Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they will be filled.
In the movie, Castaway, Tom Hanks is a FedEx Executive who is in love. His fiancé is getting her PhD. She is bright, energetic and honest. Tom is busy as a Corporate Exec for this booming new business that transports packages at rapid speed all over the world. He frequently travels, eats a little too much, enjoys his life and feels content in every way.
Tom is about to leave for a trip on a FedEx jet. His fiancé begs him not to go. She says that she has a bad feeling about it, that something might happen to him. He laughs her off, kisses her, and boards the plane which is charted to cross the Pacific Ocean.
Something happens on that place that night. There is a storm and some kind of malfunction. The plane goes down. The crew dies, some of them right in front of Tom’s eyes. He struggles to swim in dark waters and finds a flotation device. By the next morning, he awakens on an island. He is the sole survivor. The body of one of the crew members is there and some random FedEx packages are lying in the sand.
Tom begins to learn how to survive. He rapidly realizes that there is no one to help him. He unwraps the packages and makes the most of the contents: a pair of iceskates turn into knives, a volleyball becomes decorated and he even talks to it and befriends it. He finds a cave in which to sleep and he learns to fish. For four years, he lives on this island alone, staring at the small picture of his fiancé each night for comfort.
After four years of studying the seasons and the wind, some debris washes up on shore which includes material that could be used to make a sail. Tom builds a small raft and risks his life to find a ship or another shore. He is found by a vessel after days and days, when he is near death by dehydration, and he returns to life in America.
His fiancé, who thought he was dead, has now married another man. She has a daughter. She is no longer the person who he remembers, but she does tell him that she never believed that he was dead. And she tells him that she should have waited for him, instead she tried to replace him with another and her life became empty.
When she tried to fill the emptiness that he left by filling it with another man, it did not seem to work. And when he returned, there was no room in her life for the man who she loved most of all.
Jesus walked with us once. Becoming Christian means falling in love with him and wanting to see him, to remember him, to be blessed by him. It also means to realize that he is not with us bodily. Being Christian means that we miss him and want to see him. It means that we are empty. We are incomplete.
Americans have a simple goal in life. We want to be happy. And we believe that the highest goal in life is the happily ever after life. So we spend all our lives trying to be happy, trying to be fulfilled. And when we are not content, we feel that something is fundamentally wrong with us. We should be happier! So we exercise harder or read self-help books or take medications. This is the eternal myth-that you should be happy in this life.
So we begin the process of idolatry. Step back and think about the messages that bombard you on TV, on billboards, in magazines. If you eat this hamburger, you will be happy. If you go on this cruise, you will be happy. If you invest your money with this group, or lose this weight, or buy the right outfit, you will be happy. So we buy and eat and invest and go to the gym, but none of it makes us happy.
So we move to the second level of idolatry. We recognize that stuff will not fill us, so we aim for the perfect relationship. If only I had the perfect relationship, then I would be happy. Or maybe it’s the perfect job and we seek, where everyone gets along all the time. So we try for these things, but we can’t seem to establish the perfect relationship and our job is sometimes just a job.
So we move on to the final and most profound kind of idolatry. We start praying, serving God, worshipping in church. We do all these things faithfully, but we do not do them for God, we do them for ourselves, so that we will be happy.
The majority of the churches in this country promise that if you are faithful enough, you will find peace. You will be fulfilled, you will be happy. But here is the truth:
Jesus did not come to make you feel better. He came to save you.
God’s first priority is not that you feel good. God has much more important things in mind for you. And God knows that when you suffer, you grow. In fact, being happy in a world where there is such suffering is almost unrealistic. How can you be happy when people are starving, when riots break out in Egypt and no one can agree on how to solve the deficit? How can you be happy when your children struggle or your parents age before your eyes? Isn’t it realistic to wish that things could be easier, even for those of us who are incredibly fortunate? Is life really ever easy?
