To Act Rightly

Luke 13:10-17

Of course, my first instinct is to get hung up on the supernatural healing in the story. My scientific, postmodern mind protests and stops me from reading further. But something keeps my mind open, and I continue the story.

For the writer of Luke, and for his audience(s), the miraculous healing was not the point of the story. The Bible is chock full of miracles and healings, and there was no shortage of wonder-workers in Jesus' day. The point of the story is the protest put up by the leader of the synagogue... and Jesus' response to him.

The leader is bound by the laws, and he resists Jesus doing a good deed on the Sabbath merely because it is a deed, an act, on the day of rest. Several times in Luke and the other Gospels, Jesus has this same confrontation: religious authorities use Jesus' acting on the Sabbath as proof of his infidelity to the Law of Moses, and therefore to God. And over and over again, Jesus says in different ways that the law is meant to serve us, not we it. Here specifically, Jesus points out their own willful violations of the Sabbath stricture for small things - unyoking their ox, leading it to water. These are small acts of mercy extended to a poor, suffering creature - a gesture entirely befitting the spirit of the Sabbath: a day of rest for everyone and everything. Jesus points out these small and righteous violations of the law and asks why this poor woman deserves any less than their oxen.

The thing is, this passage is immediately followed by the parable of the mustard seed, which describes the Reign of God as starting small and growing into something large and obtrusive. Is Luke framing the narrative here? Are we to see in the pious leaders' mercy toward their animals a seed of the Kingdom? Are we to see these small acts leading to greater ones - acts that like a mustard bush will grow unruly and interfere with life the way we wanted it (orderly rows of manageable crops, for instance)? And when birds nest in its branches, is Jesus saying that these acts of disturbing mercy and compassion will lead to new priorities, unforeseen beauty, unexpected values?

Justice and mercy will be inconvenient, and the leaders will want us to curb our enthusiasm for God's Love, saying "limit what good you do." But Jesus doesn't argue with them, but points out how they themselves are already righteously disobeying the stricture, and asking them to expand their righteousness, their mercy, their love, their worship of God, to include even more people.

We have within us the seeds of the Kingdom. We just need to set ourselves free to let them grow. Free from expectations, from cultural mores, from ideas about appropriateness and what's "in." We have to be guided by love and compassion. And we may find ourselves breaking some rules in order to heal justly.

The Comfort of a Bridle

Luke 19:28-40 (esp. vv 30-31)

No wonder the pharisees ask Jesus to tell the people to stop--what the people are doing is treasonous! Jesus is riding into Jerusalem like a king, and the people are singing hymns to him that describe him as a king. Jerusalem is already a tinder-box with thousands of people crammed inside the walls for the feast days, and there are likely hundreds of rabble-rousers and revolutionaries about trying to foment resistance and a take-over of power. Here comes Jesus in a veritable parade! Any of us would have done the same, and asked Jesus to quiet down the crowds before the soldiers come and someone gets seriously hurt. How insensitive Jesus must have seemed to those religious and social leaders, showing such disregard for the safety of the people and the holiness of the season.

And what are we to think of Jesus' charge to take ("borrow" isn't supported by the text) a colt without paying for it, with just the explanation: "The Lord needs it"? Would any of us allow our car to be taken by strangers with just such a plea? (We are apt to argue that there are charlatans that abuse such language and trust today, but are we to believe that there were no false-prophets, no profiteers, no one willing to take advantage of such trust and faith-claims then as there are now? We cannot let ourselves off the hook because of our jaded experience--I'm certain the first-century residents of Palestine, and even more so the residents of Jerusalem, were familiar with the abuses done in the name of God.) And then, if the people did somehow believe that the colt was to be used for God, they would object to this colt precisely because it had never been ridden before, it was unbroken, still virtually untamed. To try to ride it would be impossible--it would be uncontrollable and end up hurting the rider and everyone around! The owners of the unbroken colt would have offered another, more obedient servant for the Lord's work.

Every element of the story seems fanciful, impossible... but we must remember that this story isn't primarily a factual account, but a faith-building story: a telling that shapes our faith and understanding as it goes, and so the description of Jesus' entrance into Jerusalem is instructive for the reader, you and me.

What is the significance of Jesus' request to ride on a colt that has never been ridden on before? Is this a Lucan reference to the uniqueness of Jesus? A symbol of the untried message or means of Jesus? Lucan confirmation of the newness of the revelation brought by Jesus? What is distinctly Jesus in Luke?

Jesus calls for a radical transformation of society through the active subversion of oppressive structures (both mental/spiritual and political/physical) and through the substitution of new (Zionic) relations, grounded in a vision supplied by faith in a loving and forgiving and earnest God. To attempt a revolution of social, spiritual, and political dynamics without the use of force is an remarkably bold and untried program. Active nonviolent resistance that edifies both parties in conflict while establishing just relations is like an unbroken colt--impossible to manage or direct, impossible to control, and more than likely going to kick off any rider than be put to such direction.

OR, perhaps the world is symbolized by the colt: the assumption is that people need to be trained to obey before they can be managed, and that obedience comes from shows of power and strength, an understanding of position in hierarchy. In short, horses are broken through violence, and it is only after they are broken that they become valuable or useful in the eyes of the world. Jesus, however, asks for unbridled, unbroken people; Jesus asks for the wild strength and natural equality felt by an unbroken colt. And Jesus is somehow able (in a way that probably none of us could do) to mount and direct the colt for the Lord's work. This brings more force to Jesus' call to set the captives free--I'm sure he was talking about many of the people actually behind bars, but he was also talking about the broken people, those obedient to the masters of the world. This also brings more force to the people's cries of Jesus as king--defying the political king and the power of Rome.

We are called to Jesus for the Lord's work--though we think we are unfit, unworthy, unmanageable, that others are better suited. And we are called not as slaves, obedient to position and power, but as maverick spirits, and unbroken colts. God wants our natural sense of equality and justice, our sense of our own power and ability to resist domination; to put ourselves under the direction of Jesus, to recognize only one king (on earth as it is in heaven), to adopt Jesus' struggle and means of struggling. We are to continue the walk Jesus started on his way into Jerusalem: the conversion of the world through active nonviolent loving resistance (ahisma?) and substitution of a new world, a new way of thinking, Zion.

