1 Cor 9:16-23

"...I may make the gospel free of charge...” (v18)

This is something of a play on words for Paul, and differently for us. For Paul, the phrase “free of charge” has a double meaning: he is not paid by the people to be an apostle, and that the gospel itself is a free gift of the grace of God, not something of his giving or doing. The gospel is grounded in grace – the free-giving of God.

In English, the translation itself has an additional meaning: to deliver the gospel in such a manner that it is free from accusation or charge of inconsistency, falsehood, duplicity or ulterior motive. To give the gospel integrity with/through my own living out of the gospel I preach. To make the gospel free of any charge that could be laid against it (because of my actions or representation of it).

This is important. We inevitably represent the gospel to people who are unfamiliar with us or the gospel. We as “believers” show what we believe both in what we say and in what we do – and perhaps most importantly, we show our truest selves in the relationship between what we say and what we do. We are the gospel to the world. So if we bring it couched in fear or loathing, it is a gospel of fear and contempt. If we bring the gospel at the point of a sword or gun, it is the gospel of violence and domination. If we bring the gospel through vindictiveness, gossip, condescension, vanity, self-righteousness, aggressiveness, surety, then the gospel we bring is those things.

Perhaps this is what the gospel-writer John was talking about when he meant that God is love – our gods are whatever we do, how we treat others reveals our truest god, and the God of the gospel is revealed in loving.

When Paul writes a few verses later: “I have made myself a slave to all, so that I might win more of them,” the word translated as “win” is an economic term akin to “make profit.” Another way to phrase this might be: I have met everyone on their own terms as a servant to their best selves, so that I could be profitable to them. Being of service to others – especially others who see themselves as quite different from you – is a gospel-bearing act.

It adds flavor to Paul’s declaration of being all things to all people, so that he may save some. Save, too, is an economic term – and saving for the sake of saving is a poor economic plan. But saving for some future, better use is wise indeed. Maybe this has something to do with Paul’s word choice. We aren’t saved from something, but for something, for an act, for acts of loving. That we might also make the gospel free of charge.

As fine as frost on the ground… it is the bread that the Lord has given you to eat. (Exodus 16:2-15)
One difficulty for me – intellectually – is that God answers the people’s complaining. In some stories God answer their confidence, in others God punishes lack of faith, and in still others God surprises us before the question of faith is even raised. Here, the text says, God tests the people – except there is no test: the people complain and God provides.
There is also the likelihood that the morning-dew-bread the Hebrews find on the ground doesn’t taste very good. My understanding is that this is a natural phenomenon that still occurs to this day, but that the manna is a rather bland sort of emergency sustenance (notwithstanding the later description of it tasting like honey wafers [v31]).
I want to complain and have God meet my needs. I want God to deliver me from my anxieties, my frustrations, my uncertainties. I want God to provide for me a simple living. Like the Hebrews, I wanted my freedom more than anything else, but now that I am in the wilderness of adulthood, fending more for myself and finding the struggle terrifying and depressingly difficult, with starvation and homelessness hounding me on and threatening me at every failure. And I wonder if I also am finding the solutions open to me on the ground too bland to satisfy me.
I don’t think God is testing me – surely I would fail any such test, and I don’t think God is so petty as to schoolmarm me so. But I wonder if “test” is really describing our (human) experience, rather than God’s intention. Here we are, holding fast to a set of convictions, a distinct worldview (of hope and generosity, in constant tension with the world’s view of despair and struggle), and along come circumstances that seem to reinforce our basest instincts, our jealousy and rage, our protectiveness and resentfulness. It seems like an opportunity to choose between value-systems. It feels like a test – a test of our resolve, of our creativity, of our commitment to confidence in a worldview or story or hope that just doesn’t make sense sometimes. It feels like we can fail – that once choice is what we are supposed to select, and the other plainly wrong (but tempting for all that). Calling it a “test” is a descriptive term, not a prescriptive term – it describes the situation from our perspective, through the lens of our experience, not from the perspective of God. (Scripture is, we must remember, so often our human description and approximation of our experience of encountering God.)
But realizing that it isn’t a test engineered by God, but just feels like a test to me, doesn’t change how it feels to me. I feel tested – and failing. I want God to hear my complaining and meet my needs no matter what. I just want to cry out and be met by God, soothed by God, handed new life and strength, a change of certain situations, have my needs met (if humbly) without my having to worry about it. That’s what I want.
But can I not worry? Can I not be anxious? Will I not despair? Surely I will fail. But I suppose that’s one point of the story: God will meet us anyway. God will cover us with dew and chill, and when that has lifted (before the heat of the day melts it away) there will be a thin, flaky, surprising hope on the ground, sustenance for a little while longer.

Prisoners & Release

Acts 16:16-34

In 1913, 74 members of the International Workers of the World labor union (the "Wobblies") were arrested and put into the Snohomish County Jail near Everett, Washington. It was the newest jail, highest security technology - all steel. By common consent, all the Wobblies organized to start singing at a certain time that morning. They started singing, and jumping up and down, and soon enough hit the resonating frequency of the steel walls and broke the wall. They broke the jail by singing.

