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Category: humility

Irony

Irony

Sermon preached Palm Sunday at the Deer Isle/Sunset Congregational Church, UCC …

We stand at the head of Holy Week, a week that begins with hosannas of Palm Sunday and ends with the hallelujahs of Easter, a journey from joy to joy.

But it is not an easy journey.  We get from here to there, we can only get from here to there, by way of Maundy Thursday, by way of the shock and betrayal and abandonment of Maundy Thursday.  And we get from here to there, we can only get from here to there, by way of the horror and darkness and emptiness of Good Friday.  The journey from life to life is not an easy one, for Jesus or for us.

But today is Palm Sunday, the head of the week, a most enigmatic day.  It’s a day filled with excitement, but also an undercurrent of foreboding.  The crowds joyfully welcome the one they call king, but he choses deliberately to enter the city riding humbly on a donkey’s colt.  They are loud and effusive, he is quiet and subdued.  Palm Sunday is a day filled with contradictions.  Palm Sunday is a day filled with irony.

The parade wasn’t planned.  Jesus‘ disciples procured the donkey’s colt at his request, but they didn’t recruit the crowds.  It just happened.  The people just came, flocking to Jesus as he rode toward the city.  John’s gospel says they came because of Lazarus, because they had seen that startling miracle or had heard tell of it.  Luke simply says they came because of “all the great things that they had seen.”

All the great things.  They had seen enough, they had heard enough.  Enough to believe.  Enough to believe that this man came to them from God, came from God for them.  Enough to believe that the time was near when they would be saved, when their nation would be restored at last, when their dignity would be given back to them, when their disgrace as a people would be lifted from them, when the Lord would set them free again just as he once brought their ancestors out of slavery in Egypt.  The crowd of disciples saw the edge of the promise.  They were filled with hope, believing that the moment had come at last when everything would be changed.

I remember a November night eleven years ago when 240,000 people gathered in Grant Park in Chicago to celebrate a victory and welcome a new leader promising hope and promising change.  I remember the images, the images of the faces, dark faces, African-American faces, tears streaming down their faces.  Regardless of what this man would or would not accomplish in office, regardless of what this man did or did not accomplish in office, for a whole race of people that night was a watershed moment.  The way things always had been wasn’t  anymore.  It was a day of new possibilities, for black people, but also for all Americans.  It was a day of a new reality, when things would never be the same again.  It was a day of promise.

That’s the way Jesus’ followers felt that day as they watched him ride toward the city.  The way things always had been, the way things seemed to have to be, didn’t have to be anymore.  Things would never be the same.  They saw the edge of the promise, because Jesus was coming to Jerusalem.  “God bless the king who comes in the name of the Lord!  Peace in heaven and glory to God!”

But Jesus gave no speeches and if he acknowledged the cheering crowds, the gospel writers don’t report it.  Mark’s gospel says merely that Jesus entered the city, “went into the Temple, and looked around at everything.”  Jesus is quiet, subdued, introspective.  He surely believes the promise as much as they do, but he knows far better than they do what it will take to deliver on that promise.

It is a day of irony, Jesus surrounded by adoring people, but never more alone.

The city Jesus entered was Jerusalem, the city of David, the holy city, the city built on a hill, the city intended by God’s call to be a light to the world, the city, the prophets say, to which all nations will come seeking justice and righteousness and peace.  Jerusalem is meant to be a place of living witness to a living God, to a living God of mercy, slow to anger and full of constant love, a God whose desire and whose way is nothing less than joy for all God’s people, joy for all creation.

That is what Jerusalem was meant to be.  But there were moneychangers in the Temple and whitewashed sepulchers in the pulpits.  Justice and mercy were set aside for ritual and legalism.  There were no more prophets, only priests, priests and rabbis dedicated not to transformation, but to preservation, preserving the tradition, preserving their livelihoods, preserving themselves.

In Jerusalem, God was not still speaking, or at least God’s people had long stopped listening.  In Jerusalem, God was not still doing.  Oh, yes, they prayed for the peace of Jerusalem, but they didn’t actually expect God to do anything.  They took up the slack where God left off by doing their best to keep things quiet and under control.  They did their best to keep themselves safe by not posing any kind of threat to Rome.

