Today I’d like us to consider the story of the feeding of the five thousand (John 6: 1-21) from the perspective of how our needs are met.

It’s a story that often gets repeated in the lectionary so I am sure you will hear this Gospel story again soon. Sometimes the sermon applies the story to feeding the hungry, literally. That’s an important point.

But today I want to ask the question: How are we fed? For what do we hunger in our lives and how are those needs met? Because the main point of the Gospel is that God feeds the hungry, that God meets our needs in ways that surprise us.

On the one hand, each of us will present unique needs. What you ask for, what you offer to God in prayer will not be the same as what the person sitting next to you this morning would express. We are living different lives, experiencing different things at this point in time. So, in part what we need is unique to everyone. We must own that, individually.

On the other hand, everyone in the feeding of the five thousand shared a common, basic need for food. Everyone has needs. No one is self-sufficient in our common humanity. We are all needy. We all need grace, help, forgiveness, mercy, compassion, support. If there is one thing we share is our unique place in a larger, shared web of relationships on which we depend.

Yes, it’s hard to believe it. It’s a miracle everyone is fed. At first, the disciples don’t believe they have enough resources to feed everyone. They don’t even believe Jesus can feed the crowd. And yet, it happens. Surprise! But, how?

Since the miraculous event happened two thousand years ago, humanity has devised all sorts of ways to meet our needs on earth. History has proven that our lives on earth can be a living hell or heaven, depending on how we choose to treat each other.

The story of the Long Spoons, attributed to Rabbi Haim, is told by a teacher, James Overholser (2022). He writes,

“A few years ago, I took two old brooms and sawed off the bristle ends so they could be replaced with two large serving spoons. I brought the long spoons to class, and held one firmly in each hand as I told this story:

“A man is soon to die, but he is given an opportunity to tour the afterlife before his death. During the first stop on the tour, he enters a large dining room and sees many people seated around the table. In the middle of a large round table is a huge pot of delicious hot stew.

“However, the people seated around the table have spoons attached to the end of a long stick permanently attached to their hands. They can aim their spoon for the pot of stew, but because of the long spoon, they cannot bend it toward their mouth. Instead, the stew falls into their lap, causing painful burns. They are sad, angry, frustrated, and starving.

“The man requests an end to the tour, so they leave and go on to the other destination for afterlife. They enter a second large dining room and see many people seated around the table. There is a large pot of stew at the center of the table, and the people all have long spoons permanently attached to their hands.

“However, they are all chatting, smiling, and eating a delicious meal. But they are taking the time to feed each other. [After scooping their spoon into the stew, each of them feeds someone sitting across the table from them using their long spoons]” (p. 74-75).

In teaching this class, Overholser instructs that once each day for a week, students initiate some act that is not simply focused on their own plans, struggles, or interests. But they are to engage in some act that is kind, thoughtful or helpful for another person. In addition, Overholser suggests that it is good if they do not know the person. It is better if they do not like the person. And it is best if the act of kindness is done in an anonymous manner.

How are our needs met, indeed? How are the needs of others around us met?

Five thousand people is not literally five thousand. Other Gospel stories vary the number. Precisely how many, therefore, is not the point. The point is there were a lot of people on that mountainside. And not everyone knew everyone else. Most of them were strangers to each other, or at best, acquaintances besides family members or neighbours who came along.

It’s noteworthy that the act of faith in the story came not from the disciples or appointed few who followed Jesus but from a nameless, anonymous child who alone was willing to share what little they had.

Maybe the child’s generous act caught on.

The miracle of the feeding – I’ve said this before – is not that everyone was fed. Jesus can do anything. He is God, after all. No, in the end could the miracle be that some were willing to share their food to meet the needs of others?

A life of faith, a life of living in the Spirit, is a life lived in relationship, in community. A life of faith is expressed by people doing good things together to feed the need.

We meet our needs in opening ourselves to others. This action accurately describes Christian faith. Richard Rohr summarizes it well. He writes, “We don’t truly comprehend any spiritual thing until we give it away. Spiritual gifts increase only by ‘using’ them” (Rohr, 2024).

When that happens, Jesus is present to us. God becomes visible and recognized not in private pursuits, even religious ones, doing it by ourselves for ourselves. But rather in acts of grace, mercy and generosity.

What are the places in your life where there is room for you to practice feeding the need of another soul? And just as important a question: Who else is sitting at the table next to you who can share both in the giving and in the receiving?

References:

Overholser, J. C. (2022). Respecting the ideas and ideals proposed by Alfred Adler: A personal and professional journey. The Journal of Individual Psychology, 78

Rohr, R. (2024, July 26). Not for ourselves alone. Richard Rohr’s Daily Meditation. https://cac.org/daily-meditations/not-for-ourselves-alone/

The Gospel doesn’t describe the healing that happens in an individual, one-on-one therapy session between counsellor and client. The Gospel doesn’t describe healing in the context of some individual pilgrimage to a far-off, remote location to find the answer. It doesn’t happen in private. Not in the Gospel, anyway.

Healing, in the Gospel, is a profoundly social experience. In the Gospel text for today (Mark 5:21-43), Jesus finds himself in the middle of a crowd pressing in from all sides. Both the bleeding woman and dying daughter are surrounded by crowds of people with Jesus in the middle of it all. They are touching him, bumping into him.

As I sat down to watch one of the home games of the Stanley Cup Finals from Edmonton, I was impressed by the tradition there of singing the Canadian national anthem. For a couple of reasons.

The traditional way is for someone, usually with a pedigree for singing – a celebrity musician – to stand alone on the ice with the spotlight on them. It’s really a performance, and they are the only one singing the anthem.

But for those Edmonton games, with nearly 20,000 fans surrounding him, Opera singer, Robert Clark, stayed in the stands, in the middle of the crowd, pressing close in.

Then not even halfway through singing the anthem, he stopped, turned the microphone out, and let the crowd finish singing the Canadian anthem. It was spine tingling to hear the national anthem sung with gusto not by the performer but by the whole crowd.

Their singing together wasn’t a refined performance ever rehearsed. It was in the moment, and for me inspirational, not so much what they were singing but that they were singing it together – 20,000 voices strong.

