Ebenezer

…“Up to this point the Lord has helped us!”
1 Samuel 7:12 (NLT)

Two battles raged here.  Two battles lost by Israel.  The Ark of the Covenant was stolen here.  Can you imagine that?  Here’s God, encapsulating some mysterious element of Himself in a box to be taken care of by this one tribe of people…and they manage to lose it.  Here at this one spot!  Seems like bad ground…brown fields. Then comes the turnaround, the Philistines are defeated and Israel gets the Ark back.  So Samuel takes a stone and turns it on end and calls the place Ebenezer – the stone of help, and declares that “Up to this point the Lord has helped us.”

Literally speaking, an Ebenezer is a "stone of help," or a reminder of God’s Real, Holy Presence and Divine aid. Spiritually and theologically speaking, an Ebenezer can be nearly anything that reminds us of God’s presence and help: the Bible, the Sacramental Elements, a cross, a picture, a fellow believer, a hymn – those things which serve as reminders of God’s love, God’s Real Presence, and God’s assistance are "Ebenezers."

I don’t know how I got to I Samuel.  Yesterday I had lunch with my pastor and she said a couple times that (for me) things were different now, referring to my journey into faith.  So last night I started thinking about how things are different now and just what that means to me.  Then, ah yes – that’s it, I started thinking about the New Year approaching and how things (spiritually speaking) had seemed so grim at the beginning of this year and I thought about Samuel and Israel, the lost battles, the lost Ark… you know how the mind works…

When I came across verse 12 and read what Samuel said, these words caused me to look back over the past few years.  Unbelief, disbelief, trying to go it alone.  I had lost battles and, in some weird metaphoric way, had even lost that bit of myself that may have contained some mystical element of God.  Yet, through all this, I was well provided for physically, financially, relationally and so on.  Up to this point, maybe without even knowing it…the Lord had helped me.

End of December.  Another year gone.  But this year is different!  I enter the new year looking forward.  Forward to a life of learning to have faith.  A life where God is welcome.  No idea where it all leads, but I look forward with anticipation.

There was a moment not too many weeks ago when things changed.  I can look to the past and to the future and see a clear line of demarcation.  It is that moment that I set a stone upright and call it Ebenezer.  I don’t know what “thing” in my life represents the stone – maybe the fact that I am actually going to join a church?  Maybe that church is my Ebenezer?

Here I raise mine Ebenezer;

hither by thy help I'm come;

and I hope, by thy good pleasure,

safely to arrive at home.

Jesus sought me when a stranger,

wandering from the fold of God;

he, to rescue me from danger,

interposed his precious blood.

 (Robert Robinson 1735-1790) 

What's Out There?

Tell me again why I stand in a bitter wind, sand swirling all around me in this pen, trying to fasten a load on this stubborn camel, trying to keep my goods from being lost on the road.  My best robes and favorite turban packed and still I wonder, will I really need them where I am going?  Off on some journey where I am not sure of what's to be found... or whom?

There was the dream, there was the voice that spoke with such authority, with such crystal clarity I couldn't help myself but move with purpose to follow, of all things... a star.  Immense, stunningly bright, the radiance of which I've never seen!

Across the open dunes we wonder, what's beneath that star?  What will we find there?  Some miracle?  Some treasure?  A fortune teller, a prince?  Too early to tell, so we wait...

Wondering...