It’s was Rome’s light, Rome’s way, the way of power and wealth and empire, that filled their hearts and minds, not God’s way, the way of humility and sacrifice and love.  Jerusalem, the holy city, the city meant to be a place of living witness to the living God, instead silences God’s witnesses and kills God’s prophets.  And Jerusalem killed Jesus.

Friends, do not miss the irony.  May we not substitute self-preservation for justice.  May we not care more about personal security than love.  May we not turn a living, breathing, ever-changing, ever-growing faith into some kind of frozen relic, some kind of pacifier to soothe us in the midst of a daunting world.  The church is not meant to be a place to which we come for safe retreat from the world, but a place from which we are sent out to love God by changing the world, changing the world by loving our neighbors, all our neighbors, in real and risky ways.

We are called together here, not to protect and preserve the way of life we already have, but to be living witnesses to the way of life that will be when God’s kingdom comes, when God’s will is done.

They didn’t see it — the Pharisees.  They told Jesus to order his disciples to be quiet.  They didn’t see hope, they saw disturbing the peace.  They didn’t the edge of the promise, they saw a looming threat.  They didn’t see a message or a messenger from God, they saw impudence, heresy, blasphemy.  They didn’t see the kairos, the moment on which the course of history itself hung in the balance.

Jesus answered: “I tell you that if they keep quiet, the stones themselves will start shouting.”  Friends, this is not hyperbole!  This is not a metaphor!  Jesus means what he says.  He means the stones themselves will start shouting!

Because all of creation waits with eager longing for God to set it free from its slavery to decay!  All of creation groans with pain, like the pain of childbirth.  All of creation is on alert waiting for God to come.  Isn’t it?

But they don’t see it.  They don’t see what is at stake here.  The fate of humanity, the fate of the world, the fate of God’s promise, their own fate is at stake.  They think this is about one pesky rabbi whose popularity has gotten a little bit out of control.  It is a day of irony.

There is one more irony.  On this day when the future of humanity hangs in the balance, on this day when our own future hangs in the balance, there is nothing we can do.  Later there will be much we can do.  Later there will be much we must do.  But on this day, there is nothing we can do.

We cannot go where Jesus goes.  We cannot do what Jesus does.  We cannot walk the path of obedience all the way to death and we cannot die to take away the sins of the world, let alone our own sins.  We cannot fulfill the promise.

But Jesus can and Jesus will.  Jesus will fulfill the promise.  Jesus will walk the path of obedience all the way to death.  Jesus will die, innocently executed, because of jealousy, because of fear, because of shame, because of despair.  And in dying he will swallow up jealousy in humility.  He will swallow up fear in love.  He will swallow up shame in forgiveness.  And he will swallow up despair in a hope that does not disappoint.  Jesus will die … for us, for all of us, for the world.

That is gospel.  That is good news.

The purpose of this week is to remind us of gospel, to remind us that the heart of our faith is grace, not what we must do to please God, but what God has done for us out of God’s own good pleasure.  The heart of our faith is love, God’s love, God’s love for us, God’s love for this beautiful and fragile earth, God’s love for all us beautiful and flawed creatures.  God comes to us, in Jesus, to set us and all creation free from the laws of sin and death.  So we can live!  So we can live well!  So we can live well and be well and make well!

May the Lord be with you, may the Lord be with me, as we make the journey this week from life to life.

So help me, God

So help me, God

Robert Kraft, George Pell, Donald Trump. Three men at the height of their powers, having reached the pinnacle of their professions. The owner of one of the most storied sports franchises, the third highest official of the Roman Catholic Church, the president of the United States. Three men called to represent the best of the worlds of business and government and the church. And three men in the last few days all credibly accused, and in one case convicted, of sexual exploitation of vulnerable persons.

