Tag Archives: politics

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.

What is truth? Part 2: Belonging to community

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I remember when I was ten years old I wanted to run away from home. My brother and I fought with my Mom over watching a TV show. Our disagreement led to this radical solution.

My brother and I packed our little red wagon with pillows, blankets, some twinkies, and a bottle of milk. I informed my Mom, and we were on our way.

We pulled our wagon down the sidewalk in silence. When we reached the first cross street a block away from home, we stopped. Without saying a word, both of us turned around and headed back with heads hung low.

In discovering the truth, not only must you come home to yourself and articulate your own desires, motivations and unique identity, you need to land in a community. This is the important second movement in answering: “What is truth?” (John 18:38).

At some point in the process of discovering the truth, we need to acknowledge the communal nature of truth-telling. It’s one thing to say discovering the truth is a personal journey; but it’s also a path that takes you beyond pure individualism. In other words, you can’t celebrate the truth of anything by yourself. In community we are greater than the sum of our individual parts. The truth can only be ascertained and arrived-at in the midst of others.

In the Gospel of John, Jesus relates the truth with “belonging” (18:37) — belonging to a community. Whether that community is a family, a church, a nation, God, our belonging is often tested. When things don’t go our way. When we don’t get want we want in that community. When others disappoint us. When there is disagreement. When we suffer. There are a host of circumstances that may lead us to question our belonging.

And when that happens, what do we do? Do we leave? Do we, as I tried to do with my red wagon and twin brother in tow, run away? Do we isolate ourselves behind fortress walls of fear and intransigence? What do we do when our belonging is severely tested?

Jesus hints that the kingdom of which he speaks transcends the self. When Jesus says that he was born for the purpose of testifying to the reign of God (John 18:37), Jesus is pointing to that which is larger than any individual, including himself.

We don’t exist unto ourselves. The sun doesn’t orbit around our individual planet; rather, we orbit around the sun! Our lives are meant for more than mere self-indulgence, self-acquisition, self-amelioration, self-justification.

When we discover the truth together, we’re not denying our individual, unique perspectives. We are not hiding our true colours from one another. We are simply affirming that if we are to find the truth, we will only do so together.

Belonging is not so much about individual decisions as it is about collective participation in community. That is why we make major decisions as the church, or as a nation, or even in families together. We share our differing thoughts and opinions with the awareness of our belonging to one another and to God, whether or not that unity is challenged or visibly shaken.

The movement towards community in discerning the truth calls for humility and attentiveness to those around us.

Where do you belong? Give God thanks for your belonging.

Do you deserve it?

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It’s a natural part of being human to find comfort in someone else’s misfortune. When the guy in front of you spins out on the same stretch of highway covered in black ice, while you follow through safely? When moments before you intended to walk underneath the same dangling sign in a windstorm, it comes crashing down on an unsuspecting woman? When in a fiercely fought game of Survivor your buddy gets voted off instead of you even though you were just as vulnerable?

The Germans, as they often do, have a word for it: Schadenfreude – suggesting that you find some satisfaction behind someone else’s misery. And underneath that sentiment lives a legalism of deserving our ‘just deserts’, so to speak.

Whether we say it out loud or in our hearts, it’s the same sentiment worthy of critique:

If someone struggles with cancer, for example, and they had smoked earlier in their life. In trying to make sense of their unique suffering the thought comes to mind, does it not: well, they had it coming?

If someone suffers great loss, even loss of their life in a car accident caused by impaired driving – texting or alcohol – we say: they had it coming.

If a wealthy business person loses everything in an ill-advised investment we say: they deserve it.

If someone makes a bad decision in a relationship and it falls apart we say: they deserve it.

If someone is poor because of some character flaw we conveniently label them and say: they deserve it.

And on and on. Our popular mythologies support this: We speak of ‘making your bed and sleeping in it’. Even biblical images are interpreted that way: ‘You will reap what you sow’ (see Matthew 25:26, Luke 19:21, John 4:38). We seem to have constructed a social and economic world whose basic rule of existence is comeuppance. And then we smugly go on our merry ways. And nothing changes.