Jesus says that the point of life is not to be happy. The point of life is to realize that you are incomplete. You are poor, hungry, mourning and lost. You do not have everything that you need. The point of life is to realize that you cannot exist without God, that there is no complete without God, that you don’t want anything as much as you want God.
Blessed are the poor, he said. Blessed are you when people you love die and you grieve for them. Blessed are you when you hunger and thirst for the world to be a better place, for you will be filled.
Let yourself be empty. Let yourselves be restless. Let yourself yearn for something more than this. Long for God. Wait for God. Hope for God. Blessed are you when you wake up to realize that you are incomplete without God.
People who are poor have no illusions about their fragility. They do not believe that they are in control of their lives. They know that they are helpless, dependent, alone. And when they realize these things, then they are ready to enter into relationship with God.
So harbor no illusions, no matter what you own or who you love. Your life is brief. Your belongings are impermanent. Your love is a reflection of the greater love of God. As the Psalmist says, You are a breath that comes and goes away. You are not here to stay.
If you are restless or dissatisfied, you are BLESSED. Do not shame yourself for not being happy all the time! You are not doing something wrong. You are searching and that, in itself, is good. You are looking for Christ in a broken world. Sometimes you see him, but other times you see his absence and you long for his return.
When Tom Hank’s character realizes that his fiancé is gone, married to another man, he lays in his hotel room at night and switches the lights on and off to remind himself of the light in his cave on the island. Once more, he is lost. Once more, he is empty. The life that he longed for has slipped through his grasp. And he realizes that he has to start over again.
So the next day he leaves and drives out into the Midwest, leaving from Texas, out into the open plain. He does not know where he is going, only that his life has changed and he must change with it. And as with all those of us who are longing for something more, he looks ahead at the horizon and strains to see what is up ahead.
Hunger and thirst for righteousness, do not shame yourself for not being content. You were made for more than this. Much more.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Fishing
Have you ever noticed that the passages of Scripture that we are most familiar with are the ones that we fail to examine? It is as if they become old friends to us, comfortable, predictable. We don’t want to disrupt the cozy relationship that we have established with these passages. We say, Oh, I know that passage! And we stop listening. Who wants to reexamine something when it feels so familiar, so comfortable? Who wants to disturb and old friend? So we gloss over the passage, smiling and nodding and failing to listen to the depths of God’s message contained in the sacred words.
Today’s gospel is one that many of you have heard. You know, the one about fishing for people? Jesus has just emerged from the desert. He walks along the shore of the Sea of Galiliee and sees two fishermen casting their nets into the sea. The nets of fishermen were made of rope tied in hundreds of knots. They were invaluable as tools in making a living, second only to the boats in their value. It was probably close to dusk for the fishermen tended to fish at night. The fish would not rise in the heat of the day, but preferred to take the bait in the cool hours of the night.
Jesus saw Peter and Andrew, two brothers, going about their daily lives. They were hauling the heavy net, and throwing it out like a weighty sheet into the water. Jesus said to them
Come. And I will make you fish for people.
These words were life-changing. With these words, Peter and Andrew left their entire livelihood behind and followed Jesus. But they sound so simple, so metaphorical.
Come. And I will make you fish for people.
Listen to these words with me. For their meaning is so rich, so deep as to penetrate our understanding of what it means to serve God. These are not familiar old words, or the words of a comforting fairy-tale. These words are the stuff of change itself. To catch a glimpse of what Jesus was talking about is frightening. It is frightening. And I will tell you why.
When I was five years old, I went fishing with my cousin Edward. Edward was eight years older than me and I thought that he knew everything. I was so proud that he had invited me. I was determined to learn a lot, to do everything he said, to be totally and utterly useful.
It took hours for Edward to catch a fish, or at least that’s what my five-year-old mind remembered. Hours of waiting. It seemed like forever. Then then, he hooked a fish.
A tug of war ensued between Edward and the fish. Edward won and he lifted the fish into the boat where it flailed and struggled. I watched it in horror.