But that also means we have to give up the bridle and the bit (and the blinders and the saddle). We have to give up our addiction to control, to position, to direction, to domination (even sometimes over ourselves). We have to venture out of the stable, allow ourselves to be led away without assurance that we will ever return, simply at the call of the need of the Lord.

Prodigals All

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

I assume we are to sympathize with the elder brother, the faithful son who stands bitterly unrewarded for his constant service while his younger brother is celebrated for having returned from gluttony and caprice. I certainly sympathize with him - and perhaps this shows just how far I have to come in my spiritual journey.

The preface is Jesus welcoming sinners who listen to him, and the Pharisees grumbling about it. The series of parables that follow, one of which is of the "prodigal son," illustrate the inverted relationship God has with humanity. God celebrates those we find it difficult or unfair to welcome. God revels in the recovery of one sinner more than the faithful piety of a hundred people. A dishonest manager who forgives debts out of scheming is praised for his good judgment - being faithful with dishonest wealth (which I will have to think about seriously sometime - 16:1-13 isn't on the lectionary schedule for this year).

I would like to think that I am above worldly ambitions, beyond American piety-prosperity and just rewards principles, not captive to notions of position in return for faithfulness and righteousness. But Jesus' parables call me out. My sympathies do not immediately follow Jesus'. I can understand Jesus' point, of course (all are equal in God's eyes, and therefore the recovery of one lost is cause for celebration, while the faithful continuance of another is just par for the course). But if I am honest with myself, I have to admit that I feel for the others - I am easily part of the crowd that is amazed and confused by Jesus' profound reassessment of the Reign of God and my particular place in it. I do feel like we faithful ones should be rewarded, and better! Those who come late, who haven't struggled and who may have even fought the faithful, don't deserve as much praise or celebration or reward as those who have fought the good fight, run the good race, longer, harder, with more sacrifice. Put shortly, I sympathize with the elder son.

A good deal of my identity - for better and for worse - is bound up in struggle: the struggle for this, the struggle against that - all very worthwhile and Christian principles. And I find myself bitterly struggling against other Christians oftentimes... even my own father. Now, my father, for instance, in his support for President Bush, is partly responsible for the horrific deaths of millions of people. I have been struggling with him for years now. If, at the very end, he responds to the gospel and decides he was wrong all those years - that won't bring those dead people back, it won't un-torture all those prisoners, it won't erase all the harm and violence he supported and contributed to. Meanwhile, not only have I been struggling against these things happening, my own father has struggled against me so that those things happen. And Jesus is saying that if my dad comes around at the last minute, God will throw a huge party. But my struggle remains uncelebrated.

That isn't fair.

At least, not according to the way the world thinks of fairness.

But, I suppose God isn't so interested in "fairness" as much as God is interested in love. Sure, economic and social justice are in part about fairness, but only as a public expression of our love for people - there isn't anything ultimate or absolute about how much wealth or food or comfort someone has, except that no one goes without or has needs unmet while others feast.

I have to give up my superiority complex, my holier-than-thou-because-I-struggle notion. If I'm struggling in order to feel superior or holier than someone else, then I'm doing it for the wrong reasons. Any struggle I engage in, any sacrifice I make, any cause I support, any side I take, must be done - if I am to be more like Jesus - in love, out of love, for love. I am to love such that I would celebrate any conversion, no matter how late, and not seek to be celebrated myself.

And, too, perhaps Jesus meant the listeners to identify with the younger son, who spent how many years squandering precious life and resources, and came back humble, desperate, ashamed, willing to be the least of the servants in his father's house - and finding his return celebrated. All of us, at some point, were the younger son returning, having wasted so much, been blind so long, only seeing the truth too late. Perhaps we get one party - when we turn - and then we get to work.

I guess no one ever said discipleship was easy or fair. It is what it is. And I should be content with mere discipleship, mere love.

Our World and the Fig Tree

Luke 13:1-9

Some people around Jesus ask him about the recent (?) execution of a group of Galilean pilgrims at the hand of Pilate (in Jerusalem?). This comes after Jesus encourages people to "settle with their opponent" before it is too late - so it is possible that the crowd is asking Jesus if Pilate's treatment of the pilgrims is a result of divine judgement, or perhaps an occasion to sound out Jesus' feelings on the Roman occupation. The Galileans, apparently, are being thought of as either holy martyrs or sinners who were duly punished (by proxy via the Roman occupation).

Jesus, however, cuts through the fat of the argument and gets to the point: do you think, he asks the crowd, that these Galileans were any worse (or better) than any other group of Galileans, that they deserved the fate they met in Jerusalem? No.

And, Jesus adds, if you continue acting and thinking they way you do, you will meet the same end they did.

What?! What is Jesus saying here? The trouble is, we don't know from the text anything about these Galileans and their beliefs. Is Jesus making a political point that if we continue to support or resist the occupation, we will be subject to it, and therefore forever under threat of execution by it? Or is Jesus making some religious point that beliefs similar to the Galileans ends in sticky deaths? (And is it also important that Jesus was himself referred to as a Galilean - does the region imply some background religious or political flavor?)

Jesus seems to emphasize his point by adding the comparison with innocents who were killed when a tower collapsed. Why just them? Were they worse than everyone else in Jerusalem?

Is Jesus here taking a stand somewhat like Job, pointing out that chance seems also to play a part in the world, that the world is not always just and fair. Sometimes innocent perish along with the guilty, suffering and fortune do not signal righteousness or sin. Who can know the mind and will of God, in a world such as this? The book of Job ends with the demand that we believe and have confidence in God regardless, despite all the chaos and seeming senselessness of the world around us (which, for all it's drawbacks, is at least more honest about the world than the Calvinist piety-prosperity principle).