Except when someone suffers and dies because they didn’t deserve it. That gets our attention and sparks outrage, disbelief and even in some cases inspires wonder and awe: The millions of soldiers who sacrificed their life in war to preserve our freedoms. But what about the millions of children who die regularly because of hunger and poverty? Or, what about the innocent victims of violence and abuse? What about the misfortune that befalls someone, beyond their control?

The morality of the world drives according to this rule of those who deserve it, and those who don’t. And yet, we know it isn’t right: No one deserves any kind of suffering.

Enter Jesus. In the Gospel today (Mark 12:38-44), Mark records the last scene in Jesus’ public ministry. From here all that remains in Mark’s telling is the temple discourse and the passion narrative (Lamar Williamson Jr., Mark, Interpretation Series, Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1983, p.234).

So, this scene about the widow giving her all is an important glimpse into what Jesus is all about. Because Jesus is on the way to giving “the whole of his life”. But for what?

In this scene, the people coming to the temple lined up to give their offerings to support the temple treasury. Which means the money given here would go to the upkeep of the religious institution. Jesus’ critique of the scribes was basically an indictment against any religious enterprise that exists for its own sake.

The days are numbered for religious institutions that exist merely for their own well-being. True a couple thousand years ago. True today. So, it follows that in the next chapter of Mark (13) Jesus promises that he will destroy the temple, because it has not been a house of prayer for all people but has become a den of robbers (Mark 11:17).Therefore, the temple deserves destruction.

And yet, Jesus holds up this widow who gives her whole life to something that is corrupt and condemned. Why is that? Is there value in the giving, even though the object of that giving is corrupt, condemned and undeserving?

As I said, Jesus is on the way to giving “the whole of his life” on the cross dying … for what? For whom? A corrupted church? Broken individuals? A sinful generation?

Why, yes! For us! For all of humanity! For the whole world! For us who are condemned for our sins. For us who are corrupted by our misguided, broken ways. For us who misinterpret Jesus to justify our dog-eat-dog world of just deserts. This flies in the face of all our conditioning.

So, we have to practice: Should we give anything, will we give only to an institution that deserves our offering? Or, will we give because it is as broken and corrupted as we are?

Should we give of ourselves to those in need, will we give only if those whom we are serving have proven themselves worthy, or demonstrated some ‘perfect’ image of our own deepest longings?

What about ‘giving’ to others only because Christ loves us “while we were yet sinners” (Romans 5:8)? What about loving and serving others only because Jesus redeemed us imperfect, corrupted people? What about giving because we have something precious in our lives – two, simple, copper coins?

Notice in the story, those coins just ‘are’. As a character in the scene they fly under the radar even though they are a critical symbol to the meaning of the story. In the Gospel the two copper coins represent a basic possession – something all people have. We already have these gifts, not because we have earned them. Not because we deserved them. They are simple and in plain sight of our lives.

We give of ourselves when we value these simple gifts. And still we offer them to that corrupted world – in our precious time, our imperfect talents and our meager treasures.

We give of ourselves freely because Jesus already paved the way and redeemed all of who are – even the most seemingly irrelevant aspects of our lives.

I think we are challenged in giving of our whole selves not so much by the difficulty of the task, because we already have what it takes. What strikes fear into our hearts is the prospect of vulnerability at unmasking all our pretenses in the “enormity of the moment” (Michael Harvey, Unlocking the Growth, Monarch Books, Grand Rapids 2012, p.89). Let me give you an example from my own life some thirty years ago:

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, as a teenager, I wasn’t in a space to act on his recommendation alone, although I suspect people presumed it would be the most natural ‘line of communication’.

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.

I felt the enormity of that moment like we were both, in our vulnerability, putting our whole selves on the line.

In the end, I went. Maybe because I knew some of the youth that were going — and I thought they were pretty cool, people to whom I was drawn to spend some time.

Let me just say how grateful I am for that youth leader – his quiet courage, his guts, his boldness despite his nervousness. That simple, yet supremely valuable, gift of invitation made a huge difference in my life.

The gift of invitation, given out of love. Not because I earned it by anything I did; I certainly wasn’t the most popular kid on the block. Not because that particular youth group was perfect. Not because the kids who went were saints – anything but!

Thanks be to Jesus, who though the temple is destroyed, builds it up again! Thanks be to Jesus, who gives his whole life for that which in the eyes of the world is undeserving, worthless, corrupt and pointless. Thanks be to Jesus, the God we worship this day, who makes all things new.