It is for me a wonderful picture of what the church is about. Jesus hands it over to us. The healing and the growth involve each of us, pressed together, in community.

A whole new slate of leaders of the Eastern Synod of our church were elected last week. Many new Synod council members were elected. New officers were elected – Treasurer Fred Mertz, and Secretary Chris Hulan. A new vice chair – the first ever from Atlantic Canada, Sara Whynot – was elected. And a new bishop – the first ever female bishop in the Eastern Synod, Carla Blakley – was elected. The turnover was significant, offering, in her words, “the promise of a new tomorrow”.

And yet, the church at this time, seeks healing and wholeness in a season of budget restrictions. Benevolence giving – that is, income received to the Synod from congregations – has been on a steady decline since 1992. Over recent years Synod budgets have relied more on investment income to fund its mission goals, four of them, which are: 1. Providing support to the Synodical community; 2. Developing capable leaders; 3. Connecting to the wider church through effective partnerships; and, 4. Living as a healthy Synod.

Amidst these goals, and in this time, how do we embrace the promise of a new tomorrow? In his last sermon to the Synod as bishop on the closing day of the Assembly, Rev. Michael Pryse talked about our baptism.

“Think of baptism,” Bishop Pryse said, “… as a garment. Only it’s kind of like the sweaters that your mother would buy for you when you were a kid. Remember … arms down to the knees? She always bought them a few sizes too big so that you “had room to grow into them.” Baptism is kind of like that. Galatians talks about baptism as “putting on Christ.” But baptism is a garment that we’re always growing into…always in the process of filling out.

“Luther called baptism a ‘once and for all event which takes your whole life to complete.’ I really like that! Baptism happens but once, but it is a beginning point in a never-ending process of renewal. We’re always growing into it … always in the process of reclaiming its promises and benefits. Baptism gives us an identity … but it also gives us a purpose and a task that we carry with us throughout our earthly lives.”

At the Synod Assembly last week, we were all together, in person, for the first time since a couple of years before the pandemic – so it’s been six years. During worship, at the banquet, in sessions, around committee tables we were pressed in close, closer than I was used to, shoulder to shoulder. We were building community, realizing how it felt to be together again in a bigger way.

“You have often heard it said that the church is like a family,” Bishop Michael went on to say. “And certainly, the most important thing a family does for us is to tell us who we are. The family gives us identity … gives us place … gives us, hopefully, a true sense of self.

“That is one of the church family’s essential tasks…to tell us who we are…to nurture and sustain the baptized in their God-given identity. That’s part of what we do every week in our worship services. “Rise and go, your sins are forgiven.” The body of Christ given for you.” “Go in peace, serve the Lord.” We’re practising the virtues of the kingdom. We’re affirming and building up our essential and fundamental identity as baptized children of God…an identity that we’re always growing into…always experiencing in a fuller way.”

For many Canada Day is also about reaffirming our national identity. It is a collective identity that is growing in rich diversity, multi-cultural beauty as well as a growing awareness of our troubled history and acceptance of the challenges that face a growing population. The church has a place in all of this, to model and bear witness to the virtues of the kingdom, our fundamental baptismal identity in Christ.

And even though that identity may sometimes feel like it’s too big for us – too challenging, too scary – we will grow into the promise. After all, growing into Christ is a lifelong journey of growth.

And as we grow we will sing! We will sing our identity out loud. We will sing it out, imperfectly and unpolished, but with the whole people of God together sounding out God’s love for all. Sounding out that each person has dignity and has been created by God out of love. Sounding out the call to care for one another, and to work towards peace and justice for all. So, in the coming season, let us sing!

A couple of weeks ago I showed you the new logo for the ELCIC. One aspect of the new logo caught my attention: The bird with a tree branch in its beak.

It took me back to the story of Noah and the flood in the book of Genesis. After the ark with Noah, his family, and all creatures of the earth onboard had been sailing on the flooded earth for over a month, with no land in sight, a dove he had sent out regularly finally returned with a freshly plucked olive leaf in its beak (Genesis 8:6-12) – a sign that the waters had receded! Even though still not visible to Noah, there was land somewhere in the distance over the horizon. There was hope.

The branch in the bird’s beak takes up nearly half of the circle in the new logo for the church. Of course, the dove appears elsewhere in the bible and Christian tradition – at Jesus’ baptism (Mark 1:10), for example and as a sign of the coming Holy Spirit from the heavens.

Its prominence in the logo suggests what our faith today means, and maybe what it needs the most. I have a stained glass depicting this scene hanging on the window of my home office. It’s right above my computer screen so it’s in my line of sight when I look up.

Maybe you feel flooded, drowning, flailing about in waters too deep. Maybe you are in over your head with worries, stresses, a fragile state of mental health, hanging in the balance. Maybe your anxiety and fear are off the charts. Maybe your grief and loss go so deep you don’t believe you will ever recover. Maybe you see no hope for the future in this complicated world. Maybe you despair over all the violence, death and war in the world today.

Maybe all you long for, all you need, is for that dove to land on the railing of the boat you are sailing with a leaf in its beak.

Today’s Gospel starts with a small seed. Jesus teaches his disciples about what God is all about in this world, in this life. Because sometimes it will grow. Sometimes the smallest thing will become the largest of all (Mark 4:26-34), providing shelter for all the creatures of the air.

Elsewhere in the Gospel when Jesus teaches us not to worry, he points to the birds of the air showing how much God cares even for the littlest of sparrows. And in his sermon (Matthew 6) Jesus addresses his disciples with the words: “Ye of little faith.” Ye, of little faith.

For the longest time I had taken his address to be somewhat of a slight, a scold, a put down from Jesus, a test they had failed, coming up short again. I imagined Jesus shaking his head, disappointed at his disciples’ thick headedness. “Ye of little faith.” Dim-wits.

But taking these passages together, I have since revised my interpretation.

You see, Jesus expresses the same in the story of Jesus calming the storm on Lake Galilee. In some English translations, you find an extra word added, “oh”. As if to drive home the finger-wagging interpretation: “Oh, ye, of little faith!” (Matthew 8:26, English Standard Version).

But in Greek, that little exclamation “Oh” is not found in the text. It is, simply, “You, of little faith.” Furthermore, the preposition “of” is also not there. So, the phrase can be translated, “You have a little faith.”