Now, it wasn't an earthquake, and they didn't have the opportunity to escape afterwards, but it does go to show the tremendous potential of being in prison for a just cause.

Paul and Silas were imprisoned and tortured because they set a girl free from economic exploitation. Her bosses were mad that they lost their source of revenue (they showed no concern for the girl, just their money), and took Paul and Silas to the authorities. The authorities, all too often ruled by the economic interests of the wealthy, agreed that Paul and Silas had to be kept under lock and key. Not only that, but stripped and beaten, then "severely flogged," and then taken to the inner-most cell of the jail, the most secure place, and even then put in stocks to hold them. (Sounds a little like Abu Ghraib.)

That night an earthquake destroys the jail (and their stocks?). The jailer comes rushing back, knowing that if these prisoners escaped it would be his life. He finds Paul and Silas waiting patiently for his return. The jailer asks: What must I do to be saved? His question is really a double entendre. What he means is what does he need to do to keep Paul and Silas from escaping, he is at their mercy. But what we know (because we're reading this story through the eyes of the Holy Spirit) is that what he needs is the gospel.

This is also a clear example of civil disobedience. Paul and Silas are arrested for an act of justice that violated the laws (and economic interests) of the rich and powerful. They do not take back the act, and do not attempt to evade the consequences of their actions. In fact, their submission to the laws (however unjust) is a double indictment of the injustice. Even when offered an opportunity to escape, they remain, forcing the authorities to confront the question of injustice in their midst.

But what is most striking is that the roles are reversed. (This is so Lucan.) Paul and Silas are tortured and imprisoned, but in the end they are the free ones, and it is the jailer who is tortured and imprisoned by his job and obligation and loyalty to the System, and it is he who requires liberation from his bondage. The jailer is converted by the experience of trying to hold Paul and Silas.

Individuals enmeshed in the System are converted not by people being nice and polite, but by people honestly and sincerely challenging the injustices supported by the actions of those enmeshed in the System. Paul and Silas' act showed the jailer who was really the victim of the State: not Paul and Silas the prisoners, but the jailer who is forced to torture and imprison men whose only crime is standing up against oppression.

The jailbreak, therefore, isn't for Paul and Silas, but for the jailer. When he asks: "What must I do to be saved?" he is recognizing that he is really not free, not safe, not saved.

What a tremendous testimony. Even those who are carrying out the orders of the System, who are doing terrible and unjust deeds, even those who think they are doing the right thing by supporting the State and its violence and oppression, can be converted by the civil disobedience and dedication of the faithful. A-men!

"This Man's Blood"

Acts 5:27-32

Jesus' disciples cannot stop talking about Jesus - and talk about Jesus is teaching about Jesus (which is why, incidentally, neo-orthodox theologians get so upset by historians and people like The Jesus Seminar who want to talk "about" Jesus... their "talk" becomes teaching about Jesus). As soon as the apostles get out of jail (either by escaping or by being set free), they return to talking all over Jerusalem about Jesus. And at this point, it is likely that whatever they say, even if it is the most orthodox Jewish claim, will be spoken and heard through the filter of making some statement about Jesus.

Is Luke being deliberately ironic when he has the high priest say to the disciples that they "are determined to bring this man's blood on us"? What the high priest means, of course, is the guilt of a condemned and executed criminal, perpetuating whatever crime of treason or disorder of which Jesus was convicted. But in another way, what the disciples are doing is precisely that: to bring Jesus' blood on all of them - spread recognition of Jesus' act(s) of sacrifice and opening the way to redemption. The high priest was exactly right about what the apostles were wanting to do, but misunderstanding it himself. (The continuation of the motif of misunderstanding is another link to Luke's Gospel - but here the high priest is in the position of the disciples in the Gospel: having heard the teachings but misunderstanding what they mean or imply, and being instead filled with confusion and fear of reprisal from earthly powers.)

The apostles do want to bring Jesus' blood on the people - but not as condemnation but as redemption, not as imprisonment but as liberation, not as a death-sentence but as new life.

Peter answers, however, the question of the high priest: "We must obey God rather than any human authority." What a perfect summary of principled disobedience. It is a more-articulate echo of an earlier similar confrontation a few verses previous (4:19). This is why Martin Luther penned his 95 theses; why Martin Luther King, Jr., led the bus boycott and spoke against the Vietnam War; why Gerrard Winstanley, Conrad Noel, Cesar Chavez, John L. Lewis, Rev. Lewis Bradford, and Hugh Thompson Jr., disobeyed and acted righteously: Holy (Dis)Obedience. Obedience to God supplants obedience to any human authority - something American Christians would do well to remember when the nation calls for war and vengeance. This new loyalty (and its political dimensions) is referenced again when Peter describes Jesus as "Savior": the Greek word "soter" was used to describe the Roman Emperor and the Roman gods. By using this politically-charged word Peter was making a statement about political loyalties and calling the religious leaders of Jerusalem on their collusion with an oppressive occupying power (instead of, presumably, principled disobedience of some kind).