It was unable to breathe, it’s gills pumping in and out. It seemed totally panicked, desperate to return to it’s world of water. I watched and watched. I was horrified by the agony of the fish. I had no idea that something so peaceful could be so brutal. I watched longer and, finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I threw that small fish back into the water. Edward was furious. I never went fishing with him again.
Most of us come to church because we are hungry for something. We want peace of mind. We want to understand why our lives aren’t working out quite like we planned. We want some guidance, something more meaningful than ordinary existence. Maybe we have a child and realize that we cannot raise that child by ourselves. How can we teach them about morality when we don’t really understand it ourselves? Or maybe we get sick and begin to wonder, “What does happen to me when I die, when my body no longer works?” We begin to hope that there might be something more and it is this hope that drives us here, to this beautiful space. We are hungry for something that we cannot articulate.
We come to this beautiful building, here this music that stirs our souls and some of us begin to get hooked. We find ourselves longing to return. We realize that our lives just don’t feel quite right when we miss church. We begin to recognize that there is something here which we cannot explain but which moves us deeply. We begin to believe, to be willing to put our trust in God. And that’s when the tug of war begins.
The early person of faith wants God to do his or her will. We want to be believers, we know that God made us and we want to serve God, but we are still convinced, somewhere deep inside, that we know what is best for us. We pray for things like health and prosperity, a balanced budget and safety for our children. We all do this. We pray for our will to be done. We ask God to help with our agenda and then we strain and tug against the pull of the fisherman. Do it my way, God, we say. Not your way, but my way.
At some point, we give up trying to tell God what to do and we begin to listen. We awaken to the fact that God wants to pull us out of our very existence, to a realm of being that is totally unfamiliar. God wants to pull us into what Jesus described as The Kingdom, a reality that it completely different from what we know. This kingdom is so unknown and so foreign to us that we struggle and we are afraid. We must die to ourselves so that we can be born to God.
To be truly caught, utterly and totally by God is to know that God really knows so much more that we know. It is to hand ourselves over to God, body and soul and to wonder what God will do next with us. It is to live in the Kingdom, in the resurrection life, and to make all our choices from that vantage-point. To be caught is to say, with sincerity and with hope, Thy Will be Done.
I just returned from a visit to Cuba. The Christians there are incredibly healthy spiritually. They have so little to hold onto in this world. There is so much poverty and so many economic issues in Cuba. The buildings are literally crumbling. Many would be considered hazardous in this country and would be condemned. Just going to church has been a great risk in years past. To become a priest is to give up a steady reliable salary for the uncertain hope of the generosity of a small struggling church.
But, despite all of this struggle for money and belongings, for a secure place to live, the people are so happy. They have light shining from their eyes.
At the Installation of the new Dean, I wanted to give them something, but my Spanish is terrible. So I sang an Irish blessing for them. They were so happy and gracious. They thanked me and kissed me and told me how wonderful it was, a silly, simple blessing that my mother used to sing to me. And at the Peace, every single person in the Cathedral had to hug every other person. The peace lasted for a full 15 minutes. These people had been caught by the fisherman.
An elderly woman approached me after church. She ran a house church for Episcopalians who could not get to the cathedral. She spent her meager pension on helping those less fortunate than herself. And she had light shining from her eyes.
It strikes me that there are many stages of fishing. There is the time when you are just getting hooked, a time of excitement and thrill as you realize the beauty and the hope that God provides for you. Then there is the tug of war, as we struggle to try to make God do what we want, what we think that it means to be Christian. And then there is the final stage, when you allow the fisherman to pull you right out of this world into the resurrection life, where your life is no longer your own and everything is new.
And even when you have been pulled into the Kingdom itself, and your life becomes dedicated to God, there are times when you flail around, not knowing how to give your life away, not knowing how to die to yourself. There are times when you long to be thrown back into the water, the humdrum simplicity of ordinary, selfish human existence.
Who says that fishing is easy? It is a struggle, a death, an ultimate change of existence. It is a process of being pulled from everything that we know into something so free, so incredibly other, into God’s service…into life itself.
