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It’s ok to fall (4): It’s the only way

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It’s only the second Sunday in Lent. Time seems to drag during this long, hard season. At least Advent — a similar season of preparation, repentance, and waiting — is only four weeks long; things seem to go faster in December.

The pace for Lent is perfect for Sarai and Abram. They are old — in their nineties, now in the twilight of their lives (Genesis 17). They are, likely, slower in moving about and more reflective than the young. They are, likely, more contemplative and more aware of the mistakes they have made and the wounds they have caused — all of which is appropriate for the Lenten journey (Craig Kocher, “Feasting on the Word” Year B Vol 2, Westminster/John Knox Press, Kentucky, 2008, p.50). I agree — although it’s hard to admit — sometimes we need a slower pace, and a place to listen and pray carefully, to confess our sin, as we turn toward God.

I tried something for the first time this past week which goes against the grain of my personality. When I go for my 45 minute walks, my route takes me along streets, roadways and eventually into a beautiful multi-acred forest called ‘the Grove’ whose trails lead to the Ottawa River. 

But I always carry my smart-phone with me. I have justified doing so for safety reasons. My hyper-vigilant personality loves this — no matter where I am on this planet I am only a text or phone call away! If there is a crisis or emergency, I can respond with efficiency and lightning speed to get help.

As I pondered leaving my phone at home, before going for my walk, I reflected on how dependent I have become on this device. Addicted, perhaps? I wondered what I would have done before the smart-phone era — not long ago, but long enough! If there was an emergency, I would have sought a neighbour’s help by knocking on their door; I would have paid more attention to my surroundings and where I might find help. I would have prepared better for my walk. I would have rested more in the moment, trusting more in the interrelated fabric of life around me.

So, here’s the good news. (But the structure of this sermon goes like this: There’s good news, then bad news, then really good news. Stay with me!) First good news, from this experience: I felt liberated. Leaving my phone behind wasn’t really that hard to do — and yet, it was a small step in a healthy direction, a simple sacrifice for evaluating my life-style and making concrete changes for the good. I will now practice more often ‘leaving my phone behind’, for its obvious benefits.

These are the ‘small’ steps we can make during Lent. Others give up chocolate, sweets, meat. Others still will ‘add’ something to their lifestyle — exercise, working out, volunteering more, coming to church more often, giving more money for some overseas mission, spending more time in prayer — all these good disciplines that are popular for Christians in Lent. And these are good!

During Lent, however, we are called also to contemplate the journey of Jesus to the cross — and the implications of that kind of sacrifice on our own lives. And so — and here’s the rub, the ‘bad’ news: Giving up chocolate or the cell phone is not ultimately what the Lenten journey is about. Jesus’ death on the cross was not making a ‘convenient’ sacrifice. Jesus’ death on the cross was not a little discipline that pinched but really didn’t change anything significant when Easter morning came around.

Jesus’ sacrifice goes to the jugular of our lives; it demands a costly cost; it means a radical change and giving up of something that is near and dear to us.

God calls Abram and Sarai to change their names. And it was a big deal in their day. In our times, names are often considered nothing more than labels. In our world, names are often chosen based on nostalgia, diction or popularity.

In the ancient world, however, names reflected the character and destiny of that person. To be called by your name, was a big deal. To change that identification was radical! Names were wrapped up in the core of one’s identity and purpose.

The name of God, above all, was untouchable — literally. The Jewish people withheld from spelling God’s name in scripture, from saying God’s name out-loud in worship. To call ‘on the name of the Lord’ was an act of profound devotion. To call ‘on the name of the Lord’ was a radical act of identifying with an un-nameable God.

And yet, in this text, even God is given a new name. For the first time, God is given the name “God Almighty” (Genesis 17:1). It is transliterated from the Hebrew, “El Shaddai” which might be translated, “God of the Mountains” (ibid., p.52).

So, here is my invitation to you today: Consider what profound and deep aspect of your life God is calling you to change. You may object, on the grounds of scriptural interpretation alone: “This text is not about us needing to change! God called Abram and Sarai to change their names. That was them. But not us!” 

Yes, we may think on occasions — even religious in nature — where we do still change our names — at weddings, some women will change their last names; and in Christian baptisms practised in some churches, babies take on their “Christian” name for the first time.

And yet, when we read this Old Testament text, and while we would do well to acknowledge its original context and meaning to the first people who received it, we are still asked today: What does it mean to us? How can this text become alive for us today?

And when we relate this text to the Gospel for today (Mark 8:31-38), where Jesus calls us to take up our cross and follow him, where Jesus challenges us to ‘lose’ our lives in order to ‘gain’ life — what does that mean? It’s not just about throwing a little more cash in the offering plate, or not indulging in sweets.

What may God be calling us to change, in our own lives? What may God be calling us, whispering into our hearts, to ‘lose’? Are we prepared to fall? Big time?

Jesus shows us that it’s okay to fall, because it’s the only way to go: The Cross. If anything, don’t skip opportunities in Lent to worship — during mid-week studies, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Easter Vigil. Why? Going to the Cross, through the Cross, is the only way for us to know and experience the joy and truth of resurrection. Being uncomfortable by facing our fear, anger and shame is the only way for us to know and experience the joy of life. If you yearn for true joy, satisfaction and rebirth in your life, being uncomfortable is the only way for you to be healed, to be redeemed and forgiven, to find your way in this world.

You can’t have Easter without Good Friday. We need to be prepared to ‘lose’ ourselves — to fall — in order to ‘find’ ourselves — to get up, again. In Christ. “El Shaddai”, God of the Mountains. Mountains define valleys. You can’t have mountains without valleys. Mountains encircle valleys — valleys of despair, valleys of impatience and sorrow, valleys of Lenten confession and discipline. Wherever you have a range of mountains, you will have valleys. But whenever you find yourself in a valley, don’t give up. Don’t get stuck in the valley. Don’t get comfortable there, either. Get up and keep on, because there’s a mountain just up ahead pointing our vision to the skies. 

And here comes the really good news (after the bad news, after the first good news): Abram is ninety-nine years old when ‘the big change’ happens. Ninety-nine! It’s never too late. Never too late for God to call us to change. Never too late for God to call us into ‘losing’ something that we have for a life-time believed to be important. Never too late for God to give us the strength we need to endure and follow-through on that change. Never too late for God to bless us with a wonderful gift of the new thing God is doing for us — whatever that may be.

God will never give up on us. God will wait a life-time, and then some! God is the God of Mountains. And mountains are steadfast and true. Mountains point upwards to the vastness and infinite beauty and glory of the sky and the stars. God pointed Moses’ vision upwards to see the Big Picture of God’s promises and God’s future.

Mountains will remind us, I pray, that God’s promises are sure. God’s covenant to us cannot be broken, even as we follow Jesus down this long, slow road. But, “whose destiny is our destiny: the cross, the grave, the skies” (ibid, p.54).

It’s ok to fall (3): Jesus leads us there

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The beginning of a story introduces the characters, but it also sets things up for what readers can expect later in the book. The writer of a good story will craft, early on, a good ‘set up’ for the plot development. Here’s an example, and you tell me what you think will happen later in the story:

At the beginning of this story, we read about a couple of children walking home from school, as they always do, along a familiar path. However, their route goes by the town’s cemetery, a place they have never visited. It remains a mystery to them. The cemetery is guarded by spiked, iron-wrought gates and surrounded by tall, thick cedar hedges.

The children are coming of age when their curiosity is piquing, and they ask their parents if they can venture into the cemetery. But they are warned repeatedly from all quarters: “Don’t ever, ever, EVER play in the cemetery! Especially, after dark!”

