Covid

healing water

I recently watched Lawrence of Arabia in its entirety: I had only seen bits and pieces before.  (It clocks in at 3 and a half hours.)  It’s a great movie, and I could give a summary of the plot, but I want to focus on one aspect of the voyage to Aqaba.  It was occupied by the Ottoman Turks during World War 1.  It had a strategic position on the Red Sea coast.  Aqaba was primarily defended against a naval invasion, since approaches from the desert were thought to be too hazardous.

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Wadi Rum, Aqaba, Jordanphoto by Juli Kosolapova on Unsplash

Nonetheless, that’s the route T. E. Lawrence and his Bedouin allies took.  I have never made a desert trek, let alone one as grueling as through the deserts of Arabia.  Clearly, the most important commodity is water.  I recall the scenes of the burning sun and frightening heat, the whipping wind of the sandstorms, and the camels laboring in that oven.

There is another desert trek that comes to mind, and it involves Moses and the children of Israel, having fled the slavery of Egypt.  They have been in the wilderness for three days, without finding water—at least, not water fit to drink.  Exodus 15 tells us of the people’s grumbling.  I think “grumbling” would be putting it lightly!

Imagine three days without water.  Imagine their thirst and the thirst of their animals.  When they do come upon water, it is useless.  It is bitter, so they named the place Marah, meaning “bitter.”  Moses finds a tree with curative properties, after some prompting by the Lord.  It is used to render the water clean, potable.  Theologians, scientists, and madmen have weighed in on the nature of this plant.  Ultimately, its power flows from the obedience of Moses to the Lord’s direction.

“If you will listen carefully to the voice of the Lord your God, and do what is right in his sight, and give heed to his commandments and keep all his statutes, I will not bring upon you any of the diseases that I brought upon the Egyptians, for I am the Lord who heals you” (v. 26).

I am the Lord your healer.  I am Yahweh Rapha (רָפָא).  Listen to my voice because I am the Lord who heals you.  The foul, bitter water is healed.

So they are indeed on this trek into the desert, into the wilderness.  The Hebrew word for “wilderness” is מִדְבָּר (midbar).  It has a secondary meaning of “mouth,” as used in speaking, as opposed to eating or breathing.  God is speaking to them in the wilderness.  Do they have the ears to hear?  What about us?  Do we have the ears to hear?

However, the Israelites are moving their mouths.  They are grumbling; they are raising Cain!  Still, as we saw, it is difficult to blame them.  Thirst can have one doing things one would not ordinarily do.

Quickly looking ahead, in chapter 16, the problem is hunger.  The Lord provides quail and manna.  The Lord is their provider.  In chapter 17, the multitude again faces lack of water.  Moses cries out that they’re ready to stone him.  The Lord has him get a big stick and give the stone a good whack.  Water comes surging out.

(Don’t say God lacks a wonderful sense of humor.)

The biblical month of Iyar began at sundown on Friday.  Iyar is the second month on the calendar.  It has a focus on healing.  It is also a month of transition.  In the case of Moses and the people of Israel, it is a transition from slavery to freedom, from the diseases in Egypt to healing in the wilderness.

What transitions are we in need of?  What healings are we in need of?  Are we willing to receive them?

Speaking of willingness to receive, John tells us the story of Jesus at the pool of Beth-zatha, or Bethesda.  We will see that water and healing are, once more, again linked.

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Banu and I have been watching the tv show, The Chosen.  It is a series about Jesus and the people who met him.  It is very well done.  Not to give offense, but many Christian movies have one-dimensional story lines and bad acting.

Season 2, episode 4 is called “The Perfect Opportunity.”[1]  It begins with a scene of a little boy running to climb a tree.  However, a branch snaps and he falls to the ground and is left paralyzed.  He has to be carried wherever he goes.  Jumping ahead, his mother dies while giving birth to his little brother.  We see the boys as they grow up.  The older brother is identified as Jesse.

As young men, they come upon a Roman soldier beating and kicking the crap out of a Jewish man.  You can see the hatred in the younger brother’s eyes.

The lame brother winds up at a pool surrounded by others in need of healing.  The younger brother takes his anger at the Roman occupiers and joins a group where he receives military training.  Again, we see the two as they age.  Jesse is never able to get in the pool, which periodically bubbles up.  The water is said to have healing properties.  It was likely an underground spring.  As time goes by, his hair gets more and more disheveled, and his clothes get grungier and grungier.  His hair starts turning gray.

It turns out the younger brother is Simon the Zealot.  Of course, the scriptures don’t say the two are brothers, but the creative imagining works well in the episode’s plot.

Now, back to the gospel!

Jesus visits the pool and sees the man, as we’re told, who has been ill for thirty-eight years.  Verse 4 is left out of many translations since it’s often considered to have been added later.  Here it is following verse 3: “many ill, blind, lame, and paralyzed people [lay] waiting for the stirring of the water, for an angel of the Lord went down from time to time into the pool and stirred up the water; whoever stepped in first after the stirring of the water was made well from whatever disease that person had.”

Jesus sees the man, knowing he’s been there for a long time.  I don’t imagine Jesus needs any special insight.  Just looking at the poor fellow speaks volumes!

3Now, back to the idea of willingness to receive, Jesus puts the question to him, “Do you want to be made well?” (v. 6).  Do you want to be healed?  He doesn’t exactly answer the question.  Rather, he laments that he’s never been able to get to the water in time.  No one helps him.  Jesus doesn’t use any special medicine; he doesn’t wave a magic wand; he doesn’t utter any exceptional words.  He just tells the guy to get up, pick up your bed, and go for a walk.

Returning to the episode of The Chosen, long ago Simon wrote a letter to Jesse saying if he ever stood on two legs, that would mean Messiah has come.  Simon is with a hit squad to assassinate a Roman magistrate.  Just as the signal is given, Simon sees Jesse walking around.  He abandons his life with the Zealots—he knows Messiah has come.  He casts in his lot with this wandering rabbi, Jesus.

This is the month of Iyar.  There is healing.  There is transition.  The children of Israel had healing.  They had transition.  The lame man had healing.  He had transition.  Simon the Zealot had healing.  He had transition.  He was healed of his violence.  He had transition to following Jesus.

I asked before, “What transitions are we in need of?  What healings are we in need of?  Are we willing to receive them?”

Over these three past years, I’ve had a bit of transition and healing.  Please forgive me; I know some of my comments might be hard to hear.

When Covid started, I supported the lockdowns.  I can’t say I didn’t have greatly mixed feelings about being told we couldn’t worship together in person.  Still, I was reluctantly okay with casting a wide net, even knowing the devastating effect it would have on small local businesses.

We weren’t allowed to touch each other; in fact, we had to maintain a distance of at least six feet.  I will confess that when a friend of ours feared she might have locked her mom’s keys in her car, I reflexively put my arm around her shoulders to console her.  (As it turned out, it was a false alarm.  The keys were quickly found!)

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Children, when finally allowed to attend school, in many places found themselves behind plexiglass walls, aside from falling miserably behind in their studies.

And I won’t get started on the vaccines.