Born Into A Mess

Jesus is many things to many people, but to John he was Light and Life. The apostle must have remembered where Jesus was standing and what he sounded like when he referred to himself by those words. Although nothing is written in his book, there is a little inkling of the birth to be found in John’s Gospel after all. It's wrapped up in one short sentence, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it”. This is the picture:  the Light that is Jesus shines in, around, through, behind, beneath, beyond the darkness of the manger, the stable, the darkness of the world, the darkness buried in our own hearts. Do we really understand it any more than the shepherds or the wise men did. Who can grasp the idea of Light and Life being contained in a body?
     If you were a shepherd 2,000 years ago and were outside watching the sheep one night when an angel showed up with a message from God, well…what would you do?  I can think of a few things I'd do, and not one of them include standing there having a conversation.  But the shepherds, once they got over the shock probably thought, Oh, sheesh!  What did we do now???  They had been told that God did not like people , sinners, who definitely are not all cleaned up, so they might have assumed the angel was there to tell them God was mad at them — or worse. Maybe God had finally reached his limit with all the crap in the world and was ready to do something about it — starting with them!   But instead the angel began with these words: “Fear not.”   Which tells me angels were pretty smart because if they didn't start with those words, like me, those shepherds would have been gone!  Then he told them how to find the long awaited Messiah:
     He will be wrapped in rags, lying in a feed trough, surrounded by animals — kind of like one of your shepherd kids would be.  In other words, here’s how you will know the Messiah when you see him: You will find him in the middle of a big stinkin' mess!
     The whole reason this is Good News — to the shepherds that night and to us right now — is that we really are all messy people. Every night on the 11:00 news, well dressed and manicured people appear on television and tell us how the world got a little messier today.  We manage to mess up every single area of life: relationships, finances, work, family, the environment, the Church, our conscience, our habits ... the list goes on-and-on. In fact there’s not a single area we haven't managed to mangle ... and we can't seem to fix any of it!
     So the angel says, “Here’s the Good News: God is not afraid of your mess.”
     What???  Our God doesn't seem to care how messy our lives are. It couldn't be any messier than where He chose to come to earth. He was born in a mess — wrapped in rags, laid in a manger — and he died in a mess! And in between his first day and his last day, he mostly hung out with messy people, seeming even to prefer them!
     We make Christmas really pretty, with red velvet bows and evergreen branches and all that. But the real story of Christmas proves that you do not have to clean up for him. Cleanliness, it turns out, is far from godliness. If anything, it’s in the middle of our messiness that God shows up!  God is love and only love. In God there is no hatred, desire for revenge, or pleasure in seeing us punished. God wants to forgive, heal, restore, show us endless mercy, and see us come home.
     Merry Christmas!!!

The Commitment of a Prostitute

...someone told the king of Jericho, “Some Israelites have come here tonight to spy out the land.” ³ So the king of Jericho sent orders to Rahab: “Bring out the men who have come into your house, for they have come here to spy out the whole land.”

 ⁴ Rahab had hidden the two men, but she replied, “Yes, the men were here earlier, but I didn’t know where they were from. ⁵ They left the town at dusk, as the gates were about to close. I don’t know where they went. If you hurry, you can probably catch up with them.” ⁶ (Actually, she had taken them up to the roof and hidden them beneath bundles of flax she had laid out.) ⁷ So the king’s men went looking for the spies along the road leading to the shallow crossings of the Jordan River. And as soon as the king’s men had left, the gate of Jericho was shut.  Joshua 2:2-7 (NLT)

This past Sunday our pastor spoke on the commitment God has made to us...and, like a good church-going dooby, I find myself contemplating her words and seeing the different aspects of my life that the message applies to.  Then, because it's Christmas season, I was reading Matthew 1, just revisiting the birth of the Christ when I came to this part:

Salmon was the father of Boaz (whose mother was Rahab).  Matthew 1:5 (NLT)

Rahab...hmm.  A prostitute...hmm.  In the lineage of Jesus...hmm.  Then the wheels got to turning.  Prostitutes aren't exactly the icons of commitment, yet there she is.  So, as is my wont, I looked up the story of Rahab in the Old Testament.

The Book of Joshua tells the story of Rahab, she was a prostitute. I don't know about you, but that grabs my attention pretty quick. I mean, why would God include a story about a prostitute in His Word? And not only is her story included in the Bible, but she's right there in the lineage of the Christ!

Now if that doesn't grab one's attention, nothin' will!

Rahab lived in a town called Jericho. The Israelites, led by Joshua since Moses had died, are preparing to overtake all the towns and people that occupy the land that God is giving to them--The Promised Land. Jericho is part of that land. Two spies are sent to Jericho to scope things out. Then Rahab makes a commitment.  She weighs out the risks and rewards then hides the men in her house so the king's men can't find them. Then, to top things off, she helps them escape after obtaining a promise that when they do come back and destroy the city, they'll keep her and her family safe.

OK. I have about a million questions at this point!

Why did Rahab help these guys? They were strangers to her. They were foreigners. Why would she risk her own life to hide them and then help them escape? 

How did the two spies know they could trust Rahab? How did they meet her? Some translations and scholars say Rahab was simply an innkeeper, so the spies obviously sought her out for a place to spend the night. But Hebrews 11:31 and James 2:25 refer to her as a "prostitute." Now, I know a little about Biblical languages but I'm no Hebrew language scholar, and I don't have my resources with me right now, but I don't think the word for innkeeper could that easily be mistaken for prostitute. If both James and the author of Hebrews, who was by all accounts a very educated Jew, refer to her as a prostitute, then I'm inclined to go with them.

Anyway...Despite the dark life Rahab leads, she obviously has knowledge of God. In verses 8-13 she speaks of "the Lord" and knows about the Promised Land. When the spies tell her they'll save her if she'll let down a scarlet cord from her window--the same window she used to help the men escape--she does what she's told. 

The author of Hebrews credits Rahab with faith (11:31) while James calls her righteous (2:25). Then there is the indisputable fact that she is listed in the lineage of our Lord and Savior. 