Now, what do you think will happen as a result of this ‘set up’ in the story line? They’ll likely go there! — into the cemetery, at night, perhaps under scary or tension-filled circumstances. And, we want to read on to find out how, as our own imaginations grow! It’s true, when we are ordered not to do something in some unequivocal, unyielding, non-explanatory way, it’s something we will usually end up doing! The story is a snap-shot of life.

Social history bears witness to this human dynamic: In 1920, law-makers south of the border enacted the 18th Amendment which attempted to curb the evils of liquor. Laws were passed against the sale and trade of alcohol. The result? After Prohibition was finally lifted, historians showed that the consumption of alcohol by the general population actually increased during those ‘prohibitive’ years. (Strayer & Gatzke, “The Mainstream of Civilization since 1500”, Harcourt, Toronto, 1984, p.730)

“Brick-wall” parenting, as some call it, often fails. Because children don’t grow in an environment where the evils of the world can be talked about, reasoned through and struggled with in loving, patient and understanding ways. They just outright rebel.

Perhaps it was employing some reverse-psychology that spurred Martin Luther to say those infamous words: “Sin boldly … !” But I like to emphasize the latter part of that quote: “Sin boldly … and trust the Lord even more.” Luther doesn’t deny or hide away from sin. He just trumps it, with the Lord!

When I assert repeatedly the theme of this sermon series for Lent: “It’s okay to fall”, I am NOT encouraging you to sin. Because you don’t need to purposely go out and find sin and suffering. You don’t need to seek out suffering, as if it’s a choice we can make (eg. “I think I’ll go out and sin today”; or, “I don’t think I’ll sin today!”)

Sin is something that we must learn to live with. It’s a part of our lives. Sin is not something we can ‘will’ away by the force of our self-righteous toil to purge ourselves somehow. If you think yourself a good Christian, you may be good at hiding your sin. But honest, faithful, authentic Christians will struggle monumentally with their sin, and not need to put on masks of perfection when they come to church.

Life happens. Life is ‘done unto us’. Mistakes are made. I can’t explain why God created a world where suffering is so much a part of the journey of life. The better, more meaningful question, I believe, is to consider what the suffering and the sin has to teach us about ourselves in relationship to God, in the journey to redemption.

In other words, it’s okay to fall, because that is where Jesus leads us. In the Gospel text for the first Sunday in Lent, after Jesus is baptized, “The Spirit of God immediately drove him into the wilderness” (Mark 1:12) where he spent forty days, tempted by Satan. This part of Jesus’ life is for me the image I hold whenever I pray the traditional English translation of the Lord’s Prayer: “Lead us not into temptation”.

Because, while Jesus does not cause my sinning, Jesus leads me into the wilderness of my life where I must confront all those temptations, the brokenness, weaknesses, despair, anger, fear, guilt — that cause my sinning. Jesus takes me there, into the barren land of my soul. He leads the way. I must follow.

The formal ‘Invitation to the Lenten discipline’ in most liturgies begins with a call to self-examination — even before repenting, praying, fasting and works of love strengthened by the gifts of word and sacrament (Evangelical Lutheran Worship, Leader’s Desk Edition, Augsburg Fortress, p.617). Self-examination is an act of profound humility and honesty. And it could very well be the most difficult task in the Lenten journey.

Here is some good news: Jesus is not afraid. Because he has already gone to the darkest place of all — the Cross, and then even descended into hell as we affirm in the Creeds. I can persevere through any turmoil life may offer, because Jesus is there, right beside me, helping me get through it.

What makes the consequences of our sin worse, I suspect, is the kind of thinking that suggests Jesus cannot be present if or whenever we go into those dark places of our lives. Our prejudice may be that Jesus cannot be there in the shameful, anger-ridden, fear-devastated places of our suffering. We thus delude ourselves into believing “I am alone” in my suffering. The Gospel, however, teaches us otherwise.

I was so inspired by the record number of folks we had out on Shrove Tuesday for our pancake party — including almost a dozen folks from the neighbourhood who had never been with us before! We danced, we sang, we ate, we enjoyed music together.

When we are in the desert of our lives confronting our sin and suffering, it is so important to know, again, who your friends are, your family, your community, your church — and simply experience their presence. And by their presence, their loving support — even in the darkest time of our lives. Just being there together, can make a huge difference.

Therefore, I can be encouraged that as Jesus was waited upon by the angels who gave him the things he needed to get through his wilderness suffering, so then Jesus will not abandon me in my desert. He’ll be right there beside me, and give me what I need (and maybe not always what I want).

It’s okay to fall, because Jesus leads me into that place that I would rather avoid. And even that place where I might be tempted to go. Because I don’t go alone. Thanks be to God.

It’s ok to fall (1): Jesus lets us

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There’s a bouncy feel to the rhythm of Mark’s story-telling. I can track the Gospel of Mark on a chart in terms of highs and lows:

The highs are the remarkable, miraculous, inexplicable even sensational events witnessed by story-tellers. Beginning with the baptism of Jesus in the first chapter (v.9-11) — voices from heaven, clouds parting, dove descending.

Then, mid-way through the Gospel Jesus goes atop a mountain and turns into this divine, ethereal being before the disciples’ eyes (Mark 9:2-9). Giants from Hebrew history — Moses and Elijah — appear out of thin air, clouds roil and again a voice from heaven. And, in the last chapter (16:9-20), of course, the brief but significant mention of Jesus’ glorious resurrection from the dead. These are definitely ‘highs’.

The lows are a bit more tricky. They represent the down-side of Jesus’ ministry — the temptation after forty impoverished days in the desert, the scrutiny of the Pharisees, all culminating in the Passion of Christ: his betrayal, arrest, torture, crucifixion, death and burial. Some original manuscripts of the Gospel of Mark end on a ‘low’: “So [the disciples] went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid” (v.8).

Talk about bouncy, like what often happens with the outdoor temperature when seasons change!

These lows are tricky, because, as we shall see, they are not really ‘lows’. At least, they are not the final word in the story of faith. There is always an upside past the low. The troubling truth is that the high will not happen without the necessary, preceding low. In other words, before we rise we must know to fall.

I told this story already once before but it bears repeating. It illustrates the point rather well. And it is a summer-time, water-play story — and my imagination goes there frequently at this frozen time of year.

I was learning to water-ski. In fact, it was the first time I ever tried it, at age thirty. Jessica and I visited with some friends who had a cottage on a small lake nestled in the Bruce Peninsula north of Owen Sound.

It was a good lake to learn on. Few cottagers, even fewer boaters. A quiet, round lake. And my friend, John who drove the boat, assured me that we would just circle the lake a few times and when I wanted to stop, just to wave my arm and he would bring me close to shore.

John’s family, gathered with Jessica at shore to watch me. They assured me that it was normal to fall the first time on skis. In fact, they said they didn’t remember anyone ever being able to lift up and out of the water the first time without falling, when the boat accelerated. I think my friends were getting ready for a long afternoon of fits, stops and starts.

Well, were they in for a surprise. Including myself. Well, not really. Because, darn it all, I would employ all my strength and stamina NOT TO FALL!!!!

I was sitting with my skis submerged in the water, when John hit the gas and I felt the first tug. I gripped the tow rope handle with all my power and pulled myself out of the water, and voila! I was skiing! I briefly heard the cheering of my friends on the shore behind me before we were out on the open water and the waves were peeling off the sides of my skis. I enjoyed it for a few minutes.

But then, my back started cramping up, and my thighs began to seize up. We were around the lake a dozen times before I fully realized I was in some incredible pain. But I never wiped out once! It wasn’t until afterward that I came to the conclusion — after impressing everyone, I think — that I never relaxed into the experience. I was so tight because I didn’t want to fall.

And yet, I needed to fall. I needed to just let go into the water to know how it felt. My enjoyment of the experience was dampened because of an unrealistic, and inhuman (I might add) expectation of myself. Even though I never fell waterskiing that first time, even though I was ‘perfect’ at it — have I ever wanted to go again? No.