So, I feel like I’ve had my own transition and healing.  I’ve had my own taste of that fresh, flowing water.

After the incident at Marah, when the Israelites finally had fresh water, we are told, “Then they came to Elim, where there were twelve springs of water and seventy palm trees, and they camped there by the water” (v. 27).  They arrived at an oasis, which relatively speaking would have been small, considering the large number of travelers.  Twelve springs wouldn’t have produced an abundance of water, but it seems to have been enough.

That seems to be the way God deals with us.  We usually have just enough.  In chapter 16, when God provides the quail and manna, the people are warned against keeping some manna until morning.  They are either greedy or afraid God won’t take care of them.  Whatever the case, the manna rots and is infested with worms and maggots.

We have just enough, and indeed much more than enough, when we come to Christ—when we approach him for the water that is always fresh and never runs dry.  As it says, “On the last day of the [Feast of Tabernacles], the great day, while Jesus was standing there, he cried out, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me, and let the one who believes in me drink.  As the scripture has said, ‘Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water’” (Jn 7:37-38).

5photo by Sergio Cerrato on Pixabay

Jesus says to us, “Come to me and drink, and I will give you life.”

 

[1] www.imdb.com/title/tt14457406/?ref_=ttep_ep4


Adar, Lent, and Purim: party time

This year, Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Adar, the final month of the Hebrew calendar, began on the same day.  Lent, as is commonly portrayed, is a season of self-flagellation, of doom and gloom.  “What are you giving up for Lent?”  Once upon a time, the expectation was quite severe, a regimen of rigorous fasting.

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The word Adar means “strength,” and it is a month of rejoicing.  A month combining elements of joy and strength could lend itself well to a message from Nehemiah.  To returned exiles who were aware of their guilt, he proclaimed, “Do not grieve, for the joy of the Lord is your strength” (8:10).

With my title combining Adar and Lent, I’m suggesting there is joy in Lent—even a joy that gives us strength.

The fourteenth day of Adar is the feast of Purim, which marks the defeat of an attempt to extinguish the Jewish people.  This year, Purim begins at sundown tomorrow and ends at sundown on Tuesday.  [“This year,” meaning sundown on March 6 to sundown on March 7.]  It is recounted in the book of Esther, the story of a woman portrayed as living in Persia in the 5th century BC.  (It should be noted the book’s depiction of history is rather suspect.)

Ahaseurus (a.k.a. Xerxes) is the king.  His chief minister, Haman, is a petty and spiteful man.  Esther’s older cousin is Mordecai, who raises her after her parents died.  Filled with self-importance, Haman expects people to bow and scrape before him.  However, Mordecai fails to grant him the deference he desperately desires.  Mind you, Haman is the highest-ranking member of the government.

Haman, knowing Mordecai is Jewish, devises a devilish way to make him pay for his insolence.  He tells the king of “a certain people scattered and separated among the peoples” (3:8).  The New Jerusalem Bible reads, “a certain unassimilated nation.”

(I’m reminded of certain characters from Star Trek: the Borg.  They are cybernetic organisms linked in a hive mind referred to as the Collective.  They usually appear traveling in ships looking like a giant cube.  Upon encountering another vessel or planet, the message is given, “We are the Borg.  You will be assimilated.  Resistance is futile.”  Apparently, Haman has a lot in common with the Borg.)

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He’s casting lots (the meaning of “Purim”)—he’s rolling the dice—he’s flipping the coin to select the day for attacking and annihilating the Jews.  Long story short, in a delicious reversal of fate, Haman is hanged on the very gallows he had prepared for Mordecai.

As noted, we are in the season of Lent.  Lent focuses on reflection, repentance, and reevaluation on how we are living life.  “What are you giving up for Lent?”  That isn’t a question meant to result in despondent deprivation—or it shouldn’t.  It is better seen as a path to freedom.  What self-imposed chains do we lug around?

Although, there is something to be said for taking a fast for six and a half weeks from…whatever!  A respite can help us get our mind, body, and spirit sorted out.

One of the themes of Adar deals with is identity revealed.  Adar is associated with fish.  Some note the zodiac sign of Pisces.  Among other qualities, fish swimming underwater are hidden from sight.  The ancient Israelites even tended to regard the depths with a sense of foreboding.  It was the dwelling place of Leviathan, the dreaded sea monster.

The identity of fish is revealed when they come to the surface.

Another aspect of identity revealed belongs to Esther herself.  She was counseled by Mordecai to keep her Jewish nationality a secret.  Eventually, the king finds out who Esther really is.  Consequently, when Haman’s plot is revealed—he is peeved, to put it lightly.

Robert Heidler, who is with Glory of Zion Ministries, has also commented on the revelation of identity.[1]  [The message starts at 56:00.]  It is linked to the invisible world, just like those fishies down below.  Who knows what’s going on in the deep, where the light struggles to travel, in a place not designed for our human eyes?

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[photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash]

It is in that shrouded domain where our spiritual identity resides.  We read in the book of Revelation, “Let anyone who has an ear listen to what the Spirit is saying to the churches.  To everyone who conquers I will give some of the hidden manna, and I will give a white stone, and on the white stone is written a new name that no one knows except the one who receives it” (2:17).

To everyone who conquers sin, conquers self, conquers the world—hidden gifts emerge.  We become aware of that which was there all along.  If only we would dare to dive in and leave the surface behind, who can say what treasures we might find?  We might realize we already have everything we need.

Yet another aspect of identity is joy.  Remember, the month of Adar emphasizes it.  It should be noted that joy is not the same thing as happiness.  Happiness is an emotion.  It is fleeting; it is transient.  It comes and goes.  However, joy is a deep reality; it becomes part of who we are—even when we feel the whole world is against us.  The apostle Paul speaks of joy as the fruit of the Spirit.  And Paul says in 2 Corinthians, “we were so utterly, unbearably crushed that we despaired of life itself,” so he knew a little bit about having one’s back against the wall (1:8).

It might seem counter-intuitive, but joy doesn’t always feel good.  “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice,” so says the apostle.  Joy is a command.  Joy asks for a choice.

In fact, Heidler goes so far as to say joylessness is a sin.  That’s a bold statement!  It is a refusal to enjoy God’s goodness in creation.  Joy is good for your health.  Remember, the joy of the Lord is your strength.  Joy is life.

Going back to identity revealed, Esther is a perfect example.  After Haman’s plans have become known, Mordecai says the time has come for Esther to reveal her identity.  “If you keep silent at this time, relief and deliverance will rise for the Jews from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish.  Who knows?  Perhaps you have come to royal dignity for just such a time as this.” (4:14).

It is time for Esther to choose.  The characteristics of her life put Esther in a position to use her freedom of choice.

It is time for us to choose.  We have the freedom to choose, and freedom can be daunting.  What we choose, or what we do not choose, actually matters.

4 esChristine Vales has a YouTube channel she calls “Chalkboard Teaching.”  She indeed uses a chalkboard on which, in many different colors, she inscribes words and phrases and scriptures and drawings!  Relevant for today, she speaks on the imperatives Adar brings.[2]

Again, referring to joy, she says the enemy is “the ultimate killjoy.”  Certainly, we can think of the ultimate enemy as the devil.  The devil hates joy.  Laughing in a cruel manner—that gets a thumbs-up.  Recall, joy is the fruit of the Holy Spirit.  The devil fears the Holy Spirit.  Praise confounds the enemy.