Today’s gospel is one that many of you have heard. You know, the one about fishing for people? Jesus has just emerged from the desert. He walks along the shore of the Sea of Galiliee and sees two fishermen casting their nets into the sea. The nets of fishermen were made of rope tied in hundreds of knots. They were invaluable as tools in making a living, second only to the boats in their value. It was probably close to dusk for the fishermen tended to fish at night. The fish would not rise in the heat of the day, but preferred to take the bait in the cool hours of the night.
Jesus saw Peter and Andrew, two brothers, going about their daily lives. They were hauling the heavy net, and throwing it out like a weighty sheet into the water. Jesus said to them
Come. And I will make you fish for people.
These words were life-changing. With these words, Peter and Andrew left their entire livelihood behind and followed Jesus. But they sound so simple, so metaphorical.
Come. And I will make you fish for people.
Listen to these words with me. For their meaning is so rich, so deep as to penetrate our understanding of what it means to serve God. These are not familiar old words, or the words of a comforting fairy-tale. These words are the stuff of change itself. To catch a glimpse of what Jesus was talking about is frightening. It is frightening. And I will tell you why.
When I was five years old, I went fishing with my cousin Edward. Edward was eight years older than me and I thought that he knew everything. I was so proud that he had invited me. I was determined to learn a lot, to do everything he said, to be totally and utterly useful.
It took hours for Edward to catch a fish, or at least that’s what my five-year-old mind remembered. Hours of waiting. It seemed like forever. Then then, he hooked a fish.
A tug of war ensued between Edward and the fish. Edward won and he lifted the fish into the boat where it flailed and struggled. I watched it in horror.
It was unable to breathe, it’s gills pumping in and out. It seemed totally panicked, desperate to return to it’s world of water. I watched and watched. I was horrified by the agony of the fish. I had no idea that something so peaceful could be so brutal. I watched longer and, finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I threw that small fish back into the water. Edward was furious. I never went fishing with him again.
Most of us come to church because we are hungry for something. We want peace of mind. We want to understand why our lives aren’t working out quite like we planned. We want some guidance, something more meaningful than ordinary existence. Maybe we have a child and realize that we cannot raise that child by ourselves. How can we teach them about morality when we don’t really understand it ourselves? Or maybe we get sick and begin to wonder, “What does happen to me when I die, when my body no longer works?” We begin to hope that there might be something more and it is this hope that drives us here, to this beautiful space. We are hungry for something that we cannot articulate.
We come to this beautiful building, here this music that stirs our souls and some of us begin to get hooked. We find ourselves longing to return. We realize that our lives just don’t feel quite right when we miss church. We begin to recognize that there is something here which we cannot explain but which moves us deeply. We begin to believe, to be willing to put our trust in God. And that’s when the tug of war begins.
The early person of faith wants God to do his or her will. We want to be believers, we know that God made us and we want to serve God, but we are still convinced, somewhere deep inside, that we know what is best for us. We pray for things like health and prosperity, a balanced budget and safety for our children. We all do this. We pray for our will to be done. We ask God to help with our agenda and then we strain and tug against the pull of the fisherman. Do it my way, God, we say. Not your way, but my way.
At some point, we give up trying to tell God what to do and we begin to listen. We awaken to the fact that God wants to pull us out of our very existence, to a realm of being that is totally unfamiliar. God wants to pull us into what Jesus described as The Kingdom, a reality that it completely different from what we know. This kingdom is so unknown and so foreign to us that we struggle and we are afraid. We must die to ourselves so that we can be born to God.
To be truly caught, utterly and totally by God is to know that God really knows so much more that we know. It is to hand ourselves over to God, body and soul and to wonder what God will do next with us. It is to live in the Kingdom, in the resurrection life, and to make all our choices from that vantage-point. To be caught is to say, with sincerity and with hope, Thy Will be Done.