When I recall, as a child, those times that I truly enjoyed playing in the water — it was those times whenever a huge wave caught me off balance and threw me head over heels onto the beach. Those were the times I jumped up and ran back in with glee. It’s the same thing with water slides, and why we will run back up the steps all afternoon long. There is something important about sliding under the surface of the water, losing control, falling into grace, letting go into the sometimes tumultuous waters of our baptism.

This is the first movement of anyone’s true, journey of faith. The pull of the current is downward. Austrian poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, writes: “How surely gravity’s law, strong as an ocean current, takes hold of even the smallest thing and pulls it toward the heart of the world … This is what the things can teach us: to fall, patiently to trust our heaviness” (cited in Richard Rohr, “Falling Upward”, Jossey Bass, San Francisco, 2011, p.153).

What I am learning over time is that we are the cause of our sinning more than anything or anyone else. Because it is natural to fall, from time to time. But we don’t allow ourselves, give ourselves permission, to do just that. We resist, deny, suppress this movement downward. Part of the Lenten journey, I believe, is to reflect on why it is we don’t allow ourselves to just let go into the arms of God, and simply trust.

Admittedly our human nature is such, that we would rather avoid the low and shoot straight for the high. I get that. It is also true, we are up against a giant. We build our lives up against the fear of falling. We are a success-oriented culture. We construct our fortress of security, we incessantly compare ourselves to others and measure our self-worth against some notion of success plastered on the front covers of magazines and echoed through the voices of our sports’ heroes and business tycoons. We are an upwardly mobile culture, valuing even yearning for this trending in our own lives. ‘Up’ is the only way to go! What else is there to do?

So, beware of this prejudice against falling before we start! I ask you to consider all these real and important concerns we have in our culture against falling — whether they are physical, emotional, spiritual — and hold them before you, carefully, during the coming “down” season.

The glorious, divine vision of Jesus is hard to explain. It is a miracle way beyond human understanding. We may say that this event was meant to encourage and empower Jesus for his coming journey to the cross. We may say that we need to be reminded again of the divine nature of Jesus. We may say that what this text tells us is to be obedient, and “listen” to, Jesus, the Holy One of God.

But I like how the story ends. Mark, in his brevity nonetheless, does take intentional note of the movement of the disciples with Jesus “down the mountain” (v.9). This is the sounding bell for Lent. We are now ready to begin the journey downward, into the valley. We are now on a downward trajectory.

And the real question is: What will we do with that? Will we distract ourselves even more? Will we intensify our addictive behaviour and buy more toys to keep the pain at bay? Will we pretend that ‘all is well’ when it is not?

Or, will we face our fears, confront our internal poverty and our crisis, with courage? And I say, with courage, because there is reason to hope when we stand on the edge of the abyss. There is reason to persevere through the fall.

In Matthew’s version of the story of Jesus’ Transfiguration (17:1-8), describing with even more detail than Mark all that happened in this incredible mountain-top scene, the disciples who go with Jesus to see this heavenly vision and hear the voice of God from the bright, overshadowing cloud — what do they do? “When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear” (v.6). They fall to the ground. And not only that …

Jesus’ lets them. He doesn’t scold them for falling down by saying something like, “Hey, buck up; you are standing on holy ground before Elijah, Moses and my divine being! Don’t fall down and grovel in the dirt! Pull yourself together! You’re my disciples, after all! Show some respect!” No, he doesn’t.

Instead, Jesus let’s them be humbled before his divine presence. If but for a short moment, Jesus allows them their humanity. And then he says with encouraging, inviting words, “You don’t have to be afraid, get up” (v.7).

I hope you can join me in the coming Lenten journey, taking great comfort in the Good News of Jesus. I can almost hear Jesus’ loving voice whisper in my ear, next time I risk getting on water skis again, “It’s okay to fall, you know. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Step off the gas

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It was -20c and the roadways were covered with snow and ice. And yet, I was feeling pretty proud of myself. Coming into the west-end near Stittsville, the Queensway/417 (the main expressway through the city of Ottawa) was empty. And it was mid-morning on a weekday!

I was powering it through! A little snowfall wasn’t going to impede me. I was going at my regular speed in the passing lane and was wondering why very few were venturing onto the highway. And then I saw a car had spun out, resting perpendicular to me at the side of the 417 in front of the Canadian Tire Centre. It had struck the guardrail. And a little further on I witnessed another car spinning out of control.

I decided to slow down, and tapped the brake. Surely my four-wheel drive will keep me in control. And then I felt the wheels begin to float underneath me. I stepped on the gas to try to get grip. But the fish-tailing was starting to feel like a swan dive! I was losing it!

You drivers out there, what would you do? Thankfully in that moment, I remembered what my drivers-ed teacher taught me thirty years ago: Step off the gas! I think we instinctively associate stepping on the gas with more control — in all circumstances; the more I give, the more I expend, the more I put myself out there — the better it’ll be.

But in this case, the solution was to let go and just keep the steering wheel pointed forward. And as soon as I let off the accelerator, the four wheels found purchase, and I was able to recover. It is a little bit counter-intuitive for us in our get’er done culture to divest ourselves of the belief that doing more about something will save us from whatever predicament we find ourselves in. Sometimes, in tough situations, we just have to let off the gas, a bit.

Isaiah writes to a people in exile. Some six hundred years before Jesus, the people of God were taken to a far away land, in Babylon, where for some generations they made it their home. They had to let go of things precious, people beloved, and a way of life they believed to be sacrosanct.

But Babylon was not home. Jerusalem was. And now, gone was their temple worship. Gone were the symbols, rituals and constant reminders of who they were and who the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob was. Gone was their culture, their social structures, their familiar communities.

And, in its place were foreign languages, foreign gods and strange customs. The Psalmist recalls the tragic sense of their exiled life, where they lamented, and mourned their loss: (Psalm 137:1-6)

By the rivers of Babylon—
there we sat down and there we wept
when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there
we hung up our harps.
For there our captors
asked us for songs,
and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying,
‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’
How could we sing the Lord’s song
in a foreign land?
If I forget you, O Jerusalem,
let my right hand wither!
Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth,
if I do not remember you,
if I do not set Jerusalem
above my highest joy.

To address this despair, Isaiah (40:21-31) offers some strategies for coping. First he holds in beautiful tension a paradox about God — two aspects of God over which theologians over the centuries have sparred: God is BOTH transcendent AND immanent. Not only is God up there “sitting above the circle of the earth (v.22), God also calls each part of creation “by name” (v.26).

Not only is God some far-away all powerful being, God is also personal, and calls to you by your name. God values what happens ‘on the ground’ in our ordinary lives. God’s love for us is revealed not only in the extraordinary, but especially in the ordinary lives of you and me. God cares.

Second, the prophet Isaiah encourages the people in exile not to forget their story, not to forget their history, not to forget what God had done for them in the past. Twice in this text the prophet asks the rhetorical questions: “Have you not heard? Have you not known? Has it not been told … ?” (v. 21&28). Of course they’ve heard! Of course they have been told! The problem is, they have forgotten.

A re-membering of their story — of God’s story with them — could strengthen their sense of identity, and bring forward to the present circumstances a hope that would see them through their loss. In other words, remembering for the future is an integral part of having faith in God.

Part of what it means to believe in God, is to believe in your story — and remember it! Remember what brought you to be where you are, today. Recall the most difficult times in your lives, and how God brought you through. Picture in your mind the people who where there, helping you cope and manage — friends, doctors, family, spouses, neighbours — people who came into your life at that lowest point and were like God’s angels to you.