It is alarming. We expect better from those who should, by all rights, command our deepest honor and respect. I am a Patriots fan, a fan of the team the Robert Kraft has built, a fan of the way this team wins, by utilizing every player, by motivating every player from one to fifty-three to fulfill their particular role. The reports of Kraft’s solicitation of sexual favors from likely victims of human trafficking are embarrassing, shameful, baffling, disgusting.

George Pell is supposed to represent Jesus, my Jesus, the protector of the poor and vulnerable, the bearer of mercy and grace, but instead he is the newest face of the deepest failures of the church of Jesus Christ. He makes gospel a lie by his actions. May God have mercy on us, on all those whom he has hurt and all those whose faith he has undermined. And may God have mercy on him.

The news of a campaign worker’s accusations of an unwanted kiss from Donald Trump doesn’t command much attention, because that’s the kind of behavior we have come to expect of him. He has bragged of his power to take what he wants from whomever he wants whenever he wants. And we hardly bat an eye …

It makes me tremble. I tremble at the frailty of the human condition. Exploitation, deceit, hypocrisy, selfishness, callousness are rampant. And, if we are honest, the seeds of all of these things, if not the fruit, are in all of us.

It brings me grief, great grief, because there seem so few who can honestly command our honor and respect, so few among who should be the archetypes of human accomplishment who genuinely model fidelity or integrity or selflessness or righteousness, which is simply to say, doing the right thing because it is the right thing.

We cannot expect our icons to be perfect. We are all equally human, all of us equally fragile in heart and will, in our ability to choose always what is best, to do always what is right. Which is why the most essential of human virtues for any of us, president or school teacher, entrepreneur or soldier, priest or convenience store clerk, is humility.

Humility means knowing what and who we are, acknowledging and admitting our frailty, acknowledging and admitting that we need help, that each of us need help, in being and becoming who we are meant to be as human beings, help from each other and help from God. “So help me, God” is not an oath, but a plea, a heartfelt plea for God to guide and strengthen, and, when we fall short, to forgive.

The rules of the game

The rules of the game

Yesterday, in response to Elizabeth Warren’s announcement of her candidacy for president, President Trump tweeted:

Today Elizabeth Warren, sometimes referred to by me as Pocahontas, joined the race for President. Will she run as our first Native American presidential candidate, or has she decided that after 32 years, this is not playing so well anymore? See you on the campaign TRAIL, Liz!

“See you on the TRAIL, Liz?” Those words, that tone, that uninvited familiarity, that disturbing reference to a most terrible moment in American history coming from the head of state of the land of “liberty and justice for all?” Hardly presidential.  But isn’t that the point? Is it not Mr. Trump’s selling point that he is not like other politicians and presidents, that he will not be PC, that he doesn’t do “official-speak,” but tells it like it is?

But “See you on the TRAIL, Liz?” This is not telling it like it is.  This is petulant, petty, demeaning, cruel, not different in kind or intent from the taunts of any elementary school bully. This is not refreshingly candid. This is childish and despicable.

As I compose these words, I find my face flushing and my teeth clenching … and there is the problem, not Mr. Trump’s problem, but mine.  I am angry, bitterly angry, incensed at this man’s barbarity. And I want to lash out, put him down, put him in his place, defame him! But then, I am just like him.

There is nothing wrong with being angry, but I must not let the anger change me, change my way of being, change my commitment to love — to love God, always, and to prove my love for God by loving my neighbor, each neighbor. 

Hateful rhetoric hurts, hurts people in tangible ways, but it can wreak even more damage by changing the game, getting its targets to play by its rules. Hate wins when it elicits hate in return.

Hate must not win.  And so I pray.  I pray for Mr. Trump, for a change of heart, for a softening of heart, for eyes to hear and ears to hear the people, all the people, for whom he acts and on whose behalf he leads. I pray that he would be inclined to justice, moved by compassion, that he would be humbled — not humiliated, but humbled, by the enormity of his responsibility and the utter insignificance of his own person.