Peter continues this inversion of expectations by actually highlighting Jesus' criminal conviction and violent end. Luke has Peter reference Jesus being hung on a tree. Is Luke taking some dramatic poetic license here in describing the cross as a tree? (It seems most contemporary Christians sing with this kind of language this way, as if Peter was euphemistically describing the wooden cross as a tree.) In Deuteronomy (21:22-23) hanging the body of an executed criminal on a tree was an act emphasizing his accursedness. It was a such a potent symbol of accursedness that it was not allowed to remain overnight, lest it defile the whole of the country. Luke is taking poetic license here, but not in describing the cross as a tree. Luke is using hyperbole in describing the general sense of accursedness attributed to Jesus. He wasn't just condemned, tortured and executed as a criminal by the Romans, the general impression is that Jesus was condemned and cursed by God! How much more powerful is the reversal of fortunes if this man so profoundly cursed is not only redeemed but exalted to the right hand of God, and declared Soter?!

Peter here is one-upping the high priest in describing the misfortune of Jesus, as if to say that no matter how bad you think Jesus was, we can go even further. Even more to say: no matter how much we describe his accursedness in this world, so much more profound is the work God has done (is doing) in/through Jesus and his redemption. Luke has Peter almost grandstanding in court (reflecting a fine twist of language that is characteristic of skilled Greek rhetoric), which makes it more understandable why the council before which Peter is speaking becomes enraged at his statements.

Finally, something that impresses me is that in this confrontation the apostles make no reference to Jesus' resurrection as part of the kerygma or message. They speak of exaltation, but not resurrection. Why is that? Was it just an oversight on the part of the author, or something more deliberate? Was the bodily resurrection (a notion popular at that time, so there was no reason to exclude it from the testimony of the apostles) not important to the message the disciples were spreading?

Something for me to chew on... and take comfort in. The fundamental of the kerygma is transformation, repentance, metanoia.

At least, in front of that council.

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.

Transformation: Vision and the Veil

Exodus 34:29-35

This week's lectionary scriptures develop the theme of transformation in the presence of God. Here, Moses' face is illuminated, so much so that when he descends people can't stop staring at him, can't stop talking about it, and Moses puts on a veil. Every time he goes to speak with God, Moses takes off the veil, then returns to the world and puts the veil back on again.

Moses understood something about encountering God and then returning to the world. In the presence of God one sees clearly, and is illuminated. When one returns to the world after such an experience, it is like looking at the world through a veil - things aren't as clear or as certain, the confidence and conviction and comprehensive understanding are gone, and there is a barrier between you and the world. This veil is only lifted again in the Presence of that Transforming Power.

Moses would try his best to communicate his experience on the mountain - and he phrased it in the language of commandment - a harsh and ruling word, but sometimes necessary to speak the truth. But note also that these words must be spoken, must be communicated. Commandments given to Moses cannot stay with Moses alone - they must be shared. Hence, the beginning of corporate spirituality, communal responsibility for faith. Even if we see but through a veil, we must share the vision given us in Transformation. When we come down from the mountains, come out from the Tabernacles, are are given new vision of the world, we must share.

Despite partial understanding, confused vision, we are commanded to act as if our world and behavior was sacred - to make our lives a covenant (a living sacrifice).

The Kingdom Call: Unity of Opposites

Psalm 148

I am usually uncomfortable with so much praising - seeing it as an outgrowth of imperial or kingly court influence or overlay on the religious devotion of the people, an attempt to transfer awe and allegiance of God to the king or emperor. So I found this particular psalm difficult to approach.

That being said, I can certainly appreciate the idea that the whole universe ought to appreciate the source of creative growth, stand in awe at the wondrous complexity and endurance, the fragility and perserverance of life and crystals and the atomic numbers on the periodic table of elements.

(I did find it entertaining when the psalmist spoke of the "waters above the heavens" [4] and "sea monsters" [7]. It reminds me that, yes, this an historical document reflecting a particular time and understanding, much of which I cannot share. And it reminds me to be generous in my reading.)

But something started to come together in verses 9 through 12. Fruit trees and cedars, wild animals and cattle, creeping things and flying birds, kings and people, women and men, young and old. These are all pairings of populations that compete with one another. Each of these is clearly distinct from the other and often vies for power and prosperity, sometimes for survival. Yet in this psalm they are united, singing with one voice, in praise of something greater than they. Herein lies the crux: God unifies disagreeing parties, and those who would praise God must join their voices with their enemies' if they would send a pleasing sound. This is the kingdom of God, Zion: unity in the face of division, diversity in the face of competition and forces that would wipe out diversity, holding all things sacred - especially our enemies and victims and those who oppose us (and whom we oppose). The wolf shall lie down with the lamb, and a little child shall lead them. (Isaiah 11:6)

Worship of God necessarily includes reconciling with our enemies, with our resources, with our sources of sustenance... with all creation, starting with what we most violently oppose or exploit.

And that is truly worth the whole world's praise.

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.