Amazing grace funeral

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Amazing Grace. We say this, sing this, today – and express it on many different levels – Amazing Grace.

But how can God’s grace be amazing, when doing what we do today reminds us again of the hurt and pain of losing Grace a couple of months ago? How can God’s grace be amazing when it sometimes feels like it means nothing, that God is distant, disconnected and uninterested in our plight here on earth – especially when we suffer?

Amazing Grace. And yet, when we remember Grace, in a sense she was amazing because she brought to you and to all those people she met in her life, the blessing of her commitment, her creativity, her dedication, her humour, etc., etc. Yes, Amazing Grace! Thanks be to God!

The funeral of Lincoln Alexander was set for October 26. He was the first black Canadian Member of Parliament and former lieutenant-governor of Ontario.

Last weekend I watched the morning news on TV announcing details of his funeral. And then the news switched to the faces of some of his family, friends and politicians who shared some generous words about their loved one.

She gave the profound image of his hands. After all he was a big, tall man. How this person was related to Lincoln Alexander I did not catch. But what she was going to miss most, she said, were those hands of his holding her, and providing comfort and support to her in times of need.

And then, in the midst of her speech, the news clip ended abruptly, moving onto the next news item, something to do with the presidential debates south of the border. In the style of throwing out fast-paced, short sound-bite news segments, the TV news report gave me the impression that she had in fact more to say. It left me wondering, and wanting for, how she finished her comments.

Your beloved Grace is no longer with you. The death of a loved one can sometimes feel like an abrupt ending. No matter how old or how young we are at the end, it may feel like there was still more to say, still more to do – things that we will never now know, experience or witness on earth. And that hurts.

I’ll never know for sure what Lincoln Alexander’s loved one said to end that media scrum which never got to air. And I’ll never know in precise detail, this side of heaven, what exactly lies for me and for you and for Grace beyond the gate of death.

But I do know this: It’s not over. The meaning and value of our lives do not evaporate into nothingness even though our bodies die. Even though the ‘channel is switched’ so to speak.

Because the story, the Word, continues, even though I am not there! Even though I can’t see it all the time, I am held in the loving arms of my Creator forever. That story never ends.

Beyond death, I will continue to be embraced by the hands that fashioned me even before I was born (Psalm 139:13-18). Even more so – that my God will take me home and return me into the arms of Jesus (John 14:1-6). I will be joined forever in the household of heaven with all the saints, and shine in the pure joy and brilliance of all that is of God. This is Grace’s story now.

In the meantime, we on earth are not separated from those who have died. There are characteristics, personality-traits, memories of Grace all of which you now hold dearly in your heart. And which in some tangible, mysterious way, manifest themselves in our lives. I encourage you to look for those “Grace” moments. You may have already experienced some of these moments of recognition — being aware of a holy connection with the mystery of Grace’s spiritual presence.

The grace of God is truly amazing. It’s a wonderful play on words, isn’t it? We are talking about the grace of God and we are talking about Grace who was amazing. Amazing Grace.

Thank you God, for Grace. Thank you God for your grace. Hold us all in your Amazing Grace. Amen.

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)

The Value of Loss

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The story is told of a highly competitive and much scrutinized race for the position of arch-bishop over a prosperous diocese. Several bishops were vetted and interviewed by senior officials and religious leaders.

Everyone knew the stakes. This position was both a great responsibility and a great honour. People would look up to the new arch-bishop and follow his lead. Many privileges would come by the successful candidate. People would listen to what he said.

It all boiled down to the last interview. Two finalists met individually with the senior official who would make the final recommendation and appointment. The first candidate responded to a question by saying that the very best part of himself aspired to this position and therefore he would do a great job.

Later, the second candidate responded to the same question by saying that the best part of himself didn’t want the esteemed position; rather, the worst part of himself coveted it.

Guess who got the job?

In the logic of the world, success is defined by having more — that the only way to find security and happiness is through possessions and power. In the logic of the world it is only by satisfying all our wants that we can be content. It is an energy of acquirement based on the notion of absolute scarcity.