How does a woman go from being a prostitute to being called righteous and being listed as Jesus' Great (etc) Grandma?!

These spies come into her home, her king is looking for them because they are from the enemy's camp and they're certainly up to no good.  Imagine that moment when Rahab had to make a decision - (I wonder if it was a difficult one for her).  She had a choice...turn these guys in - or protect them.  Then she made a commitment.

It changed the course of her life. 

It also changed the course of her loved ones' lives. Because Rahab was faithful and obedient and made a commitment to God, her entire family was saved (Joshua 6:22-24) while Jericho and its inhabitants were destroyed. 

This story begs a question.

Can I make the commitment of a prostitute?

'Please, sir, I want some more.'

Then Jesus left Galilee and went north to the region of Tyre and Sidon.  A Gentile woman who lived there came to him, pleading, “Have mercy on me, O Lord, Son of David! For my daughter is possessed by a demon that torments her severely.”  But Jesus gave her no reply, not even a word. Then his disciples urged him to send her away. “Tell her to go away,” they said. “She is bothering us with all her begging.”  Then Jesus said to the woman, “I was sent only to help God’s lost sheep—the people of Israel.”  But she came and worshiped him, pleading again, “Lord, help me!”  Jesus responded, “It isn’t right to take food from the children and throw it to the dogs.”  She replied, “That’s true, Lord, but even dogs are allowed to eat the scraps that fall beneath their masters’ table.”  “Dear woman,” Jesus said to her, “your faith is great. Your request is granted.” And her daughter was instantly healed.  Matthew 15:21-28 (New Living Translation)
Every now-and-then I go down to the Corning Preserve in Albany and sit by the Hudson and read and chill.  Today I chilled alright as I sat at one of the picnic tables with snow on the ground and 20 degree temperatures.  While I was reading (Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens by-the-way) I noticed this guy that I see every single time that I go to the Preserve.  You see, he lives on a bench next to the parking lot.  Year round.  Today he was bundled up in what looked like 7 or 8 layers of coats and maybe 3 or 4 pants.  He was rummaging through the trash, looking for...what?  Food?  A nickel deposit bottle?  I don't know.  When I got home I warmed up for a little while as I waited for my wife to make me a sandwich.  When she so kindly brought it to me in the living room so I could eat it sitting on the sofa watching a basketball game, I noticed the crumbs on the wooden plate thing that I always eat my sandwiches from.  Then...I started thinking about that guy at the Preserve and the woman from this story. 

 

Crumbs.  That’s all she is looking for.  Crumbs.  Not the whole loaf. Not even a slice.  Just crumbs. Small crusty crumbs that fall over the edge of the table. And she knows that he can give her what she needs. She has heard about this Jewish messiah, Jesus of Nazareth. He turns clear, cool water into rich, red wine. He takes a few loaves and fishes from one boy and feeds thousands. Now he comes out to the borders of Palestine where she and her tormented daughter live on the edge of existence.  It’s been a long time since this woman has enjoyed a banquet. She has almost forgotten how to claim her place at the table. But she has heard about Jesus of Nazareth.  She knows he has something from God to feed people. And she intends to get some of that something for her daughter.  Crumbs.  She will take crumbs if that is all she can get.

We don’t know what finally pushes the woman over the edge. The writer of Matthew doesn’t tell us.  We can only imagine. We can only presume to imagine.  Perhaps she sits at her empty table one day.  Her house is small, the afternoon heat is unbearable. And then, her young daughter, seized by a fit, falls to the dirt floor in convulsions. No, the gospel writer does not give us much background. We can only presume to imagine that this desperate woman has had enough. Suddenly, this woman pushes away from an empty table and runs out the door. Out the door and down the road. Desperate for crumbs.  Then she sees Jesus of Nazareth.

It’s interesting, isn’t it?  It seems that Jesus has had enough as well. He has had enough of rigid, hypocritical Pharasaic rules—what Matthew calls “the tradition of the elders.” He has had enough of deaf, dumb disciples who stumble around blindly and just don’t get it.  Jesus leaves the cool waters of the Galilee to travel northwest on dusty roads. Out on the far edges of Israel.  Out there—figuratively and literally—on the border. “On the boundary between the old and the new, between male and female, between Jew and Gentile, between friend and enemy, between the holy and the demonic.” It is here, on the edge of existence, where we see great faith. From somewhere deep inside her, this woman seizes the tiny crumbs of faith that remain. She seizes that faith, strides out the door and down the dusty road.