Claim this story as your story of faith in a God who still makes good on God’s promises. The very fact that you are sitting in this room today is testimony enough to say: You survived! And not only did you survive — in many ways you thrived! And will so, again!

Not only do we remember who we are, we must remember who God is. God is in charge and whose thoughts and actions are way beyond our own capabilities (Isaiah 55:8-9). Therefore, our first job, especially when we are down-and-out, is to be patient. “Wait” is the direction from the prophet Isaiah. Just let off the gas a little bit. Saint Augustine wrote that ‘patience is the companion of wisdom’.

You might not need to do anything right now. What you really might need to do is nurture an inner life, an attitude, of watchful presence. Wait upon the Lord! — echoes throughout the poetry of the Hebrew scriptures (eg. from the Psalmist 27:16; 37) to a people yearning to renew their courage and trust. God is God; and we are not.

Waiting pays off for the people. King Cyrus of Persia (Isaiah 45) frees the exiles from Babylonian captivity — and the remnant of Israel finally returns to Jerusalem. Some 70 years they spent in captivity. Not all the people who left Jerusalem at the start of it saw the end of it. Many died in Babylon. But salvation is not individualistic. It is given to a people.

So, finally, Isaiah reminds us that just as it was for the Israelites in exile, our identity is in the larger collective. The narrative of our faith spans centuries. Our identity is corporate. As Christians, we call it “The Body of Christ” of which each of us is a member.

That means, even when we do not, individually, have a faith to stand up to the worst of the worst in life, even when our individual faith wanes from time to time, even when individually “I” have a hard time believing in God, “I” am not lost. There’s still a chance.

One of the downsides of an individualistic spiritual culture in which we live today, is to place unwarranted onus on ‘MY faith’ and ‘YOUR faith’ as the critical condition for ‘MY salvation’ or ‘YOUR salvation’. As if we are independent, autonomous beings. Many a death-bed confession — and this is common — involves anxiety about whether or not ‘my’ faith is strong enough, good enough. In those situations, especially, we need to be reminded that it is not ‘my’ faith or ‘your’ faith alone that will get you through this trial. It is the faith we share.

It is our faith together that helps us through the tough times. It’s not dependent on how good I am, or how strong my faith is. There is a people of God — “a cloud of witnesses” (Hebrews 12:1-2) — around me and you. There is a church, a community of faith — whose collective faith gets us through. This is the faith of our fathers and mothers, our predecessors, our forebears, the current saints in light, and the faith of those who will come after we are gone. I don’t think anyone would question that kind of faith. It is the collective, communion of saints in heaven and on earth praying for you, upholding you, during your personal exiles.

And, ultimately, it is the faithfulness of God that gets us through. Throughout the scriptures, salvation is described in this way: It is not we that have loved God, but that God has loved us (1 John 4:7-11). This is an integral, vital, part our story together. Let’s believe in it. And believe that God starts it all, and ends it all, for us.

For those who can’t stand doing nothing, who are frustrated by the notion of being patient and waiting, there may be something for you, in fact, to do: Practice. In all that you do, be mindful, aware and intentional in your prayer life. Because prayer is about letting go in time and space, and listening to God. Prayer is not about me, it’s about God.

I realize that part of what saved me on the highway this past week, was that I had practiced. I recall all those times that whenever I’m in an empty parking lot — even coming during the week into the church parking lot — I’ll have a little fun with it: I’ll spin around a bit — not recklessly doing donuts all over the place. But I’ll just get the car going enough to do a bit of fishtailing. I get the feel of it. So I know what I can do in a crisis.

Stepping off the gas in a spin out, works. And it takes a bit of practice.

God is action: a grammar lesson

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God is an action Word. The English language, sometimes, does not do it justice. “The Word became flesh” is the theme of the Christmas-Epiphany cycle in the church year. Sermons, prayers, liturgies are all based on this message.

But the French language conveys the truth about God in a much better way. In John 1:1 — “Au commencement etait le Verbe, et le Verbe etait tourne vers Dieu, et le Verbe etait Dieu.” God, in other words, is equated with a verb — an action word. And, later in verse 14 the English normally reads: The Word became flesh. In French, again, “le Verbe s’est fait chair …” translated, the Action-Word made himself!

Thank God for the French language! Here we receive the truth about God and Jesus, flowing in continual action, movement. The status-quo does not belong in the vocabulary nor the kingdom of God!

The God-human relationship is clarified: God’s first job is to act; our’s is to just be a human (-being!). Jesus’ first words identified by the Gospeler Mark in the Capernaum synagogue (Mark 1:25) was not what Jesus was reading from the lectern; rather, it was his words to the man with the evil spirit: “Be silent!” Be … !

Stop talking! Stop doing what you are doing! When we can first be as we are, not as we think we ought, then perhaps we will discover the actions that correspond and are aligned truly with God’s action in our lives.

Someone recently joked that they say English is the language of heaven. Why? Because it takes an eternity to learn it!

In this case, better in the French.

Stop the talk, start the walk

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How do you become a better Christian? There’s a quick and easy answer: “You just have to know more; that is, get more information. More information, more power. More information, is salvation. The more you ‘know’ about something or someone, the better you’ll be able to navigate life’s journey.”

Sound familiar? This is, at least, the mantra of our culture which has been heavily influenced by western advances through the scientific revolution, the industrial revolution and yes, even the Reformation from the last few centuries.

And then, Paul writes this, which serves to throw a mystic wrench into our rationalist preoccupations with ‘information’, which we so readily equate with knowledge: “… all of us possess knowledge …” (1 Corinthians 8:1-2) Hey, stop right there! — how can everyone have this knowledge? I thought knowledge was something we had to acquire by reading another book or spending more time on ‘Google’!

Paul continues: “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up. Anyone who claims to know something does not yet have the necessary knowledge; but anyone who loves God is known by him”. To begin with, in the biblical tradition, knowledge is NOT information and information is NOT knowledge. After all, even the man with the evil spirit ‘knew’ and recognized Jesus as the Son of God (Mark 1:21-28). Having the right information alone is not the answer.

How do you become a better Christian? Last week I told you about my three-week hiatus in Vancouver, which in the Jonah story was like the three days in the belly. Remember, Jonah was running away — escaping — from God’s call. It was a time of reflection, discerning and struggle as I slowly accepted my call to the pastoral vocation. I spoke about my long walks alone on the beaches as the place where I solidified my decision to return to my seminary studies.

But there was one prior event that may have broken my heart open to accept this change in direction. One Sunday in Vancouver I attended a church service. It was in a large Baptist congregation, housed in an old, cathedral-like building on a prominent downtown intersection. I went there because my friend told me the preacher was particularly good.

I don’t remember anything the preacher talked about, specifically. I only recall how I was moved to tears during the sermon. It was just like the preacher spoke to my heart about God’s love and support during a hard time in my life. Again, I remember he preached from the Gospel, so my Lutheran spidey-sense was satisfied.

But, really, it was my heart not my mind that was spoken to directly. Somehow, after that sermon, I was assured that no matter what I did, God would not forsake me. That assurance, coming from the ‘outside’ — from someone else — was what I needed to hear in order to make my decision to change directions in my life, for the better.

How do you become a better Christian? You become a better Christian by opening up your heart. You become a better Christian by being vulnerable and honest before God and others, by taking a risk exposing your inner self as you truly are. You become a better Christian by being affected by God’s love so much so that you can’t help but be changed. The cliche is true: Changed people change people. As Mahatma Gandhi famously said, “Be the change you want to see in the world”.

Jesus heals the man with the evil spirit by ordering the evil spirit to “Be silent!” Be silent with all the talk. Be silent with all the verbal expressions of truth and righteousness. Be silent with all the mental, cerebral formulations. Stop talking the talk. And start walking the walk.