But then Jesus says, No - they were no worse (or better?) than any of you - but unless you repent (metanoia: [Gk] change your way of thinking, change direction, turn around) you will perish as they did - randomly, senselessly, innocent along with the guilty, unforseeably? With this would-be clarification of what he means, Jesus ends up making the confusion even greater.

Unless....

Jesus follows this discussion with a parable of a barren fig tree, which for three years hasn't borne fruit - the landlord said "cut it down." The gardener, though, asked for one more year, a year in which he would dig around the tree and fertilize the soil, to see if this didn't cause the tree to fruit.

I think Luke is putting this parable here in order to make two points: first, there is always hope - even after three years, the gardener still pleads with the landlord for time to nurture the tree to see it bear fruit. At the same time, however, there is a point after which continuing to waste time on a tree that will not bear fruit is poor stewardship of resources. There is a sense of enduring hope, but not endless permission for inactivity.

Secondly, Luke is contrasting the former discussion with the latter - religious pilgrims and random people on the street all meet their deaths in seemingly senseless violence and caprice. But the fig tree is judged on whether or not it bears fruit - its existence is laid against a backdrop of an expectation of productivity. Is Luke saying that those who put their hope in the other-worldly, in the power of God outside of them, are doomed to die just like those who have no such confidence and spend their time hoping for redemption in the streets beneath towers of human accomplishment? (The Galileans were religious pilgrims killed by the state; the eighteen people in the streets were killed by a chance collapsing of a tower.)

Is Luke advocating a Third Way? A blend of hope in the divine and a commitment to working to change this world in that vision? The admixture seems typically Lucan: discipleship is grounded in a transformation of ourselves that comes from outside ourselves, but that transformation necessarily leads to our intentional living as to transform the lived-world around us.

Is this what the fig tree is supposed to teach us? That we are forgiven for our reluctance or misunderstanding up to this point, but there is a limit to even God's patience, and we must at some point decide (or, more accurately, to continue to not decide or commit is itself a decision and commitment not to bear fruit).

Prophets and Capitals

Luke 13:31-35 (esp. v 33b)

"It is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem."

It isn't impossible for anyone to be killed outside of Jerusalem... just take them outside the city walls and execute them there! Jesus isn't making a statement about someone being killed, so much as he is making a statement about being a prophet. What makes someone a prophet is if they speak truth to power, if they confront the Powers That Be on their own territory with the word and will of God. And in an occupied land, Jesus preaching his message of renewal and resistance, Jesus must eventually preach it at the seat of the oppressive occupation - in Jerusalem. (For the same reason that Paul, speaking to the whole Roman Empire, must preach - and be killed - in Rome.)

If one is to be a prophet, one must speak truth to power - and worldly powers are seated in capitals (unlike the Reign of God which is spread throughout creation, and thus has no "capital"). Jesus is declaring his intention to continue the prophetic critique of the status quo. The prophetic voice - so strong and clear throughout much of Hebrew history - in Jesus' time had not been heard again for several hundred years. Jesus knew that God continued God's desire for unity, solidarity, charity, hospitality... and felt called to give voice to God's longing.

A capital is the centerplace of earthly organization - it concentrates wealth and resources, it decides where to allocate resources and attention, it guides the machinations of institutionalized relationship between people. It has so much potential for good, but so easily falls prey to greed, gluttony, and deceit. Still, Jesus weeps over the city and its wasted potential. It could be so much, do so much, feed so many, lift so many out of poverty, answer so many needs - but it refuses to do so. Even though Jesus senses that he is facing his death by bringing this critical voice to the capital (particularly at a nationalist festival time when crowds are already gathered and restless), he still feels a loving lament for the city. He wanted to gather Jerusalem like a hen gathers her chicks - a surprisingly warm and intimate sentiment, given his critical stance and Jerusalem's likely violent reaction. You can see here Jesus' underlying love for this world - even the fallenness of it. No part of this world is beyond redemption.

This is a tough call for me. It is as if I walked to Washington D.C. and into the White House and told George W. Bush that I loved him, that God loves him, and that he must stop being an international terrorist. If I could gather a crowd to listen to and support me, I might be arrested and detained as a terrorist myself (perhaps tortured and executed as well). But even in the midst of all that drama, Jesus would have me still see Washington as redeemable. I can see tremendous potential in Washington, but considering the tremendous suffering it has inflicted and is inflicting the world over, I find it difficult to see it as redeemable, let alone worth loving. But this is what I am called to do, as a disciple of Jesus.

This isn't some "Love America" spiel. Bush is called to make the same journey to Baghdad, or the Sunni Triangle, or whatever outpost of resistance that seems to be leading at the moment. I'm not saying America is ok in what it is doing - just as Jesus was not condoning the brutality of the Roman occupation by preaching in Jerusalem. But Jesus brought a loving critique. And that is what I have to remember. "Washington, Washington, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! See, your house is left to you - you will not see Christ until you say 'Blessed is the one who challenges us in the name of the Lord.'"

The Healing Faithless

Luke 9:37-43a

Why is Jesus calling the crowd a "faithless and perverse generation" here? They had come to him in hope and faith. The man who ran forward describing his son's demonic posession came to Jesus in the purest of motives - the healing of an only child. Surely they didn't deserve such blanket condemnation. What is Luke trying to convey to the reader with Jesus saying this so soon after the transfiguration on the mountain?

The father of the sick child also says that he brought his son to Jesus' disciples, but that the disciples could not heal him. Are the disciples the target of Jesus' venom here? Because they could not heal the boy, Jesus sees this as evidence of perversity and faithlessness? This all seems very harsh and unforgiving.

And when Jesus utters sentiments like "how much longer must I bear with you?" it gives the impression that Jesus feels he has already given the fullness of the gospel, already offered all that is needed for faith and purity, already provided (in the Sermon on the Plain and the few parables and miracles already narrated) sufficient teaching for discipleship.