And I watch my language. I will be angry and I will call this president out, but I pray that I will not be petty, that I will not be cruel, that I will not demean, that I will never play by his rules, but by Jesus’ rules …

what makes the soul great

what makes the soul great

Notice the Wonder was posted today on the inward/outward website. It quotes Abraham Heschel, a theologian and a lover of God whom I have always found most insightful and eloquent.

To pray is to take notice of the wonder, to regain a sense of the mystery that animates all beings, the divine margin in all attainments. Prayer is our humble answer to the inconceivable surprise of living. It is all we can offer in return for the mystery by which we live. Who is worthy to be present at the constant unfolding of time? Amidst the meditation of mountains, the humility of flowers wiser than all alphabets—clouds that die constantly for the sake of god’s glory, we are hating, hunting, hurting. Suddenly we feel ashamed of our clashes and complaints in the face of the tacit glory in nature. It is so embarrassing to live! How strange we are in the world, and how presumptuous our doings! Only one response can maintain us: gratefulness for witnessing the wonder, for the gift of our unearned rights to serve, to adore, and to fulfill. It is gratefulness which makes the soul great.

here!

here!

This poem by David Wagoner, entitled “Lost” was posted on April 18th at the inward/outward website …

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

Every place is a Here … and every place may be a home.

“what do i know of holy”

“what do i know of holy”

I made you promises a thousand times.
I’ve tried to hear from heaven, but I talked the whole time.
I think I made you too small.
I never feared you at all, no …
If you touched my face, would I know you,
Looked into my eyes, could I behold you?

What do I know of you who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood but the shore along your ocean?
Are you fire? Are you fury?
Are you sacred? Are you beautiful?
What do I know of holy?

Addison Road album coverThese are the opening lines from a new song from the group, Addison Road. It is a beautiful song, with powerful lyrics … hinting at, pointing to, making suggestions about, making humble before the awesome mystery that is God!

“I think I made you too small …” Good music and good preaching should cure us of the illusion that we have God figured out or that God exists to answer to our need of the moment. May God open our minds and shatter our illusions, open our hearts and fill them with praise!

You can play an excerpt of What Do I Know of Holy? and purchase the song on iTunes.

“i will not die an unlived life”

“i will not die an unlived life”

I like the sentiment expressed in this poem by Dawna Markova posted today on the inward/outward website:

I Will Not Die an Unlived Life

I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance,
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom,
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.

I like the poem because she writes so eloquently of the sort of life I long for … but am not always ready to risk going for!

And I like it because she writes so eloquently of a life that is not merely “mine.” She doesn’t ask that her seeds might bloom — for her glory, that her blossoms might bear fruit — for her benefit, but that each might be passed on to another in whom they will work their beautiful and nurturing effects.

peace on earth

peace on earth

Rachel SimonsRachel Simons lives in Galati, Romania, a field worker with Word Made Flesh, an Christian organization committed to “serving Jesus among the poorest of the poor.” She works with Galati’s street children, providing them educational and recreational and spiritual programs, and interacting with them on a daily basis in their own context on the streets.

The following is taken from one of her recent prayer letters:

… around the holidays I constantly run into children begging outside of restaurants, shopping malls, supermarkets and at stop-lights. They know that people tend to give more in December, so they bear the cold, stomp their feet to keep from freezing, and stand for hours outside of places that attract shoppers.

The weight of poverty is felt so deeply this time of year, and the lines are drawn between those who can shop and those who are left on the margins, outside the window looking in. Yesterday as I waited at the bus stop in below freezing weather, I watched some children I know doing their dance outside the pastry shop door … dancing to keep their feet from freezing. One of the boys had courage to step inside the door for a few brief moments of warmth before getting scolded to “keep out!” … Please pray for those who are marginalized and left out. Pray for God’s kingdom of peace and equity to come on earth as it is in heaven.

When people like Rachel have a heart for the “poorest of the poor,” not just generally, but for particular children and women and men they know by name — when they see them and love them and pray for them and choose to be with them — then God’s peace has already come on earth as it is in heaven. Jesus is indeed among us!

To learn more about Rachel’s ministry in Galati and about the global ministries of Word Made Flesh, check out the Word Made Flesh website.