There are other enemies.  Bullies can’t stand it when the object of their ire is good-natured and rejoicing.  How dare they!  They should be filled with terror and trembling.  We can be our own enemy and fight against the upwelling power provided by joy.  We become our own killjoys!

I would like to revisit the beginning of the sermon with the Hebrew calendar.  We currently are in the year 5783.  That is supposed to be the number of years since the creation of the world.  5784 will arrive on Rosh HaShanah (literally, “the head of the year”) which is the beginning of the Hebrew month Tishrei, which falls in September.

We are in the decade which began in 5780; this is the decade of declaration.[3]  It is represented by the letter “pe” פ, which looks like a mouth or an opening.  We are urged to speak the truth, to proclaim the word of the Lord.  We have to watch what we say.

Case in point: I post writings to a couple of websites: substack.com and medium.com.  In January, I reflected on “Every Idle Word.”[4]  I noted, “Words have power.  In the gospel of Matthew, Jesus reminds us ‘we have to give an account for every careless word [we] utter’ (12:36)…  Words have power.  That power can be wielded for good or ill.  That power can be filled with grace or filled with reproach.”[5]  By the way, that one was also in the newspaper.[6]

Vales observes that 5780, inaugurating the decade of declaration, fell in 2020.  And we know what happened then.  The wearing of masks was imposed.  She says, “If you ask me, masks steal joy.”  And let’s not forget, this building was declared non-essential.  What we are doing right now, the worship of the Lord, was considered by the powers-that-be non-essential.  We were told to close down, while places where one can buy wine and whisky were deemed to be essential.

Let’s be honest, it is difficult to speak the word of God through a mask.  And the difficulty of speaking through a mask is true in more ways than one.

Addressing the happenings on social media, Vales comments on how our very words are being censored.

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However, there are other kinds of masks that do not impair the ability to speak.  They are worn during celebrations of Purim.  They are worn during Purim parties.  They are joyful affairs when people wear masks, kind of like at Halloween, to celebrate the defeat of their enemies as told in the book of Esther.  Masks are worn because the miracles in Esther are not readily apparent.  They seem to come through ordinary events.  They are masked.  Even God is masked: the name of God appears nowhere in the book, and yet God is actively at work.

God is actively at work within us and among us.  Are we ready to remove the masks that hide and restrain the free movement of the Spirit of joy?  Do we quench the Spirit?  Do we slap a frown on the joy that yearns to rise to the surface?  Can we visualize the ways we do that?  And now, can we visualize the ways we allow the fire of the Spirit to melt the ice?

Joy can’t exist bottled up. By its very nature, it must be shared.  Joy transforms.  Let this time of Adar and Lent be one in which we take hold of joy and see what happens.  The joy of the Lord is our strength.

 

[1] www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbwN4bgt7PA  (message starts at 56:00)

[2] www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZoVdNhSy85I

[3] www.youtube.com/watch?v=TysFNR2qQK0

[4] jamesmoore94.medium.com/every-idle-word-38ee47800dee

[5] zebraview.substack.com/p/every-idle-word

[6] auburnpub.com/lifestyles/moore-every-idle-word/article_c35144ce-e1a9-52ed-bfd0-2295a41ed45c.html


we have been adopted

“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!

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.


season of death to season of life

A text in 1 Kings 2 comes from the synagogue Sabbath reading for yesterday the 7th.  It features Jacob’s final words to his sons and David’s final words to his son, Solomon.  As a meditation for the beginning of the new year, deathbed instructions might seem to be an unusual choice, to say the least.

I should add that the Jewish new year, Rosh Hashanah (that is, “head of the year”) falls at various times in September.  The current year on the Jewish calendar is 5783.

I imagine there were quite a few of us who were happy to pronounce the death sentence on 2020.  Some probably wanted to drive a stake through its heart to make sure the monster had been slain!

Still, taking into consideration the coming of Covid into the world, there is always much to celebrate about God’s good creation, which we’ll hear more about later.

David couches his closing wishes in terms of strength, courage, and faithfulness.  “Hear my words, beloved son, and you will follow the way of the Lord.  In pursuing them, you will guarantee that my lineage will continue through you.”  That’s no big responsibility.

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What follows is a list of names and how Solomon is to deal with each of them.  I’m reminded of how certain Roman emperors decided the fate of gladiators.  Thumbs up, and they lived.  Thumbs down, and that’s all she wrote.

(At least, that’s how the story goes!)

First on the list is Joab, one of David’s mighty commanders.  He retaliated “in time of peace for blood that had been shed in war” (v. 5).  Very briefly: Joab killed Abner and Amasa, two military leaders, and Absalom, David’s rebellious son.  This was despite David’s explicit instructions.  He made it clear that he did not want any of them to be slain.

Joab, known for his violent temperament, was unable to let go of blood vengeance, however justified it might have seemed.  David didn’t want to be seen responsible for “innocent blood.”  The verdict: “do not let his gray head go down to Sheol in peace” (v. 6).  Thumbs down.

However, Barzillai treated David honorably, so permit his sons to live in peace with you.  Thumbs up.

And then there is Shimei, who uttered a curse on David, but later tried to make nice.  David promised he would do no harm to him.  He wouldn’t touch a hair on his head but said nothing about how his offspring would treat Shimei while he visits the beauty parlor.  So, thumbs down.

I just said Joab was unable to let go of blood vengeance.  He dragged what happened in time of war into a time of peace.

Is he the only one who couldn’t let go?  Could not the king have behaved any differently?  Was he truly compelled to settle those scores?  I don’t know; perhaps by the standards of his time, it was to be expected.  Nevertheless, it seems like he could have acted in a nobler manner—perhaps in a spirit of royal largesse?

I doubt any of us have the blood of queens and kings flowing through our veins, but how often do we dwell in the past?  How often are we trapped by the past?

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We have now entered 2023.  On every New Year’s Day, I am reminded of the song by that name which was done by the band U2.  Bono sings, “All is quiet on New Year’s Day / A world in white gets underway.  I want to be with you / Be with you night and day.  Nothing changes on New Year’s Day / On New Year’s Day.”

Other people have their own memories or practices when January rolls around.  This year there is the realization of that song being released forty years ago.  Forty years ago!  In 1983, I was a freshman in college.  Tempus fugit.

In his masterpiece, The Sabbath (which reads almost like poetry), the beloved twentieth century rabbi Abraham Heschel suggests, “Time to us is sarcasm, a slick treacherous monster with a jaw like a furnace incinerating every moment of our lives.”[1]  He isn’t saying time is evil, rather it’s our reaction to it.

“We know what to do with space,” Heschel comments, “but do not know what to do about time, except to make it subservient to space.  Most of us seem to labor for the sake of things of space.  As a result we suffer from a deeply rooted dread of time and stand aghast when compelled to look into its face.”