In this Gospel story the emphasis is on Jesus’ action. The drama takes place in the synagogue in Capernaum. Jesus is like the guest preacher of the day. But the Gospel writer does not specify the content of his words. We only know that he is teaching.

This is not new. We presume he is saying all the right words, words everyone has heard before likely from the Hebrew scriptures. But this “new teaching, with authority” is tied to Jesus’ action which results in a changed, transformed person.

As post-resurrection Christians we have the benefit of hindsight. We can look back to a verse earlier in Mark’s first chapter to a description of Jesus’ first preached message. In verse 15, we get at the heart of Jesus’ teaching; Jesus proclaims the good news of God, saying: “The time is fulfilled and the kingdom of God has come near; repent and believe in the good news!”. Repent literally means, “change your mind” — I would add in the Hebrew sense; that is, a changed heart results in a changed mind (Richard Rohr, “Falling Upward”, Jossey-Bass Wiley, San Francisco, 2011, p.11)

If anything, the Gospel of Jesus drives at the heart. And the heart leads to loving, compassionate action. This action can be described as nothing more or less than a healing, transformative, life-changing energy. This is the power, the authority, of God in Christ Jesus — that God is changing us, transforming our hearts, our minds and our bodies for the better.

We all bear this capability. Being Christian is not about becoming cerebral experts on a particular subject matter that only some are able to comprehend. No. We all, each and everyone of us, have the capacity in our hearts to be changed and transformed by God’s love.

We live in a world that doesn’t believe in that kind of change. Sometimes I catch myself wondering if people (including myself!) can ever move beyond the distractions, addictions and hang-ups that impede our growth and well-being.

Maybe we don’t change for the better because we don’t want to pay the price of admission. Experiencing this positive transformation, or healing, does require the willingness to be disrupted, for a time being. That’s the catch, the price of admission: We have to understand that positive change won’t happen without a little bit of costly pain — and particularly the pain of losing something cherished.

Can you imagine sitting in the synagogue in Capernaum listening to this new Rabbi teach from the scriptures? And then, unexpectedly some guy you’ve seen from time to time at worship stands up and starts heckling the Rabbi they call Jesus from Nazareth. Jesus silences his aggression with firm yet loving words — “Be silent!” — and the man calms down and leaves the synagogue a different person! That’s a disruptive event for the congregation. But it’s also an invitation to begin a journey of healing and transformation in Christ, the Lord.

This change does not come about without enduring some disruption. Would this disruption mean risking some embarrassment? Would it mean risking your reputation? Would it mean doing something you have little previous experience or knowledge in doing? Would it be confessing you may not be ready — but will try anyway? Would it mean trusting someone, forgiving them, for once? Would it be confessing you need help, and asking someone for it?

Many musical images have been used to describe the activity of the church. One such image is the orchestra, where Jesus — or sometimes, tragically, the pastor — is considered to be the director. And all of us play our parts to make beautiful, harmonious music together. I’ve liked this illustration, for it’s collaborative, working-together imagery. But recently another illustration has captivated my imagination as even a better one:

Last year, at the Carlington Community Chaplaincy choral festival the Bellevue Beat Drumming Group performed. Members of the group sit in a circle with their unique drums and percussion instruments on their laps or at their feet. A leader starts. But then after some time another drummer takes the lead while the others support with their quieter rhythms and beats. The presentation does not end without all members taking a turn to lead a riff or section of the music.

“Being the church is akin to playing in a jazz band in which every player in turn, including the ‘leader’, offers their own improvisation on the shared theme according to their particular ability, instrument and insight” (Dick Lewis, ed. “A different way of being church”, p.10).

“Be silent!” Jesus speaks to each of us — and to the ways which hinder us from being ourselves and using our unique gifts, from taking responsibility and doing it ourselves.
“Be silent!” to mere ideas that keep us trapped in the rat’s cage of information-getting and head-centred religion.
“Be silent!” to saying the right words without corresponding action.
“Be silent!” to negative self-talk that keeps the heart trapped with a burning self-hatred.
“Be silent!” to the negative self-talk that convinces you that you’re not good enough to do the right kinds of things and do your part for the building up of God’s kingdom.

Because, the Lord Jesus, the Holy One of God, has come into your life. And he will bring to completion the good work that he has begun in you! (Philippians 1:6). God’s love will change your heart, and you will know God, and be transformed in the light of God.

Jonah and the Call

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When the waves started crashing over the deck of the ferry, I knew something was wrong. I remembered reading somewhere that the Baltic Sea can get unpredictably dangerous in the Fall of the year. So true.

When my grandmother — we called her “Oma” — and I sailed from the protected harbour, the waters looked calm. But once we hit the open water, the winds picked up, and I had to hang on for dear life!

I’m not sure the story of Jonah came to mind at the time, but the similarities are striking, when I reflected on that turbulent time in my life. I had just arrived in Germany for a year-long exchange student program during my seminary education. This was what I felt “called” in my preparation to be a good, Lutheran pastor — spend a year in a Lutheran university, in the very place Martin Luther argued with other reformers about Holy Communion.

But it was the first time I would spend significant amounts of time in a foreign land trying to function in a foreign language, by myself, without family and friends. And within the first couple of weeks after I arrived at the university in Marburg, Germany, I knew this was not going to be easy.

If fact, I remember coming soon to the conclusion that all I wanted, was to escape Marburg — the lonely dormitory room, the solitary walks to the lecture halls, the silent dinner times in the corner of the cafeteria. I’m an introvert, so this was really bad! Because I felt completely disconnected from everything and everyone.

Oma lived in northern Germany. And I think she wanted to help me, so within two weeks of my arrival she invited me to hop on the train and visit her for a couple of days. She wanted to take me on a ferry boat ride from just across the border in Denmark back to the seaside city in which she lived. Part of the deal was to enjoy a schnitzel meal before the boat left that placid harbour. In retrospect, that wasn’t a good idea!

But she tried to make me feel more ‘at home’. Just before we boarded the ferry she had handed me an envelope containing a thousand dollars. “Use this to help you this year in Germany,” she said, looking at me with her sparkling eyes, “in whatever way you see fit.”

I did. The answer was not Marburg. It was Vancouver! Yes! The timing couldn’t have been better. I was less than an hour’s train-ride to Frankfurt — and the paid-for plane ride outa here! Besides, I had a close friend studying in Vancouver at the time — nothing like a girlfriend to distract and motivate a young man desperate for a change in scenery.

I mentioned Jonah, because during my three-week hiatus in Vancouver I read Eugene Peterson’s book, “Under the Unpredictable Plant” (Eerdmans, Grand Rapids, 1992) — which is basically a reflection on the Jonah story:

God calls Jonah to go to Nineveh; but Jonah hesitates and would rather go to Tarshish. On the boat ride to Tarshish he encounters a gale storm threatening the lives of all aboard. He realizes the impending calamity is probably his fault, and sacrifices himself by jumping into the sea, where he spends three days in the belly of a whale. We pick up the story in the first reading today (Jonah 3:1-5,10) after the whale spits Jonah out; God calls him a “second time” to go to Nineveh — and he finally relents, and goes to do God’s will.

When I was in Vancouver I seriously toyed with giving up on my pastoral vocation; I remember thinking that I did not want to return to Marburg, and that I would use this opportunity in Vancouver to inquire about the School of Architecture and City Planning, programs which had intrigued me at the time. The dark, depressive notion of returning to Marburg (a.k.a Nineveh) was the farthest thing from my mind. I would start all over, in Vancouver (a.k.a Tarshish).

There’s something important about Jonah’s experience — Jesus likens his three days in the tomb to Jonah’s three days in the belly of the whale (Matthew 12:40). It’s that time of incubation, of waiting, of not being in charge. It’s the grass under the snow and ice, the seeds of the daffodils hibernating in the frozen ground, waiting until the right time that comes from outside of one’s individual initiative and control.