Therefore, we live according the winner-takes-all idea where we compete not only for goods, material things and political power, but also for meaning and love and relationship. Winning and losing takes on a whole new dimension when we figure into it our religious values.

What does it mean to follow Jesus, take up your cross, and lose your life for the sake of God and God’s mission? If we are going to take the words of Jesus seriously, well, what’s your life going to look like?

Should you pursue a job promotion, or be content with where you are? What about expensive theatre or ice-level tickets at Scotiabank Place or the Air Canada Centre? If you buy a pair of those, is that gross self-indulgence? Or, if your house is full of all sorts of material possessions, what will happen to your soul the next time you pass over a person in need?

We can worry about gas prices and argue over who holds the TV remote control. We can get all fussy over keeping neighbourhood kids and their skateboards off the church parking lot, even if we don’t give a whip about the inner or outer states of their lives. But for the life of us, we struggle to keep focus during even the briefest of prayers.

What does it mean to follow Jesus in your life?

When we boil it down to making good choices, are we not still operating in the logic of this world, which suggests that “it’s all up to us” and “what you make of it”? Are we still not acting on the presumption of acquirement (of good, righteous living)? Are we still not presuming that by our own strength we can make it right? Do our ego compulsions make any room at all for God?

We can sympathize with Peter’s objections when he confronts Jesus against the notion of a Messiah who must suffer and die (Mark 8:27-38). We can understand Peter’s confusion and rebuke — because like most of us he, too, must confess his entrapment to the popular notions of power, possession and security in the world.

Have you heard the joke of two people who died around the same time — a Lutheran pastor and a New York City taxi driver? Both approached the gates of heaven and were met by Saint Peter. Immediately the angelic hosts — singing a joyous chorus — surrounded the taxi driver, embraced him and ushered him with pomp through the gates and into the glories of heaven.

The pastor was left at the gates while Saint Peter had to check the heavenly files. It was some hours before the pastor finally asked, “Why did the taxi driver get to go through so quickly and I — a servant of the Lord — must wait in line so long to enter?”

“Well, you see,” replied Saint Peter, “When you preached the people in the church fell asleep; when the taxi driver drove, the people in his car prayed earnestly!”

Anne Lammott just published a book entitled: “Help. Thanks. Wow: The Three Essential Prayers.” That title suggests that real, authentic, heart-centred prayer is simple. Martin Luther said about prayer that fewer words make a better prayer. In the Psalm for today (116) we encounter a phrase often mentioned in scripture: “I call on the name of the Lord”.

We can take that meaning plainly to say, simply the name of the Lord: Jesus. In ancient tradition this was the Prayer of the Heart: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner” — and this was the simple prayer repeated over and over again during a short period of silence and stillness in the midst of any circumstance of life.

So, what does prayer have to do with “losing our life”? For one thing, prayer forces us to experience the living Christ, not just talk about Jesus.

I don’t know about you, but I have found in my own life that sometimes I am more comfortable talking about Jesus. But caring about Jesus with the insight of my mind or through the books on my shelf is not the same as giving over the full allegiance of my life and simply being in Christ.

It’s a little bit like the difference between talking about a loved one and actually picking up the phone or looking them straight in the eye and telling a person you really love them.

When Jesus asked his disciples that day, “Who do people say that I am?” they had no trouble answering that question. As many prominent names as they could pull out of their Bible or from their community, they offered up. It was a nice objective question to which they could give nice objective answers.

When Jesus changed one word, however, it became a bit more difficult: “Who do YOU say that I am?” Suddenly their confidence and investment in him, and all that he was, was being tested. This was a much more difficult question to answer, because they had to answer it with their lives and not just with their brains.

The minute we hear this question posed to us, we do have a choice. We can either hold back and talk about this Christ figure whose sayings and deeds are written down in a precious ancient book. Or, we can decide to open up to the fullness of our lives by using the language of love.

Have we at times noticed, for example, that when we give a gift to another we recognize how much we receive in return? (recent studies indicate that the only way money truly makes us happy is when we give it away) Or, have you discovered on occasion that only by loving another do you feel yourself to be loved? Have you ever gone without, in order that someone could have more — and then felt intensely richer as a result? Or, that there’s no better way to find a friend than first to be a friend, and that unexpected rewards come through sacrifice?