It’s fascinating.  Genesis has God pronouncing aspects of creation—that is, space—as “good.”  Creation of earth and sea, plants and animals, are pronounced “good.”  “And God saw that it was good.”  Even after the creation of the human race, all is pronounced “very good.”

It is only the Sabbath—time—that is hallowed, pronounced holy.  The word in Hebrew has to do with being sanctified, being set apart.  It is set apart from all we can see.

3We so often want to grasp time, as if it were an object.  We want to stop it, or at least slow it down, and just take a breath.  We want that fire-breathing monster consuming every moment to be held at bay.  Time flies, like a dragon.

Are we indeed unwilling to let go?  Do we need to, so to speak, die to the past before we can truly live?

Today is the Baptism of the Lord.  We hear the story of another dying to the past.  We engage with a narrative of one passing through a portal.  The heavens themselves open up like a shower from on high, and there is a powerful proclamation of perpetual passion.

John offers a baptism for the forgiveness of sin.  He offers a baptism of repentance.  He questions Jesus when he comes to him for this ritual.  Wait, we’ve got this totally backward.  I’m supposed to be the forerunner for you.  You should be the one dunking me into the river!

He doesn’t need to do this for his own sake, but Jesus models moving from the death of sin.  He shows the way from the grave of the past to the life of the future.

A couple of decades later, regarding baptism, the apostle Paul establishes the connection, he develops the theology, between the dying of Jesus and his being raised from the grave by God to an indestructible life.

In his letter to the Roman church, Paul shares the glorious news, “We were buried with him by baptism into death, so that, just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, so we also might walk in newness of life” (6:4).

In the letter to the Colossians, he says in similar words, “When you were buried with him in baptism, you were also raised with him through faith in the power of God, who raised him from the dead” (2:12).

There are two key events of the Christian faith: Christmas and Easter.  Christmas, of course, tells the story of God becoming incarnate.  It is God becoming enfleshed as the baby of Bethlehem.

More to our point here is the story of Easter.  Jesus was dead, with no life whatsoever, dead as a doornail.  His mission had apparently ended in utter and complete failure.  Jesus was right when he spoke the words, “It is finished.”  It’s difficult to do worse than that.  We go from the bitter tears of defeat of Holy Saturday to the inexpressible and impossible euphoria of Easter Sunday.

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So again, here we are in 2023.  We have been focused on Covid.  In some ways, we have been focused on death.  We’ve had lockdowns.  Many small businesses have not survived.  So many children held out of school have seemingly fallen hopelessly behind.  Getting close to each other has been forbidden.  We have been told to not shake hands!

(Please note: I do understand the logic expressed here.)

The 20s have indeed gotten off to an alarming start.  One cause for concern is that over the past couple of years or so, we’ve become used to accepting ever increasing levels of control and surveillance from the government and from big tech.

By the grace of God, we are becoming ever more aware of our ability to recognize and challenge the lies.  Banu and I invite you to join us.  By the grace of God, death is being exposed.

In the movie, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Winona Ryder plays Mina and Gary Oldman plays Dracula.  In Mina, Dracula sees his centuries-dead wife, Elisabeth, as having returned.  In the scene in which Dracula pledges his eternal love for Mina, she pleads with him, “take me away from all this death.”  Of course, she’s putting that request to the wrong fellow!

We all have been so focused on death, I fear we might have forgotten how to live.

That is the meaning of baptism, however.  It is more than an emphasis on space, an emphasis on physicality.  It also deals with time.  It is the movement from a season of death to a season of life.  That is what it means to be saved.  Salvation is not a one-time reality.  Salvation is ongoing.  Salvation is what we look to in the future.

Still, salvation does require the element of choice.  It requires what the baptism of John models for those coming after, that is, repentance.  Repentance isn’t a furious escape from a hammer descending from above.  It is a turning around, an about face.  And it doesn’t happen once and for all time.  It also is a lifestyle—a lifestyle which is based in joy.

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Our focus on death requires repentance, salvation.  Joy is the defeat of death.  It is time to repent as a congregation, shake off the dust of death, and enter into a 2023 full of the life that God wants to show us.  Whatever we think is enough, God says I have more.  It is time for the remnant to rise from the dead and share in the promises of the Kingdom here and now.

 

[1] Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Sabbath (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1951), 5.


rich in hope

When I think of hope, something that often comes to mind is a movie I once heard described as “a romantic movie for dudes,” The Shawshank Redemption.  Maybe that’s true.  What I can say is that it’s a film with great depth.

For those who’ve never seen it, The Shawshank Redemption tells the story of two men, played by Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman, who portray characters locked up in Shawshank Prison in Maine.  Robbins’ character, Andy Dufresne, was wrongly convicted of murdering his wife.  Freeman plays Red, the man who can get you almost anything.

In one scene, we’re in the cafeteria when Andy, fresh out of solitary confinement, sits down with his friends.[1]  He was put there because he commandeered the public address system and played Mozart at full volume.  (By the way, the warden is a quite unpleasant and lawbreaking man.)  The guys ask Andy how he was—how he was able to keep going.  He speaks to them about music.

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He says to them, “That’s the beauty of music.  They can’t get that from you.  Haven’t you ever felt that way about music?”

Red replies, “I played a mean harmonica as a younger man.  Lost interest in it though.  Didn’t make much sense in here.”

Andy pursues the dialogue.  “Here’s where it makes the most sense.  You need it so you don’t forget.”

“Forget?”

“Forget that… there are places in this world that aren’t made out of stone.  That there’s something inside… that they can’t get to, that they can’t touch.  That’s yours.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Hope.”

“Hope?  Let me tell you something, my friend,” he says while wagging his spoon at him.  “Hope is a dangerous thing.  Hope can drive a man insane.  It’s got no use on the inside.  [That is, prison.]  You’d better get used to that idea.”

“Like Brooks did?”  Andy’s referring to an old man who spent almost his entire life in Shawshank.  When he was released, he was lost.  He was sent from the only home he ever really had.  Fear overwhelmed him, and he committed suicide.  Brooks saw no hope.

Red slams down his spoon and walks away.

That’s not the final word on hope we get in the movie.  Stay tuned for something more “hopeful.”  Still, Red was onto something when he said hope can drive us insane.  Or was he?

In Romans 15, St. Paul does an examination of hope.  He begins by speaking of the so-called “strong” and “weak.”  Very briefly, the strong recognize many things that don’t endanger one’s faith, such as observing ritual dietary laws, or failing to do so.  The weak believe the strong are going astray with their carefree attitudes.  The strong look down on the weak, and the weak judge the strong.

By the way, I wonder which category Paul places himself in?  My guess would be the strong!  Still, here is his directive: “Each of us must please our neighbor for the good purpose of building up the neighbor.  For Christ did not please himself; but, as it is written, ‘The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me’” (vv. 2-3).  And here is his basis: “so that by steadfastness and by the encouragement of the scriptures we might have hope” (v. 4).  That is our foundation; our hope isn’t subject to the wavering winds that would buffet us around.

Hope can save your life.