I just returned from a visit to Cuba. The Christians there are incredibly healthy spiritually. They have so little to hold onto in this world. There is so much poverty and so many economic issues in Cuba. The buildings are literally crumbling. Many would be considered hazardous in this country and would be condemned. Just going to church has been a great risk in years past. To become a priest is to give up a steady reliable salary for the uncertain hope of the generosity of a small struggling church.
But, despite all of this struggle for money and belongings, for a secure place to live, the people are so happy. They have light shining from their eyes.
At the Installation of the new Dean, I wanted to give them something, but my Spanish is terrible. So I sang an Irish blessing for them. They were so happy and gracious. They thanked me and kissed me and told me how wonderful it was, a silly, simple blessing that my mother used to sing to me. And at the Peace, every single person in the Cathedral had to hug every other person. The peace lasted for a full 15 minutes. These people had been caught by the fisherman.
An elderly woman approached me after church. She ran a house church for Episcopalians who could not get to the cathedral. She spent her meager pension on helping those less fortunate than herself. And she had light shining from her eyes.
It strikes me that there are many stages of fishing. There is the time when you are just getting hooked, a time of excitement and thrill as you realize the beauty and the hope that God provides for you. Then there is the tug of war, as we struggle to try to make God do what we want, what we think that it means to be Christian. And then there is the final stage, when you allow the fisherman to pull you right out of this world into the resurrection life, where your life is no longer your own and everything is new.
And even when you have been pulled into the Kingdom itself, and your life becomes dedicated to God, there are times when you flail around, not knowing how to give your life away, not knowing how to die to yourself. There are times when you long to be thrown back into the water, the humdrum simplicity of ordinary, selfish human existence.
Who says that fishing is easy? It is a struggle, a death, an ultimate change of existence. It is a process of being pulled from everything that we know into something so free, so incredibly other, into God’s service…into life itself.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Words from the Cross
Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.
The Gospel of Luke
It takes a certain kind of strength and faithfulness not to just skip Good Friday. I am constantly surprised at how many of my flock can’t make it. When I was in South Carolina at a little church, I would sit in silence for the three hours that Jesus hung on the cross and there would be one person with me at times, sometimes no one. So many people don’t want to think about the pain that Jesus endured, about the death that he suffered. It is just too raw, too difficult. So we get busy. We just can’t make it. Just take me straight to Easter, I don’t want the mess. It’s too hard to look at death in the face. Only certain people have the strength and you, my friends, are among them.
Jesus spoke only seven times during the three hours that he hung on the cross. Physicians who have researched what happened to his body as it was being crucified conclude that Jesus suffocated. Fluid would have slowly filled his lungs. He also could have bled to death. We are not sure which of these two led to his death. But we do know that it would have been very painful to speak, especially in a way that could have been heard by those below the cross. So when Jesus spoke, it was important. These words were spoken in agony. Each word cost him precious moments of life. Each word was uttered with enormous effort. And that is why, during the three hours in which Jesus hung on the cross, we meditate on his words. These are not some off the cuff statements that Jesus made. These words ate up his oxygen, accelerated his dying. These were intentional and costly words.
Jesus words are recorded once in Matthew and Mark, three times in Luke and three times in John. It is not clear in what precise order they occurred, since different phrases are recorded in different gospels, but each year we do our best to place them in some kind of chronological order.
In the Lucan account, Jesus’ first words are Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.
Have you ever been in excruciating pain? Have you ever broken a bone or given birth to a child, cut yourself to the bone or thrown out your back? Most of us have endured some kind of extreme physical pain at some point in our lives and we recognize that one of the most evident features of pain is how all consuming it is. When you are in excruciating pain, there is nothing else that seems to matter. It is a state of extreme self-absorption. When I am in pain, I cannot think of the needs of the world or the desires of my friends, all that absorbs my mind is processing the pain. It fills my consciousness and there is not room for anything else.
Jesus was able to think of others in the midst of physical agony. He was not concerned for himself, his thoughts were on us. And that in and of itself is a miracle. He was so selfless, so loving that even agonizing pain could not make him forget his love for the human race.