“Ye of little faith” is not a critical, condescension. But a positive affirmation. “Ye of little faith!”

Because the “earth produces of itself” anyway, that’s all you need.

Because God makes the seed grow in the first place, that’s all you need.

Just a little bit of faith. That’s a good start! It’s all you need.

So quick we are to remove ourselves from consideration, even before we begin. So quick we are to dismiss ourselves, put ourselves down, and say, “Oh, I don’t have enough faith. I’m a bad person. I can’t.” Feeling this, admitedly, is completely understandable and needs to be validated – life is tough after all. We can’t bypass our initial feelings and thoughts.

But can we not at least consider that Jesus affirms what little faith we think we have, to be just what we need? Can we not imagine that Jesus is right there beside us, whispering into our hearts. “Ye, of little faith. I’ve planted a seed in your heart. It wants to grow. It will grow. Just trust me. Trust in God’s love and grace for you, ye of little faith.”

Ye of little faith is a love letter from Jesus. As we walk by faith on this earth, that’s all we got. Just a little, to be sure. But Jesus’ sermon is about the promise that a little bit goes a long way. A little bit is all you need. That small seed is going to grow!

Noah and his family were coming to a new home, after the flood waters receded. On their way, they needed a little sign of hope. That olive leaf in the beak of the dove was all they needed – at the right time and in the right place – to encourage them on the way.

We are on this journey home. Home can be a healing, a changed state of being, a transformed way of behaving and acting in relationship with one another and the world. Home can be a reaffirmation of family, of who is important in your life. Home can be a final destination of a life’s pursuit or in full union with God.

That journey is sometimes hard to make, but we carry on. How?

Staying with the flood image, I am reminded of the story of the little fish swimming up to its mother, all in a panic. “Mama, Mama, what’s water? I gotta find water or I’ll die!”

We live immersed in all that we need but we sometimes have a hard time appreciating and accepting that fact. We miss it not because it is so far away but because, paradoxically, it is so close, closer to us than our being itself (Bourgeault, 2001).

God’s gracious presence is the water in which we swim. And on this journey, we continue on, trusting that when we need it, God will give us a sign of hope to nurture the little seed of faith in our hearts. Just like that little fish swimming desperately in search of water, we, too, in the words of Psalm 103:11, “swim in mercy as in an endless sea”.

Ye, of little faith.

Amen.

Reference:

Bourgeault, C. (2001). Mystical hope: Trusting in the mercy of God. Cowley Publications.

Saint Paul equates our humanity to clay jars (2 Corinthians 4:5-12). So, how do you feel in your clay jar today? What’s the condition of your clay jar?  Is it all pretty and beautiful? Or, is there a lot of dust caked onto it? Does it show its age? How fragile is it? Does it have a few chips or cracks in it already? Maybe, many chips and cracks.

But wait! We carry a treasure in our clay jars, did you notice? It’s not to say the clay jars aren’t important. They fulfill, after all, a vital function – to carry the treasure!

What do we first notice? On what do we focus? The cracks, chips, dysfunction, imperfection of our clay jars? Or, will we look for the light, the hope, the promise of the treasure within?

Whatever our answer, we cannot deny, avoid or pretend away our clay jars as if they don’t mean anything important on our journey of faith. Sometimes the cracks, chips, injustices on the outside reflect the nature and purpose of the treasure it holds inside.

Sometimes the un-exceptional reality points to the truth about God’s “extraordinary power” (v. 7) and points us in the direction of our healing and transformation. After all, we are not disconnected, disembodied creatures existing in cerebral, otherworldly abstractions. The clay jars are just as important – these are the means of grace.

In the Gospel for today, Jesus plucked grains of wheat, mentioned King David eating the bread in the temple, and he healed someone with a broken hand (Mark 2:23—3:6). The clay jars are indeed the entry point, the gateway, into a holy journey of healing, growth and communion with Jesus.

An ancient proverb is told of a servant whose duty it was to draw water from the river at dawn when it was still mostly dark, and carry a bucket-full up a winding, rocky path to the mansion where his master lived. Alas! His bucket had a crack in it. And each time he brought water up the path he lost most of it.

Curiously, the servant noticed his master standing at the door of the mansion watching him every day carry this water up the path, spilling most of it. And yet, the servant was able to see a broad, loving smile on his master’s face. Daily, the servant would drop to his knees when he reached the top. At his master’s feet the servant would express his remorse at failing to do his job, bringing only half a bucket-full of water each time he climbed the path. The master listened lovingly, invited him inside for breakfast, and encouraged him to try again the next day. Which the servant did, faithfully, for the entire season.

When the river froze over, and the last half-bucket full was brought up the path, and once again the servant expressed his shame, sorrow and regret, the master invited him inside to share in a special feast to mark the end of the season and beginning of a new one. On the table spread with the finest breads, vegetables, cheeses and meats, he found bouquets of flowers of the most wondrous varieties and colors.

The servant gasped at the heavenly sight and asked his master, “From where did you find these beautiful flowers?”

“Come, follow me,” the master said, “and see for yourself.” The master led the servant back to the front door just as the sun was rising, illuminating the pathway down to the river. And on both sides of the path the flowers were growing, able to do so because of the water that had daily leaked out from the servant’s cracked bucket.

This story describes how God’s grace works. Grace operates through the cracks of our lives. That’s how the precious treasure we carry spills out.

The new logo and tagline for the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Canada was released last week. The tagline replaces “In Mission for Others” with “Living out God’s Grace and Unconditional Love” (ELCIC, 2024). The logo conveys hope and the never-ending circle of God’s love whose centre is the cross. As in the Gospel today and so often in Jesus’ earthly ministry, grace and compassion fuel Jesus’ action (Mark 2:23-3:6).

The journey of faith puts us in tension with all the forces in us and outside of us that seek to snuff out the light of God’s grace. Yes, these jars are indeed fragile, vulnerable, imperfect and we wonder if they are strong enough, durable enough, to withstand the onslaught. We may even get down on ourselves, concluding we are useless, falling on our knees confessing and even dwelling on all that is wrong in us.

