“When the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law” (v. 4).  That’s how a text in Galatians which I want to consider begins.  One might say that it’s a sentence pregnant with meaning!

(adoption symbol)

It continues in verse 5, “in order to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children.”  The apostle Paul is speaking of us, but adoption isn’t limited to the human race.  Our local paper frequently features dogs and cats who apparently are able to introduce themselves.  They speak of their likes and dislikes.  And, of course, they all are seeking a fur-ever family!

The scripture in Galatians points to two aspects of salvation—justification and adoption.

Justification can be seen as a negative work.  It involves—in Christ—a redemption from, a restoration from, an erasing, of the mark of sin.  That doesn’t sum it up, but it can be seen as a removal.  Adoption, on the other hand, is more of a positive work.  Something new is brought into being.  Something new, something tangible, is created.

In his book, Knowing God, the late J. I. Packer made the distinction, “Justification is a forensic [or legal] idea, conceived in terms of law, and viewing God as judge.”  At the same time, “Adoption is a family idea, conceived in terms of love, and viewing God as Father.”[1]

Paul says to the Galatians that the birth of Jesus is the story of a new member in the family.  Applied to us, it means that we have been adopted into God’s family.

So there are different images at work.  A prisoner who has served a term may be cleared legally, but whether he or she is received back into the family of society is an open question.  It’s likely that the stigma of being in prison will continue to be carried.  I would ask that we put each of ourselves in the position of someone who has served time.  How would you like to be received?  We don’t quite get the sense of warmth from being justified that we do from being adopted.

This is not to deny that God’s justifying us is an act of love, or that God’s adopting us is done without regard to what is just.  It is simply to highlight the different perspectives of what has happened in Christ, and I should add, what continues to happen in Christ.

“When the fullness of time had come.”  When the time was just right.  That is how the passage begins.  The Greek (πληρωμα, plērōma) means “make replete, fulfill, accomplish.”  When the stage was set, this grandest of all plays began.

We might think of stories in which a scruffy wandering youngster is taken into the king’s court and raised as part of the royal household.  The Bible even has examples similar to this.  We can point to Joseph and Moses.  After years of imprisonment, Joseph, who has become known for his interpretation of dreams, is brought to the Pharaoh and deciphers his dream.  Long story short, Joseph is given the position of prime minister, or something equivalent to that.

Moses’ mother hid him among the reeds of the river, afraid that he might be killed.  It was not lost on the Egyptians that the Hebrew population was reproducing more quickly than they were.  The decision was made to dispatch the baby boys.  Thus, the decision of Moses’ mother to conceal him.  As it happened, the daughter of the Pharaoh found him and took him as her own.

We might think of “My Fair Lady” in which the illiterate flower girl, though not adopted in the strict sense, receives the proper care and attention, and blooms into an articulate and beautiful young woman.  (“The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!”)

There is something about adoption that is noble and calls forth the best in us.  Remember the doggies and the kitty cats!

For me, the imagery of adoption is especially meaningful, because I was adopted as an infant.  Once in a great while, someone asked what it felt like to be unwanted.  Precisely because I was adopted, while growing up, I never questioned whether or not I was wanted.  I knew that I had been chosen, and I knew that my parents had to go through a lot of screening and jumping through hoops as a result of that choice.

On a side note, in February 2018, I was located by my birth mother.

Here’s the thumbnail version.  I received a letter in the mail from the Children’s Home Society in Florida, verifying they had the right person.  Skipping through all the details of the process, we linked up and starting doing Skype and Zoom calls.  I was introduced to my half-brother and half-sister.  The father wasn’t in the picture.  He had taken off back when she was a teenager.  She told me she has thought about me every day of her life, wondering what became of her firstborn son.

She, with my sister and her daughter, visited us in September of that year, and Banu and I have been to Pensacola twice now.  The relationship has continued to evolve.

So I think I’ve always had, even if subconsciously, some sense of what it means to be chosen by God.  I have had the sense of being brought into a family, into a way of life.  Clearly, my experience has been my own.  Everyone who has had the sense of being chosen has their own story.

God, by adopting us into the family, invites us to realize our full potential.  That’s a note of great joy—and great concern.  I think there’s no greater challenge than realizing one’s full potential.  There are many forces working against that—forces outside us and forces inside us.  Among those many internal forces is sloth.

Wendy Wasserstein has spoken on its effect on our potential.[2]  “When you achieve true slothdom,” she says, “you have no desire for the world to change.  True sloths are not revolutionaries…  Sloths are neither angry nor hopeful.  They are not even anarchists.  Anarchy takes too much work.  Sloths are the lazy guardians at the gate of the status quo…

“Whether you’re a traditional sloth or a New Age übersloth, we are all looking at the possibility of real thought, and rejecting it.  Better to fall into line than to question the [party line].”

There’s a disturbing trend in America that’s taken on a life of its own.  Actually it is happening in countries all around the world.  It involves being “cancelled.”  That is, being censored or shamed or denied employment due to saying or writing the wrong thing.  Really, it tends happen anytime an authoritarian mindset sets in.

I have noticed something similar to that myself.  People who once were critical of big pharma and censorship, people I once considered to be philosophical allies, have almost done a 180 degree turn.  And I must say it’s been during these past years of Covid.  Perhaps Covid simply exposed fissures that were already there.

Owen Edwards, in language reminiscent of science fiction, comments on our “[drifting] toward our digital dream.”[3]  The longer we stay plugged in—to the internet, to our cell phones, to television, whatever—the less time we have for real world, real time, face-to-face interaction.  And the lockdowns (sorry to keep harping on this) only reinforced that trend.

I hope we can take to heart the warning about being “lazy guardians at the gate of the status quo.”  Something I would like to highlight is this: never be satisfied.  That is, never stop asking questions, keep stretching yourselves, doing your own research.

For years I’ve had a cartoon I always put on the wall. It’s one done by Ashleigh Brilliant.  It features a fellow who’s wearing glasses not properly positioned on his face; they’re slanted.  There’s a caption stating, “Nothing is beyond question—and you can take my word for it.”  So friends, don’t take my word for it; check things out for yourselves.

Despite all that confusion and nonsense, verse 6 tells us because we’ve been adopted, “because [we] are children, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, ‘Abba!  Father!’”  That Spirit recognizes and calls out to the Father.  We are energized from within toward our God-given potential, which I noted earlier is no easy task.  The good news is that God refuses to leave us alone.

We need to bear in mind that the Spirit who recognizes the Father isn’t a spirit of private revelation.  This Spirit is the one who teaches us our growth is tied to the rest of the family.  Sometimes that means doing stuff we don’t want to.  We try to move heaven and earth to avoid it.  But it also means experiencing life more deeply than we possibly could alone.  The spirit of adoption, the Spirit that sounds the cry of “Abba, Father” deep within—this is the Spirit that renews us in the family likeness.

I should say the idea of “family likeness” is contingent on many factors.  For example, you know the promises many businesses make.  “At Bubba’s, we treat you like family.”  Bubba’s promise may or may not be a good thing.

I don’t have to tell you families are tricky.  Families are the source of joy and sorrow, affirmation and rejection, pride and embarrassment.  Family is where we hear, “Nice job.  Nice job.”  Family is where we hear, “Well, you screwed up again.”

Another effect of the lockdowns was something quite horrendous for some people.  For some, home doesn’t feel like home.  For some, home is not a safe place.  Home is a place of neglect, of violence, of perversion.  A lockdown really does feel like prison.

The perfect image of family is the Holy Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.  Each member plays a role in the intertwining of selfless love.  Each one looks out for the other.  They all say, “I’ve got your back.”  It’s an endless circle of support.  It’s the perfect place to hear, “We treat you like family.”

It’s a family who cares.  It’s a family who cares about others.  When something horrible happens, like a horrific earthquake, they reach out and ask, “How is your family?”

So—what of all this?  What does our adoption mean?  The passage ends in verse 7 by saying that we have become heirs.  No longer slaves, we have become adopted children, and so, heirs to what God has in store.

We accept the privileges and responsibilities that come with membership in the family.  We seek to find our place, our role, in the family.

We have been adopted.

[1] winfieldeastsidebaptistchurch.podbean.com/e/knowing-god-by-j-i-packer-sons-of-god-chapter-19-part-1/

[2] in Kathleen Norris, Acedia and Me (New York: Riverhead Books, 2008), 326.

[3] in Norris, 325.

I want to begin with comments about the 1970s.  For many people, they were well along in years when that decade arrived.  For a vast part of our population, they hadn’t been born yet.  Their parents hadn’t even been born.  For those in my generation, right after the baby boomers, many if not most of those years were spent in elementary school.