As she approaches Jesus of Nazareth, she starts shouting: “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David!”  Shrieking.  Screaming. Shouting. This word “shouting” used by the gospel writer is the same word used “in Revelation 12:2 to describe the cries of a woman in labor pains.”  So, just as this woman once cried out as she gave birth to her daughter, she now cries out in a struggle to give health and wholeness to that child. She knows that she, a Canaanite woman, with no better status than a dog, is not worthy to gather up the crumbs under the table. Yet she knows something about God’s mercy that the Pharisees and scribes do not know. She knows something that even Jesus’ disciples do not know.  She knows that God’s mercy is wide and broad and wonderfully kind and faithful and bountiful.  God’s divine love is even wider—even wider—than the love of the human Jesus of Nazareth.  It is in this certain knowledge that the Canaanite woman dares to shout for God’s mercy as she kneels in front of the human Jesus.


What does she get for her trouble?  At first, nothing—except stony silence.  Jesus ignores her and the disciples probably roll their eyes. But when she continues to shout, the disciples are pushed over the edge. Get rid of this woman, Jesus.  Send her away, will you?  We had enough crazy people to deal with in Galilee, and they were our own kind.  Now we’ve got crazy foreigners ranting and raving in the road. Do something. Do anything. Just get rid of her, okay? Enough already!  Jesus responds, but not to the woman kneeling before him. He ignores the woman, and responds to the disciples.  “I was sent only to the lost sheep of Israel,” he says firmly.  I know who I am.  I am Israel’s messiah. My own people sit in darkness and need to see a great light.  I was sent to bring my own people healing, justice, mercy. I am a Jew—“the Jew who stands as the culmination of all of Israel’s history.”   Yes, and more than a messiah for Israel.  The human and historic Jesus claims his identity as Israel’s messiah.

And yet this woman who lives on the edges, on the margins, claims even more than Jesus does himself.  For she sees beyond the Jewish man in front of her:  her vision extends back in history to the Davidic royal line, and forward in history to the crucified and risen Christ.  This Jewish messiah before whom she kneels is a fulcrum for faith for thousands of people: those who live bountiful, mainstream lives, and those who struggle for crumbs on the edges of life. Jesus is the messiah of Israel.  And Jesus is the savior of the entire world.

The Pharisees and scribes may not get it. The disciples may not get it.  But this poor Canaanite woman gets it.  Jesus says, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”  And the woman turns the metaphor back on him with sharp and sure retort. “Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.”  Here is the kind of fierce, ferocious faith that will transform a world. So out of a faith that persists and struggles, out of a faith that seizes and shouts for attention, the woman receives what she demands.  Healing for her daughter.  Mercy that is wide and broad and wonderfully kind and faithful and bountiful.

So what?  What can this story possibly mean for me—who did not experience the historical, human Jesus sent to save his own people?  After a lifetime of church, belief, disbelief, re-belief have I really forgotten a first century Jewish messiah even as I remember a crucified and risen Christ in the breaking of bread and in my prayers?   I—well educated, upper middle class, wealthy in comparison to most of the world—have all, and more, than I need.  I do not grovel for crumbs under anyone’s table. My life is bountiful and rich.

Here is the sharp edge of this gospel reading.  Because I claim my place at God’s table, as God’s son, I have claimed a place not only of privilege, but one of responsibility.  This place requires me to feed my brothers and sisters.  Crumbs.  That’s all they are looking for.  Crumbs.  Not the whole loaf.  Not even a slice.  Just crumbs.  I, of course, want the whole loaf...and usually get it.  I drive a good car. They take buses or they walk. I have a pension plan.  They lack basic health insurance so they must bring crying babies to the Emergency Room at midnight. My wife and I, the two of us, have a nice home with 4 bedrooms.  They live in crowded, noisy apartments or on a freezing cold bench at the Corning Preserve.  I get a regular paycheck.  They cannot keep jobs. Why?  Because too many of them slept last night in a shelter.  They were kept awake by snoring. An uncomfortable cot. The wailing of hungry babies. And when you fall asleep on the job, you don’t have a job for long.

Crumbs.  Like Oliver Twist when he says to the parish workhouse master, they say, "Please, sir, I want some more."  They want more than crumbs because deep in their souls, they are hungry and know they deserve more. And yet they often do not know who to ask or how to ask.  So they wait. They wait in emergency rooms and welfare lines. They wait in line for sandwiches and coffee at the Rescue Mission on Pearl Street.  They bus tables or they serve tables, but I don't let them pull up a chair and eat at that table. Some of them are tired of waiting.  Angry at waiting. Sick to death of crumbs. So they get high or drunk and rob convenience stores.  They kidnap little girls or rape women and leave their bodies in parks. They strap bombs on their bodies, walk onto crowded buses, and blow themselves up.