Is Luke contrasting the transfiguration on the mountain with the disciples' lack of similar power down below? Is Jesus already expecting his disciples to exhibit the same wonder-working power and ministry that he has? Obviously, one lesson the disciples should be learning is that a follower of Jesus doesn't just tell about what Jesus did, but is to do what Jesus did. (Some will focus on the miraculous healing of the epileptic, others will focus on the barrier-breaking between separated peoples, others on the creative non-violent subversion of political and cultural mechanisms that perpetuate inequality and oppression.)

Another lesson for discipleship is that sometimes healing comes from a word of rebuke against evil possession. Jesus was asked to look at the boy, as so we must be willing to look at our world and see the demons at work in it. Jesus drove the evil spirit out with a word of rebuke. We should also be so challenged, to speak truth to power and honestly rebuke the Powers that possess people, that control people, that seize people and dash them to the ground.

And yet another lesson for disciples is that they will fall short of the best hopes of the Kingdom, but that the command to continue working does not disappear for all that.

Shrub-mentality versus Tree-by-the-Water-thinking

Jeremiah 17:5-10

Here are contrasted two ways of being - two worldviews, two life-patterns, two paradigms, two approaches to life and the world. One is grounded in the trust of motrals and flesh, the other in the trust of God. One is rooted in a mindset and economy of scarcity, where there are never enough resources and one must get all one can when one can; and the other rooted in an economy of abundance, where one need not worry about resources or hoarding, and where sharing is the order of the day.

The scarcity model, or "shrub mentality", is grounded in the trust of "mortals" and "flesh." Don't mistake me here - our lives are embodied ones, and fleshy-experience is part of who we are (and therefore also a partial revelation of the divine, in whose image we are). When Jeremiah talks about trust in mortals and flesh, he isn't saying embodied experience is bad - he's saying trust in mortal things is misguided, trust in things that perish, that are transitory: things like wealth, popularity, strength, military might, prestige or position. When (a) people trust in these things supremely, they will see the world as one of scarce resources, and that their wealth or position or might or popularity are always under threat of being lost or supplanted or defeated. Shrub thinkers will see the world as a salted desert or wilderness where you have to fight to survive - and they won't even see when relief comes, because the rains threaten desert shrubs just as much as the sun does (washes away plants and dirt, exposes roots, causes plants to blossom and then leaves them parched in the heat). Even bounty and relief is a threat to them. And we can see this in those who put their trust in riches or strength - our nation has been extraordinarily fortunate in the past 200 years, but now we see our bounty as precisely what makes us a target, we see our bounty as something we have to defend - and go to great lengths to defend it. We're thinking in a shrub mentality! Take, take, take - consume, consume, consume - hoard, hoard, hoard - defend, defend, defend! We are the richest people on the planet, and yet we feel one of the least secure in what we have. We see ourselves as living in a salted desert, and can't even see what relief is.

In contrast to Luke, in the other lectionary scripture for this Sunday (6:17-26), Jeremiah describes the "cursed" first and the "blessed" second - the two texts ask us: you want the good news first or the bad news?

Opposed to the "scarcity model" of shrub-thinking, there is the "abundance model" described as tree-by-the-water thinking. Jeremiah says those who trust in the Lord are blessed. In contrast with those above who trust in temporary, transitory, perishable things, Jeremiah lifts up confidence in imperishable things: eternal, undying values such as love, fellowship, the long view, the eventual victory of justice (hope), peace, joy. People who don't put their trust in things like money or power over others to give them security or happiness are like trees planted by the water - no matter what droughts may come they feel watered, no matter what heat waves come their leaves stay green. And note what Jeremiah says: they're not anxious. (You want to know if our country is a tree by the water, ask if we're anxious.) My wife and I try to live by the motto: if everyone keeps sharing, there will always be enough. It's not a kind of mathematical equation you can work out or clear-cut trade-off you can point to. It's a way of looking at the world. (And some times it's easier than others.)

For Jeremiah, people who trust in the Lord - in the eternal - are like trees by the water: ever nourished and watered, and ever-bearing fruit. (Contrast that with desert shrubs who quickly blossom and seed in the short rainfalls - like some of us who, when fortune smiles on us we quickly burst out with a little gift or kindness and then just as quickly close up again, waiting for the next rain.) (Which is our tithing model? Which is our stewardship model?)

But then Jeremiah changes tact - and says: the heart is devious above all else, who can understand it? He answers himself: the Lord searches the heart - these eternal values, our endurance and dedication, our faith, search our heart. Jeremiah says God will give to all according to their ways, according to the fruit of their doings. Now, this might seem in contrast to the doctrine of Grace - that any gift of God is because of God's grace, not because of anything particularly good we've done (because, frankly, we could hardly ever deserve the kind of love God shows). But I don't think Jeremiah was commenting on grace here. He is laying this alongside his statement about the deviousness of the human heart. We can never escape mixed motives, but we shouldn't have to worry about our own purity before setting to the work of bringing about the Kingdom of God in the world.

There are two ways of looking at the world - one in which the world is a place of danger and villainy that is always threatening us and against which we must defend ourselves and our fortunes; the other in which the world is a place of abundance and grace that has the tremendous and perennial potential to feed us all despite the droughts and heat-waves that come.

Right now I know what you're thinking - you're thinking there's a little truth in each of them, that we need to be "realistic" and see some scarcity out there as well as some abundance. I know you're thinking that, because I'm thinking that too. I can feel the World telling me to not believe this gospel story too much, not to take this abundance view too seriously. I can feel the World's voice(s) inside me, saying that this tree-by-the-water thing is great and all, but that reality is more complicated than that, that the "real world" is a place of scarcity, no matter what we say here at church.

In the end, we have to decide which voice we're going to listen to. We're human - we live in a world of mortals and flesh, as well as a world of God - so we're mixed and confused and we'll probably go back and forth. But let's be careful in our desire to listen to one voice over the other that we not identify them as the same thing. One is the voice of the World, the other is the voice of God. We can choose which to listen to, but let's not do God (or the World) the disservice of confusing their sentiments. As Jeremiah puts it: there is the desert shrub and then there's the tree by the water. Who can understand the heart? One thing we can rest assured of: God is still searching us.