This is an oversimplification, but the 70s were largely a decade in reaction to the perceived anarchy and rejection of authority of the 1960s.  The 70s gave us punk rock, with its reaction to the reaction.  It also gave us disco, with its ignoring of politics, and an urge to mindlessly lose oneself in foolishness.  (I guess you can gather my opinion of disco!)

But for my purposes here, I want to mention another phenomenon of the decade: disaster movies.  There was a flurry of them, many with ensembles of A-list actors.  There was Earthquake.  We had The Poseidon Adventure.  And then, there was The Towering Inferno, with another impressive list of top-notch actors, such as Steve McQueen, Paul Newman, Faye Dunaway…  and a host of others.

Those Hollywood luminaries aside, the real stars of those movies were the disasters mentioned in the titles.  The Towering Inferno provided a cautionary tale about the dangers of those buildings reaching up to the sky­­­­—skyscrapers.  Of course, skyscrapers had been around for almost a century, but this was the 70s.  A decidedly negative impression was portrayed.  After watching that movie, people might understandably be hesitant to live or work in such edifices.

There’s another structure which is featured in Genesis 11: the tower of Babel.  And like those disaster movies, it has usually been cast in a negative light.  Actually, it’s usually been cast as a truly wicked affront to God.  The builders have been seen as thumbing their noses to the Lord.

Again, it’s perfectly understandable to have that viewpoint.  There are several interpretations to this text: the good, the bad, and the ugly!

The decision of the people to construct a city and tower, “with its top in the heavens,” in order to “make a name” for themselves could easily be seen as an act of arrogance (v. 4).  Actually, that’s a very good way to see it.  Whatever the motivation, preventing themselves from being “scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth,” given the circumstances, could be seen as logical.

And what are those circumstances?  The stage is set: “Now the whole earth had one language and the same words” (v. 1).  There has been no end to speculation as to what that means.  This comes on the heels of chapter 10, in which the descendants of Noah form nations spread throughout the world.  More than once we are told of their families, languages, lands, and nations.

This enterprise appears to be a rejection of that diversity, indeed a God-ordained diversity.

The story’s location is pivotal.  They settle in the land of Shinar, later known as Babylonia.  It is a vast plain, unlike the mountains, islands, and forests from which they came.  It’s the perfect terrain for bringing everyone together.  Of course, if you’re out in the middle of nowhere, a construction project becomes necessary!

["Tower of Babel" by Josh Dorman, 2016]

The tower is likely a ziggurat, a structure resembling a pyramid, though with sides that are terraced, giant steps leading to the top.  They were built throughout ancient Mesopotamia (which is modern day Iraq and western Iran).

Considering the multiplicity of ethnic groups on hand, making a name for oneself could be seen as a way of establishing a one-world government.  A major part of that is how we speak.  When languages disappear, they take with them all the intricate subtleties unique to their thought processes, based on the experiences of the people who use them.  They are irreplaceable.

The saying is true: “it gets lost in translation.”  It is vital to realize the theme underlying the entire story—words and tongues, messages and languages.

The way the Lord figures out what’s going on is something we see in much of the Old Testament.  There’s a term called anthropomorphism.  It means describing as having human attributes. We see it in verse 5: “The Lord came down to see the city and the tower, which mortals had built.”  It’s almost like God had to use a ladder, or maybe take an escalator, to check out what those humans were up to.

This is an unpleasant discovery.  Something about this doesn’t sit well.  What could it be?

The story basically hinges on verse 6.  “And the Lord said, ‘Look, they are one people, and they have all one language, and this is only the beginning of what they will do; nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them.’”  Why is intervention needed?  Why is the decision made to confuse their language, so they won’t understand each other?

Maybe the assumption that what humans “propose to do” will work out for the best needs to be questioned.

I am reminded of George Orwell’s 1984, in which conformity in service to the state is required.  The government, overseen by a shadowy figure known as Big Brother, has four primary ministries.  There is the Ministry of Peace, in charge of waging war.  There is the Ministry of Plenty, running the economy and keeping the population poor and dependent.  There is the Ministry of Love, in charge of arrest, torture, and execution to make sure folks stay in line.

Finally, as especially relevant to our story, there is the Ministry of Truth, which has as its purpose the spreading of propaganda and lies.  One of its primary purposes is to take language and continuously remove any nuance of independent expression.  We might add, cracking down on misinformation, however that’s defined.  Three slogans encapsulate the effort: war is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength.

(Safe and effective.  I am the science.)

I wonder if the drive for what we think of as “progress” is not also a factor.  We think of economic success by figuring out at what rate the economy is growing.  Growing more quickly is better than growing more slowly.  It’s always about growing.  Can’t enough be enough—at least, for a little while?  The earth and our fellow creatures would thank us.  How much do we care about them?

Rabbi Shai Held, a widely respected figure in Jewish thought, has spoken of the Tower of Babel as a “tower of uniformity,” saying its meaning concerns “the importance of individuals and the horrors of totalitarianism.”[1]  He expands on this idea, saying, “An inevitable consequence of uniformity is anonymity.  If everyone says the same words and thinks the same thoughts, then a society emerges in which there is no room for individual tastes, thoughts, and aspirations or for individual projects and creativity.  All difference is (coercively) erased.”[2]

When we take all of that into consideration, the words “this is only the beginning of what they will do; nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them,” have an ominous sound.

Rabbi Held comments on something remarkable.  No names are mentioned in the story “because there are no individuals.  This is especially ironic (and tragic) in light of the people’s express wish to ‘make a name’ for themselves…  When people are anonymous, they are reduced to insignificance.  If no one is anyone in particular, then who cares what happens to them?”

Something else to understand is that by coming together in one place, the people have rejected the call of God to go forth throughout the world.  After the flood, “God blessed Noah and his sons and said to them, ‘Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth’” (Gn 9:1).  It’s difficult to impose unity if your population is spread all over the place.

When the Lord imposes the punishment / blessing, all the work comes to a screeching halt.  Building plans aren’t very useful if no one can read them!

I wonder, can we see this scattering of peoples and confusing of languages as acts of love?  Here’s one more thought from Rabbi Held: “To try and eradicate human uniqueness is to declare war on God’s image and thus to declare war on God.”  One of the age-old temptations of the human race is trying to put ourselves in the place of God—to idolize ourselves.  That could manifest itself by idolizing a single person, or a single group: to idolize or obey a kind of “Big Brother.”

When we do that, we do violence to the beautiful and wondrous creation that each of us is.  There is a Jewish saying, “To save one person is to save an entire world.”  I’ve often thought about that.  We live in our own world.  It’s not that we ignore the rest of the world, but we are a world unto ourselves.  Every single human has experiences of their own.  We each have our own experiences of the divine.  We are loved by Jesus in our own exclusive way.

The day of Pentecost in Acts 2 is seen as a reversal of Babel.  There is a reunification of language, although it’s not done by human effort—it is not an achievement.  It is a gift granted by the Spirit of God.  “All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability” (v. 4).  The people are still speaking different languages, but they comprehend each other!

The language beyond all languages is the heavenly language.

[photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash]

We can see the Babel project as an endeavor to overstep our place, to overstep our boundaries.  However, Brent Strawn who teaches at Duke Divinity School, has another perspective.  Rather than a case of hubris, outrageous arrogance, it can be seen as a case of sloth, under-reaching what God has set out for us.

He says, “Maybe at those times when we aren’t one, it is because we’ve fallen short of making every effort to be what we are in Christ.  Maybe when we aren’t one, instead of giving up on the unity that God desires and provides—maybe instead of refusing to believe in that unity when we don’t experience it—maybe we ought, instead, to grieve over it.”[3]

It is right and proper and essential to grieve.  It is necessary to lament.

“Grieve that we don’t have it, grieve that we aren’t yet one.  Worry about it, wonder about it, and redouble—make that re-triple—our efforts, making every effort to maintain the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace.”

In the book of Acts, St. Peter quotes the prophet Joel, “In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh” (v. 17).  People will prophesy, see visions, dream dreams.  Signs will appear in the heaven and on earth: “blood, and fire, and smoky mist.  The sun shall be turned to darkness and the moon to blood, before the coming of the Lord’s great and glorious day” (vv. 19-20).

It sounds like a 70s disaster movie!

But wait for the finale.  “Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved” (v. 21).  Calling on the name of the Lord.

We are freed from the compulsion to make a name for ourselves.  We are liberated, knowing that our Lord has cherished and named us like none other in the cosmos.  It is a name of endearment, known only to the Holy One.