The people who live out there on the edges of life are sick to death of waiting for the banquet to begin, so they stand in front of me and demand crumbs.  The crucified, risen and ascended Christ asks: When will you feed them?  When will you help them learn to read? When will you join Habitat for Humanity and help them build a home? When will you work for justice so there will be peace? When will you look them in the eye and say “Thank you for being my waiter today.  You did a good job!?”

Yes, “there’s a wideness in God’s mercy, like the wideness of the sea.  There’s a kindness in [God’s] justice which is more than liberty. There is welcome for the sinner, and more graces for the good; there is mercy with the Savior, there is healing in his blood.”  Two thousand years ago, a Canaanite woman knew this. God gave her clarity of vision so that she saw far beyond the edge of her empty table to a banquet table. She knew that God’s banquet table is full, and that any crumb from that table would fill her.  Way down that dusty road, even beyond the human vision of Jesus of Nazareth, the divine plan of God would feed the whole world, not just part of the world. 

Stripped

If that had been necessary, Christ would have had to die again and again, ever since the world began. But now, once for all time, he has appeared at the end of the age to remove sin by his own death as a sacrifice. Hebrews 9:26 (New Living Translation)

I was at the library the other day when I had one of those stare-off-into-space-and-let-your-imagination-run-wild moments.  I imagined myself in a huge room with a crowd of people. We were all waiting for God to show up. Some people were standing around in groups, talking. Others were sitting down. A few were asleep. Suddenly God appeared and things got very quiet, which was understandable because God was about 30 feet tall (don't worry, this isn't an Oral Roberts moment). A man near the back was the last one to notice. He was telling a joke to his buddy when he realized he was the only one talking. He looked around, saw God, and said, “Oh, sorry.”


Then God said, “Some of you are rather nicely dressed, I see.” That made the well-dressed people happy. Some of the men opened their blazers to show God the linings. A few women twirled around so God could get a good look at their outfits. A number of people seemed very proud of their shoes and pointed to them with open palms. God laughed and then took a deep breath. For a moment I thought God was going to suck all the air out of the room. There was a long pause, and then God leaned forward and blew. The sound of it was like the rush of a mighty wind. All of our clothes disintegrated and disappeared, like confetti blown off the top of a waxed table.


Just like that we were naked. As naked as the day we were born. It was embarrassing at first, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it. Eventually the idea began to settle in and people calmed down. You could hear people saying, “Oh well, I guess we’re naked now.”

First Communion (In a long, long time)

I did something today that I haven't done in many, many years - and no, I didn't cook dinner.  I celebrated communion in church.  It was an amazing, almost creepy moment for me.  For the first time in so long I took the time to be silent and "remember" what the Christ had done.

When communion is celebrated we remember Jesus, on the eve of His brutal day, comforting the disciples, telling them that even though he is about to die - he will always be with them.  I can't even fathom that.

I recall the evening before my first set-piece battle in the first Gulf War.  My comrades and I stayed up all night, talking about our lives, those whom we loved, the things we missed. Our commander had told us that we were expected to take up to 60% casualties the next day.  As we looked around at one another, it occurred to us that in all likelihood six of the ten of us would not make it through the next day.  We didn't comfort one another.  We didn't speak of the future or mention that death stood at the door to our tent.  We were scared and sad.  I think, in some part of my mind, I was already dead.  The tent hung with despair.

So when the ushers delivered the bread and wine to me today, I thought of that evening, and thought of Christ's final eve.  And I was moved.  If Jesus came to earth as omniscient God...well, then he knew what was coming, and that had to be agonizing.  Even if He wasn't omniscient during his sojourn into humanity, he was certainly well aware of what was about to happen to him.  Yet, here he was...bread - my body, wine - my blood...all for YOU!  All for ME!  He must have been scared.  He must have been sad.

I wonder if He looked back at his life.  Growing up with Mary and Joseph and his brothers, thinking of the times he played in the streets with his pals.  I wonder if he thought of his teenage years, and the girls he must have had a crush on, and wondered what could have been.  I wonder if Jesus thought about his friends, jumping and shouting with joy as they tore their nets pulling so many fish from the sea.  Or if he thought of the times they must have sat around a fire at night, singing and laughing, the hallmarks of relationships so complete and intimate.  I wonder if he thought of those things, and if he did...was He as sad as my pals and I were on that night.  But we won't know for sure.  He doesn't talk like that to his friends as he eats the meal of the condemned.  He humbly takes the most common portion of the meal and recognizes them as a symbol of his sacrifice.

Then he went out and received the brutal beatings and humiliating, agonizing hanging from a cross.  For ME.

I remembered these things during communion today.

Serve

“Whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life a ransom for many.”