Give it all up - Count it all joy

Luke 5:1-11

What strikes me first is that Jesus is fleeing the crowd - he is willing to teach, but wary of crowds... crowds seems dangerous, they can take things wrongly, crowds don't seems to think as well as the individuals who make them up, the anonymity of crowds often breeds irresponsibility or dreams of grandeur. Jesus is wary of this, but recognizes that for most people learning in a crowd will be their only (poor) exposure to his teaching.

Simon, the fisherman, first had to respond to Jesus' call (to set out in his boat) before he could ever reap the benefits (nets full of fish). He first had to act without thinking of his own benefits. And as he called his partners out to help him drag in the laden nets, you can almost hear in his voice the glee of the piety-prosperity principle - material prosperity indicates a piety and love of God. You can hear the excitement - how wealthy this one catch will make him, how respected he will be with the town leaders, how well dressed his wife and children will be, he might be able to hire another boat and hands to begin building a real business and then he could really take advantage of God's favor!

But, you see, Simon is a self-aware man, and hears his own thoughts and recoils at them. "Master," he says to Jesus, "I am a sinner" - I don't deserve this bounty, I am not as pious as you think, and God knows the truth. Don't bless me like this when I am so undeserving! Jesus answers tellingly - you will become a fisher of people - your bounty is not with these things, fish and position in town - your bounty is in people and their coming to know creative transformation in the Spirit.

And note what happens next: Simon, and his partners James and John, up and left it all - all that material blessing, all those fish and the prosperity and easier life it meant for them, up and left. Their livelihoods, families, homes and furniture and mortgages and cars and internet service and stocked refrigerators - they left it all. For Luke's readers, the possibility that God would bless the faithful isn't out of the ballpark - God had a history of blessing the faithful, even the Temple Priests and local rabbis said so. What would have been surprising and disturbing would have been that Simon and the others just left it all right there on the beach, abandoned wealth and prosperity and the so-called "blessings" of God. (After all, if God did bless them, what poor stewardship it was to leave it on the beach to be taken by thieves and beggars!) But that was Luke's strategy - his readers should be surprised and a little horrified at the audacity, the foolishness, the lack of wisdom! Luke is impressing on his readers that Jesus is turning the tables, inverting priorities... and in fact, getting them straight as they should be.

Now, later on in Luke they will return to Simon's house, so some connection is maintained there, but Luke is very clear what it means to be a disciple of Jesus: giving up attachment to any and all possessions. Here we have the first disciples - blessed beyond their imaginations with the possibility of wealth and comfort (tempted, like Jesus in the wilderness?) and giving it up to follow him.

Is this what it means to be a disciple in the community of Christ? How much can we ask from our parishoners, ourselves?

Sermon on the Plain

Luke 6:20-26

It has been said that the Sermon on the Plain, with Matthew's parallel Sermon on the Mount, serve as the constitution of the Kingdom of God.

These blessings and curses aren't for the future - this isn't the same thing Jesus does to the fig tree that doesn't bear fruit - but descriptions of the immediate present. Not "you will be blessed," but "you are blessed." Not "the Kingdom of God will be yours," but "the Kingdom of God is yours."

This shouldn't come as a surprise, because just two chapters earlier Jesus himself reads his career mission statement from the Isaiah scroll in Nazareth (4:17-19). And even before that, at the beginning of Luke, Mary sings out that God is bringing down the powerful and proud, and lifting up the lowly; feeding the starving, and sending the rich away hungry (1:51-53).

But it is still jarring when we read it here (which is miraculous in itself, given the years of layering and repetition that would have smothered any other radical pronouncements). What is it that is theirs, the poor? What is it that is theirs, the hungry? the weeping? And why would that be so violently denied the rich, the well-fed, the happy?

Yes, yes, "the Kingdom of God." But what does that mean? It has to be more than comeuppance - shaking your fist, crying "you'll get yours!"

Whatever it is, what should be most frightening to American audiences in the pews is where do we fall: in the beatitudes or the curses? Are we poor and hungry and weeping? Or are we - though we don't like to admit it - rich, well-fed, and comfortable? (It's a good thing this scripture isn't paired up with Jesus' encounter with the rich aristocrat [18:18-27], or we might be emotionally devastated right there in the pew. Or, perhaps we need to be heartbroken to really hear the gospel.) As it is, I think we know that we prove the curse: we are having our consolation now - shallow that it is, we still can't bring ourselves to give it up.

There's no confession of faith or creed to gain the Kingdom. No special prayer or sacrament required. What is required? Poverty, hunger and profound compassion. I wonder that anyone has that.

John's Expections and Jesus' Baptism

A Sense of Divine Mission and Approval
Luke 3:15-17, 21-22

This passage picks up at the end of the lectionary texts from two weeks ago (Dec. 14 & 15), and as such acts virtually as "part three" in repeated coverage. But I suppose that's the thing about scripture: we keep coming back to it, looking at it again and again.

This is still the story of John - he has whipped up people into a frenzied excitement; they are eager to see and work toward an in-breaking of the reign of God, and they look to him for leadership. Wisely, John demurs, and explains that he is merely starting us on the journey, preparing us for the work, that there will be a leader who will demand and guide us to greater things. John is taking the role of the prophet - declaring his sense of God's Will but not taking the responsibility away from the people themselves to answer that call or not, nor to what degree or what kind of answer they will make. John will not accept the hope and expectation they project on him. One way he does this is by anticipating another leader who will be worthy of their confidence and allegiance.

But this is the story of John's expectations for Jesus, too. John declares that Jesus will baptize with the Spirit and fire - Jesus will take the kindling spirits of those John has sparked and set them on fire. You think you're excited now? John seems to be saying. You think you're ready to work for the Kingdom of God now? You think I have a sense of what this new world can be? Wait until you meet Jesus - he's gonna blow you away.