Those three weeks in Vancouver, the long walks on the beach — by myself, I might add — this was my time in the belly of the whale to discern and reflect on the truth of what I was called to do and be. I thank God for that time ‘in the belly’, where I could ruminate and come into myself as I truly was, and am.

It was during that time when I realized what I needed to do: I was called to return to Marburg, and I felt convinced in my heart that all I was asked to do was finish the year abroad. That’s all I had to do, and not worry about ‘what after?’. That’s where, despite my fear and anxiety about returning to a place where I would have to confront my demons, I knew was my next step.

You may notice how immediately Simon and Andrew leave everything behind and follow Jesus’ call (Mark 1:18). In last week’s Gospel, Philip and Nathanael so quickly respond to the invitation to “come and see” Jesus (John 1:43-47). Abraham went immediately, “as the Lord had told him” (Genesis 12:4). There is a prevalent understanding to lift up an idealistic, immediate and righteous response of Christians to the call of God. I can see why.

But then there is also Jonah, who resists. There is the great prophet Jeremiah who when God first appears to him and appoints him a prophet, he rejects the call by throwing up excuses: “I do not know how to speak; I am only a boy” (1:6). And it takes two whole chapters in the book of Exodus for God to finally convince Moses to do God’s bidding to confront Pharaoh and free God’s people from slavery in Egypt.

Moses’ excuses run like a litany: “Who am I?” (3:11); then, “What should I say?” (3:13); then, “But suppose they don’t believe me?” (4:1); and, “I am not eloquent; I am slow of speech” (4:10); and finally, “Please send someone else!” (4:13). To each of these successive excuses, God shows incredible patience to nurture Moses into fulfilling his task. This is the same God who is patient with Jeremiah and Jonah.

If I take the bible witness as a whole, it appears some followers of God respond immediately, without question or hesitation, dropping everything and going. And then there are some who resist, who complain, who self-doubt, hesitate and try to deflect the call of God.

In the world of mathematics, integers and fractions, these numbers would cancel themselves out. In other words, what is most important to focus on here, is not our human response to God. Because our responses will vary as many as there are people on this planet Earth. The starting point, is not how we should respond. But the way God is.

God is merciful. If God changes in anything, it is only in the direction of judgement to mercy. God is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love (Numbers 14:18; Psalm 86:15, 103:8, 145:8).

God is persistent with us. God is the hound of heaven. God has a plan — one we can never know completely, because we are not God. For whatever reason, God is acting to fulfill something that is beyond all of us. All we are called to do is to participate somehow in God’s mission on earth. God won’t give up trying to get that message across to us.

God is faithful to us. As God was faithful to all the prophets and disciples in the bible, God will not give up, abandon and discard the “work of His hands” (Psalm 138:8). God is with us, regardless of whether we need a little more convincing over time or not.

With wobbly knees I disembarked from the ferry when we finally landed safely in the German port following our harrowing ride on the angry Baltic Sea. I walked quietly beside Oma back to the car, stomach churning yet grateful to be alive. Even though my heart, at the time, was set on Vancouver, I already knew that God had given me a second chance at life. And deep in my heart, I knew that God would continue, no matter what I did, to be merciful to me, to be patient with me, and never give up on me.

Of fig trees and lottery tickets

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Some time towards the end of the nineteenth century, a man named Huxley who was intelligent, quick of mind, and never lost an argument, attended a house party at a grand, country estate on a Saturday night. When Sunday morning rolled around, many of the guests who stayed the night prepared to go to church.

As one who was naturally skeptical, Huxley did not propose to go. In fact, he was somewhat irate at his fellow party-goers at their sudden righteous intent. Given what all had happened the night before, Huxley could not believe they still wanted to go to church.

“Suppose you don’t go to church today,” he challenged his friend who he knew to have a simple yet radiant Christian faith. “Suppose you stay at here with me and tell me what your Christian faith means to you this morning, and why you are a Christian.”

“But,” said the man, “you could demolish my arguments in an instant. I’m not clever enough to argue with you.”

“I don’t want to argue with you,” Huxley said, gently. “I just want you to tell me simply what this Christ means to you.” So, his friend stayed with Huxley at home Sunday morning and told him most simply of his faith. When he had finished there were tears in Huxley’s eyes. “If only I could believe that,” he said. (adapted from William Barclay, “The Gospel of John” Volume 1 – The Daily Study Bible Series – Westminster Press, Philadelphia, 1975, p.92)

Huxley’s response speaks to an aspect of our faith that sometimes gets crowded out because of our compulsion to be rational, persuasive and argumentative. And yet, this more heart-felt dimension is what, I believe, ultimately defines, motivates and describes our faith at its core. Because it’s more about a personal experience of Jesus rather than clever argument, persuasive logic and rational explanation.

Prior to Nathanael’s life-changing encounter with Jesus — as described in the Gospel for today (John 1:32-51), Nathanael was skeptical about his friend Philip’s proposition that they had found the Messiah: “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” (v.46) — Jesus’ hometown. A Roman garrison was stationed there, so people living in this small, insignificant hovel of a town were associated with the hated Roman occupation of Palestine. The notion that the one who would save them from the Romans would come from Nazareth — which, moreover, was nowhere mentioned in any biblical prophecy — was unbelievable, un-credible.

Then, when Nathanael goes with Philip to see Jesus, and Jesus says that in Nathanael there is no deceit nor guile (v.47), Nathanael questions Jesus’ integrity: “Where did you get to know me?” Nathanael was skeptical that anyone could give a verdict like that on so short an acquaintance. I think we can relate: How can you say anything about me when you even don’t know me! Who do you think you are?!

In short, this encounter with Jesus starts off on rocky ground. It doesn’t look good from the standpoint of trying to start a good relationship with someone. How often do we know of friends or family — even ourselves — who have given up on faith, the church, God, all because we felt put off, even offended, initially by something that is said or done. Or, how often have we given up on a spiritual practice after just trying it once? I think we can sympathize with Nathanael’s initial objections.

But then, something changes. How does he move from cynicism to belief, from questioning and doubt, to praise and confession? What happens?

It’s the fig tree. The turning point happens when Jesus speaks to Nathanael’s heart, not so much his mind: “I saw you under the fig tree before Philip called you” (v.48), says Jesus. These simple words turned Nathanael’s heart from suspicious questioning to confessing Jesus as the Son of God.

The fig tree in the bible stood for peace (1 Kings 4:25; Micah 4:4). In ancient Israel, this was a place on one’s property where one could go to be undisturbed, to find quiet. Because the fig tree was leafy and shady, it was the custom in the arid, Mediterranean heat of the day to sit and meditate under the roof of its branches. Perhaps this is what Nathanael had been doing on a regular basis — sitting under his fig tree, praying for the day when God’s Chosen One should come, and meditating on the promises of God.

When Jesus speaks those words, “I saw you under the fig tree…” Nathanael must have felt that Jesus had seen into the very depths of his heart, and read the thoughts of his inmost being. Nathanael must have said to himself, “Here is the man who understands my dreams! Here is the man who knows my prayers! Here is the man who has seen into my most intimate and secret longings, longings which I have never even dared put into words! Here is the man who can translate the inarticulate sigh of my soul!” (ibid., p.93)

It’s the fig tree. What can we say about finding our own fig tree? What are the qualities that describe this place where we meet with God? And where God convicts our hearts?

First, you will notice, Nathanael’s fig tree is not “Sunday morning”, so to speak, where the formal liturgies are practised. It is not to say temple worship was unimportant, even vital, as a place of communal gathering where faith was nurtured, sustained and grown.