 From James: We had been on this road to Jerusalem many times. We knew the landscape. We knew every little town along the road. Yet this time, as we walked with Jesus, things were different. Some of us had begun to grumble, to grow impatient with each other. All of us wondered if somebody had changed the rules of the game without telling us.

James and John believe they are more special to Jesus than are the other disciples. That's because Jesus has often included James and John in his inner circle. Of the twelve, Jesus took only James, John and Peter with him when he healed Jairus’ daughter. Jesus took only James, John and Peter with him up the Mount of Transfiguration. For three years, Jesus’ disciples have journeyed with him. The crowds have grown larger. The exchanges between Jesus and the Pharisees have sharpened. Now, as Jesus and his disciples journey towards Jerusalem, tension grows thicker with every step. James and John are uneasy.

Jesus had said some really strange things lately. Just the other day, he told a rich man that it is easier to get through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God. When we asked Jesus about that, all he said was, “With God, all things are possible.” Then Jesus began talking about his death. He kept insisting that when we arrived in Jerusalem, someone would deliver him to the chief priests and scribes. Officials would condemn him to death. Mock him. Spit on him. Beat him. Kill him. And three days later, he would rise again. He just could not let this go.

 So the question that none of us dared to ask is this: If he knew they were going to kill him when he got there, why were we all going back to Jerusalem? John and I looked at each other. Did Jesus need to be reminded about this wonderful Kingdom of God he kept saying was close at hand? Did we need to remind him about his glory we saw on the mountain that day? For three years, John and I had been close to Jesus. In fact, we hoped that when Jesus finally set up this new kingdom, we would get important positions. Now all he could talk about was death. We needed to remind Jesus what was important.

James and John think they know Jesus. Yet the closer they all get to Jerusalem, the more they wonder. Increasingly, Jesus seems to see things the disciples do not see. He seems to hear things they do not hear. His conversations are more enigmatic, his responses more cryptic. Every day, Jesus’ face looks more weary. More pensive. More lined and drawn. Yet there is an unmistakable set to his jaw.

John and I approached Jesus. “Teacher, we want you 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.” But Jesus did not react the way we had hoped. Instead, he said, “You do not know what you are asking. Are you able to drink the cup that I drink, or be baptized with the baptism I am baptized with?” Of course we were. We loved this man. We had left our homes, our jobs, our families, to follow him. If there was a cup to be passed around, we wanted to be right there. If there was a baptism, we didn’t want to miss it.  So we replied, “We are able.”

Yet somehow we knew we had done the wrong thing. Jesus looked towards Jerusalem with that look he gets when he sees something we don’t. When he hears something we don’t hear. When he knows something we don’t know. Then he said, “The cup that I drink you will drink; and with the baptism with which I am baptized, you will be baptized; but to sit at my right hand or my left is not mine to grant, but it is for those for whom it has been prepared.”

We seemed to be talking past one another. Jesus didn’t understand us. We did not understand Jesus. Then the whole thing blew up. The other disciples found out that we had asked for places of honor. They were angry and wouldn’t speak to us. Then Jesus gave all of us a lecture about how if we want to be great, we must be willing to be servants. He said whoever wants to be first has to be slave of all.  Did we give up everything we had just to be servants? I didn’t think so. I didn’t get it. After that, Jesus walked alone, ahead of all of us. Wrapped in that beautiful seamless cloak his mother gave him, he strode along, his face turned towards Jerusalem as if the rest of us weren’t even there.

James and John did not understand Jesus. Neither did I. As human beings, we love honor and recognition. We like being powerful people—or being close to powerful people. We want to sit at the head table. We want lives full of comfort and privilege. Yet we forget that Jesus does not call us to an easy life. Jesus calls us to pick up a cross and follow him. Along the way, he challenges us to put God and others first instead of our own wants and desires. He challenges us to live the way he did: as a servant. Jesus continues to reorder power structures, to question the Church’s rules and regulations that can kill God’s love. Jesus’ unconditional love and servant ministry still stand in stark opposition to those in Church, society or politics who want to sit at the right and left sides of power, position and prestige. Jesus continues to stand at the margins of the church and society—in the first century and in the twenty first century. Jesus reminds Christians that “some of history’s most dastardly deeds have been done by those who claimed to be sitting on God’s right or left hand.”