2 roThe psychologist Viktor Frankl wrote the book, Man’s Search for Meaning.  In it he speaks of his experiences while imprisoned at a Nazi concentration camp.  While there, he noticed that the “loss of hope and courage can have a deadly effect.”  He gives as an example something that the camp’s chief doctor pointed out.  “The death rate in the week between Christmas, 1944, and New Year’s, 1945, increased in camp beyond all previous experience.”[2]

The doctor believed the explanation “was simply that the majority of the prisoners had lived in the naive hope that they would be home again by Christmas.  As the time drew near and there was no encouraging news, the prisoners lost courage and disappointment overcame them.  This had a dangerous influence on their powers of resistance and a great number of them died.”  Their loss of hope was indeed fatal.

The loss of hope and courage can have a deadly effect.  It can deadly to others.  Those without hope are easy prey to fear.  Those who are fearful can be deadly to others.  Fear is contagious—much more contagious than Covid, or any other “contagion.”  The fear inside of us is highly transmissible.

Fortunately, there is an antidote to fear and hopelessness.  The apostle Paul says, “Welcome one another, therefore, just as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God” (v. 7).  He is speaking first of all about Jews and Gentiles, but the power of welcome spreads in all directions and in all ways.  It is impossible to welcome someone if you are afraid of them.  We often wind up putting up walls and erecting fortresses.

Or we just hide behind the curtains and pretend like we’re not at home.

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To his point about Jews and Gentiles welcoming each other, Paul quotes and paraphrases scriptures from the Old Testament.  He wants to demonstrate how Gentiles are encouraged, and indeed called, to worship the God of the Jews.  He shows how all of them (and us) are pointed toward the Messiah.  He alludes to Isaiah in verse 12 and uses this messianic interpretation: “The root of Jesse shall come, the one who rises to rule the Gentiles; in him the Gentiles shall hope.”

With verse 13, we come to the end of the passage.  It is Paul’s grand and glorious benediction; he pronounces this blessing.  “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”  There’s a buffet of tasty treats in that verse.

He speaks of the “God of hope.”  That’s the only place where Paul uses that particular name.  How do we serve the God of hope?  How do we hold on to the God of hope?

Here’s one quick example.  Since March, our church has had signs along South Street and MacDougall Street telling those passing by we’re open every Sunday at 10am.  Every now and then, I’ve wondered if it’s time to take the signs down.  They’ve been up long enough, haven’t they?

Of course, in recent weeks, some churches have taken steps back toward the lockdown we had for so long.

A few minutes ago, when talking about Viktor Frankl, I noted how the prisoners’ loss of hope was fatal.  In this past year and a half, we have learned too much about fatality, courtesy of Covid.  But there has been fatality of a deeper nature.  There has been a fatality to faith.  It goes beyond the extended lockdowns.

A shroud of depression and apprehension has descended upon us.  I spoke of fear and of the fearful.  We’re being fed a diet of fear and anger.

A few days ago, I was watching Zombieland: Double Tap, the sequel to Zombieland (neither of them being the work of art that The Shawshank Redemption is).  Banu and I remarked on how zombies are unable to think (and hope means nothing to them), yet they are ravenous.  They only live—so to speak—to eat.  They spread fear, and yet, they’re not even aware of doing that.

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[A living dead view of Schrodinger's Cat]

I think to myself and wonder, “Yikes!  How often do I imitate a zombie?  (Well, not to the point of devouring human beings, at least not in a literal sense!  It’s about being unthinking and oblivious to hope.)

Let’s get back to our signs.  With so many churches in a semi-lockdown mode, I think they are a statement of a defiant and holy hope.  We take sensible precautions, but we don’t give in to fear.

Here’s the rest of Paul’s benediction.  What is his desire of the God of hope?  What is his humble and confident expectation?  He prays that we are filled with all joy and peace in believing.  Filled with all joy and peace.  Fear is banished.  Despair is given its walking papers.  Hopelessness is sent packing.

However, this doesn’t happen all by itself.  It happens “in believing.”  In other words, we orient ourselves to that same humble and confident expectation the apostle demonstrates.  There are always the voices, both within and without, that would distract and would have us rest and rely on our own strength.  With belief, there is a sense of knowing, a strong awareness of trust.  Still, we might sometimes feel like the man in Mark 9 with a son in need of healing.  He cries to Jesus, “I believe; help my unbelief!” (v. 24).

So what is the result?  Paul’s longing is “that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”  The New Jerusalem Bible says, “so that in the power of the Holy Spirit, you may be rich in hope.”

I promised something hopeful from The Shawshank Redemption.  Skipping a lot of important details, Andy escapes from prison, and in the movie’s iconic scene, he raises his hands in the driving rain.  It reminds me of baptism.  Anyway, he has spoken to Red about a town in Mexico where he plans to go.  Years later, Red is released on parole.  He remembers the promise he made to Andy to go see him if and when he left Shawshank.

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We hear Morgan Freeman’s voiceover as Red takes a bus cross country.  “I find I’m so excited, I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head.  I think it’s the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain.  I hope I can make it across the border.  I hope to see my friend and shake his hand.  I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams.  I hope.”

Hope has saved Red.  Hope saves us; hope embraces us, as we welcome the Spirit—as the Spirit welcomes us.  Welcome one another, just as Christ has welcomed us.  What would happen if we welcomed hope and allowed it to grab us?  Are we ready to be transformed by hope?  What would that look like?

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

 

[1] www.youtube.com/watch?v=15pqpVbhs0c

[2] Viktor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning, 4th ed. (Boston: Beacon Press, 1992), 46.


no contagion

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!

1 psIt 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.

2 ps

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!

3 ps“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?

4 psAssuming 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:

5 ps“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.

6 ps

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.


tin foil hat not required

People being shamed.  People being ostracized.  People being made to feel fear.  It’s that last one with which I have especially become reacquainted.  My wife has reminded me of it.

She came of age in her home country, Turkey, during a time of political and military unrest.  She has spoken of going to school amid bodies lying dead by the road.  Rumbling tanks were not an uncommon sight.  Questions were put, “Are you on the left?  Are you on the right?”  It took many years for her to see a police officer without a sense of dread building inside.

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[photo by Natalya Letunova on Unsplash]

Living in a climate of fear takes its toll.  To be afraid of the police is destructive.  Not daring to speak your thoughts, as was the case with her father, shrinks one’s healthy participation in society—indeed, such a society becomes unhealthy.  It loses vitality.

Is it unreasonable to suggest that we today might possibly be taking steps in that direction?  Understand, I’m definitely not claiming we’re on the verge of transforming into a totalitarian police state!  Still, that language of shaming, ostracizing, exclusion being voiced, is occurring more often.  In this case, I am speaking of it directed at those who choose to forego Covid vaccinations.

2 blogTrust me, I am well aware there are some truly crazy batshit conspiracy theories floating around.  However, one need not be wearing a tin foil hat to have legitimate concerns.  (Going into all of them would require a lengthy discussion; I won’t do that here.)