C.S. Lewis wrote, “Give up yourself and you will find your real self. Lose life and it will be saved. Submit to death – the death of ambitions and secret wishes. Keep nothing back. Nothing in us that has not died will ever be raised from the dead. Look for Christ and you will find him.”

In the world’s logic, we don’t want to lose because losing leaves us alone, forsaken, abandoned. In the recent ‘Dr. Seuss and the Lorax’ movie, the main character, the Once-ler, achieves great success selling his Thneebs by cutting down all the trees. But his greed and ambition to acquire more without recognizing any limits — leads to failure. And in the movie you see how when his kingdom comes crumbling down, everyone abandons him: His forest friends and the Lorax — because they no longer have a place to live without the trees, his family because he disappointed them. Losing meant abandonment.

But in the losing we experience the grace of God. It is in the loss where and when we find Christ. Jesus experienced the ultimate loss and then exposed the false logic of the world on the Cross and out of the empty tomb.

Therefore we are not alone when we lose. Because Someone who loves us will find us. And give us another chance, a new beginning, and a new life.

How is God faithful? – In the Margins

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An elderly woman lived on a small farm in Manitoba, Canada – just yards away from the North Dakota border. Their land had been the subject of a minor dispute between the United States and Canada for years. The widowed woman lived on the farm with her son and three grandchildren.

One day, her son came into her room holding a letter. “I just got some news, Mom,” he said. “The government has come to an agreement with the people in North Dakota. They’ve decided that our land is really part of the United States. We have the right to approve or disapprove of the agreement. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” his mother said. “Sign it! Call them right now and tell them we accept! I don’t think I can stand another Canadian winter!”

Celebrating Canada Day is about celebrating who we are. And who we are is to a large extent defined by our borders. Indeed, boundaries are important. We need to be clear about the margins, the borders, of our country to understand the shape, size and very nature of our identity.

The margins are both bad and good places for us.

Often we think of the margins as places we don’t want to go to. Those are unknown, scary places full of tension. Margins are not desirable locales. They are places where danger lurks.

I visited this past week the Carlington neighborhood whose chaplaincy we support by our donations and, more significantly, our volunteer leaders. Here, in Ottawa, this area was established for “low income housing” where poor people live. People who call that neighborhood “home” live on the margins of society, so we say.

Jesus, of course, goes to those scary places – our Gospel text today (Mark 5:21-43) opens with a statement recognizing borders: “Jesus crossed in a boat to the other side.” For a rabbi to go to the margins, this is something extraordinary. Jesus is not afraid to go to those from whom we normally want to keep distant.

Jesus goes directly into the home of those whom he heals – Jairus’ daughter in this case. Jesus doesn’t heal from a distance; he goes right into the room and even touches the sick, the outcast and the marginalized. The Gospels are full of such examples. This is his practice – going to the margins. This defines his identity.

Jesus would make a good Canadian. It’s interesting we are living in a time of our history when Canadians are just starting to explore and establish our national presence in a largely unknown “margin” of our country – the Arctic in the Far North. We might find Jesus there. Or would we?

Because Christianity is not just about going to and debating geographic boundaries. Christianity is more than that. It is essentially about going to the social margins.

Notice the literary structure of the Gospel story. Interesting that scribes, translators and early redactors of the text maintained the “interrupted” nature of this text from scripture. They didn’t separate the two distinct healing stories into neat, successive stories. The healing of the woman with hemorrhaging interrupts the story of the healing of Jairus’ daughter. There is something important about preserving this interrupted structure of scripture.

Can going to the margins be good for us? Because, in truth, it describes our reality. Immigrants especially should understand this. Canada is full of immigrants. The nation state of Canada as we know it developed out of our immigrant identity. How can we describe our immigrant experience?

For one thing, immigrants are people betwixt and between two places; it is an interrupted reality, so to speak. As a first generation Canadian I have felt the residual effects of this reality, experienced more directly of course by my parents.

New immigrants often feel ‘marginalized’ in the dominant culture. They neither feel they belong fully to where they’ve come from; nor do they feel they belong fully to where they’ve landed. These are the margins as well; it is who we are, crossing both boundaries of national identities, and creating something new and unique.