Let all of you understand, you are the child of God.  There can be no better name than that.  That is the one language we speak.

[1] Rabbi Shai Held, “Tower of Uniformity: What Really Went Wrong at Babel,” Christian Century 134:23 (8 Nov 2017), 12.

[2] Held, 13.

[3] Brent Strawn, “Unity, Diversity, and the Holy Spirit,” Journal for Preachers 40:4 (2017), 13.

I sometimes speak of particular psalms as works of art, that is, as real works of art!  Psalm 91 is certainly in that category.  It has so many rich and vivid images.  “You will not fear the terror of the night…  or the destruction that wastes at noonday…  You will tread on the lion and the adder, the young lion and the serpent you will trample under foot.”  But we’ll get to all those in a few minutes!

It also has a personal connection for me.  Psalm 91 is my mom’s favorite.  She has spoken of how she sometimes inserts her name where the appropriate pronoun appears.  For example, “Ida will not fear the terror of the night.”  “The young lion and the serpent Ida will trample under foot.”  (Banu reminded me it is also her favorite, which she recites and does the same thing my mom does.)

I can speak of a quite intimate moment.  It happened when she was about to have surgery to implant a pacemaker.  Banu and I were in the hospital with her just before they were ready to roll her away and knock her out.  We prayed this psalm with her.  As you go through verse after verse, the promises of the Lord keep adding up, until we get to the end, “With long life I will satisfy them, and show them my salvation” (v. 16).

This is a song, or a poem, of trust and confidence.  The writer is assured of victory, of obstacles overcome.  This assurance isn’t based on anything within herself or himself.  This assurance, this conviction, is based on living “in the shelter of the Most High, [abiding] in the shadow of the Almighty (v. 1).

The word “Almighty” comes from the Hebrew שַׁדַּי (shaday) Shaddai.

It’s like the Amy Grant song, which was written by Michael Card and John Thompson.  “El-Shaddai, El-Shaddai [“God Almighty”] / El-Elyon na Adonai [“God in the highest, Oh, Lord”] / Age to age, You’re still the same / By the power of the name.”  And of course, the song goes on.  There’s a good case of a psalm inspiring a work of art.

Shaddai is the “self-sufficient one,” the “one who suffices.”  That’s a shelter impervious to the storms of life.  One who needs nothing else.

And yes, our psalmist, our poet, has seen some tough times.  There’s been the threat of being snared by the fowler—the danger of being trapped, like a bird rendered helpless.[1]  Who knows what snares, what traps, have lain in wait?  What has been escaped?

“Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come; ‘Tis grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.”

Who can speak of the “deadly pestilence”?  Our writer has been set free—has been protected—from that which would leave desolation in its wake.

We’re told by Gregg Braden the ancient rabbis held that “Psalm 91 protected the prophet Moses the second time he climbed to the top of Mount Sinai, which is when he received the Ten Commandments.  [He] was enveloped during his ascent by a mysterious cloud of unknown substance of unknown origin.  The cloud became so dense that he could no longer see ahead of him, nor could he be seen by those watching him from below the cloud…”[2]

“It’s during this time of uncertainty and fear that Moses composed and recited Psalm 91 for his protection.  For reasons that he attributed to the power of this prayer, Moses, in fact, was protected.”[3]  While it’s not likely Moses actually wrote the psalm, we can see how it was regarded to have served as a shield.

I spoke of rich and vivid images, including verses 5 and 6.  There is defense from dangers of night and day.  No “terror of the night,” no “arrow that flies by day” will bring harm.  In verse 6, we once again hear about pestilence.  The psalmist is told to not fear “the pestilence that stalks in darkness, or the destruction that wastes at noonday.”

The destruction that wastes at noonday.  Many have seen that as a reference to “the noonday devil” or “noonday demon.”  Now that’s a colorful character.  Throughout the centuries of church history, it became associated with one of the seven deadly sins, the one known as sloth.  We might be tempted to laugh it off as mere laziness, but it is more than that.  It is the condition called acedia.  In Latin, it literally means “lack of care.”  It is a refusal to act on the demands of love.

Andrew Michel is a professor of psychiatry at Vanderbilt University in Nashville.  He says, “As an absence of care, acedia can seem harmless enough since it is not an observable…offense.  However, whenever there is an absence of care in the world, an absence of intentionality, then someone is left lacking—an elderly person unattended, a starving person unfed, a woman battered, a child uneducated, a life’s gifting uncelebrated.”[4]  It might seem the only person harmed is the one afflicted by it, but as we see, it spreads outward.  It is not a victimless crime!

“Therefore,” Michel continues, “acedia is difficult to notice because it [deals with] an absence.  Perhaps this is the reason it has been associated with the Psalmist’s noonday demon, who seems to terrorize his prey in the light of day, not fearing being seen or noticed.”[5]

I’ve taken some time with this, because “the destruction that wastes at noonday” doesn’t have to be something dramatic.  In fact, it can hide in the ordinary run of the day.  We get so busy with busy-ness that we demonstrate the prayer of confession of sin in which we ask forgiveness, not so much for “what we have done,” but “what we have left undone.”

But there’s good news!  As Michel contemplated studying acedia, he feared it “might turn into turn into a project in moralizing.  Yet, to my delight,” he realized, “as I have explored the richness of acedia, I have paradoxically discovered that the concept is refreshing and illuminating.  Rather than heaping judgment on a person, the recognition of acedia offers an invitation to abundant living.”[6]  The richness of acedia, the noonday devil: that sounds like a contradiction in terms!  Refreshing?  Illuminating?

Still, that is the hope the psalmist holds out.  Fear not.

The promises of deliverance continue.  Consider verses 9 and 10: “Because you have made the Lord your refuge, the Most High your dwelling place, no evil shall befall you, no scourge come near your tent.”  The word for “scourge” is נֶגַצ (nega`).  It has several nuances, but probably the best one here is “contagion.”  That could include the contagion of acedia, that noonday devil.

The promise here is that “contagion…shall not approach into your tent.”  It shall not rest in your home, because the Lord is in your home.  Something we’ve become familiar with in this past year and a half is indeed contagion.  It has swept through the land; it has swept through the world.  It has visited so many of us. I wonder, though, is there a difference between visiting and taking up residence?  Moving in?

Assuming we take verse 10 literally, at some level, we have no control over being visited by the contagion of Covid, or any other contagion for that matter.  Of course, we take precautions, but there are no firm guarantees in this fallen, disease-infested world.  (I guess I’m scaring all the germophobes!)

Still, as I just suggested, maybe there’s a difference between having a visitor and having someone walk in unannounced, go to the fridge, grab a snack, plop down in your favorite chair, and put their feet up.

So unfortunately, we have become familiar with contagion.  It seems to have brought to the surface some disconcerting realities.

I’ve been reading a book on Dietrich Bonhoeffer written by Eric Metaxas.  Bonhoeffer, as you may or may not know, was a church leader in Germany during the time of the Nazis.  His best-known book was The Cost of Discipleship.  He was arrested for his anti-government activities, including participation in the plot to assassinate Hitler.  He was imprisoned for two years.  Bonhoeffer was executed just a matter of days before the surrender of the Nazis.

In the book, Metaxas quotes Bonhoeffer on his thoughts about what the war has revealed.  I would suggest in the place of the word “war,” we substitute the word “contagion.”  (It’s kind of like what Banu and my mother have done with Psalm 91, inserting their names in various places.)  Here are some of his reflections on the realities that World War 2 revealed:

“It is not war [contagion] that first brings death, not war that first invents the pains and torments of human bodies and souls…  It is not war that first makes our existence so utterly precarious and renders human beings powerless, forcing them to watch their desires and plans being thwarted and destroyed…  But war makes all of this, which existed already apart from it and before it, vast and unavoidable to us who would gladly prefer to overlook it all.”[7]

Does it seem like I’m overstating the effects of the pandemic by comparing it to war?  Perhaps, but I don’t think it’s by very much.  Maybe I’m alone in this, but I think these past months have revealed how crazy we make each other!  Lengthy traumatic experiences have a way of doing that.

Going along with Bonhoeffer, those realities and forces were already there.  The divisions, the shaming of each other, the recriminations…  Covid has given all that an elevated platform.  Especially with the forced lockdowns, it has exposed in detail the economic inequality, the imbalanced opportunities for education, the scourge (yes, the contagion) of domestic violence.

Hasn’t this talk of the noonday devil and contagion been fun?  Fortunately, there’s more to the story.