There are, in my opinion, valid questions regarding the testing of the vaccines, the billions of dollars made by pharmaceutical companies (who are shielded from lawsuits), and the lack of investigations into numerous serious and lethal side effects.  This last point is instructive.  The hundreds, even thousands, of people who have reported these conditions usually have their claims dismissed as “anecdotal.”

My wife and I have had personal experience with several individuals whose health suffered a severe decline after receiving the vaccination.  Admittedly, I can’t say that with absolute certainty, but the timing of the jab and the apparent randomness of the afflictions are too convenient to ignore.

Then there is the matter of endangering the public.  I certainly understand that concern.  That opens up an array of factors, including the reporting of deaths as caused by Covid versus deaths of persons who simply had the virus—but died for other reasons.  We now have the prospect of herd immunity and what percentage of people is necessary to reach it.

3 blogThere are those who have medical reservations.  (I would count myself among those.)  I’m not one of so-called “anti-vaxxers.”  I don’t have a problem with vaccines in general.  I got my flu shot.  I’ve had more than one tetanus shot.  When there was a chance I was bitten by a bat, I didn’t hesitate to receive rabies vaccinations!

From a theological perspective, I must confess hesitation to put into my body, which is the temple of the Holy Spirit, experimental chemicals whose long-term effects are largely unknown.

Returning to my original thought, I am disturbed by the spirit of mistrust and misgiving gaining traction among us.  The thought of our eyeing each other with suspicion troubles me.  An atmosphere of fear calls out our less noble qualities.  Whatever one’s viewpoint on the vaccines, is it possible for us to regard each other with a little more love and with a little less fear?


freed minds

One of my favorite science fiction movies came out in 1999: The Matrix.  For those who don’t know, The Matrix stars Keanu Reeves.  His character’s name is Thomas Anderson, who by day has a job as a computer programmer.  At night, he is a computer hacker who calls himself Neo.  The movie also stars Laurence Fishburne as Morpheus, a legendary hacker who the government has branded a terrorist.

Morpheus contacts Neo, and a meeting is set up.[1]  During a captivating conversation, Morpheus tells him, “What you know you can’t explain, but you feel it.  You’ve felt it your entire life, that there’s something wrong with the world.  You don’t know what it is, but it’s there, like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad.”  The entire world, everything, is an elaborate computer program, the matrix.

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(On a side note, there are some physicists who speculate that our whole universe might be something like a computer program, possibly being run by others.)

Neo undergoes a procedure, and he wakes up to the real world, a desolate wasteland.  To make a long story short, Morpheus teaches Neo how to fight within the program.  He does this because he believes that Neo can liberate everyone from the matrix; he believes he is a kind of messiah.

As they’re sparring, Morpheus shouts at Neo, “What are you waiting for?  You’re faster than this.  Don’t think you are, know you are.  Come on.  Stop trying to hit me and hit me.”  They go back to fighting, and Neo stops his fist just before he hits Morpheus in the face.  “I know what you’re trying to do,” says Neo.  Morpheus responds, “I’m trying to free your mind, Neo.  But I can only show you the door.  You’re the one that has to walk through it.”

Free your mind.  Free your spirit.  I believe that’s a message the apostle Paul is giving the Galatians.  Or maybe the better way of putting it is, “God has freed your mind.  Accept that freedom.  Don’t go back to being a slave.”

Our scripture reading is part of a longer passage that goes back to chapter 3.  There, Paul speaks of the law of Moses as a kind of mentor, a supervisor.  But he also talks about Abraham, who lived hundreds of years before the law was handed down by Moses.  His faith, the faith of Abraham, was based on God’s promise that he would father a nation.  His faith wasn’t based on the law.

2 ga The law and the promise do not contradict each other, but with faith, in particular the faith of Christ, the law is transcended.  Old categories become meaningless.  As the apostle says, “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.  And if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to the promise” (3:28-29).

So with chapter 4, he carries that thought of the law being a supervisor or a disciplinarian by saying that with faith, we grow up.  We become adults.  Paul compares inheritors, while they’re still children, as basically equal to slaves.  They are still under tight restrictions.

There’s something dramatic that happens, something befitting the Christmas season.  Paul says that “when the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law” (v. 4).  One might say that’s a verse pregnant with meaning!

Like any other squalling baby, Jesus emerges from the womb of a woman.  And he is born into a family that faithfully observes the Jewish law.

This happens in “the fullness of time.”  That’s when the time, the hour, had finally arrived; it was just the right time.  What does that mean?  In part, we can think of the Jewish faith and culture, with the steadily growing hope and expectation that the Messiah is about to arrive.  That helps explain the bitter disappointment when their would-be Messiah is killed, and the nation is still being ruled by foreigners.

Still, there is something known as the Pax Romana, the Roman peace, with its many beneficial qualities.

For example, it enabled the Roman Empire to build a network of roads.  The Roman peace made travel on those highways much safer.  It’s easier to run an empire if you can put down those pesky local rebellions, as well as offering security against criminal elements.  Another benefit was the flourishing of architecture and the arts.

3 gaThe ease of travel made possible the spread of the Greek language, which served as a common tongue throughout the Mediterranean.  The translation of the scriptures (what we call the Old Testament) into Greek helped spread the faith of the Jews, the faith in which Jesus was raised, into many different countries.

The work of human beings, the arc of history, usually serves a greater purpose than what we might imagine.  Behind it and through it emerges the fullness of time.

In this fullness of time, the Son has arrived to redeem us, to buy us back, to set us free.  We are now adopted as children of God.  There is no greater freedom.  As with Abraham and Sarah—as with the Galatian church—we have been set free because of the promise of God, not because we’ve been able to obey the law.

But there’s a problem with all of this.  Paul sees it in the Galatians, and honestly, it’s also a problem with us.  There’s something in us that wants to reject freedom.  There’s something in us that doesn’t want our minds to be free—that doesn’t want our spirits to be free.

Let me give you another example from The Matrix.  One of the characters is named Cypher.  He’s tired of life in the real world, with the running and hiding from the machines that maintain the matrix.  He’s tired of its blandness; he longs for the life he used to have—like what we too often have—even though it’s an illusion.

There’s a scene in which he’s sitting in a restaurant with one of the agents: computer programs in human form who are guardians within the matrix.  Cypher is eating a juicy steak.  He admits that the steak isn’t real, but he likes it.  He wants to have his memory wiped and be put back into the matrix.  Cypher wants to reject his freedom and go back to when he was enslaved—provided he doesn’t know he’s a slave.

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How appropriate for a guy whose name means “zero”!

So remember, the problem with the Galatians is that there are those among them who still insist they must observe the law, to unwittingly return to slavery.  It applies to both Jewish and Gentile Christians.  They want to go back to what they’ve known.  There is a comfort in hanging on to what gives you the feeling of control.  I certainly understand it!  Freedom can be a scary thing.

The apostle Paul sees even more at stake.  By rejecting their freedom in Christ, they actually are choosing idolatry.  He tells them, “Formerly, when you did not know God, you were enslaved to beings that by nature are not gods” (v. 8).  He’s having trouble understanding what they’re up to.

