have been a part of the church forever — but to all, including you and me. Because God made us, “wonderfully”, from the inside out.

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Being Together AND Separate – Holy Trinity B

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My father was getting frustrated with me. And I was getting frustrated with my father. We were trying to explain to each other how to drive stick shift. I was sixteen and just got my license. I wanted to learn how to drive a standard transmission because my Dad had a cool, sporty looking VW sitting in the driveway.

The mutual explanations were literally driving us crazy. The words, interpretations, hand and foot demonstrations were getting us to a bad place in our relationship.

Finally, I had enough. I stomped out to the car, somehow managed to get it on the street in front of our house, and just did it. The only way I was going to learn was to do it. To try. To make mistakes, for sure. But experiencing the manual transmission what with the clutch-work and shifting was the only way I was going to learn. Not by talking about it till we were red in the face.

Living with my parents most days now as we wait to sell our house in Petawawa brings back many memories of growing up and learning new things in my youth.

Today is Trinity Sunday. I congratulate you for having the courage to come to church on Trinity Sunday. Because preachers are usually anxious about what to teach about the Holy Trinity; this is not an easy topic to explain.

Boiled down: We worship a God who self-discloses as three persons in one God. Beyond saying this, I believe we would be lost and get frustrated if all we did was acknowledge the Trinity as we do each time we confess our faith using the words of one of the traditional Creeds of Christianity. If left only to doctrinal abstractions and statements of belief, we would go in circles and play mind games with one another. Our questions could keep us perpetually stuck.

At some point the only thing left to do is just experience God. The Trinity exposes if anything the nature and function of our relational God. In other words the only way to learn about God is to enter into a relationship with God. To quote Henri Nouwen, “life [and God, I would add] is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be entered into.” (From his book Seeds of Hope in the chapter on “Presence and Absence”)

And what do we learn about this God we experience? Well, let’s begin by characterizing the way God self-relates and by implication how Christians are called upon to relate with one another.

For starters: We are not God and God is not us. There is this basic differentiation. I think life experiences teach us that no matter how hard we try or how far we progress or how good our technology or knowledge increases – we are not nor never can be God. There is a limit to our humanity. There are boundaries to be respected. To deny this is foolish. God is quite simply, beyond anything we humans on earth can ever be or imagine.

While the distinction is firm, that does not mean God is not in us, with us, around us in the fabric of creation. Using hefty theological language: God is immanent as well as transcendent. Our life reveals this both/and aspect of relationship with God. It IS a mystery to be entered, not solved nor explained with words alone.

The Trinity challenges us to be together while also being separate.

For example, I have related all my life with an identical twin brother – David. David and I have had to work very hard, especially in our youth, asserting our differences more so than our similarities. At one point our friends seemed to get the “how-similar-we-were” part more than our individualities.

I think in loving relationships, like marriage, we get the “together” part well. And certainly in healthy marriages there needs to be that sense of emotional connection and a desire to be together – to be sure.

But how do healthy relationships also exhibit a separateness, which is equally important? And Godly. Let there be spaces in our togetherness. Don’t blur relational boundaries. Don’t become enmeshed with another so much that individualities are denied, ignored, suppressed. Kahlil Gibran, who wrote the book “The Prophet”, is often quoted at weddings. He wrote this famous poem On Marriage:

Let there be spaces in your togetherness /And let the winds of the heavens dance between you … /Love one another but make not a [smothering] of love; /Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls … /Stand together yet not too near together …

By respecting our separateness we discover our unity. Unity is paradoxical. Because only by accepting our inherent diversity will we truly be able to celebrate our unity in the triune God. We sometimes, I think, assume that for the church to be unified we need to conform one to another. We have to be same-minded. We need to be uniform and march together in lock-step to the same tune on all doctrinal and liturgical issues.

But our differences are as important if not more in experiencing organizational health. Our unity is strengthened in Christ Jesus when, like a body, the parts are free to function as they are meant and not coerced or forced into some conforming imposition.

The one aspect of the famous David and Goliath story from the bible I love occurs when King Saul expects that the only way little shepherd boy David can defeat the giant Philistine warrior is by putting on all the armor trappings of a typical Israelite soldier. But David, thankfully, is able to recognize his own giftedness and shed the uniform and use the simple gifts given to him – some stones and a sling.

Healthy, relational love is not expressed just in warm fuzzies/feel good, go-along-to-get-along ways. But also needed is some tough love; that is, asserting one’s own wants and needs even if it might upset someone else that you love and care for.

When emotional distance is established in any relationship, when clarifying your stance, taking a stand, taking responsibility for your needs flavors the nature of the relationship, there will be health and healing. Thank God Martin Luther had the guts to stand up over 500 years ago and clarify his stance when he said, “Here I stand.” Those three words set a religious world in motion for centuries to come.

I quoted Dutch priest Henri Nouwen at the beginning of my sermon; Henri Nouwen lived a large portion of his life as pastor caring for the intelligently disabled people at L’Arche Daybreak Community inTorontosome decades ago. He wrote several books about the Christian life, spirituality and ministry before dying in the mid-90’s. He has been, for me, a mentor through his written word.

He writes often about the importance of a balance between a ministry of presence AND absence. While being present constitutes much of pastoral care work, he argues for the importance of also being absent. In other words, not always being with, but being apart from the one for whom you care.

God entered into intimacy with us not only by Christ’s coming but also by his leaving – in his dying an earthly death, in the ascension. In fact, the Gospels show that on the Cross where God’s absence was most loudly expressed by Jesus when he cried, “My God, My God, why have you deserted me…” (Psalm 22:1-15) God’s presence was then most profoundly revealed. When God through the humanity of Jesus freely chose to share our most painful experience of divine absence, then God became most present to us, in the Spirit our Comforter. Without a separateness in the relationship, we would not know God’s profound presence.

Thank God for the Trinity! In relating to a triune God we learn first hand in our life’s experience what it means in relationship to be both together and separate in holy love.

Amen.