James and John do not understand. Neither do the other disciples. When two people take their places on the right and left of Jesus, it will not be because of choice. That's because the ones who end up on Jesus’ right and left are two criminals on crosses at Calvary. Later, these disciples would understand. They would, indeed, drink the same cup as Jesus. In fact, James was the first of the twelve to drink that same cup of suffering. According to the book of Acts, Herod Agrippa put James to death by the sword in about the year 44 CE.  John lived the longest of the disciples. According to tradition, John was exiled to the island of Patmos and lived to extreme old age. John drank a different cup: the suffering of a very old man who has watched his brother, his family, his friends die, one by one—many of them violently.  James and John finally understood the kind of servant ministry to which Jesus had called them. As their faith matured, they, too, drank the cup of suffering and the baptism of death with loving and courageous hearts.

Just like those first disciples, I hear Jesus’ call to servant ministry. This call is not to places of power, position and prestige. This call is to follow Jesus down a narrow road—even if it does lead to servanthood and suffering. What will our servant ministry look like today? That depends on the person and the situation. However, it always means that we give of ourselves—not in the sense of being a doormat—but with prayerful intention. It means that we always ask two questions. The first is this: “What can I do to bring the Kingdom of God, the Dream of God, into real places, in real time, today?  The second: “What must I give up in order to make this Kingdom of God real today, in my world?”

To become a servant in Jesus’ name means that my actions are more about God, more about my brothers and sisters, than about my own wants and desires. So this week, I remember James and John, who—like me—did not understand. I remember Jesus, walking courageously towards death in Jerusalem. Then ask myself what kind of servant ministry I can do this week to make the Kingdom of God come alive in to my church, my neighbor, this community, this nation and the world. I ask myself what I can give up to make this happen. Then with courage, do it.  It’s the least I can do for the One who loved us enough to go to Jerusalem one last time.

Interesting: Nick Cave and The Gospel of Mark

Almost ten years ago, Canongate Books published a series of single books from the Bible with prefaces from some unlikely people. Bono did the Psalms, Doris Lessing took Ecclesiastes, and Australian post-punk/goth singer-songwriter Nick Cave introduced Mark. I hadn't gotten around to reading Cave's piece until recently. For those with only a passing familiarity with Cave, a musician known primarily for the dark and violent content of his lyrics, the choice seemed odd. But anyone who had been listening closely knew that Cave's music had long been soaked in Biblical language and ideas (his recent, critically acclaimed record Dig!!! Lazarus Dig!!! was a concept album about - you guessed it - Lazarus, the best line of which comes in "Hold On To Yourself" where Cave asks, "Does Jesus only love a man who loses?"). While definitely unrelenting in its intensity and not for the remotely faint of heart, I recommend his music, esp from The Boatman's Call record onward, where his obsession with Christ and all things theological comes more clearly into focus. A few excerpts from the aforementioned introduction:

One day, I met an Anglican vicar and he suggested that I give the Old Testament a rest and read Mark instead. I hadn't read the New Testament at that stage because the New Testament was about Jesus Christ and the Christ I remembered from my choirboy days was that wet, all-loving, etiolated individual that the church proselytised. I spent my pre-teen years singing in the Wangaratta Cathedral Choir and even at that age I recall thinking what a wishy-washy affair the whole thing was. The Anglican Church: it was the decaf of worship and Jesus was their Lord.

"Why Mark?", I asked. "Because it's short", he replied. I was willing to give anything a go, so I took the vicar's advice and read it and the Gospel of Mark just swept me up.

Here, I am reminded of that picture of Christ, painted by Holman Hunt, where He appears, robed and handsome, a lantern in His hand, knocking on a door: the door to our hearts, presumably. The light is dim and buttery in the engulfing darkness. Christ came to me in this way, lumen Christi, with a dim light, a sad light, but light enough. Out of all the New Testament writings - from the Gospels, through the Acts and the complex, driven letters of Paul to the chilling, sickening Revelation - it is Mark's Gospel that has truly held me.

---------------

Even His disciples, who we would hope would absorb some of Christ's brilliance, seem to be in a perpetual fog of misunderstanding, following Christ from scene to scene with little or no comprehension of what is going on. So much of the frustration and anger that seems at times almost to consume Christ is directed at His disciples and it is against their persistent ignorance that Christ's isolation seems at its most complete. It is Christ's divine inspiration, versus the dull rationalism of those around Him, that gives Mark's narrative its tension, its drive. The gulf of misunderstanding is so vast that His friends 'lay hold of Him' thinking,'He is beside himself' (3:21). The Scribes and Pharisees, with their monotonous insistence on the Law, provide the perfect springboard for Christ's luminous words. Even those Christ heals betray Him as they run to the town to report the doings of the miraculous healer, after Christ has insisted that they tell noone. Christ disowns His own mother for her lack of understanding. Throughout Mark, Christ is in deep conflict with the world. He is trying to save, and the sense of aloneness that surrounds Him is at times unbearably intense. Christ's last howl from the cross is to a God He believes has forsaken Him: "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani"