He continues, “Now, however, that you have come to know God, or rather to be known by God, how can you turn back again to the weak and beggarly elemental spirits?” (v. 9).  The word for “elemental spirits” is στοιχεια (stoicheia), which has several definitions.  In this case, he’s probably speaking of the rules imposed by those old gods.  Paul is truly exasperated.  He says, “I am afraid that my work for you may have been wasted” (v. 11).  He wonders if he’s just been frittering away his time.

Last month, while speaking of Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians, I noted he congratulates them on how they encourage one other.  How about the Galatians?  They must have an especially praiseworthy attribute.  If they do, the apostle doesn’t mention it.  He has already said, “You foolish Galatians!” (3:1).  Some translations are even harsher.  “You stupid Galatians!  You must have been bewitched.” (Revised English Bible).  Has somebody put you under a spell?  Are you taking crazy pills?

And remember what they want to be enslaved to: “the weak and beggarly elemental spirits,” “those powerless and bankrupt elements.” (New Jerusalem Bible)  They’re playing the role of Cypher from The Matrix!

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I wonder, how often do we reject our scary freedom?  How often do we choose those powerless and bankrupt elements?  What are these pitiful, worthless things which we place on the altars of our hearts?  How can those who “have come to know God, or rather to be known by God,” choose slavery to what is nothing?

We so often imitate the Israelites who, having fled the chains of Egypt, berate Moses and long to return (Nu 14:4).

Richard Rohr comments on this business of serving what is nothing.[2]  “Less than a block from where I used to live in downtown Albuquerque, there is a sidewalk where the homeless often sit against the wall to catch the winter sun.  Once I saw fresh graffiti chalked clearly on the pavement in front of the homeless.  It said, ‘I watch how foolishly man guards his nothing—thereby keeping us out.  Truly God is hated here.’”

So again I wonder, what are the nothings to which we so desperately cling?  How do we forget our status as adopted children of God and turn back to slavery?

Soon after being chosen as pope, Francis addressed the Vatican Curia, their governing body.  He listed fifteen diseases that he had noticed among them.[3]  (In doing so, Francis showed himself to be a frank pope.)

One disease is “Spiritual Alzheimer’s”: “a progressive decline of spiritual faculties…, living in a state of absolute dependence on one’s own often imaginary views.  We see this in those who have lost their recollection of their encounter with the Lord…in those who build walls around themselves and who increasingly transform into slaves to the idols they have sculpted with their own hands.”  Francis sees in the Vatican leadership this same forgetfulness of God and turning to slavery that we just looked at.

If we reject the loving freedom of God and turn back to idols, we will inevitably do harm to each other.

Those in Christ have been set free.  To explore that freedom, there are always new doors to open.  But like freedom, opening those doors can be scary.  We might want to stay where we are, circle the wagons, and hold on to what we already know, or perhaps, what we think we know.  We might want to stay behind the walls we’ve built, and not walk through the door into new territory.

We are on the verge of a new year—2021.

Recently during our prayer time, I shared some reflections of gratitude sent by readers of the New York Times.  They were asked to submit a statement of six words, expressing what they were thankful for from this past year.  Over ten thousand replies were received.  Many caught my eye, but here are three I mentioned: “There’s really more kindness than hate.”  “Thankful for sweet potato pie, y’all.”  “I am thankful to be thankful.”

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{a scene from Antwone Fisher of gratitude and welcome (the video's aspect ratio might be off)}

A freed mind, a liberated mind, is a grateful mind—it is a grateful spirit.  Having said that, I must also confess there is absolutely no doubt that this past year has brought way more than its share of heartbreak and sorrow.  People all over the globe can attest to that.  We here can attest to that.  Still, as the prophet says, “The people [we who have been] walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned” (Is 9:2).

That is the subtle strength, the peaceful power, of Christmas.  This season is teaching us lessons.  Christ lives within us.  In what fullness of time do we now find ourselves?  May it be a time in which we welcome each other—and the Christ within us—as we together walk into that new freedom.

 

[1] www.imdb.com/title/tt0133093/trivia?tab=qt&ref_=tt_trv_qu

[2] https://myemail.constantcontact.com/Richard-Rohr-s-Daily-Meditations--How-Foolishly-We-Guard-Our--Nothing-----Ecumenism----July-8--2013.html?soid=1103098668616&aid=zXdIB1uvLD4

[3] www.washingtonpost.com/news/world/wp/2014/12/22/the-15-ailments-of-the-vatican-curia-according-to-pope-francis/


light up the sky

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.”  Rip it into shreds.  Let the fire fall.  Light up the sky!

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So begins Isaiah 64, our Old Testament text for today, the 1st Sunday of Advent.  This chapter is a prayer of lament—a communal lament, a lament of the entire nation.  That’s not exactly how we think of Advent.  That is, if we give it much thought!  In any event, maybe that’s the perfect theme for this year.

Traditionally, the season of Advent is a time of penitence, much like the season of Lent.  It is a time to reflect, to repent, to reevaluate how we are living life.  It is a time to reconsider our life of faith in preparation for the coming of the Lord.  Certainly, those are concerns throughout the year, but in Advent, they are meant to especially come into focus.

It might be considered the difference between chronos and kairosChronos is time measured in seconds, hours, years.  It is clock time.  Kairos is time measured in moments, especially the right moment, the opportune moment.  It is time as experienced.  Advent might be considered kairos time, with the understanding that kairos time can’t be willed into existence.  However, we can prepare ourselves for it.

Advent begins in late November or early December, smack dab in the midst of the holiday season!  Can’t you hear the well-wishers and jingles from every nook and cranny?  Hallmark started showing Christmas movies last month.  This is no time for sober self-examination.  Live it up!

Scriptures like the one I just mentioned might only prove the point of those who don’t like Advent.  What’s all this doom and gloom!  Or as Batman’s arch enemy the Joker would say, “Why so serious?  Let’s put a smile on that face!”

2 is(Please note: it is possible to have a genuine check-up and still be of good cheer!  Trust me, I’m no fan of sourpusses.)

Jonathan Aigner, who teaches music to elementary school students and also serves as music minister in his United Methodist Church, has some thoughts on the season of Advent as a time of expectation.[1]

“It prepares us.  It leads us through all the steps in the story so that we can experience the hope and longing.  We look in on John the Baptist crying out, ‘Prepare ye the way!’  We feel some of Mary’s joy and anticipation.  With each week, the longing and anticipation builds.

“But it’s a discipline, and part of discipline is having to wait for the events to come.  In this case, the discipline includes holding off on the celebration while the rest of the world, which doesn’t particularly care about the true reason for Christmas, is busy with its own frenetic energy and excessive indulgence.”

Reflecting his calling as a musician and lover of Advent hymns, he laments,I’ve been put on the spot in front of the choir and the congregation by Advent grinches.  I’ve been insulted and maligned in adult Sunday School classes.  (Ironically, children are usually quite receptive.  It’s the adults who sometimes act like children.)”

Really, what does our consumer culture do with words like, “O come, O come, Emmanuel, / And ransom captive Israel, / That mourns in lonely exile here / Until the Son of God appear”?  That business about “captive” and “lonely exile” doesn’t lend itself very well to commercials intent on selling you a car, complete with a red bow mounted on the roof!