John immediately sets into a work-metaphor: winnowing and harvest (anyone who's forked hay before knows that this is long, hard work - not for the faint of heart or weak of will). This is important. John is communicating right from the get-go that this in-breaking of the reign of God is going to mean hard work for a lot of people. This isn't some return to Eden where everyone is happy all the time and no one works for their food or medical care. This is going to be work, actual work, not just "spiritual" work - but it will be work worth the effort.

John then descends into rough judgment language - pursuing the metaphor too far, in my mind: gathering the wheat is a good image, but burning the chaff with unquenchable fire seems excessive. John is an apocalyptic thinker, remember; he isn't the Messiah and doesn't even claim himself to have a full grasp on the love and dynamics of God's revelation-to-come. (Does one even burn chaff? I thought chaff just blew away in the wind when winnowing in the old style. This may give us a clue as to John's excessive language. And when winnowing, it isn't as if the harvester has any ill-feelings toward the chaff - it's just part of the work to bring in the harvest, not an object of loathing upon which to wreak vengeance. A more appropriate use of the metaphor would have been if the chaff is just let go of... but that wouldn't quite have the sharpness that John was after.) John was also trying to captivate his audience, keep them waiting for something indefinite and uncertain (however glorious). We all have seen how fear captivates people's hearts and minds, especially when directed at some unknown fate. Fear of horrific judgment keeps people in line (at least in the short run), and this may be a strategy of John's to capture the attention and loyalty of his listeners. The baptismal scene of Jesus doesn't carry any of this judgmental tone - and in fact, if anything, seems a loving contrast to John's vindictiveness.

In this baptismal scene, I can understand how "adoptionists" could imagine that Jesus was "adopted" by God and made God's son, not born God's son. It is too bad this interpretation was declared (and violently enforced) as heretical, because it seems a lovely way to represent God's relationship with all humanity: each person, any one of us could be the adopted child of God, so we shouldn't treat anyone with disrespect or unkindness. (Another chit for adoptionist heresy is the footnote: "Other ancient authorities read You are my Son, today I have begotten you.")

It is important that the heavens opened and that Jesus was beloved and approved of before his work began. Similarly, when we are baptized, we are beloved and approved of, God's spirit descends on us, before we're worthy of any such confidence. We just declare our intention, our will to bring about Zion, and God is pleased. We still have the work to do, but we don't have to prove ourselves or earn the affection or approval of God. Picking up our own winnowing fork is a first and glorious step, and the heavens open up and we can hear the voice of Creativity and Love encouraging us, urging us on.

Now, that's confirmation!

Precedents and Overtures

Jesus' Childhood Casts a Shadow
Luke 2:41-52

Luke loves childhood stories of Jesus, and I for the longest time held this against him, assuming that therefore his Gospel was the most fabricated, most hypothetical of the synoptics. But I feel a change in the winds of my heart, and I turn to Luke anew - recognizing the style and literary intent in the narrative, and relating more to the Lucan conception of Jesus' role in salvation than of any other Gospel. So I look again at this story as part of Luke's sensitivity to Greek style and storytelling.

The purpose of relating that Jesus' family travels every year to Jerusalem is to establish their piety and credibility as faithful followers of the Jewish spiritual laws. Jesus' family is above reproach, despite their low estate. This could be foreshadowing of Jesus' trip(s) to Jerusalem, particularly during the Passover feast and his subsequent passion. And I find myself compelled to see it as a literary indulgence, rather than an accurate description of Jesus' family - among other questions, there is the economic possibility of making pilgrimage every year and during the most expensive time of year for travel to Jerusalem at that. Even so, the purpose is clear: Jesus' childhood was steeped in the rich tradition of the Jewish faith, and Jesus was clearly an exemplary Jew (if a somewhat insensitive child), excelling in the intellectual and spiritual exercises that were held in such high esteem by Jew and Gentile alike - an eager student of tradition and wisdom, with a keen mind of his own and the confidence and articulateness to respectfully and insightfully question his elders.

Luke also loves significant numbers - Jesus was twelve years old, and his parents looked for him three days. Could this be foreshadowing of the passion narrative? His parents, those who loved him but did not understand him, felt like they lost him - he'd disappeared from their sights, couldn't be found in all the usual places, and they were anxious (and probably confused and angry, too). And after three days he was found again, in the Temple no less, still about his Father's interests. (Is this what Luke is referring to when he says: "But [his parents] did not understand what he said to them"? [50])

And then, making sure not to push the precociousness of Jesus too far, not to make him too disobedient or difficult, Luke makes sure to note that he then returned with his parents and obeyed them thereafter. We don't hear of him again until the appearance of John the Baptist and the beginning of Jesus' conversion and career. But the precedent has been set - Jesus will disobey authority in the service of God, Jesus will break the rules when seeking the truth and when learning and teaching about God's will and Rule. And, it can be extrapolated, Jesus will be so focused on learning and teaching about God that he goes homeless for several days, and isn't particularly concerned about food or security. Another overture to his later life?

Jesus here is an intent student of God, and he seeks knowledge and wisdom from the traditional authoritative sources. Luke uses this as a preface to Jesus' preaching: Jesus is fulfilling the Law, not destroying it. Jesus is a good Jew, and the fact that he was born into that community is significant. Luke is going to great lengths to show that Judaism is the fertile soil from which sprang the fullness and truth he relates in his Gospel.

In Remembrance of Mercy

Mary's Song of Praise (Luke 1:46-55)
part four (v 54)

"God has helped God's servant Israel, in remembrance of God's mercy..."

I am tempted to talk about loving one's enemies - but that comes too quickly to my heart.

This comes in the context of describing the salvic acts of God, three "revolutions" being ushered in through the birth of Jesus: a moral one (v 51) where arrogance and pride are overturned, a social one (v 52) where class and station are erased, and an economic on (v 53) where the dispossessed are lifted up and the rich are taken away from. This is a lot of upsetting happening here! This is the context of God's mercy, this is God's mercy?