The rite of baptism - the dying of one's old self to be born anew - like so many of the events in Christ's life is already flavoured metaphorically by Christ's death and it is His death on the cross that is such a powerful and haunting force, especially in Mark. His preoccupation with it is all the more obvious, if only because of the brevity with which Mark deals with the events of His life. It seems that virtually everything that Christ does in Mark's narrative is in some way a preparation for His death - His frustration with His disciples and His fear that they have not comprehended the full significance of His actions; the constant taunting of the church officials; the stirring up of the crowds; His miracle-making so that witnesses will remember the extent of His divine power. Clearly, Mark is concerned primarily with the death of Christ to such an extent that Christ appears consumed by His imminent demise, thoroughly shaped by His death.

The Christ that emerges from Mark, tramping through the haphazard events of His life, had a ringing intensity about him that I could not resist. Christ spoke to me through His isolation, through the burden of His death, through His rage at the mundane, through His sorrow. Christ, it seemed to me was the victim of humanity's lack of imagination, was hammered to the cross with the nails of creative vapidity.

To read more about Cave's unique take on Christianity, check out his 2003 interview on Salon.com, "The Resurrection of Nick Cave".

Emily Dickinson - Poem 1487

Emily Dickinson is one of my favorite poets, and last night I came across this one.  Any words I add would detract.

The Savior must have been

A docile Gentleman—
To come so far so cold a Day
For little Fellowmen—

The Road to Bethlehem
Since He and I were Boys
Was leveled, but for that 'twould be
A rugged Billion Miles—

What's Under Your Mattress?

I've been slowly (in a devotional kind of way) been reading through the book of John.  It's been a sincere and meaningful endeavor, but it's one of those things that I consider to be part of prayer - it's a two way conversation between me and God, so I feel like it would be a kind of kiss-and-tell type thing if I were to discuss much of that in this forum.  HOWEVER.  (There's always a "however" isn't there?)  However, these devotional times have lead me into other areas, and those areas I have no compunction discussing. 

The other day, while reading something in John 5, I was cross-referenced to a passage in the book of Luke.  The passage isn't really the point here, so I'll spare you the reading time.  The point I'm so circuitously getting to is this:  as I was reading this other passage in Luke, it struck me that this book must have been incredibly scandalous when it came off the presses.  

Have you ever wondered how a particular book of the Bible was received by those first readers?  Take the gospels for instance.   You can read any number of explanations about who the writers probably were, something about their intended audience, and more than a little about their imputed theology, but what was the impact of their first publication?  I figure that Luke, more than the other three, was tremendously controversial.  I imagine that his first readers were both scandalized and mesmerized.  It must have been the sort of book they had to hide under the mattress so that others wouldn't see it.  

When I was a kid, I don't know 10 or 11 years old or so, I went into my father's library and took down his copy of The French Lieutenant's Woman and sneaked it to my room.  I had heard my parents making veiled comments about it earlier in the summer and it was on the "grown ups" shelf, so - what was I to do?  As I read it, it became abundantly clear to me that I definitely wasn't supposed to be reading it, so after turning off the flashlight from reading it under the covers in bed, I promptly hid it under my matress where it was surely safe from discovery by my mom.  Don't be so judgemental, I’m sure that you had something hidden under your mattress too! 

The other gospels certainly sniff around the edges of the social scandal with their casts of prostitutes, tax collectors and sinners of various kinds, but Luke dives with lusty delight into a life with Jesus who seemed to know every sinner up close and personal and was enthusiastically willing to violate every social norm and barrier he came across.  It’s hard to imagine a religious leader, much less the Son of God, having such low standards of propriety considering the crowd he hung around with. 

I imagine that early readers of Luke’s gospel must have read it in disbelieving awe that lured them into a sense of freedom and fulness of life they never new existed, and I imagine that many new Lukan Christians appeared to others as unrepentant rebels who had no respect for traditional standards of morality.  They certainly couldn’t fit into traditional Jewish ways, nor were they very acceptable in Hellenistic communities.  Who knows what the Romans thought.  I also imagine that it was this very new found freedom from traditional social constraints that could have led them astray.  Failing to integrate the teachings of Jesus about a higher righteousness into their thinking and practice, they could easily have become first century versions of Haight-Ashbury hippies.  Perhaps that is what Paul’s many admonitions and correctives are all about, and maybe that’s why the pastoral letters are so intent on restoring some of the discipliine of traditional mores.

The point is that it’s very hard for our modern eyes to read Luke, or any of the gospels, with a full appreciation of how radical they were and how accurate were the words of the Pharisees when they accused the early Christians of turning the world upside down.  

And when the candle was snuffed, the book was carefully hidden under the mattress!