But Saint Paul makes clear that when the treasure does spill out to the world, it is God’s doing not ours. After all, the treasure we hold—the heart of Jesus—is not ours to guard and keep. Its purpose is to shine out to the world through the cracks in our clay jars. Its purpose is to be visible in the world as an act of kindness, a generosity and unconditional gift we give because we first have received it. We may even be doing it without knowing it, or when we least expect it.

These clay jars convey the tender mercies and grace of God which is at the heart of Jesus and in the hearts of all who want to follow. Our healing begins when we experience the grace of God showing through those very cracks and chips in our lives. And that’s the extra-ordinary power the world needs to see. May God’s grace empower us on this journey.

“Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!”^[1] the disciples express to Jesus their amazement at the glorious temple in Jerusalem.

In response Jesus asks a rhetorical question: “Do you see these great buildings?” I mean, do you reallysee them? See them for what they are and what they represent—the authority of earthly power wrapped up in heroic, human efforts to appear glorious and right? These are the stones upon which we build our lives. And they are going to crumble, topple and fall. “All will be thrown down,” Jesus says.

The end of the pandemic is not what we expected. A few months ago I assumed it would be more cut-and-dry. One moment we are living under the threat of COVID with all the attending lockdowns and restrictions. And, then, when it’s over, it’s back to normal and we can do things the way we have always done them.

But that’s not the way it’s really going, is it? To a large degree things are better. Most people are vaccinated, and therefore groups can gather in public spaces to do the things we want to do together. But the truth is, being vaccinated doesn’t mean we aren’t susceptible to getting the virus, doesn’t eradicate the virus. It doesn’t mean we can’t still pass it on even with lowered risk. After so many have suffered significant loss of health and well-being, and facing significant health challenges, nothing is cut-and-dry. It’s hard to make long-term plans, make decisions and commitments more than a few days in advance. 

It already feels like the building blocks of our lives—the places of certainty that have guided us our life-long are crumbling. How will we know what to do, and when to do it? We, like the disciples, may be looking for signs to determine the path forward in uncertain, fast-changing times. “Tell us, when will this be, and what will be the sign?” This may be your prayer, too, these days.

What will replace the stones that are thrown down? What will be our guide? What will be the measure of our faith if not what we have built?

To help them experience God amid all that competes for their attention and obedience, Jesus first pulls the rug out from under their expectations. 

Put yourself in the disciples’ shoes: How would you feel if Jesus said these words to you sitting outside on the ground level looking up at the impressive 45-storey Claridge Icon building in Little Italy, here in west-end Ottawa? Seems unbelievable, improbable at best.

Jesus’ audacious words in the Gospel text at first create confusion and maybe distress. Jesus’ words upset any pretense of stability we might seek especially during a time of disruption. If anything is thrown down, it is our certainty. Which, it seems, makes it even more difficult, more challenging, maybe more impossible to discern anything let alone make decisions and plan for the holidays and beyond.

But maybe that’s the starting point. Maybe that’s where what Jesus is all about must begin. The birth-pangs. The uncertainty. The disruption of ‘normal’ life. The present moment, however turbulent, is the necessary pivot towards embracing the expansive vision of God.

Because at this pivot we are most vulnerable, honest, and true to ourselves. At this point we have nothing to hide, nothing to prove, nothing to pretend we are. And maybe that’s where we need to be, if for a moment.

Because if we believe that what will happen in the future is largely dependent on our success, on achieving greatness, or solving all the problems on the planet, we will get stuck at best, despair at worst. And perhaps we already have gotten stuck, to some extent, with some issue or problem we face in our lives. Perhaps we are already locked down in despair.

The truth is, something is going to happen whether or not we make a decision. Something is going to happen whether we decide to do ‘x’ or decide to do ‘y’ or decide to do nothing at all. Doing nothing is a decision that has consequences. Something will happen. And that’s the point of life in faith. 

Knowing that the future does not ultimately depend on our getting it right. Knowing that what really matters in life is beyond our compulsion to be perfect and make something glorious of ourselves. Knowing this can free us to move forward in faith, making decisions and taking risks in good faith. And trusting in the love of God who holds us no matter what.

So it’s not like we’ve got this, “Here’s God; here’s us. God’s just waiting till we get our act together and then we’ll all be well.” That’s not God. That’s a religion based on our egos. And those stones are tumbling down.

Rather, God is alive. God is love. Love is the measure. Love will guide us. Whatever is loving, gracious, kind and merciful—this is the way of the Gospel, the way of Christ Jesus.

“Love is pulling us on to do new things and we need to trust the power of God in our lives to do new things.” When we experience an unwiring of ourselves— this is a painful process, yes — we recognize that it is “the God of Jesus Christ [who] is … the power beneath our feet, the depth of the beauty of everything that exists, and the future into which we are moving.”^[2]

We can then roll with the stones that are tumbling down and join the rising movement of love that holds us all together and brings us hope for a better future.

^[1] Mark 13:1-8

^[2] Richard Rohr, “Love Is All There Is” in Daily Meditations (www.cac.org, 16 September 2021)

The NHL season began this past week. And the Ottawa Senators hope not to repeat last year’s start, which saw them losing all but two of their first fifteen games. Even though they ended the regular season last Spring one of the hottest teams in the league—winning ten of their last fifteen games—they still didn’t have enough points to make it into the Stanley Cup playoffs.

They say teams can lose the Stanley Cup in the first month of the season, meaning those first few games are crucial to the team’s prospect of making the playoffs. So, there’s a lot riding on each game, especially early on.

Yet the opposite is also very true: You can’t win the Stanley Cup in the first few games of the season either. Many teams have to build resiliency and overcome adversity on the road to ultimate success. And that means losing some games and surviving those slumps which inevitably come to all successful teams at some point in the season.

In other words, accepting our limits and checking our ambitions is very much integral to the overall arc of one’s life. Not just for professional sports teams.

In the Gospel text for today,^[1] James and John go for it. To run this race, they are out of the starting blocks at full gallop. Believing they need to compete on the ladder of success with the other disciples, believing they need to vy for a privileged seat in some hierarchy of God’s reign, believing they’ll get ahead only by denying the other disciples this privilege—they demand from Jesus “to do for us whatever we ask of you …grant us to sit, one at your right hand and one at your left, in your glory.”