To those who love the Lord and know his name, these vows are made: “When they call to me, I will answer them; I will be with them in trouble, I will rescue them and honor them” (v. 15).  The word for “honor” כָּבַד (kabad) is the same word for “glorify.”  Imagine that: the Lord will glorify us!  Plagues and contagions might surround us.  That includes the self-imposed contagion of acedia, of sloth—the one that has us saying “no” to love, “no” to the Spirit.

God is ever present, wanting so badly to glorify us.  Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ says, “No contagion will harm you.”  Glory be to God in the highest!

[1] also in Psalm 124:7

[2] Gregg Braden, The Wisdom Codes (Carlsbad, CA: Hay House, 2020), Kindle edition, Chapter 1, section 2, paragraph 1.

[3] Braden, 1.2.2

[4] Andrew A. Michel, “In Pursuit of Sophia: A Pilgrimage with Depression and Acedia,” Acedia: Christian Reflection (Waco, TX: Baylor University, 2013), 29-30.

[5] Michel, 30.

[6] Michel, 29.

[7] Eric Metaxas, Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Prophet, Martyr, Spy (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2010), 373.

Looking ahead to a special ecumenical service for Thanksgiving, I figured, “Well, at least I know what my theme is!”  For some people, the holiday of Thanksgiving is mainly about the history.  For others, it’s about the turkey, the pumpkin pie, the (fill in the blank).  And for some other very sad souls, it’s about football—especially the Dallas Cowboys!

Still, focusing on the theme of thanksgiving, of gratitude, while avoiding some of the clichés—it’s not as easy as it would seem at first.  I’ve found that sometimes the best way to understand something is to look at its opposite.  Having said that, thinking of the opposite of “thankful” as “unthankful,” and the opposite of “gratitude” as “ingratitude,” might not be much help after all!

I want to bring up something we don’t often hear about in sermons or Sunday school, and that is, the seven deadly sins of the medieval church.  Can anyone name them?  We have envy, gluttony, greed, lust, pride, sloth, and wrath.  There’s one of them, sloth, that a lot of people think isn’t so bad.  But that would be a mistake!

The original Latin word for that specific deadly sin is “acedia.”  Over time, it became lost in the term “sloth.”  Most of us think of that as laziness. (Plus we have the image of those cute critters hanging from trees!)  It is laziness, but not simply the kind meaning you’re a couch potato.

Acedia literally means a “lack of care.”  In early monasticism, it was called the “noonday demon.”  It’s a condition of spiritual apathy, a state of sluggishness, in which the afflicted person is unwilling or unable to care about much of anything at all—at least, it ends up that way.

Fred Craddock, the well-known preacher in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), describes it this way.  Instead of mere laziness, he says it’s “the ability to look at a starving child…with a swollen stomach and say, ‘Well it’s not my kid.’…Or to see an old man sitting alone among the pigeons in the park and say, ‘Well…that’s not my dad.’  It is that capacity of the human spirit to look out upon the world and everything God made and say, I don’t care.”[1]  I don’t care.  But it can manifest itself in ways other than some obvious lack of caring.

If we can rouse ourselves enough to study sloth, then I think we’re getting close to the opposite of gratitude.  In her book, Acedia and Me, Kathleen Norris goes into great detail at how she has seen the noonday demon at work in her own life.  As I read her book, I felt like some of my theories were being reinforced.  For a long time, I’ve believed that of the seven deadly sins, sloth is the deadliest!

Norris quotes Soren Kierkegaard from Either/Or.  It’s like a strange twist on Dr. Seuss.  “I do not care for anything.  I do not care to ride, for the exercise is too violent.  I do not care to walk, walking is too strenuous.  I do not care to lie down, for I should either have to remain lying, and I do not care to do that, or I should have to get up again, and I do not care to do that either…  I do not care at all.”[2]

Has anyone else ever felt that way?  It’s almost like all the color of life gets washed away, and all that’s left are blah shades of gray.

There’s a passage in Norris’ book that reminds me of a line from the movie The Usual Suspects.  It’s when Kevin Spacey says, “The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.”  In the movie, he’s referring to the notorious criminal, Keyser Soze, but it’s clear he means more than that particular villain.  The quote ends, “And like that…he’s gone.”

This is what Norris wrote: “I am intrigued that over the course of the last sixteen hundred years we managed to lose the word acedia…  We are tempted to regard with reverence those dedicated souls who make themselves available ‘twenty-four/seven’ and regard silence as unproductive, solitude as irresponsible.  But when distraction becomes the norm, we are in danger of becoming immunized from feeling itself…  Is it possible that in twenty-first-century America, acedia has come into its own?  How can that be, when so few know its name?”[3]

Obviously, we don’t need to know the name of something for it to control us.  We can even forget that it exists.  Are we too “slothful” to identify and resist acedia?

In our scripture text, St. Paul urges Timothy “that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for everyone,” including those in authority (vv. 1-2).  None of those items are on Mr. Sloth’s “to-do” list.  None of those look very attractive to Ms. Acedia.

Something the apostle urges Timothy to do, as well as us, is to look outward.  No one can do the things in that list while constantly focusing inward.  It’s impossible to live a life of supplication, prayer, intercession, and thanksgiving that way.

Paul’s expressed desire in verse 2, that we “lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and dignity,” may lead some to say we should leave well enough alone.  Let the world outside take care of itself.  But guess what?  That’s another way acedia raises its slothful head!

Perhaps the greatest sin of sloth, the worst assault of acedia, is the effect on the imagination.  Its biggest crime is what it does to creativity.  As Norris says, “Acedia can flatten any place into a stark desert landscape and make hope a mirage.”  It can make our world “obscenely small.”[4]  That’s a compelling statement.  If we believe the lie that we have nothing to offer—that we aren’t creative—then the problems in life will start to feel too overwhelming.  We will lose our ability to care.

“To someone in the grip of acedia, the beauty of sunlight, and of life itself, can only reinforce a bitter ingratitude.”[5]

What’s the opposite of love?  Is it hate?  Could it be indifference?  As the saying goes, there’s a thin line between love and hate.  But where indifference resides—where the lack of caring reigns supreme—the vitality of life gets drained away.  And that is a sin.  And that is deadly.

So, in a few days, pray for the gift of thanksgiving.  Ask for the grace of gratitude.  (Actually, that’s not a bad prayer every day!)  Let it lead you into the world “in the sight of God our Savior, who desires everyone to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (vv. 3-4).

[1] Kathleen Norris, Acedia and Me (New York:  Riverhead Books, 2008), 115.

[2] Norris, 16.

[3] Norris, 45-46.

[4] Norris, 39, 85.

[5] Norris, 202.

I want to begin by reading something from a journal.

“I managed one hour of sleep last night.  Trent and I have made arrangements to stay at the homeless shelter tonight.  I have noticed a distinct loss of freedom as a street person.  Because of my appearance, there are many places I cannot appropriately go.  I sense the contempt others have for me.  My hair is dirty and uncombed, my pants are torn and grimy, my face is three days unshaven, and I imagine I don’t smell like a breath of fresh air.  I want to brush my teeth.

“The world can be an unfriendly place if you are homeless.  You lack an address, an identity, personhood, a bathroom, water!  The day drags on.”

That journal entry was written by me.  It comes from an experience I had with Food for the Hungry, a Christian relief and development agency based, at the time, in Scottsdale, Arizona.  (They later relocated to Phoenix.)

I was there for ten days during the month of June, participating in a hunger awareness program.  We had lectures, readings, Bible studies, worship, and a number of other activities—including playing basketball under the blazing desert sun.  (The game didn’t last very long!)

We also watched the movie The Elephant Man, starring Anthony Hopkins and John Hurt.  This was meant to help us identify with the marginalized and outcast.  But the most dramatic component was the immersion experience.  We were paired up and put on the street in Phoenix for 48 hours.  (Trent, who was from Oregon, was my partner.)  We were allowed $2, one source of identification (in case the cops stopped us), a Bible, and a notebook.

We were told to disperse, but we were given certain geographic boundaries beyond which we weren’t supposed to go.  Besides that, we had little instruction.  We were simply to blend into the environment and be street people from noon on Friday to noon on Sunday.  We couldn’t tell anyone who we were, but we didn’t want to lie, either.  So we decided to say that some friends had dropped us off in Phoenix and were supposed to return some time and pick us up.  I soon discovered how very realistic that was.  We met several people with similar stories.

I’ve told you this to show how I was given just a taste of what it means to be on the street.  To be marginalized.  To be an outcast.  To be “the other.”

Central to our identity, as people called to live the gospel of Christ, is this matter of identifying with the marginalized, with “the least of these,” as Jesus says.  There are probably as many ways to do this as there are people.