And even if we put aside the physical pain for a moment, what about the mental pain? Jesus is in the pit of despair. He is dying. He has any and every right to be totally and completely self-absorbed. Talk about an opportunity to feel sorry for yourself! I would have milked it for all its worth. But he does not let this complete injustice make him self-absorbed. His first words are not for himself. He is not thinking about his pain or his death or even how unfair all of this is. He does not beg for mercy or to come down. He thinks of Us!
Jesus is concerned that God will not forgive us for crucifying him. He begs for God’s forgiveness. Sucking in each agonizing breath, he begs not for himself but for us.
I don’t know about you but I spend an awful lot of time thinking about myself. The intensity of my self-absorption only seems to increase when I am suffering. All I want to do is to feel better. Jesus was not that way. He was so in love with us that he could not stop thinking about us, even when his lungs were filling up with fluid, even when he could not breathe.
It is also a human tendency to demonize the one that commits violence to you. The one who hurts you is not a person. It is easier to commit a crime when you do not think of the person that you are hurting. Better that they are a spectacle, an event, not a human being.
A college student named Jane was walking through campus at night when she was grabbed from behind. Her assailant dragged her into the woods and began to rip off her clothing. Instead of fighting him, she kept looking into his eyes and saying, “I am Jane. My name is Jane. What is your name? My name is Jane. Are you OK?…”
As she was telling his over and over again that she was a person. And he stopped. He realized that he was hurting a person. He let her go. She began to help him get off drugs and they became friends.
Otis Gray was a chaplain during World War I. He brought communion to the soldiers daily. He counseled them amidst the horror of a kind of war none of them had ever seen before. He held boys as they died. He watched others gun down young men who were so close that you could see the fear in their eyes. He lived in the midst of hell. And he tried to bring God into the lives of these men who saw nothing but violence.
Otis had a good friend, a young man who was also from Kansas. The young man told Otis that if he got out of the war alive, he would start a church with Otis Gray. Together, they would start a church in Kansas.
In the mist of one of the worst battles on the fields of France, Otis found himself in a ditch along with his soldiers. They were ordered to run into the no man’s land between themselves and the Germans. The boy from Kansas climbed out of the ditch and began shooting. Otis watched as his young friend was gunned down. He watched as the boys body hit the ground. And, at that moment, he had to make a spit decision.
It came from deep inside. It was not a decision that could have been justified with words. It was just a gut level decision. Otis climbed out of the no man’s land and went to the boy. Seeing that the boy was alive, he gave him communion. And then, he carried his friend to safety.
They both survived the war and started a church together. It is called St. James Episcopal Church. But to this day, the people of that church say that the worship began that day so long ago, on the fields of France, when one man was able to put another man’s life ahead of his own. When someone, for just a moment, became a true servant of Christ.
That is all that we can hope for, really. For moments of time when we are able to leave our self-centered notions behind and see through Jesus’ eyes. And see the pain and the ignorance and the needs of so many people for God and for forgiveness. When Jesus said that the people did not know what they were doing in crucifying him, he was right. We had stopped seeing him as a person. But he never stopped seeing us.
When Jesus looked out across the place of the skull, he saw people who needed God. He saw people who were lost and had no idea what they were doing. He saw you and he saw me. He saw all our stupidity and all our mistakes. And he wanted us to be forgiven. He wanted us to be saved.
And he hopes for us still.
Never has there been another human being who was so selfless, so giving. We can never be as loving as Christ, but we can move a step closer. We can step out and introduce ourselves to people in pain, we can think about the needs of others. We can try to know what we are doing.
The Gospel of Luke
It takes a certain kind of strength and faithfulness not to just skip Good Friday. I am constantly surprised at how many of my flock can’t make it. When I was in South Carolina at a little church, I would sit in silence for the three hours that Jesus hung on the cross and there would be one person with me at times, sometimes no one. So many people don’t want to think about the pain that Jesus endured, about the death that he suffered. It is just too raw, too difficult. So we get busy. We just can’t make it. Just take me straight to Easter, I don’t want the mess. It’s too hard to look at death in the face. Only certain people have the strength and you, my friends, are among them.