No wonder the other disciples were angry with James and John.

I was being opportunistic. I knew the market was hot for used canoes. So I went for it. I sold my favourite canoe for a good price. With the money from the sale I decided to buy a new kayak. They would have to build one because – you guessed it – there were none in stock. That was July 1st.

Originally they said it would take two months until I could pick it up. Ok. In September I could still get out on the water several times. In retrospect, I could have been out on the water every day this past week with the warm, summer-like temperatures we have enjoyed to date.

But in mid-August I received a letter from the owner of the canoe company apologizing and advising that my kayak’s production was running behind schedule about six-weeks. There was now very little if any chance I would be in the water in my new kayak before winter. I would likely have to wait until Spring to enjoy my new toy.

My ambition ran into a brick wall. What started out as a great plan to maximize my enjoyment of paddling, and take advantage of the resources at my disposal, ended in disappointment, you could say. I’d have to gain some perspective to keep from slipping into regret and ingratitude.

Gus, the main character in David James Duncan’s bestselling novel, The River Why, reflects on his passion and calling to be on the river and to be the best fly-fisher he could be. As you get to know this character, you very quickly realize how much his life is defined and motivated by fishing and spending time on the river.

But he soon also realizes that immersing himself fully into his passion without boundaries and without limits, and pursuing his ambition unchecked, was actually driving him mad. He had to find balance in his life. He had to find other activities and build relationships with neighbours. He had to take care of himself.

Gus muses, “The once-monthly fisherman adores his rare day on the river, imagining that ten times the trips would yield ten times the pleasure. But … I learned that not fishing is crucial to the enjoyment of fishing: fishing is a good thing, but too much of a good thing is a bad thing.”^[2]

Jesus turns the tables on James and John. They expected that their ambition would be rewarded. Well, it often is in the world of purusing self-gratification, what’s-in-it-for-me lifestyles and me-first relationships. Indeed we are often rewarded by a world that values going-for-it, and looking-out-for-oneself and one’s-own, a world motivated by uninhibited, individual ambitions.

Jesus suggests another strategy, one that realizes peace and contentment through acknowledging one’s limits, a lifestyle that finds meaning and purpose by respecting one’s place in the larger scheme of things.

When Jesus talks about giving his life, what he means is that we are part of a much bigger whole. Jesus asserts not just by his words but by what he does that “life is not about us, but we are about life.” 

We are not our own. We are an instance of something much bigger than us. Life is living itself in us. This thinking is revolutionary to our brains which have been trained to believe otherwise. As Richard Rohr confesses, Jesus’ message is “an earthquake in the brain, a hurricane in the heart.”^[3]

As it was, and as I waited, I still got out on the water a handful of times this summer in our other, older fifteen-footer canoe and by borrowing demo models at lakeside outfitters in Algonquin Park.  Paddling on the water a couple of times was pure joy. And enough. 

I learned that regardless of how many times I’m on the water doesn’t gaurantee a ‘perfect’ experience every time: bad weather, faulty gear, unexpected high winds. So, I discovered that not paddling is crucial to the enjoyment of paddling: paddling is a good thing, but too much of a good thing can also be a bad thing.

In the want, in the suffering, in embracing the lack of things, we learn to live in the moment, a moment still infused by God’s grace. We learn to pay attention, even in the want, to what God is bringing to you this very day, and at this very moment. Even amidst the pain, we more readily bind our hearts with others and look beyond our present circumstances.

One of the main turning points in The River Why happens when Gus, a miserable and unhealthy man, begins to emerge from his self-consumed life. He decides to meet his neighbours living along the river. 

And that is when his life changes for the better.

^[1] Mark 10:35-45

^[2] David James Duncan, The River Why (New York: Back Bay Books, 2016), p.75-76

^[3] “Your Life Is Not About You” Reality Initiating Us: Part One  (Daily Meditations, www.cac.org, 1 April 2020)

The ice was coating the sidewalk, and even the packed, dirt path leading to the graveside.

The rare, January rain had turned back to sleet and snow. The temperature was falling to its customary levels for that time of year, freezing again the mounds of earth piled on the side of the deep hole in the ground.

The winds out of the north were picking up, gusting across the open farm fields surrounding the cemetery. It was not a day to be out doing anything, let alone carrying a casket with numbing cold hands and wearing dress shoes.

The conditions couldn’t have been worse. It was the last place on earth I’d go to experience God: a frozen cemetery feeling the sorrow of losing Dad to a horrible disease.

And yet, when we buried my Dad in those conditions almost two years ago, the bad weather is not the only thing I remember. 

As Bishop Michael began leading us over the frozen ground towards the planks of wood lining the grave, we realized we would need some extra help. Because it was dangerous going. A slip and a fall was only a snowflake away. 

I remember the bishop looking over at the little group of mourners gathered with my Mom, my brother and I that frightful January day and finding the eyes of a young man – the son of one of my mother’s friends. Thanks be to God he was there. The bishop didn’t need to say anything. We were all thinking the same thing. With a nod, the young person jumped in with us and added his strength to guide the casket down onto the grave-hoist ropes without incident.

And as we shivered in the wind to hear the familiar, comforting words, the warmth expanded in my heart.

I think back to that time now, I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because since then the pandemic has brought the reality of death to the forefront of our collective lives. Maybe because so many have indeed suffered and lost everything. Some have braved and weathered the adversity they faced. Some have barely survived through times of unprecedented change. 

Going into public places – even going into a church building – may be the last place you’d feel like going on a Sunday morning these days.

And maybe because we also realize now that the threat of COVID won’t just disappear anytime soon. Grief is like that. We’re in the business of endurance for the long haul. It is indeed a marathon we are running, emotionally and spiritually.

On top of that and in all the debate and division about vaccines, lockdowns and restrictions, have our hearts hardened?

In the Gospel for today^[1], Jesus encounters the keepers of the law – the Pharisees. The keepers of the law wanted to question Jesus about the law and specifically the commandments about marriage from the time of Moses. If they could trip Jesus up on the icy surface of their logic, perhaps they could find reason to condemn him.

Mount Sinai was in the middle of the desert. The desert, the wilderness, was also a dangerous place. Freezing temperatures at night. Sweltering heat under the noonday sun. Deadly animals and lack of food, constant threats. 