Our epistle reading for Palm Sunday is a hymn quoted by the apostle Paul for the benefit of the Philippian church.  It may be hard for us think of it as a hymn, since we don’t sing it, though our hymnal has some songs based on it.  It can be a beautiful and powerful part of worship.  The problem comes when words and rituals of praise aren’t acted upon.  When worship isn’t reflected in our lives, it becomes hollow.  We’re simply striking a pose; we’re posturing.

It seems that we spend much of our time striking a pose.  We spend a lot of time wearing masks.  But we hear that Jesus was unwilling to strike a pose.  On that first Palm Sunday, as he entered Jerusalem, he was a king without a crown.  Instead of riding a mighty stallion, as conquering heroes would do, he rode on a lowly donkey.

Jesus let all the masks fall.  The choice of Jesus to identify with the other has unleashed in our world a power that cannot be tamed.  It is a strange power, a power that overturns our tidy world as only Jesus the God-slave can.

But surely this sense of break with the familiar—of rupture within our comfortable little world—is a sign of God’s presence.  It’s only our idols that remain predictable and easy to control.  God calls us into an uncomfortable, untested zone, in which faith really comes alive.

And indeed, as share the viewpoint of the outcast, as we take the form of a slave, things take on new clarity.  So let us return to downtown Phoenix, to the parched avenues of that desert city, and maybe we can catch a glimpse, as I did for a brief moment, the reality of those on the margins.  We might even see a clean toilet as a bearer of God’s grace.

The search for a place to relieve oneself can be a humbling experience.  Finding myself in that predicament, and not finding any public restrooms, I leave Trent sleeping in the shade of a tree and wander into a McDonald’s next to the state Capitol.  I think, “Okay, I can use the bathroom here.”  However, a locked door stops me in my tracks.  I know I’ll have to go to the counter and ask for the key.  But remember my appearance at the time.  I’m too proud to just ask to use the restroom.  After all, I’m not really a street person.  I’m better than that!

So I decide to buy something first.  I will be a legitimate customer.  I select the cheapest thing on the menu, a hot fudge sundae.  It costs me almost a dollar.  (I was there in the 90s; I’m not sure what their price is now.)  Remember that we’re only allowed two dollars—so I’m spending almost half my amount right here.

After finishing the sundae, I return to the counter and request the key that will end my torture.  Just a few more seconds, and I can lock myself into a world of privacy…of refreshment…of relief…of cool water from the faucet to splash on my sunburned face.  I can quench my ever-recurring thirst.  Just a few more seconds, and…THE RESTROOM IS OUT OF ORDER…what?…THE RESTROOM IS OUT OF ORDER.

I stumble back out into the blast furnace of that June day in Arizona.  I wander across the Capitol grounds and leave before I attract the attention of security.  I think of the guy at the counter.  The look of disgust he had given me is still in my mind.  I wanted to say, “This isn’t who I really am.  I’m just playing a role.  I’m just striking a pose.  I’m not really a street person.”

I have endured that humiliation.  I have wasted my money on something not terribly nutritious, and now I have to use the bathroom more than ever.  I keep walking in that 115 degree heat and finally come to a park with a nasty old building with a smelly old restroom with a filthy old toilet where I thank God and end my agony.

We sing the hymn of praise to Christ.  We join with the crowds on Palm Sunday, who sang their praises.  We sing, but we’re not always sure what to do next.

That isn’t entirely surprising.  It’s been noted, “We become accustomed to employing the [language] of…love.  In our very verbal faith, words easily become a substitute for reality.  And there is an odd sense of satisfaction we can gain by seriously talking about issues such as poverty [or world hunger] without ever doing anything about it…

“We need to get real and help [others] to get real.  We need to get off the band wagon of being deserving or undeserving.  Our opportunity is to…be real and loving as we are.  It is OK to be who I am…  All else is a running away from reality.  I am not going to do anyone any good by retreating into the ‘comfort’ of feeling guilty.  Guilt is a useful place to be only because it is a place from which to move on; it is not a place to live.”[1]

It might sound strange to speak of finding comfort in feeling guilty.  But sometimes it can serve as an escape, or at least a way of procrastinating.  “I’m no better than anyone else,” we might think, “so who am I to speak out?  Who am I to offer my gifts?”

I’ve talked about this before.  Of the seven deadly sins of the medieval church—envy, gluttony, greed, lust, pride, sloth, and wrath—in my humble opinion, sloth is the deadliest.  (I know others have their favorites!)

One image that typically comes to mind when we hear the word “sloth” is the couch potato—one who conserves body energy by lying on the sofa, using remote control gadgets, or voice command, for everything.

Still, mere laziness is not the deadly sin of sloth.  Rather, sloth is a spiritual problem, one that causes us to resist the movement of God in our life.  Sloth is what causes us, when we sense the Spirit leading us to do something—or when we see someone in need—to say: “Oh, I don’t feel like it!  It’s just too much bother!”

Notice that I said, “when we sense the Spirit leading us.”  A lot of Christians don’t know, or they’ve forgotten, what that means.  They’ve hardened themselves; they’re set in their ways.  They don’t sincerely pray for God’s guidance.  This is probably a case in which laziness is a good definition of sloth.  I know what I’m talking about.  There are days when I don’t feel like seeking divine guidance—and I don’t do it!

In 1 Timothy, St. Paul calls himself “the foremost” of sinners (1:15).  He understands his weakness.  Maybe that’s why he says in verse 12, right after our hymn, that we have to “work out [our] own salvation with fear and trembling.”  It takes discipline.  It takes work.  We must recognize our own weakness and the power of temptation.

So, what would it mean to have the mind of Christ, which includes looking first to the interests of others, and not merely to our own?  How can we love with unconditional love, not with the conditional love of the Palm Sunday crowds?

We sing the hymn of praise to Christ, and we hear the good news that the Lordship of Jesus is confessed throughout the cosmos.  And we are invited to share the mind of one who takes the place of a slave, an outcast—who suffers humiliation and disgust.  He is the one who is exalted and who calls us friends.  We are called to join in that grand parade.

[1] wwwstaff.murdoch.edu.au/~loader/MtPent19.htm

Do you ever feel overwhelmed by the problems of the world?

There used to be a network called Current TV.  At the top of each hour, they had a brief show known as InfoMania, a quick feature of ridiculous things in the news.  It began with the chorus from the song, “Weight of the World,” by Pigeon John.[1]  (I was unfamiliar with him; I had to look it up!)  It’s a silly voice singing, “Sometimes I feel the weight of the world, and it’s so heavy and it’s bringing me down.”  For most people, that’s hardly a laughing matter.

There’s a book written by Christoph Blumhardt, Jesus is the Victor.[2]  He lived
Germany from 1842 to 1919, so among the problems of the world he witnessed was the growing drumbeat all over Europe to go to war.  It ended with the calamity that we call World War 1.

Here’s something from the first chapter: “Even if our age has become riddled with evil, even if death runs rampant on the earth, we will not accept these as final facts.  We must not sleepily say, ‘It is the Lord’s will.  What will be, will be.’”[3]

In the face of the immensity of problems—the immensity of sin—sometimes we can get paralyzed.  We can retreat into a bunker mentality.  We fall prey to fatalism, which is to say, “We have no control over what’s happening.  There’s no use in worrying about it.  It’s just our fate.”

Our medieval brothers and sisters had a name for this affliction, or something very similar to it.  It was one of the seven deadly sins.  It’s our old buddy, “sloth.”  In Latin, it’s acedia, and it literally means “absence of caring.”  It’s more a sin of omission than commission.  It’s a failure to use our gifts for the service of God and for each other.  Unfortunately, America can be seen as a vast wasteland of sloth.  We’ve been given so much, and yet…

In the chapter “He Conquers Sin,” we read how Blumhardt addresses the social and political conditions of his day.  “Apart from God,” he says, “we will not be able to do away with the discord in our hearts and the discord between us.  Sick in mind and body, we have no hope of creating a healthy world.  Inwardly and outwardly unclear and confused, torn by emotions and passions, we cannot form a society of truth and justice.”[4]

Unless we ourselves are transformed, how can we hope to transform our community and our world?  We would be in the position of Jesus in our gospel reading, when “the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor; and he said to him, ‘All these I will give you, if you will fall down and worship me’” (Mt 4:8-9).

There’s a problem with that, though.  Something from within the creation (in this case, the devil—it could be a number of other things) can’t possibly bring about the change needed for a society of truth and justice.  It’s all part of the sickness.  Neither can the promises of politics or science or religion itself bring about a society of shalom.