Jesus spoke only seven times during the three hours that he hung on the cross. Physicians who have researched what happened to his body as it was being crucified conclude that Jesus suffocated. Fluid would have slowly filled his lungs. He also could have bled to death. We are not sure which of these two led to his death. But we do know that it would have been very painful to speak, especially in a way that could have been heard by those below the cross. So when Jesus spoke, it was important. These words were spoken in agony. Each word cost him precious moments of life. Each word was uttered with enormous effort. And that is why, during the three hours in which Jesus hung on the cross, we meditate on his words. These are not some off the cuff statements that Jesus made. These words ate up his oxygen, accelerated his dying. These were intentional and costly words.
Jesus words are recorded once in Matthew and Mark, three times in Luke and three times in John. It is not clear in what precise order they occurred, since different phrases are recorded in different gospels, but each year we do our best to place them in some kind of chronological order.
In the Lucan account, Jesus’ first words are Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.
Have you ever been in excruciating pain? Have you ever broken a bone or given birth to a child, cut yourself to the bone or thrown out your back? Most of us have endured some kind of extreme physical pain at some point in our lives and we recognize that one of the most evident features of pain is how all consuming it is. When you are in excruciating pain, there is nothing else that seems to matter. It is a state of extreme self-absorption. When I am in pain, I cannot think of the needs of the world or the desires of my friends, all that absorbs my mind is processing the pain. It fills my consciousness and there is not room for anything else.
Jesus was able to think of others in the midst of physical agony. He was not concerned for himself, his thoughts were on us. And that in and of itself is a miracle. He was so selfless, so loving that even agonizing pain could not make him forget his love for the human race.
And even if we put aside the physical pain for a moment, what about the mental pain? Jesus is in the pit of despair. He is dying. He has any and every right to be totally and completely self-absorbed. Talk about an opportunity to feel sorry for yourself! I would have milked it for all its worth. But he does not let this complete injustice make him self-absorbed. His first words are not for himself. He is not thinking about his pain or his death or even how unfair all of this is. He does not beg for mercy or to come down. He thinks of Us!
Jesus is concerned that God will not forgive us for crucifying him. He begs for God’s forgiveness. Sucking in each agonizing breath, he begs not for himself but for us.
I don’t know about you but I spend an awful lot of time thinking about myself. The intensity of my self-absorption only seems to increase when I am suffering. All I want to do is to feel better. Jesus was not that way. He was so in love with us that he could not stop thinking about us, even when his lungs were filling up with fluid, even when he could not breathe.
It is also a human tendency to demonize the one that commits violence to you. The one who hurts you is not a person. It is easier to commit a crime when you do not think of the person that you are hurting. Better that they are a spectacle, an event, not a human being.
A college student named Jane was walking through campus at night when she was grabbed from behind. Her assailant dragged her into the woods and began to rip off her clothing. Instead of fighting him, she kept looking into his eyes and saying, “I am Jane. My name is Jane. What is your name? My name is Jane. Are you OK?…”
As she was telling his over and over again that she was a person. And he stopped. He realized that he was hurting a person. He let her go. She began to help him get off drugs and they became friends.
Otis Gray was a chaplain during World War I. He brought communion to the soldiers daily. He counseled them amidst the horror of a kind of war none of them had ever seen before. He held boys as they died. He watched others gun down young men who were so close that you could see the fear in their eyes. He lived in the midst of hell. And he tried to bring God into the lives of these men who saw nothing but violence.
Otis had a good friend, a young man who was also from Kansas. The young man told Otis that if he got out of the war alive, he would start a church with Otis Gray. Together, they would start a church in Kansas.
In the mist of one of the worst battles on the fields of France, Otis found himself in a ditch along with his soldiers. They were ordered to run into the no man’s land between themselves and the Germans. The boy from Kansas climbed out of the ditch and began shooting. Otis watched as his young friend was gunned down. He watched as the boys body hit the ground. And, at that moment, he had to make a spit decision.