Yet, this was the place – the last place on earth – where the law was given to Moses. The law wasn’t delivered in a vacuum, after all, but in the middle of the journey from Egypt to the Promised Land. Inbetween the place where God’s deliverance of the Israelites began, and where it was hoped God’s deliverance would end. They had a long road to travel to get there.

When the Israelites had crossed the sea out of Egypt, escaping the clutches of their pursuers, God was not done freeing them. The God of the bible is not a God who liberates, then leaves. But a God who continues to save, even in the last place on earth.

“This is a God who walks with people through the desert in a cloud of smoke and fire and who literally sets up camp with them in the form of a traveling tabernacle. This is a God who cares about every detail of their new life together …”^[2] who gives to the hungry manna, just enough to keep going. 

With God, deliverance is not a one-time deal. Freedom, healing and salvation in Christ is not a one-off, run-and-done. Learning and growth in faith is a process that continues throughout our lives.

“It was because of the hardness of your hearts that Moses gave the law,” Jesus says. But Jesus is not finished speaking. Hardness of heart is not the end of this story. Jesus is not finished showing them. He has much more to show the scrutinizing keepers of the law about life and marriage and loss and divorce. 

Because they forget one thing, one very important thing about God when they only want to keep the law. That God is not done with them and us. And especially in those times and those places that test us.

The Gospel text for today ends with this odd, almost disconnected scene of Jesus welcoming the children, taking them up in his arms and blessing them. “Let the children come to me, do not stop them,” Jesus says. What do the children have to do with laws about divorce and marriage? 

Perhaps, then, the discordant, jarring form of the text itself is suggestive. Perhaps, then, it is precisely how it comes to us—in those jarring, dangerous times of life, where the connections are not easy to make—like when confronting suffering, death, God, or love. These realities confound us. These are testing times. 

Maybe, then, it is precisely in those long-haul, grinding-it-out times when we feel we are walking a slippery plank on the edge of an abyss, where we are one breath away from falling, when we can only see the grey skies stretching into the horizon and brace against the cold winds of fear ….

Those are the times, those are the places, those are the moments we really need to pay attention. Because God is not absent in those suffering times. The problem is not that God isn’t there with us in the desert, at the graveside when the weather is frightful. The hardness of our hearts is the problem.

But that is when God finds us. The last place on earth is where grace happens, where the love of God erupts as a small flame in our hearts. The love of God erupts in a small moment of giving, and of receiving the unconditional help of a friend. 

Our hearts warm. The ice melts. God takes us in arms of love, and blesses us. This is God. Compassion is the way through the desert, through the long-haul sufferings of life. Compassion is the way.

And it’s just beginning.

Thanks be to God.

^[1] Mark 10:2-16

^[2] Rachel Held Evans. Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again. Tennesee: Nelson Books, 2018. p.53.

Jesus’ disciples think they are doing a good thing. They try to stop someone who is doing a good thing. But, there’s a problem. For the disciples that problem outweighs the good thing that person is doing. John, the disciple who speaks, says, “We saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.”^[1]

The problem is, this person is not a card-carrying member. They’re “not following us”; they weren’t part of the club. And no matter the good they do, it doesn’t count in the religious mind-set of the disciples.

Are we much different? The debates continue today about whether it counts if non-believers do good, whether it counts if those who do not belong in a formal way to the church or to our congregation do good – things that we are called to do. Does that count?

You could say that, at least, they were casting out the demon “in Jesus’ name”. And that may be why Jesus said, “Do not stop him.” 

I’ve found at least a couple very good commentaries on what “In Jesus’ name” means: One approach suggests the name of Jesus itself is powerful. Here, the exorcist seems to be using Jesus’ name explicitly as a powerful tool for casting out demons. 

Therefore, according to this interpretation, the story in the end may be less about the power of demons and more about the power of language itself, to change the speaker and to shape the identity of the community.^[2] “No one who does a deed of power in my name,” says Jesus, “will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me.”^[3] Using the name of Jesus is a powerful act that cannot leave the performer unaffected. 

Another good approach suggests that to act in Jesus’ name is simply “to act in a manner consistent with his character”.^[4] By this interpretation, some people may behave in a Christlike manner without realizing it, consciously. Such is the case in Matthew 25:31-46, where the action itself is the focus – visiting the sick and imprisoned, clothing the naked, feeding the hungry. The action itself determines the Christian way regardless of who is doing it. Some have called this ‘anonymous Christianity.’

Nevertheless, I still wonder: If this person was doing good in Jesus’ name, why weren’t they already following Jesus? Why was this person apart from the community that surrounded and followed Jesus throughout Galilee? The action in the text pivots from excluding someone who does not belong, to Jesus authorizing their inclusion. “Do not stop him.” The action in the text hinges on what Jesus says here.

So, in the end, for me this passage points to the freedom of God. When we begin with God’s freedom, we also affirm that we are not in control nor do we judge who’s in and who’s out when it comes to the work of the Holy Spirit, the work of God, in the world. 

Richard Rohr asserts that it is a very hard task indeed to keep God free for people, “because what religion tends to do is tell God whom God can love and whom God is not allowed to love …”^[5]

Gus, the main character in the novel, The River Why,^[6] is on a journey to find God. And Gus believes the only way to do that is to find God in a certain place that Gus determines. In the novel, this place is the source of the river on whose banks Gus lives, farther downstream. It’s a long and arduous journey. When he finally arrives at his destination, Gus fails to experience what he intended by all his hard work and labour to find God and truth. 

Slumping at the source of the river he confesses: “It’s a damn tough business sitting around trying to force youself to force God to forcefeed you …”

By the end of the novel, Gus does find God. But it’s in the least expected turn of events and experiences of his life. He concludes, “Thank God I failed. It would have been a hell of a note to have to hike fifty miles up[river]… every time I wanted a word with … [God].” 

Gus discovers that God and God’s truth are not experienced according to his anticipated and sought-after outcomes. Gus discovers that God’s ways are not his ways, that he can’t force God’s hand, or be driven spiritually by his own notions of where it must happen, when it must happen, or with whom it must happen.