It certainly won't be "merciful" toward the rich and powerful - unless we stretch the meaning of "mercy" to include "liberating" the rich and powerful of the chains of their riches and power. (This is a legitimate reading, of course, but something in it seems stretched thin to me.)

Perhaps God's mercy is the setting-right of social relations. God's mercy are those forces and acts that put us in right relation to other people (and, more broadly, to all life). "Sin" and "evil" thus would be those forces and acts that put us in wrong relation to others: economic inequality, arrogance, nationalism, capitalism, property, style and fashion, and so on, ad infinitum. Or perhaps God's mercy is God's will or wish that we should live in right relations with each other - and our acts are our remembrance of that mercy. (Is there a difference between God's will and God's acts?)

God's mercy, it seems to me now, is God's will for us to be in right relations with each other and the confidence that right relations are both possible and certain in the future. We speak of these things with such confidence that we speak of them as if they've already happened, even though they clearly have not (have only begun?). This has been the ongoing story of the children of Abraham - to which the verse makes reference - and is the story we take up in our discipleship of Jesus.

Social and economic justice are the hallmarks of God's Rule and Mercy. God does not forget this, and neither should we - especially on this very special occasion.

Pride Resisting the Fall

Mary's Song of Praise (Luke 1:46-55)
part three (v 51)

"God has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts"

We proud, who believe we know better, who hold our own opinion so dear, who stand so tall with conviction, who are certain we know who God is and what God wants, and trust those voices on "our side". We are destined - over and over again, it seems - to be scattered in the thoughts of our hearts. God is the source of confusion here. ("There is a confusion that brings death, and a confusion that brings life.")

When we are proud and arrogant, we take ourselves very seriously, hold ourselves as more valuable, knowledgable and noble than others. We must be broken down in this. Our hearts must be disturbed, our thoughts upset, our certainty shaken, our self-importance crumbled - and this is not an easy or pleasant thing to bear. It is better, of course, to start it at one's own hand - approach and pray and open oneself to change. But it is inevitable, so the scripture attests, for all the proud, and for some it will be difficult indeed. For me, too....

I'd say I am more proud than most, but I wonder if that declaration of above-average suffering is itself a mark of pride, of thinking that I am somehow exceptional, if even in my sinning. Suffice it to say I am proud, and it is a struggle for me. I forego some honors, and yet I love honor and miss it when it passes me by. I lose some games, and yet I seem to lose my temper when I lose without my consent. I can be self-deprecating, but do not allow others to be so critical of me. These are ways I struggle with my pride.

Thankfully, I have been given good friends, who both accept me and are secure enough in our friendship to offer criticism. They honor me with their friendship, but do not let that honor stand too high, or make it exceptional - we all honor each other so. And I lose more games than I win, to be sure, and they love me regardless of my reactions, and invite me to play again. (And also my occasional victories are not made too much of, either.) We are all self-deprecating, but all in a context of love and ultimate respect. Whatever shortcomings I am reminded of, I am reminded of them in the context of a loving, enduring frienship. These close friends make me a better person. They are a more compassionate and slow hand of God, working with me mercifully, and investing in me some measure to work with them.

I must be open to the scattering of my thoughts - not hold too tightly to even my firmest convictions - and trust in a God of love that will restore my spirit and thoughts to right. I am already a changed person from who I was five years ago. But it would be prideful to think that I do not have more change awaiting me.

Mercy is for those who fear...

Luke 1:46-55, part 2 (esp. v 50)

This is a tough scripture for me. I don't like the idea of a God who likes people to fear it, or rewards such a dysfunctional relationship. Respect, fine. Honor, great. Love, even better. But fear? It sounds too much like the popular God-as-abusive-father image that I hear too often. My God isn't that - and certainly wouldn't be a god worth respecting or honoring. (If all God wants is fear, then that's what God gets from people predisposed to praise a scary God. Less generous parts of me say: leave them to it, if that's what they want.)

But perhaps I'm letting myself be taken in by the popular image to start off with. Am I reading that verse already thinking that I know what it means - the same thing I see scared-of-God people doing? Perhaps I misunderstood the line.

"God's mercy is for those who fear God from generation to generation."

Could it be that God laments the fact that some fear God? That God feels bad for those who fear? Perhaps this is a prelude to the Beattitudes - blessed are the poor and those who mourn. Jesus wasn't saying we should kill our loved ones so that we would mourn more. Jesus was saying something about God's relationship to those who suffer. Is Luke giving a pre-echo of that here? God's mercy is for those who fear God - God doesn't want people to fear God, but God extends God's mercy and compassion toward those who can't help but fear, who have been taught to fear or who have experienced such uncertainty or lack of love that a terrible God is more real to them than a loving and present one. God's mercy is for those so close and yet lost to God.

There is mercy everywhere, it seems. Even here in fear.

My Soul Magnifies the Lord

Mary's Song of Praise (Luke 1:46-56, esp. v 47)
part one

My soul magnifies the Lord. Can the Absolute be magnified? Can the Ultimate be made larger? What does it mean for my soul to magnify the Lord?

I'm thinking of a child holding a magnifying glass up to an insect (hopefully away from direct sunlight) - the child's increased vision doesn't change the insect at all, it doesn't even necessarily change the child at all - they are both what they were before, in the same relationship they were in before. But something has changed. The child's focus has changed, her vision has narrowed and intensified for a moment. To her extraordinary details come to light, subtleties she was not aware of, complexities and (dare I say) beauties become manifest. A new world opens up to her - a world that was always there, paralleling her own, but that in her hurry and self-centeredness she never noticed before. All it took was a look through a magnifying glass, and she was shocked into seeing a whole new world.

Is this what Mary meant when saying "my soul magnifies the Lord"? Of course, she may have been just emoting, just expressing her feelings of closeness to the Spirit, of exaltation, in being chosen, in having a baby. But the expression "my soul magnifies" seems subtly important.

Can our persons, our souls, act as a magnifying glass for God? Can we focus people's vision on finer details of a world of which they may not even be aware? And how can we do this?!