So how can we break the cycle?  How do we welcome the power from outside of creation?  How can we find the healing for the sickness within ourselves and within our world?  Our psalmist seems to be onto something:

“While I kept silence, my body wasted away through my groaning all day long.  For day and night your hand was heavy upon me; my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer.  Then I acknowledged my sin to you, and I did not hide my iniquity; I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,’ and you forgave the guilt of my sin” (vv. 3-5).

Christoph Friedrich Blumhardt

He realizes that he doesn’t have within himself what he needs.  People have said that he has been sick, he has been in pain, he has unconfessed sin, and who knows what else.  He begins his meditation by acknowledging, “Happy are those whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered” (v. 1).  The psalmist has felt liberation with openness to God.

So it becomes a question of opening ourselves to God.  That can be easier said than done.  In his book, Blumhardt says, “The greatest obstacle to the kingdom of God is us and our clever solutions.  Self-will leads so many people and so many nations to destruction.  Not even our Christian institutions are very helpful.  Too much pride has crept into them.”[5]  Pride?  What is he talking about?

I remember a time years ago, when I lived in Tennessee.  The youth pastor at our church was talking about a meeting he attended with fellow youth pastors.  He said they were all trying to outdo each other by talking about how fired up their youth groups were.  I told him he should have said, “So what?  Our group raised somebody from the dead!”

Thankfully, in our churches, we’re not infected by that vying for power and prestige!

Is it possible that we don’t want to give up “our clever solutions”?  And if that’s so, why would that be the case?  I wonder, could it be a question of control?  Maybe that’s part of it.

Our writer suggests something else.  “This is actually what Jesus demands of us:  Fight against your own selves!”[6]  Earlier I mentioned fatalism, paralysis, when facing the problems of the world, including those we see on a daily basis.  We may want to just throw in the towel.  We may not even want to hear how things could be better.  We don’t want to hear about it, because that might take away our excuses for not getting involved.

However, as we might expect, the psalmist has a word from the Lord to us on that point.  “I will instruct you and teach you the way you should go; I will counsel you with my eye upon you.  Do not be like a horse or a mule, without understanding, whose temper must be curbed with bit and bridle, else it will not stay near you” (vv. 8-9).

So I guess it’s up to us as to how stubborn, how boneheaded, we want to be!  And I might qualify for being at the top of that list.

I’ll include one more quote from our friend Christoph to emphasize this.  “Even when suffering under terrible evil, we don’t devote our energies to getting to the root of it.  Instead, we skim off the nearest misery from the surface of our distress and bring that to God, saying, ‘Help me here, and then I will be happy once more!’  As though that could help.”[7]

I can’t speak for anyone else here, but I know that I’ve taken that approach.  It’s the approach that seeks a bandage on the wound, a temporary solution.  It’s a mentality that doesn’t desire true healing.  It says, “Just patch me up and let me go!”

What would cause such reluctance to whole-heartedly give ourselves to what, and who, we claim to believe?  Is it possible we realize we would really need to make some lifestyle changes?

I’m reminded of something I read several years ago.  Glen Bengson, a Lutheran pastor from Ohio (now retired), and a member of Bread for the World, tells the story of a visit by a doctor from Tanzania.

He says he “once visited our area for ten weeks, going from one congregation to another.  He was astounded at our medical facilities, not to mention the general level of wealth in the United States.  Visiting an emergency room with each patient area equipped with oxygen outlets in the wall, he told how his hospital, with 200 beds, had only two oxygen tanks, and one always had to be on ready in the surgery unit.  He heard the litany ‘God bless America’ and was puzzled.  ‘God has already blessed you so much.  Do you want more?’”[8]

Today is the first Sunday in Lent.  People often speak of things they’re “giving up” for Lent.  And there’s no question that there are plenty of things that we would be wise to give up.  But Lent is about renewal, repentance, reforming.  What better time to re-examine our lifestyles than during the Lenten season?

Since we’re still at the beginning of Lent, I want to sound a theme that goes with Ash Wednesday.  In Matthew 6, Jesus warns about “practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them” (v. 1).  But earlier, in chapter 5, he says to “let your light shine before others” (v. 16).  What’s the difference?

I realize that there are plenty of ways to approach this, but here’s an idea.  There are many public displays of faith, be it leading prayer in a group, feeding the hungry, peacefully demonstrating, visiting the sick and the prisoner, whatever.  So if you’re hoping others will notice and think you’re spiritual, even if you are helping people, your motives are still messed up.

However, if you’re reluctant to live out your faith before others, that’s a different problem.  If you’re embarrassed and don’t want to look like a fool for Christ, then by all means, you need to do it!  This is the season for some Lenten foolishness!

And the more we get used to Lenten foolishness for Christ, the less imposing those problems of the world seem to be.  We take them in bite-sized amounts, which is really the only way things get done.  And we can sing along with the psalmist, “Be glad in the Lord and rejoice, O righteous, and shout for joy, all you upright in heart” (v. 11).

That’s a good song to sing, even if we feel foolish while doing it.

[1] www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVg6LhXCev8

[2] Christoph Blumhardt, Jesus is the Victor (Farmington, PA:  The Bruderhof Foundation, 2004).

[3] Blumhardt, 2.

[4] Blumhardt, 6.

[5] Blumhardt, 7.

[6] Blumhardt, 7.

[7] Blumhardt, 9.

[8] www.bread.org/publications/hunger-for-the-word/excerpts.htm

New Year’s Day.*  Epiphany Sunday (Epiphany itself is on Friday).  The eighth day of Christmas.  The morning after New Year’s Eve.  A lot of stuff is coming together today.

Maybe that makes sense.  Each new year has an unbelievably complex set of joys and fears, anticipation and dread.  That might be especially true as we enter 2017.  Many people are glad that 2016 is over!  Although, in speaking with Banu, we recognize that 2016 had a whole lot of blessing to it, and we thank God for it.

Of course, many of us make new year’s resolutions.  (Such as resolving to exercise—I mean, to exercise more!)  How long folks keep at it is another question.  Still, that speaks to the human need to look to the future and the felt need to change.  We remember the past, with both the good and the bad, but maybe we want a do-over as well.

What I’m about to say should be no surprise to anyone.  When we’re young, our storehouse of memories is very limited.  Everything is directed to the future, and most of us can’t wait to get there!  As time goes on and we get a little more of life under our belt, a little more experience, things begin to even out.  As the years go by, most of us have a wealth of memories, and if you’re regarding life as simply a measure of numbers, the future seems quite foreshortened.  (Still, as I often say, no one is promised tomorrow.  Any of us could be gone tonight.)

Perhaps not regarding life as simply a measure of numbers is a big part of keeping one’s heart young.  We welcome times to come (however that works out), while remembering “auld lang syne,” times gone by.

I begin with this little meditation on memory because we can see that in the Old Testament lesson.  Today’s passage from Isaiah 63 speaks about memory.  Verse 7 begins, “I will recount the gracious deeds of the Lord.”  This person who is doing the recounting has seen times that are both awful and awesome.

Here’s a quick note about our author.  The first two-thirds of the book of Isaiah date to the time of the prophet himself, in the eighth century B.C.  Starting with chapter 40, we’re at a point in the Babylonian exile, in the sixth century.  This latter part of the book, sometimes called Second Isaiah, is considered to be the work of an anonymous prophet in the “school” or the “spirit” of Isaiah.

When we get to chapter 56, we’re a couple more decades into the future.  This final section is sometimes called Third Isaiah.  This is after the return from exile has happened.  For a while, there is a great deal of enthusiasm among those returning to their homeland.  Over time, however, hopes began to fade as cold reality sinks in.  Among other things, there is constant opposition from many who have settled the land while so much of the house of Israel has been held captive in Babylon.

This is probably about the time of the prophets Haggai and Zechariah.  One of the things they emphasize is the need to rebuild the temple that had been destroyed by the Babylonians.  The people need a kick in their complacency.

Last week, part of my Christmas sermon dealt with one of the seven deadly sins, sloth.  The sin of sloth isn’t a matter of being physically lazy, although it might include that.  Rather, it is a sickness of the soul, in which a person simply ceases to care.  It is a resistance to the Spirit of God which results in a hardening of heart, not in an angry way, but in a way that loses the desire to grow.  It’s a settling down into a dull routine in which the prompting of the Spirit is ignored.

The prophet’s audience in today’s text is largely afflicted by sloth.  They need a fire lit under them.