But what we are talking about here is where personal, daily faith is nurtured, sustained and grown. Jesus said, “Pick up your cross daily and follow me” (Luke 9:23). We are not talking here about going to church every Sunday. We are talking about our intentional, discipline of prayer and meditation from Monday through Saturday. This Gospel suggests that a daily practice is critical in preparing the heart to recognize God’s love for you.

Preparation and practice is important in our faith. Philip and Nathanael had studied the scriptures and anticipated in their regular prayer the coming of God’s Chosen One. They were, in a sense, ready to receive Jesus. Those of us brave souls who went to a Yoga for Christians class the other night must have walked away with the strong impression, as I did, that regular practice is so important. Because those of us who don’t, still feel it today!

As with any exercise, spiritual or otherwise, you can’t simply snap your fingers to be an expert. With Christian meditation, for example, you can’t just go once and decide whether it’s for you or not; it’s about a long-term vision of practice and intention and discipline. It’s like tending a garden.

Where is the place you go daily to be under your fig tree? Is it a special chair in your living room? Is it a spot on your front or back deck? Is it in the forest on your back-50? Is it a rock on the river-side? Is it connecting with the expansive outdoors? Is it doing a certain physical exercise? Is it some object that you hold or look at to remind you of something or someone precious? Where is your fig tree?

And if you will look for one — It is a place where hopes and dreams are nurtured in your heart. It is a place where the good promises of God are given shape and sustenance. It is a place where faith then begins to affect your decisions in daily life, with joyful anticipation of God’s presence everywhere.

Canadian radio broadcaster Stuart McLean wonderfully tells the story of the “Lottery Ticket” (a necessarily paraphrased and adapted version follows here). Tommy gets a phone call telling him that his grandfather, Lewis, suddenly died. Shortly after the news of the death circulates among the family, the question of his un-scratched lottery ticket comes up. For over ten-years — longer than that, in some people’s minds — Grandpa Lewis kept his faded, un-dated lottery ticket in a box on the mantle, un-scratched. The prize, one million dollars.

“It’s a winner, it’s a winner!” he had often and regularly announced with deep conviction and belief. “It’d be more than that if you’d just scratch it!” rebutted his brother Lawrence. “Just think of the interest it would have made in all this time!”

“Or, I would have none!” argued Grandpa Lewis. “Know what happened to that lottery winner in Toronto, or that family from New Brunswick who won it big? Besides, I don’t need the money. It’s not about the money!

“But, tell me, what would you do with a million dollars?” he would always ask anyone who mentioned his un-scratched lottery ticket. “What is your heart’s desire?” Then he would listen very carefully, and ask, always: “Is that really what you would do?”

When the family gathered to plan the funeral, they argued about what to do with the lottery ticket since it wasn’t mentioned in the will. There were seven in the family, divided between the ‘scratchers’ and the ‘non-scratchers’, the believers and those who didn’t believe. Tommy counted himself as one who wanted to leave the ticket alone. But the ‘scratchers’ had the edge. “Just be done with it. Then we would know one way or another.”

They decided that after the funeral service, they would gather around the mantle upon which sat the box containing the lottery ticket. Silence shrouded the meeting. What would they do if in fact it was a winning ticket? What would they say, if it wasn’t?

When uncle Tony was delegated to open the box, he lifted it off the mantle, opened it, then slowly looked at everyone in the room. When he tipped open the box for all to see, they were surprised to find Grandpa’s Lewis’ lottery ticket missing. And in its place, seven newly purchased lottery tickets.

A week later, Tommy and his girl-friend, Stephanie, sat around their kitchen table. Stephanie asked, “I wonder what happened to the lottery ticket?”. Tommy confessed, “I buried it with Grandpa Lewis. I put it in his pocket before we closed the casket.”

“Why would you do that?” Stephanie asked, reflectively.

“That’s where it belonged. I wanted to trust him. Because I realized that throughout his life, Grandpa needed hope more than he needed money. To him, dreams were more important than a pile of money. Whenever he took out that lottery ticket and waved it in our faces, he could hang on to hope. And challenge us to think very deeply about our true heart’s desire.”

Both were surprised to learn, later, that everyone still had their lottery ticket, unscratched.

Back to the Future: Borderland spirituality

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2015 is the year of “Back to the Future”, did you know? When Marty McFly, played by Michael J. Fox, travelled ‘Back to the Future’ in the 1980’s pop culture film, the year they went to, in the future, was 2015.

As a kid I enjoyed the movie, partly because the year 2015, at the time, seemed some unrealistic, arbitrary and irrelevant point in the future; the number only represented some distant benchmark unconnected to my present reality.

Today, 2015 no longer means some far-off, futuristic fantasy. It is reality, now. And if I watch ‘Back to the Future’ today, the movie represents more of an historical curiosity — I’m only looking ‘back’.

In faith, it’s like we simultaneously look back, forward, and both from the grounding of the present moment. Balancing all three is good theology. For its sesquicentennial anniversary, the Eastern Synod (ELCIC) employed the motto: “Remembering for the Future”. Celebrating an important event in the present day by integrating past with the future is important. And a good way to interpret the Bible.

But it an also cause dismay if we only insist on a certain, chronological ordering of events in an absolute kind of way. For example, at Jesus’ baptism in the Gospel for today (Mark 1:4-11) there is the matter of the Holy Spirit, which descends in the form of a dove upon Jesus (v. 8, 10). John the Baptist preaches that Jesus will baptize with the Holy Spirit.

But Jesus never performs one baptism in his ministry that we know of. And, according to the time-line of the Gospels, the Holy Spirit doesn’t descend on the church until after Jesus’ resurrection (John 20:19-23) and at the Day of Pentecost (Acts 2) — these Holy Spirit events do not occur during Jesus’ ministry of healing, teaching and praying on earth. Curious, since many understand Jesus’ baptism as his ordination or commissioning to his call as the beloved Son of God. How do we make sense of this?

To understand many of the stories we read, like the Gospel for today, we would do well, I believe, to employ a ‘Back to the Future’ hermeneutic. This way of interpreting does not deny the truth of all of the events outlined above. For one, it reveals something about how the bible was put together:

The actual writing of the New Testament was done decades after these events took place. Therefore, we say, that we, today, are ‘post-resurrection’ Christians. We can best understand what happens at Jesus baptism from the perspective of the future. Because when these stories were written down for the first time, and from today’s perspective — the Holy Spirit has already come. Jesus is alive. Even as we recall, as a matter of history, what happened in the moments of Jesus’ life on earth some two thousand years ago.

And it’s not just a pointing forward that we need to keep in mind. It is a reverence and respect for the past.

If you look at the geography of the Baptism of our Lord, we can conclude at least a couple of things: First, it takes place in the wilderness, the desert. That is through which the river Jordan runs, basically north to south separating lands that are for the most part destitute, rugged, dangerous even.

Second, that river forms a boundary between two worlds — on the east and south, the world of the ancient Israelites tracking through the desert for decades on their way to the Promised Land flowing with milk and honey, which is on the other side.

John the Baptist comes to this border land, which is significant in the history of the prophets. In fact, John the Baptist stands in line with the prophets of old. His speeches are associated with Isaiah (Mark 1:1-8); he is also mistaken for Elijah because of what he wears (2 Kings 1:8) and because he foretells of the coming Messiah (John 1:21). John’s presence and ministry at the Jordan River in the wilderness brings the past (an identification with history and the prophets) together with the future (Jesus Christ, and the coming Holy Spirit) together into the present moment.

How can we keep ourselves from getting lost and totally confused in the plot line of “Back to the Future?” We remain grounded in the present moment. We look to our immediate surroundings. Like the beasts of the field, we scuff the earth with our heal, and snort and spit, before we look up.

And this is the beauty and wisdom of these Scriptures: their insistent if not peculiar emphasis on details. Yes, God acts in creation. Yes, God redeems sinners. Yes, God has a plan for salvation.