If we look to Mary's experience, her magnification comes in the context of her joy. Upon arriving at her aunt's house and feeling the welcome there, Mary is surely relieved and begins to overcome her fear of social rejection, and allows herself to feel the joy of new motherhood. And there is also confidence - more than hope (but less than certainty, for what mother thinks of certainty) - a confidence that she will raise a fine son and that he will do good things. Mary magnified the Lord when her soul was filled with joy and confidence.

Confidence in God's workings in the world - that justice and peace will someday prevail, that economic and spiritual relations between people will someday be equal and nourishing, that those in need will have theirs met, and that there will be mercy. Mercy. Mercy and blessedness.

Oh, that we all could be filled with such joy and confidence. We might just be able to change the world. And wouldn't that magnify the Lord.

John's Advice: Behavior Change

Luke 3:7-17 (part two)
(esp. vv. 12-14)

When asked what they need to do in the face of judgment, John tells the crowd they must do acts of justice. His two examples are of equal distribution of resources: coats and food - the one with two coats must give to her who has none, the one with food must give to him who has none. And then specific kinds of people come up to him, asking for advice: tax collectors and soldiers.

(Surely, Luke is at least partly interested in setting the literary stage here: tax collectors and soldiers as populations reviled in an occupied Palestine, one group within the religious community and the other entirely outside Abrahamic culture. They approach John, as later they will encounter Jesus. So this vignette with John may serve partly as foreshadowing for the rest of the Gospel. But my interest right now isn't the literary role of these two classes of people.)

What grabs and unsettles me this morning is verses 12-14, John's answer to the tax collector and soldier. The tax collector asks, and in reply John says merely "collect no more than the amount proscribed to you." And to the soldier he says: "do not extort money from anyone by threats... and be satisfied by your wages." A verse earlier John is saying we should redistribute resources and wealth equally among all, which would seriously upset the social/political/economic structures of his time, and then he gives permission for people to continue to participate in those same unequal structures but not use them for their own unfair gain.

I'm certain that my labor background is making me balk at the idea of advice to a soldier being "be satisfied with your wages." That is, honestly, the last thing I'd tell a soldier. There are so many other things I'd rather them do, including dissatisfaction with their wages (who can pay one enough to kill?), not to mention the larger implication of telling workers anywhere to be satisfied with their wages (setting them up for perpetual and abhorrent exploitation at the hands of their employers!).

There is the obvious context to those sentences: John is telling them they should deal more fairly with the people they meet - don't take advantage of them despite your ability to do so, your station is not to be lorded over people. This is a good message in itself, but is hardly comprehensive.

Perhaps this is where Luke plans on having Jesus pick up the baptist's message and bring it closer to fulfillment. Luke might be wanting Jesus to take John's message of "not abusing your unequal station" a step further, to one of "abandon your unequal stations because their very existence treats people unfairly." Jesus' ministry is preluded by John's message.

John says he baptizes with water, while another will baptize with the Spirit. John begins people with a physical act, calling them to mere behavioral changes in the face of abject inequity. Jesus will be calling them to change the way they think about the world and themselves, calling them to more than behavioral changes, calling them to spiritual transformation.

So often we substitute fundamental spiritual change with superficial behavioral changes. We spend a holiday serving at the soup kitchen and somehow manage to come out unchanged but thinking well of ourselves. We give a set amount of our money to church or charity, but give no thought to how we earned that money (was it a Christ-like activity?) or that the very existence of monied interests represents unequal distribution of resources and power. It seems we'd all rather be disciples of John the Baptist - just needing to change our behavior a little bit, still being able to go about our lives participating in all kinds of structures and activities that in themselves perpetuate inequality, but as long as it is the structure's fault and not our own, then we have no problem facing judgment! We'd rather not really listen to Jesus' message that participation in these unequal mechanisms is itself unholy. We must be changed through and through, to give us the vision and resolve necessary for discipleship.

"Be satisfied with your wages..." is half-assed advice, which is why it falls on the lips of John and not Jesus.

Judgment and Justice

Luke 3:7-18 (part one)

These verses are a strange mix of judgment and justice.

John the Baptist warns people not to flee from judgment, but to perform acts that will stand them well. John uses the word "repentance" - which is always key, since repentance isn't something like feeling sorry or regretful, the Greek word is "metanoia", "change one's way of knowing."
Don't believe, John warns, that other qualifications will save you - and although John speaks of using the lineage of Abraham as cover, it brings to my mind those who use the name of Jesus as cover. Christians that claim that merely confession of Jesus' name and belief in him as some sort of supernatural savior will "save" them, these Christians seem fundamentally misguided. There is no "name" or label or single confession that saves, but acts of justice in the context of a changed heart and mind that "save." This is the point of John's claim that only trees that bear fruit will remain standing.

I don't like the undertone of vengeance and violence, but I do like the overall message. The crowd asks John: what do we do? And his response is fabulous: whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise. Yee-freakin-hah.

While I want to talk about the "justice" verses, I'm feeling led to tarry with the judgment ones for a while. Indulge me.

God is able to raise up children of Abraham, so being one won't save (v 8) - in other words, since God can bring it about, it isn't really that important for our salvation. A possible midrash of this might be that we are able to do (called to do?) what God is not necessarily able to do - that is, make people (ourselves) treat others equitably. The axe that is lying at the root of the tree might not be God's "wrath", but the consequences of our own decisions - our choice to live in iniquity (inequality), to refuse to do what God cannot do without us. Those trees that do not bear good fruit (equality and justice) will be consumed by their own fires of greed and selfishness, while those that do bear good fruit will pass on seeds of generosity, sharing, compassion. Of course, we're always a mixed bag when it comes to what we are - what we inherited from those before us, what we've chosen, and what we pass on to others. So it isn't as if our judgment is final or singular. But, too, I suppose, an axe doesn't cut down a tree in one blow, either. In every act we are either chipping away at our roots or planting seeds of hope for the future. Either way, our fate seems certain, but we can pass on to others the possibility of a future time of equality. We are judged now - so that others later might live free.