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Of course, as already suggested, this year the celebrations are muted.  A pandemic has a way of doing that.  And so, perhaps we can relate to the communal lament of the Jewish people well after the return from exile in Babylon.  (This part of the book likely deals with that time period.)  The initial joy at the homecoming has gradually faded.  Things aren’t working out as well as was hoped.  The prophet recognizes the sin that has worked to overturn, to infect, the dreams of the people.  (More on that point later.)

Please understand.  I’m not saying Covid-19 resulted from sin!  Still, the way we’ve treated each other and the planet has been more than a little sinful.  Maybe Mother Earth is voicing her disapproval!

Let’s follow the original thought of verse 1.  Rip open the sky, “so that the mountains would quake at your presence…  When you did awesome deeds that we did not expect, you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence” (vv. 1b, 3).  Some big-time seismic activity is on the agenda!

Maybe that can be expected, because the prophet says, “From ages past no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides you, who works for those who wait for him” (v. 4).  The apostle Paul quotes that in 1 Corinthians 2:9.

Things start to get interesting.  The scripture says, “But you were angry, and we sinned; because you hid yourself we transgressed” (v. 5).  Come now, who’s really at fault?  You took off and left us to our own devices.  It’s been noted, “If parents left a bunch of toddlers and puppies at home for a few hours and the house was a shambles when they returned—would we blame the puppies and toddlers for making the mess or the parents for leaving?”[2]  In a way, blaming God for our sin is as old as the human race.  Adam pins the blame on the woman he says you, God, created.

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I remember watching a football game a few years ago in which a receiver dropped a pass in the end zone, missing a chance at a game-winning touchdown.  (I won’t say what team it was.)  Afterwards, referring to the play, he tweeted, “I praise you 24/7!!!  And this how you do me!!!”  Hey, it wasn’t my fault.  I need to make sure the coach knows about this.

Having said all that, truth be told, the Hebrew here is unclear.  It could also go something like this: “because we sinned you hid yourself.”  The sequence is reversed.  Still, I think it’s more fun to blame God!

We quickly move on.  “We have all become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth…  [And again] you have hidden your face from us, and have delivered us into the hand of our iniquity” (vv. 6a, 7b).  The word for “delivered us” (מוּג, muwg) means “melt” or “dissolve.”  We are being dissolved by our wrongdoing; we are melting into it.  It is swallowing us up.

Isn’t this an inspiring thought for Advent?  Don’t worry; we’re getting ready to turn the corner.

“Yet, O Lord, you are our Father; we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand” (v. 8).  There’s a transition.  We belong to you, O God.  The prophet’s prayer acknowledges that “we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.”  Make of us what you will.

Can we relate to this image of Advent?  This isn’t the advent of gentle Jesus born in a barn.  This is the advent of the grand and glorious power from on high.  We hear a desperate and disconsolate cry for deliverance.  A sincere plea for release from prison can only come from a heart of faith.

There is a confession of how the temple and cities have been ravished.  The anxious and accusatory appeal finishes the prayer: “After all this, will you restrain yourself, O Lord?  Will you keep silent, and punish us so severely?” (v. 12).  It does end on a dark note.  It does turn out to be a lamentation.

On that note, is there honesty, even beauty, in lament?  If so, what is it?

When my sister and I were kids, our family celebrated Christmas in much the same way as others did.  My dad strung the lights out on the house, sometimes putting some in the bushes in front.  We put up the Christmas tree, glistening with ornaments, its own lights, tinsel, and an angel gracing our presence, hovering high above.

Then, of course, there were the presents.  This was, after all, the crowning feature to the whole business.  We tore open the gifts and we posed with them while my parents photographed us.  (I don’t know if others had that tradition.)  However, it didn’t take very long until the novelty wore off.  It only took a couple of days—sometimes even later on Christmas Day itself.  “Is that all there is to it?”  I had a rather empty feeling inside.

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For my parents, there was an almost palpable sense of relief.  “I’m glad that’s over!”  It was communicated that, when all was said and done, Christmas was a chore.  (Maybe it was just them who felt that way!)

I’m not sure what I felt was exactly lament, but it was close to it.  I felt like I had been robbed.  I felt like I had been robbed while getting presents on a holiday which many people lamented was being commercialized.  (Again, maybe it was just me who had that feeling!)

We as a nation, as a church, need to own our lament.  We need to acknowledge it—especially this year.  Something tells me that won’t be difficult to do!

How does lament help prepare us for the Lord’s advent?  Can we see the honesty in it?  Can we see how, in its own way, lament paves the way to healing?  We short circuit the process when we take a short cut—when we jump to conclusions.  That can lead to a refusal to mature in the faith.  Too often, I fear I’ve done that.

Lament can lead to healing when we come clean, as stated earlier, when we repent.  It’s when, by the grace of God, we change our minds (which is what “repent” literally means).  We are made ready to welcome our Lord’s advent.  We have the promise of the apostle Paul that God will “strengthen [us] to the end, so that [we] may be blameless on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Co 1:8).

Come Lord, light up the sky.

 

[1] www.patheos.com/blogs/ponderanew/2020/11/23/how-to-explain-advent-to-people-who-think-its-already-christmas/

[2] www.pulpitfiction.com/notes/advent1b


come on down!

“O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.”  So begins Isaiah 64, the Old Testament text for the 1st Sunday of Advent.  This chapter is a prayer of lament—a communal lament.  That’s not exactly how we think of Advent.  That is, if we think of it at all!

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[photo by Ruan Carlos on Unsplash]

Traditionally, the season of Advent is a time of penitence, much like the season of Lent.  It is a time to reflect, to repent, to reevaluate how we are living life.  It is a time to reconsider our life of faith in preparation for the coming of the Lord.  (Advent means “coming.”)  Certainly, those are concerns throughout the year, but in Advent, they are meant to especially come into focus.

Advent begins in late November or early December, smack dab in the midst of the holiday season!  Can’t you hear the well-wishers and jingles from every nook and cranny?  This is no time for sober self-examination.  It’s time to party.  (Please note: it is possible to have a genuine check-up and still be of good cheer!  Trust me, I’m no fan of sourpusses.)

Of course, this year the celebrations are muted.  A pandemic has a way of doing that.  And so, perhaps we can relate to the communal lament of the Jewish people returning from exile in Babylon.  (This part of the book deals with that time period.)  The initial joy at the homecoming has gradually faded.  Things aren’t working out as well as was expected.  The prophet recognizes the sin that has worked to overturn, to infect, the hopes of the people.

2 oI’m not saying Covid-19 resulted from sin!  Still, the way we’ve treated each other and the planet has been more than a little sinful.  Maybe Mother Earth is voicing her disapproval!

So can we relate to this image of Advent?  This isn’t the advent of gentle Jesus born in a barn.  This is the advent of the grand and glorious power from on high.  This is a desperate and disconsolate cry for deliverance.  A sincere plea for release from prison can only come from a heart of faith.  The prophet’s prayer acknowledges that “we are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.”

Come to us, O Lord, feeble as we are.  Come to us, this Advent.