But this ‘spiritual’ talk is always, in the Gospel, tied to material — real water, real bread, real time, inexpensive wine, locusts, honey, sand, camel’s hair, wind, birds and the clouds being rent asunder. This is the nitty-gritty of life, and it can never be separated from matters of the Spirit.

Keeping grounded in the present awareness of life, ‘as is’, helps us track the sometimes confusing plot-line of ‘Back to the Future’. Because it is there that Jesus stands — on the borderland, at the edge of the Kingdom of God. Jesus stands there, and invites us to live into the now-and-not-yet reality of it (Ted Smith, “Feasting on the Word” WJK Press, Kentucky, 2008, p.239).

The Gospel of John identifies Jesus as a ‘lamb’. T.S. Elliot describes Jesus as a ‘tiger’. In C.S. Lewis’ ‘Narnia’ books, Jesus is personified in Aslan, the ‘lion’. Nancy Rockwell, in her post, “Tracks” (blog: The Bite in the Apple) suggests the ‘camel’, for Jesus who identified with lepers and prostitutes, difficult people, estranged members of right society, people who are spat upon. All these images for Jesus throughout history reveal unique elements about his truth.

But, standing in the desert beside John the Baptist, Jesus identifies with the lowly who are on a journey of transformation. Jesus invites the lowly in us to go on a journey that does not reject the past, and tradition, and history but doesn’t allow us to remain stuck there. Because this journey through borderland brings us eventually into a land flowing with milk and honey — a land of healing, restoration and justice for all who seek these gifts of the Holy Spirit.

This means that we cannot use our tainted and troubled past as an excuse for not doing the right thing, now. At the same time, we cannot wait until an ideal future when circumstances are perfect to do the right thing, now.

Back to the Future brings the present moment into sharp focus. A good theology will always ask, “What is going on right now in my life and world?” “Who do I meet today?” And act, now, accordingly. A spirituality of the borderland will always draw my attention to the divine importance of the present moment which is supported by history, and hope-filled for the future.

New Year’s Goals

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It seems to me that so much “success” in our lives is based on setting goals. We set goals in our business ventures; we set goals for our personal self-care — exercise, diet and relationships; we set goals for acquiring the toys and things we want in life. Setting goals motivates us to act!

A person who does not have any goals, we believe, is a person without backbone, floating untethered through life, unprincipled, and usually lazy and poor. A person without any goals, we believe, is rudderless and not making the most of what life can offer. A person without any goals, we believe, are the very people who end up in therapy, counselling, or on the street. They just need to get their life back on track by setting some goals, we believe.

There are some traditions of this time of year that stand out for me. Making New Year’s resolutions is one of them. And I like to ponder what this means, because I need to get back on track with so many things — year after year! And since I do a lot of driving, I like what blogger Jeff Boss has to say about New Year’s resolutions:

“New Year’s resolutions are like traffic. As the driver, your focus is intent while trying to ‘get there;’ you see others pass you by; you get held up at a red light that slows down progress. Distractions such as the radio, crazy drivers, cellphones, preclude you from focusing on the one thing you should: the road ahead. In other words, New Year’s resolutions come and go, ebb and flow, only to be revisited the following year …

“It has been said that the only certainty in life is uncertainty; change is the one ‘thing’ we can all count on to always be there—and that guy Murphy always seems to be leading the charge.” (Jeff Boss, contributor, “4 Simple Goal-Setting Ideas for 2015”, Forbes http://buff.ly/1A6rx47)

As important as goal-setting is, we also have somehow to account for the unexpected, on-the-ground realities that come our way on the journey towards that goal.

What will we do when we encounter those who ‘pass us by’ on the road? What will we do when we have to ‘stop at a red light’? And, what will we do when we are distracted from our goals?

First, what do you do when you see others pass you by on the road of life and faith? Our culture is based on the value of competition — whether we’re talking about sibling rivalry, sports or our economy. Competition can be a motivator.

But it can also deflate one’s spirit, creativity and passion. Because competition can discourage you from focusing on the grace in your unique life, the gifts of your own life, family, job, and the blessing you are to others. You are beloved by God, created in the image of the Divine, endowed with a special gift to share with the world.

And it doesn’t matter that someone is passing you on the road; it doesn’t matter what other people are doing. It only matters what you are doing. How has our cultural obsession with competition and comparison stifled your growth and held you back?

Second, what do you do when you get held up at a red light that slows down progress? The red lights in our lives are usually those unfortunate events that are unexpected, stressful and require the loving support of others. No amount of goal setting can turn this around: a family member suddenly turns ill, you receive a discouraging diagnosis, a friend dies, tragedy strikes, the bottom falls out on your personal life, you lose your job. If you’ve set some lofty goals before any of this happens, you’re into a major reset on life. After all, “Life happens,” they say.

Finally, what do you do when you are distracted by the radio, crazy drivers, or your cellphone? These are issues we probably have the most control over, whether we like it or not, whether we take responsibility for them or not.

Most of the ‘distractions’ of life are self-imposed. We do it unto ourselves — lifestyle choices that are really counter-productive, habits that immediately gratify but are ultimately self-destructive. We enter here the realm of addictive behaviours that can de-rail any idealistic goals for self-improvement. So, they say, instead of watching that show, go for a walk; instead of staying up late on social media or surfing the net, get some sleep; instead of indulging in that second helping, pack away leftovers for lunch the next day.

This inner struggle can drive us over the curb and into the ditch! The passers-by, the red lights and the distractions on the road of life throughout the year often cause us to abandon those goals altogether.

I wonder what some of those first desert wanderers did to cope with the reality of the terrain over which they travelled. I wonder how the Magi (Matthew 2:1-12) following a star in the sky, coped with seeing others pass them by on the caravan routes whenever the star appeared to stop in the sky? I wonder how the Magi, following that star over what must have been a long period of time, dealt with the red lights of set backs that surely must have occurred on the trail? I wonder how the Magi kept their spirits up when the desert creatures, sand storms and bandits threatened their safety and resolve on the journey? I wonder what would have happened if they said, “Let’s just give this until January 11th, or December 21, or December 31 at midnight — and if that star hasn’t brought us to the Christ-child by then, let’s go home!”?

Perhaps the wisdom of the ancient story of the Epiphany has something to say to us about how we traverse the terrain of our lives today. As we set goals and resolve to do certain things in 2015, perhaps it would be wise to pay attention to how we travel over the long haul of our lives, and not just fixate on the specific goals themselves.

Will we pause regularly on the side of the road — not just at Christmas and Easter — to worship, pray and give thanks? Will we pause regularly on the side of the road — not just when times are good, but especially when they are bad — to reflect on the Word and the meaning of our faith in Jesus? Will we pause regularly on the side of the road — regardless of our ‘goals’ — to remember the One who walks with us, who is always by our side, who is ever faithful to us and steadfast in love for the whole world?

And thank God, that we always have a second chance to press the ‘reset button’ on our lives, reflect again, and start anew! Year after year! It is a miracle and grace that we even consider a fresh brand of New Year’s resolutions every January 1st. Despite the failures, we still go back to the drawing board every New Year.

In 2015, perhaps our goals need to be a little more open-ended and less prescriptive. The magi had a goal, to be sure: to follow the star to where the newborn king was born. But that goal could lead them anywhere! They didn’t presume it had to be Jerusalem. They didn’t presume it had to be in a palace. They didn’t presume it had to be in their own home country.

When the goals are set with this kind of openness, Murphy may still lead the charge, uncertainty can still be the only certain thing, and change be the only constant on the journey of life. But we still trust that God’s promises are true and that eventually our yearning and longings are resolved somewhere in God’s unconditional, and never-ending love.

Happy New Year!