But you might not get that, based on the snippet of the chapter that is today’s passage.  The compilers of the lectionary tended to chisel out some of the “troublesome parts,” the scriptures that say things we find embarrassing, or stuff we just don’t want to hear.  Whenever I see scriptures that are deleted, I have a hard time letting that go—even if it’s something I don’t want to hear.

As I said earlier, our reading begins, “I will recount the gracious deeds of the Lord,” because of all the wonderful stuff the Lord has done for us.  Verse 8 has affirming words about Israel being “my people, children who will not deal falsely.”  Things get wrapped up nicely with God’s “presence that saved them; in his love and in his pity he redeemed them; he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old” (v. 9).

Those are good memories.  It is vital; it is life-giving, to remind each other of what God has done for us.  It’s especially important when we’re in times of distress.

Still, this has been plucked out of its context.

The first part of the chapter talks about vengeance being unleashed.  Verse 3 is especially lovely.  “I have trodden the wine press alone, and from the peoples no one was with me; I trod them in my anger and trampled them in my wrath; their juice spattered on my garments, and stained all my robes.”  The juice from trampling grapes is compared to blood!

However, this isn’t the action of a bloodthirsty god.  Our Lord isn’t roaming around, looking for heads to smash.  This crazy language is actually about grace.  George Knight talks about the way “the nations have made life for each other on this planet hell on earth.”[1]  So what does God do in response?  “God alone knows how to use [humanity’s] hellish activities for good; he does so by taking upon himself the absurdity of human violence.”[2]  That’s how we get the language about juice staining the garments of God.

We see here a preview of the sacrificial love perfectly demonstrated by Jesus.  Still, I guess that stuff about blood made our lectionary friends squeamish!

Now, what’s going on after today’s reading?

In verse 10, right after the language of blessing that was read to us, we get a splash of cold water in the face.  “But they rebelled and grieved his holy spirit; therefore he became their enemy; he himself fought against them.”  But they rebelled.  Memories become a bit more painful.

Mike Stavlund has sarcastically noted, “With an editorial snip, we miss Isaiah’s inflammatory commentary on the unfaithfulness of God’s followers.”[3]  Then changing the focus to us, “who spend far more time proclaiming ourselves ‘God’s servants’ than we do acting like it.  Who pray for shalom while we make war.  Who ask for forgiveness while we stockpile bitterness.  Who preach repentance while we quietly judge.”

That’s an exceptionally biting comment: asking for forgiveness while we stockpile bitterness.  Can that be true?

As I said, we are on the cusp of a new calendar year.  2017 won’t automatically be better than 2016.  One of the narratives that was promoted this past year was that people are angry.  We were told that we’re angry.  Take our word for it.  And if you’re not angry, you should be!

But beneath all of that, we should remember that anger has its roots in fear.  We’ve been told to fear each other.  And that’s not anything new.  Fear is the opposite of love.  As 1 John tells us, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear” (4:18).  It’s impossible to carry out the gospel imperative to love one another if we’re afraid of each other.  We are armed against each other, both literally and metaphorically.

Fear can also result in loneliness.

Chris Hall, president of Renovaré, the spiritual formation ministry started by Richard Foster, talks about this in his review of 2016.[4]  He speaks of “an epidemic of loneliness in our culture.”  We can see this in America as a whole, but he especially focuses on feeling lonesome in the community of faith.

“This loneliness epidemic,” Hall says, “came into sharp focus for me several months ago, when I joined a group of Renovaré Institute alumni at a reunion in London, England.  One after another, often amid tears, people spoke of how desperately they missed the rich sense of belonging and connection they’d had while they were in the program.

“And it’s not just Renovaré Institute students.  We receive calls from folks nearly every day whose lives were altered at a Renovaré conference, or in the pages of a Renovaré book, and who now crave community with others who are on the same journey.”

He’s speaking in particular of those their ministry has reached, but clearly the reality that people are lonely reaches far and wide.  Going back to earlier comments, could the epidemic of loneliness also be the result of rebellion and bitterness on our part?  Does our fear prevent our loving each other?  And going back to the original audience of our scripture reading, do we suffer from the spiritual sickness known as sloth?  Does it keep us from caring, from really being with the other?

Like the new year we’re entering, we ourselves are a crazy, mixed up set of joys and fears.  We are beautiful, marvelous, wise, and courageous.  We are also afraid of our own shadows.  We are creatures desperately in need of a loving Savior.

We are in the season of Christmas, and God comes to us in the flesh.  God dwells with us in the flesh.

This is also Epiphany Sunday.  Like the magi from the East, we are drawn to the glory of Christ’s majesty.  But guess what?  That glory is also in us.

Remember verse 9: “It was no messenger or angel but his presence that saved them; in his love and in his pity he redeemed them; he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old.”  The very presence of God saves us and is with us.

So are we ready for what this new year holds?  Are we ready to be led by the Spirit into the new thing God has for us?

I want to finish with a quote that was attributed to Nelson Mandela, but actually comes from Marianne Williamson in her book Return to Love.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.  Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.  It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.  We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?  Actually, who are you not to be?  You are a child of God.  Your playing small doesn’t serve the world.  There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.  We were all meant to shine, as children do.  We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.  It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone.  And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.  As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Are we ready?

* This was for New Year’s Day, not New Year’s Eve!

[1] George A. F. Knight, The New Israel (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1985), 73.

[2] Knight, 74.

[3] thq.wearesparkhouse.org/yeara/christmas1ot

[4] renovare.org/2016

“There won’t be any Christmas this year.”  I imagine we’ve all heard statements to that effect.  Maybe we ourselves have said something along those lines.  “This year, there’s going to be a lean Christmas!”  What would prompt such a statement?  How could we possibly prevent, or even hinder, the arrival of Christmas?

Of course, I understand what’s usually meant by that kind of sentiment are financial problems.  It’s the feeling that there’s little, if any, money available to be spent on Christmas presents.  I have a couple of thoughts about that.  First is the notion that gifts that cost plenty of money are always better than ones someone has created, using their God-given imagination.  Second is the way we mimic the Grinch, who by stealing presents from Who-ville, thought he actually could stop Christmas from coming.

(But as you know, the Grinch undergoes a change of heart and realizes the error of his ways.)

It’s that mentality which can reject the power of Christmas and turn it into something empty and hollow.  It’s that, and the sensory overload (starting well before Thanksgiving, even Halloween) which, among other things, involves Christmas-y music being piped in into all kinds of places.

Here’s an example.  Banu and I were at a couple of stores and at a restaurant, and I heard the song, “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday” played four times, and each time, it was done by a different artist!

Okay, I want to change gears for a moment.

In the medieval church, there were seven sins that were called deadly sins: envy, gluttony, greed, lust, pride, and wrath.  If you were keeping count, you’ll notice that’s only six.  There’s one more, and I think it’s as deadly as any other: sloth.  Some people laugh when they hear sloth considered a deadly sin.  It’s the fatal flaw of the couch potato!

The well-known preacher Fred Craddock (who died last year) had a compelling definition of this particular deadly sin.  Instead of mere laziness, he said it’s “the ability to look at a starving child…with a swollen stomach and say, ‘Well it’s not my kid.’…  Or to see an old man sitting alone among the pigeons in the park and say, ‘Well…that’s not my dad.’  It is that capacity of the human spirit to look out upon the world and everything God made and say, I don’t care.”^[1]  I don’t care.

Another name for sloth comes from Latin, acedia.  It literally means “lack of care.”  (Don’t worry; this talk about sloth has a connection with Christmas!)

Kathleen Norris writes about sloth in Acedia and Me, a book I really like and recommend.  And she has her own problem with Christmas.  (There’s the connection!)  In another place, she talks about the “many defenses [we have] against hearing the Christmas readings and taking them to heart.”^[2]  She uses images that are very familiar.

For example, look at the Old Testament reading in Isaiah 9.  It begins, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light” (v. 2).  And how often have we heard the wonderful language of verse 6?  “For a child has been born for us, a son given to us; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

We’re used to hearing these messianic titles, but where do they come from?  What is behind all of this?  Look at the end of verse 7: “The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.”  Zeal!  That’s not something we usually associate with Christmas.  It sounds a little too extreme, too fanatical.

But then, look at the epistle reading in Titus 2, starting with verse 11: “the grace of God has appeared, bringing salvation to all.”  Okay, that doesn’t seem to be overly intense.  Still, as the passage goes along, things start getting a little more fervent.  At the end, we read that Jesus “gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity and purify for himself a people of his own who are [get ready for it!] zealous for good deeds” (v. 14).  Zealous for good deeds.  There’s the “z” word again!