Listen to the words of Mary Joy Philip who was one of the keynote speakers at the Luther Hostel last month inWaterloo. She said,

“What is home now? India? The United States? Most of my life has been spent in India; I was educated, married, had children, a career there. And now I have been in the U.S. for fifteen years. So, where is home now? Where do I belong? Having been away from India this long, do I belong there? And even though I have been in the U.S.for fifteen years, I definitely don’t have that feeling of belonging. I am an outsider and always will be. So, I don’t feel that I belong in India or in the U.S.; and yet, I belong in both … I belong in that in-between space, betwixt and between … you are neither there nor here but in both … [which] puts me in a unique position of being in beyond both, of being what you might call a hybrid.”

I would add that Canada is full of ‘hybrids’.

Yet what is truly remarkable about Jesus is that he doesn’t just go to the margins; he crosses the borders of social acceptability. He crosses the borders that we might deem fearful. He crosses the borders of any kind of stigma that separates people. He crosses the borders of theological correctness, doctrinal purity. He crosses the borders of ethnic segregation.

To be sure, the margins are places of tension, a tension between endings and beginnings. But it is precisely this tension that sustains life. Those margins, the borders, prove so necessary to our common life and growth together as a nation and people of God’s reign.

Let’s remember that, in a sense, Jesus was a hybrid: Fully human and fully divine. Both/And. Jesus, the God-man, lived at the margins, in theGalilee, where from, in the eyes of the others no good could come, but from whither and from whom the “good news” came. How can the margins NOT be the threshold to something new, something transformed, something good, in Christ Jesus.

Mary Joy Philip went on to assert that as an immigrant, she could draw out the uniqueness of both places she was and is now, and create a new space to be … which allowed her to have a distinct identity.”

Crossing over may not always be ideal nor perfect. But it is important to do, and good, too. As we venture into this new space we need only to hear Jesus’ words over and over again: “Do not fear, only believe.”

A small yet significant example from our Canadian history illustrates well this dynamic: Chiefswood is the name of the house of Canadian literary giant, Pauline Johnson. This stately house is situated on the Six Nations Reserve nearBrantford,Ontario. The house, literally, was built as a ‘cross-over’ for two distinct peoples sharing the land.

The house has identical entrances on opposite sides of the main floor, joined by a common foyer hall and staircase going up, in between. One entrance was designated for the Six Nations community to enter, and the other for the British side. The home served as the in-between space for both sides to co-exist. Their home provided a space where on equal footing – literally – interaction and dialogue could happen; and perhaps even transformation of BOTH sides in deep, meaningful ways. What a great image and model for Canada, moving forward!

I think we Canadians are well conditioned and poised by our history and our faith to be thankful and assert our unique identity in the world as a people whose social borders are crossed and mutually transformed into something more beautiful. That is to say: the ‘whole’ of what it means to be Canadian is larger than the sum of our individual parts.

Thank God for going to the margins of our lives!

Amen.

Easter 7B – Christian Unity, in the End

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JOHN 17

When they were younger my children used to watch a children’s cartoon entitled “Busytown Mysteries” aired on CBC TV. It’s about these animal cartoon characters – among them a giraffe, a mouse, a pig – who are friends, and are called upon to solve mysteries in their town.

In one episode the bunch of sleuths were called upon to solve a rather peculiar mystery: A pair of ski-tracks in the snow followed an inexplicable course down the mountain – the pair of tracks circumvented a giant boulder, but one track on either side of the rock! Then, the pair of tracks travelled together, side-by-side through a hollowed-out, low-lying log. Who, or what, could have made those tracks? And how?

A tall-legged giraffe could have gone over the boulder easily enough, but how then could it have gone through the log? A mouse could have gotten through the log, but what about the tall boulder? The evidence didn’t add up. Not until the sleuths changed their assumptions – saw the problem through a different perspective altogether, was the mystery solved.

You see, they had assumed the skier was by themselves – one person. Everything made sense when they discovered that in fact there were two mice who were not skiing, but snow-boarding beside each other down the hill. The truth was revealed after they assumed the maker of those tracks was not alone.

Jesus, before he went to his suffering and death, prayed to his God, the Father. And he prayed that his followers on earth “might be one.” In other words, he didn’t want them to be alone – isolated, competing, independent individuals. He prayed for their unity. He prayed that harmony, cooperation, mutuality and collaboration would characterize the Church on earth.