The example of Jesus in the Gospel today pushes us to consider God’s prerogative, to consider others as God’s hands and feet in the world. Consequently I believe the Word calls us to examine the barriers we may be tempted to put up in order to exclude those who are not like us, or who differ from us in ways that make us uncomfortable, or those who do not follow us.^[7]

Someone we know who prays. But is not Lutheran.

Someone who cares for the earth. But you doubt whether they go to church.

Someone who volunteers in drop-in centres for women, someone else who volunteers at the local food bank, someone else who gives their time writing letters to members of parliament to ensure safe drinking water for northern, indigenous communities. But they aren’t professing Christians.

A family member or friend who is honest about their doubts yet still practices compassion and listens well to people who come to them with their problems offering their gift of healing. But doesn’t use the right, familiar God-language.

While we will not control their behaviour nor their beliefs, we can trust that God has this in hand. We don’t need to put up any roadblocks when the Holy Spirit works in the lives of those who nonetheless are doing good, in Jesus’ name. Because our task is not to be gatekeepers or guardians of God’s truth, but rather faithful followers and trusting servants of God, who is love.

Amen.

^[1] Mark 9:38-41

^[2] Martha L. Moore-Keish, “Mark 9:38-50 Theological Perspective” in David L. Bartlett & Barbara Brown Taylor, eds., Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary Year B Volume 4 (Kentucky: WJK Press, 2009), p.118

^[3] Mark 9:39

^[4] Martha L. Moore-Keish, ibid.

^[5] Richard Rohr, “A Journey Towards Greater Love” Living Inside God’s Great Story (Daily Meditations, www.cac.org, 29 August 2021)

^[6] David James Duncan, The River Why (New York: Back Bay Books, 2016), p.340-341

^[7] Br. David Vryhof, “Inclusion” Brother, Give Us A Word (www.sje.org, 10 September 2021)

“We will bury you!” 

Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev said those words in 1956. He was speaking to American diplomats at a reception in Moscow. In 1956, those words caused quite the stir.

In fact, those words—“We will bury you!”—helped spur the rapid arms build-up which during the Cold War in the last century pushed the world’s two superpowers to the brink of World War Three and nuclear annihilation.

What did Khrushchev actually mean by saying to the Americans, “We will bury you!”? It’s impossible to tell exactly. Because history suggests he was a man prone to brashness and exaggeration. Some say those words were based on a failed Marxist philosophy that the masses (proliterate) would be the undertakers of the monied bourgeois. Khrushchev may very well have been speaking out of a specific worldview and his belief in how history will unfold. 

Yet, these words were widely misinterpreted to suggest burial, literally, under mountains of radioactive rubble. Because Khrushchev was in 1956 one of two men in the world who had the power to launch a nuclear catastrophe.^[1]

Words matter. The words we say or write have power, for good or bad.

In the current Canadian federal election campaign, there are lots of words coming at us from the candidates. I don’t believe I’m alone in sometimes noticing a difference between words I read on a page or screen, and those same words I watch and hear spoken.

On paper, the words alone suggest one thing for me—good, bad, indifference. But when I see and hear the person speaking those very same words, I can have a completely different impression altogether and derive a completely different meaning. As is often the case, the way in which those words are spoken—the medium, you might say—is the message.

There’s more to the words alone.

I’d like to do a simple exercise with you. Listen to this short sentence, six words long. I will repeat this sentence six times, the same words in the same order. How does the emphasis on different words change the meaning of the whole sentence? 

I didn’t say you were wrong.

I didn’t say you were wrong.

I didn’t say you were wrong.

I didn’t say you were wrong.

I didn’t say you were wrong.

I didn’t say you were wrong.

When I was first introduced to doing this exercise as the listener, I presumed the same six words would convey the same meaning no matter how often repeated or regardless of which word in that sentence was emphasied? Was I wrong!^[2]

The book of James is popular for Christians for its practical advise. In the text assigned for today, James first lashes out against the tongue and how evil it can be.^[3] “How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire!” In truth, Khrushchev’s tongue and words in 1956 almost did set the world aflame.

The opposite is true, too. Even good words, warns James, can be a hypocrisy if spoken without authenticity. It’s hard to believe even good words if not conveyed by a credibility and trust in the person giving them. “From the same mouth can come blessing and cursing.” Words have that duality to them, if treated alone, on the surface.

To know Jesus, then, is to know more than merely the words recorded about him. These are nonetheless beautiful and important words to help us on our journey of faith. Yet, to know Jesus, and to be an authentic follwer of Jesus, is to experience the presence of the living Christ in your own life today.

And that involves more than words on a page.

What we don’t say has just as much to ‘say’ as any words might. The Sufi poet, Rumi, wrote, “A person does not speak only with words.” You could call this non-verbal communication—our tone, body language, posture, eye contact, maintaining physical distance, smiles or frowns, inviting facial expressions or with engaging, open, curious energy.^[4]

In a word-infested world where we are bombarded and assaulted by so many words—many good, some bad—the Gospel points us to a deeper way, a more authentic starting place behind any words we might say, write or read.

The prophet Isaiah gives us direction on this path of a deepening experience of God. How does Isaiah do good with his words – a prophet who is known for his words, who had a lot of words to say? How does Isaiah “sustain the weary with a word?”

Isaiah listens first. “The Lord God … wakens my ear, every day, to listen as those who are taught.”^[5] Listening to another opens the pathway to authentic relationships, as we respond out of a heart that receives the other first.

What is behind the words for a Christian?

Love. In the end, words are not enough. Words—like technology—are very good, capable tools for life. But words are means; words are not ends in themselves. 

Love is the true end and starting point. Without love, our words are lifeless. Truth cannot be communicated apart from a heart of love in relationship. In the service of love, out of a heart of love, our words find place and purpose.^[6] As Jesus did for those he met, healed and to whom he spoke. As Jesus does for us, out of God’s heart of love.

^[1] Giles Whittell, Bridge of Spies: A True Story of the Cold War (New York: Random House, 2010), p.44

^[2] Adapted from “Creative Listening” in Frontline, Earl A. Grollman (Summer 2021).