This is where we get back to our friend Kathleen’s ambivalence about Christmas, as well as her discussion about the before-mentioned deadly sin.

“I tend to enjoy Advent,” she says, “with all of its mystery and waiting, but find it difficult to muster much enthusiasm when Christmas Eve comes around.  I know I’m cheating myself, succumbing to my usual temptation to sloth, which Christian tradition understands as not mere laziness but as the perverse refusal of a possible joy.  The ancient monks saw zeal as the virtue opposed to sloth.”^[3]  Zeal as a remedy for sloth!

I can see myself reflected in her words.  Is there something about which I could positively say, “I am zealous!”?  What would that look like?  And if I have trouble seeing it, could I at least claim to be zealous in wanting to be zealous?

She might have a point when she says “zeal makes us nervous…  We prefer the protective detachment of irony or sarcasm, and regard zeal as pathetic if not pathological.  When a person exhibits too much passion over anything…we label that person as obsessive or compulsive, and mutter, ‘Get a life.’”^[4]

I don’t think very much convincing is needed when I say that even religious zeal can be bad.  Zeal can lead one to throw bombs, burn down abortion clinics, and show up at military funerals, claiming that this is God’s vengeance.  No, I don’t think we need much convincing when I say religious zeal is probably the worst of all.

The long history of Benedictine spirituality addresses this; it’s well aware of it.  Chapter 72 of the Rule of Benedict distinguishes between the “wicked zeal of bitterness which separates from God” and the “good zeal which separates from evil.”  We need not fear this kind of zeal.  The reason for that is because it’s grounded in love.

According to Joan Chittister, “Good zeal provides the foundation for the spirituality of the long haul.  It keeps us going when days are dull and holiness seems to be the stuff of more glamorous lives.”  She adds that “sanctity is the stuff of community in Christ and that any other zeal, no matter how dazzling it looks, is false.  Completely false.”^[5]  The glitz and glamour of our Christian cult of personality is shown to be bogus.

Somewhat of a trick is needed to dig through the layers of tradition, both good and bad tradition, which surround Christmas.  Too much of how we celebrate Christmas smothers the genuine, good, and life-giving zeal of its promise.  Again, there’s the danger of sloth, getting caught up in foolishness, in distraction.

Here’s a final word from Norris on that point: “The zealous love of this God has already appeared among us in the flesh to train us for a new life and teach us how to welcome him when he comes again in glory…  If we feel utterly exhausted, drained of all feeling and weary with worldly chores and concerns, so much the better.  Our weakness is God’s strength.  Our emptiness means that there is room for God after all.”^[6]

Making room for God is probably the best definition for zeal, at least, for good zeal.  How do we do that?  How do we make room for God?

How about thinking of the people on that first Christmas?  They quite literally made room for God, even if they didn’t understand who the baby Jesus really was.

In a more meaningful way, they made room in their minds and hearts and souls.  They wondered; they asked questions.  Joseph wondered, upon discovering Mary’s pregnancy, what he should do.  He was granted a divinely-inspired dream to answer his questions.

Of course, Mary, after hearing the news that she was to be a virgin mother, wondered, “How can this be?” (Lk 1:34).

Then there were those shepherds, who received a celestial visitation—a sight that scared the crap out of them.  (You do know in the Bible, angels are not cute critters?  They are quite terrifying!)  After being calmed down, they said, “Let’s go check this out.”  They were ready to have their world rocked.

Some time after that, the magi and Herod also were asking about the wonder child, though each with their own agendas.  But that’s an Epiphany story, so we won’t deal with that now!

So what kind of zeal makes room for God among us?  What kind of sloth, acedia, do we need to reject?  St. Paul says God’s grace trains us “to renounce impiety and worldly passions” (v. 12).  Those “worldly passions” walk hand in hand with sloth.  Worldly, not holy, passions tell us, “Do not be filled with wonder.  Do not ask honest and sincere questions.  Live in the smug satisfaction that has us saying ‘no’ to love, especially if it comes from unwelcome people.”

Worldly passion has us rejecting the spirit of Christ in each of us.  It’s the spirit that is all about forgiveness and acceptance, and yet calls us to keep moving forward.  Good zeal drags us out of our proper, private fortresses and flings us into the craziness and zaniness that is the community of faith.

We have twelve days of Christmas, so let me do one better than wishing you, “Merry Christmas!”  Have a zealous Christmas!

^[1] in Kathleen Norris, Acedia and Me (New York:  Riverhead Books, 2008)

^[2] Kathleen Norris, “Zealous Hopes,” The Christian Century 122:25 (13 Dec 05), 19.

^[3] Norris, 19.

^[4] Norris, 19.

^[5] Joan Chittister, The Rule of Benedict: Insights for the Ages (New York:  Crossroad, 1992), 178-179.

^[6] Norris, 19.

[The top image is a cartoon by Ted Rall from December 1997. Clipped from a newspaper, the paper has yellowed with time.]

“Lead me on the paths of salvation, O Mother of God,
For I have profaned my soul with shameful sins,
and have wasted my life in laziness.
But by your intercessions, deliver me from all impurity.”

“I am sorry I have wasted (and still waste) so much time; I am sorry to be as agonizingly shy at eighty as I was at twenty; I am sorry that I speak no languages but my mother tongue and that I have not traveled or experienced other cultures as widely as I should have done. I feel I should be trying to complete my life, whatever ‘completing a life’ means.”

Today is Ash Wednesday, the day in which we are prompted to “remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” I began with two quotes.

First are some lines from the hymn “Open the Doors.” (It’s performed online by the Holy Cross choir at Holy Cross Orthodox Church in High Point, NC.) What gripped my attention was the bit about wasting my life in laziness. My old pal, the deadly sin of acedia, of sloth, rears its ugly head—but takes its time in doing so! It remains a major struggle. I need help, both divine and human, to be shaken from complacency. (That help includes intercession from Mary, the mother of God, as strange as my non-Catholic past would have it.)

The second quote comes from Oliver Sacks’ book Gratitude, a wonderful little book published last year, which consists of four essays that he wrote in the time leading to his death. As the title suggests, he sums up his life with gratitude, of being “a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.”

But likely due to that sense of gratefulness, the time he has wasted troubles him all the more. Still, posed with expectations of completing his life, he injects levity by wondering what that’s all about anyway!

A few weeks ago, while Banu and I were still in Tennessee, we took my mom to the eye clinic. As we were in the waiting room, a cockroach came walking across the floor. I was requested to step on it, but I refused. I noted that when our civilization has turned to dust, this fellow will still be around. (That is, his or her distant descendants!) Dust to dust; ashes to ashes.

We are reminded of our mortality. We wear the ashes because there is no time like the present. Laziness and wastefulness meet their match in those ashes.

[The inscription on the image is “Remember, man, you are dust and to dust shall return,” Jacques Gamelin, Nouveau receuil d’ostéologie et de myologie dessiné après nature. 1779]

At the beginning of chapter 16, Jeremiah gets a message from God that he can’t be happy about. He needs to forget any plans he has regarding marriage or a family of his own. In fact, he needs to forget about other aspects of community interaction, such as attending funerals. The reason? “Both great and small shall die in this land” (v. 6a). There’s no point in getting attached; these people are doomed. In verse 8, Jeremiah is forbidden to go to parties—so much for a social life!

So is this just a case of God making the prophet’s life even more miserable than it otherwise would have been? Does Jeremiah have no say in how he lives his life?

In the May 18 (2010) issue of the Christian Century, Belden C. Lane writes about “Caring and not Caring.” He refers to the Desert Christians, the desert fathers and mothers: Roman Empire-era monastics who went out and lived in the Egyptian desert. Lane says, “On the one hand, I tend to care entirely too much about others’ approval. I need to ignore it. On the other hand, when I’m not appreciated enough, I’m eaten by resentment and begin to turn inward—and a crippling indifference creeps up. The Desert Christians identified these two very different kinds of indifference as apatheia and acedia. They saw the one [apatheia] as an important virtue (trimming one’s life of trivial matters) and the other [acedia] as the worst of the seven deadly sins (undercutting any possibility of love).” (26) That deadly sin, of course, is sloth.

Today, we have conflated these two aspects of indifference. We rarely, if ever, distinguish between apathy and acedia. The former began as a healthy detachment that ignores what’s unimportant and is needed for spiritual life and growth. The latter is a state of inner listlessness that just doesn’t care—at least, doesn’t care about anything important.

So maybe the choices in Jeremiah 16 aren’t so one-sided after all. Maybe Jeremiah understands the difference between apatheia and acedia. Maybe by seeming not to care, he demonstrates the very depth of caring.