But sometimes the evidence just does not add up. What we see on the surface is the opposite: We see division. And we can’t always and easily explain the “mystical”, invisible, spiritual union we claim we have whenever we celebrate the sacrament of unity during Holy Communion.

At the same time I suspect we would have a hard time making Christian unity a central aspect of our witness to the world, a world that dwells only it seems, on the schisms, controversies and in-fighting in Christianity.

How is this unity experienced in reality? Are we willing to change some of our pre-conceived assumptions about how the world works and how the church works? Like the Busytown buddies, would we be willing to solve the mystery by realizing unity means we are not alone in this world? How can we celebrate our unity “on the ground in our daily lives when the world wants to tell us we are on our own, competing, survival-of-the-fittest?

Or, do we even care? Are we satisfied and comfortable to remain entrenched and cocooned in our defensive posture?

Paul MacLean, highly esteemed and successful rookie head coach of the Ottawa Senators said after the Sens were eliminated from the playoffs a few weeks ago, “You win a Stanley Cup not by defending; you win a Stanley Cup by scoring goals.” How can our “offence” become our best “defence”? In other words, how being united in Christ become our best “offence” in the world bent on rugged individualism?

We advance Christian unity when the world sees that we care for one another in our weaknesses. In verse 11 of John 17 Jesus prays, “Holy Father, protect them … so that they may be one as we are one.” Jesus’ prayer for unity among his followers is linked to God’s protection and provision.

Now, the translation from Greek to the word, “protect”, may make us feel like God needs to protect us from all that is bad and evil and scary in the world – as is the case, literally, at the end of the passage (v.15) when Jesus in fact does pray for this.

But in verse 11 when unity is at stake, the Greek word for “protect” – tereo – carries overtones of “pay attention” to one another, or “attend to carefully”, or “take care of”, in the same way parents care for their children.

The truth is, we can’t do mission in the world effectively if we’re always fighting each other. But when the world sees how Christians care for one another in their needs – how a community of faith supports each other in the work of the Gospel – this leads to enhanced Christian unity.

Continuing the hockey analogy, this is called “puck support”; it’s not about only the star player going in to score, it’s about everyone “supporting” one another in moving the puck forward. It was only when Alex Ovechkin had less ice-time in the latter part of this season that the Washington Capitals experienced greater success as a team. When the level of play increases for all the players can the team be at its best.

God cares for us and will provide for our every need, no matter the circumstances of our lives. No matter how dire or conflicted or heavy the burdens of our lives and the challenges we face, listen to the promise of God, here: God will care for us. God will give us what we need to endure, to live, to prosper.

How did God the Father care for Jesus? How did God the Father care for Jesus? Even though Jesus endured suffering and brutal death on the cross, the Father held Christ through that terrible experience of death and brought him to new life and resurrection.

Resurrection is the end-game, the destination of all we experience. Not death. The power of death has no strangle-hold on our life, in Christ. Because baptized into the Body of Christ we know that nothing will separate us from the care, the love of God.

And God continues to care and protect us. We can therefore live confidently, caring for one another. We can live confidently and compassionately for others through it all, showing the world that in Christ we are united as we care for one another and the world that God so loved.

On one level our unity is a mystery, like the experience of Christ’s real and true presence in the Sacrament. But on another level, Christian unity is not a mystery. It is rock-solid, visible truth. We are not alone. We are not by ourselves on the journey. Just look around you. What unites us is greater than whatever may divide us.

Whenever we notice in another their unique gift and presence in the community – and tell them! – with a kind, generous and encouraging word, we affirm that what unites us is greater than whatever may divide us.

Whenever we work shoulder to shoulder in any outreach to the community as, for example, we will next week in the book sale & community BBQ for supporting LAMP,  we affirm that what unites us is greater than whatever may divide us.

Whenever we pray together, reflect on scripture together, and celebrate the Holy Meal together, we affirm that what unites us is greater than whatever may divide us.

Whenever we visit with one another and care for one another in the love and light of Christ Jesus within us, we affirm that what unites us is greater than whatever may divide us.

The living Lord Jesus, the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end.

Amen.