^[3] James 3:1-13,17

^[4] Ibid., Grollman

^[5] Isaiah 50:4

^[6] adapted from Br. Keith Nelson, “Knowledge”, Brother, Give Us A Word (www.ssje.org, 2 September 2021)

I live in Arnprior, whose logo reads — “Where the Rivers meet”, because the town is situated at the confluence of the Madawaska and Ottawa rivers. The flow of rivers around me, around the place I live, communicates to me important spiritual truths.

As a Christian, I take spiritual truth to be the way of Jesus. So, everything from my practice of prayer to how I aspire to relate with others flows from the waters of my baptism in Christ.

The flow of water can move one’s heart and mind in directions not anticipated nor expected. Just try running white-water rapids or going down a water slide. When you enter the water, your body will be subject to forces beyond your control and often make your body go in directions not intended.

When I read the bible sometimes familiar stories will come at me sideways and I’ll notice something that I’ve never before noticed. And it will open up new and unbidden horizons that will both challenge and inspire me on my journey of faith.

This is true with the Gospel reading for today[1] — about the healing of the deaf and mute person. And what jumped out at me was the first word in verse 32: “They”. The unidentified and unnamed people who brought the deaf man to Jesus. What is more, “they” begged Jesus—begged him— to “lay his hand” on him. And that’s where I stopped. I know the end of the story: he was cured of his ailments so there was no cliff-hanger for me there. But more about the ending in a moment.

First, who are “they”?[2] Who would take the time, the energy, the strength to bring someone who was probably on the margins of the socio-economic engines of 1st century Palestine? Who are “they” to place such value and worth on someone who couldn’t hear and who had a speech impediment? Who was this deaf and mute man to them? 

A family member? The text doesn’t suggest family relations. There are other healing stories in the Gospel of Mark where daughters and fathers and sons are explicitly mentioned and involved.[3]

What is more in our Gospel text is it’s not a passive, obligation kind of service — a do-gooder “I-have-time-today” kind of action. They begged Jesus to heal. This is passionate language. No time for self-preoccupation. And all for the sake of someone who might normally be dismissed, disregarded and even despised in society.

Such a reading leaves me wondering about the quality of my own Christian service and love. Is healing in Christ only for me? Or, for my own? “They” were more than one person. And each of those individuals that comprised the “they” in our text had their own problems, suffering, pains, losses, griefs that likely needed Jesus’ healing touch. Why weren’t they self-advocating? And yet, “they” as a group were so passionate in finding healing for this one man they brought to Jesus.

This summer I canoed the Barron River in Algonquin Park relatively close to where I live. There is a spectacular red flower found almost exclusively along this river: It’s called the cardinal plant, Lobelia cardinalis. What is special about this plant is that it requires not one, but two visits by a hummingbird in order to procreate. The bird arrives when the flower is in early bloom and uses its long bill to sip the nectar, which lies just deep enough that the brow of the bird brushes against the flower and picks up pollen.

Later, when the stamens of the cardinal flower no longer produce pollen, the pistil—the female part of the plant, protrudes through the spent stamens to a point where, when the flower is visited the second time by a hummingbird whose head has been dusted with pollen from another plant, fertilization takes place.[4]

In other words, healing and new life require at least more than one visit by the grace of God. More than one dose of love. More than a mere self-preoccupation about the healing gifts of God. The more-than-for-me is necessary to complete the picture.

The witness of “they” in the Gospel reading today gives me a wonderful picture of what true love—complete love—in Christ is about. Individual healing is maybe one part, but alone it is not the gospel. If it’s just about ‘my healing’, or ‘what I want’, it is not the gospel. The gospel is going to the second part, which is loving others. We are they. When we consider the needs of those unlike us, and act on them, then we are being true to the gospel. We are driving it home.

“Look not to your own needs first, but to the needs of others,” writes Saint Paul.[5] This doesn’t mean we dismiss and disregard our own needs. It means our healing and salvation is found in striving to meet the needs of others.

When the crowd witnesses the miracle of healing, what do they say about Jesus? They conclude that he has done well. Maybe Jesus passed some test they had for him— he can cure disease. It’s only as an afterthought do they add: He even makes the deaf hear and the mute speak. It’s as if the healing of the individual is not the main point. It isn’t for Jesus, who orders everyone “to tell no one” about the healing. So, the individual healing takes a back seat to what is really the miracle, that others cared enough about someone who was of little consequence— the marginalized, the weak, the homeless, the needy — to take the risk of bringing them to Jesus. That is the miracle.

Of course the gospel of Jesus is essentially about love. How do we love, then? That is the question. And how do we be like “they”; that is, how do we do this work of loving others together as a congregation? How do we love others who are different from us, who have different needs than we do? This is not easy. But that’s where the Gospel of Jesus Christ leads us.

In David James Duncan’s best-selling book ‘The River Why’, he describes what love is by using an analogy.

He writes that love is “like a trout stream: try to capture a trout stream with a dam and you get a lake; try to catch it in a bucket and you get a bucket of water; try to stick some under a microscope and you get a close-up look at some writhing amorphous microcooties. A trout stream is only a trout stream when it’s flowing between its own banks, at its own pace, in its own sweet way”.[6]

In the end, this text provides us with a picture of who God is. While we may stumble in our efforts and aspiration to be like “they”, in the end, God is they. Because God is love. We witness here how far God will go, by our side, to bring us to healing and wholeness. No matter how down-and-out we may be, no matter how much we have lost, grieved and suffered, no matter what place we occupy in our social and economic world, even for the most destitute, God is the passionate Friend who will take us there. 

Love opens the floodgates. Love doesn’t confine, constrict, or try too hard to change us into something we are not, out of judgement or fear. Rather, grace, mercy, and forgiveness flow alongside us, following us all the way downriver until we meet the vast, unbounded ocean of God’s eternal love.

Not just once. Not even twice. But many, many more times than that.

[1] Mark 7:31-37

[2] We encounter a similar rendering when Jesus cures a blind man at Bethsaida in Mark 8:22-26

[3] See Mark 5:21-43 & Mark 9:14-29.

[4] Roy MacGregor, Canoe Country: The Making of Canada, Toronto: Penguin Books, 2015, p.131

[5] Philippians 2:4

[6] David James Duncan, The River Why, Back Ray Books, 2016, p.396