It came from deep inside. It was not a decision that could have been justified with words. It was just a gut level decision. Otis climbed out of the no man’s land and went to the boy. Seeing that the boy was alive, he gave him communion. And then, he carried his friend to safety.
They both survived the war and started a church together. It is called St. James Episcopal Church. But to this day, the people of that church say that the worship began that day so long ago, on the fields of France, when one man was able to put another man’s life ahead of his own. When someone, for just a moment, became a true servant of Christ.
That is all that we can hope for, really. For moments of time when we are able to leave our self-centered notions behind and see through Jesus’ eyes. And see the pain and the ignorance and the needs of so many people for God and for forgiveness. When Jesus said that the people did not know what they were doing in crucifying him, he was right. We had stopped seeing him as a person. But he never stopped seeing us.
When Jesus looked out across the place of the skull, he saw people who needed God. He saw people who were lost and had no idea what they were doing. He saw you and he saw me. He saw all our stupidity and all our mistakes. And he wanted us to be forgiven. He wanted us to be saved.
And he hopes for us still.
Never has there been another human being who was so selfless, so giving. We can never be as loving as Christ, but we can move a step closer. We can step out and introduce ourselves to people in pain, we can think about the needs of others. We can try to know what we are doing.
Monday, January 03, 2011
Coming Down From Heaven
Did you see the eclipse on Monday night? My mother mentioned it at dinner Monday night and the time stuck in my mind. 2.30 a.m. I want to see that, I thought to myself. Then I resumed parenting and working and forgot all about it. But God had not forgotten.
At 2.30 on the dot, I woke from a deep sleep. Startled at the time, I still struggled to get out of my warm bed despite the fact that it was clear to me that I was supposed to see this cosmic event. I did rouse my lazy body and went to my son Jacob’s room to wake him. He went outside with me, where we witnessed one of the most beautiful celestial events that I have ever seen. Jake wanted to go back to sleep so I woke up Luke, his older brother. Luke looked at the eclipse for awhile, then he too wanted to go back to bed, so I woke up Max, my youngest and carried him downstairs. He loved the sight but was cold and wanted to return to his warm bed, so I woke my husband, JD, and stood outside marveling with him, until he too asked to go inside. Then I stood out there alone, until my neck hurt.
The sight of that eclipse granted me a moment of pure awe. These kind of moments happen briefly to many of us, when we become overwhelmed with the size of the Universe and our own relative obscurity. It is so powerful, this sense of awe, but it does not last for long. I don’t think that our small human brains can stretch that far. We can only contemplate God’s greatness for a short period of time before our minds begin to hurt and shrink back to the daily worries and thoughts of our lives.
I remembered how small we human creatures are in comparison with the vast expanse of the Universe. That eclipse was millions of miles away and yet it was considerably closer than most of the rest of outer space. The Universe is vast and we are tiny in comparison. And the God who makes it all, that God is far beyond anything that our tiny brains can fathom.
What does it mean that the God of the Universe, the God of light years, of eclipses and cosmic events, that this vast Creator became a baby? For years I have spoken to congregations about what it means for us to have God do such a thing, to make such a sacrifice. But I have never really asked myself what it must have been like for God, to be so large, so vast and creative and exquisite, and to empty himself/herself/itself of all greatness in order to become helpless. What was it like for God? We can never fully know this for we can never fully know what it is like to be God, but we can catch glimpses of the nature of this sacrifice and of what it took for God to become human.
I caught a glimpse of God's sacrifice in my friend, Margaret. Margaret was a traveler of the world, a lover of art and books. Her husband was in the foreign service and they lived much of their lives abroad. They had never wanted to be encumbered by children, they were free to chose their own destinies, free to live life fully. Margaret loved to read, to listen to music, to paint. Then, at forty years old, Margaret got pregnant.
An amniocentesis revealed that the child had severe developmental disorders. He might die, the doctors said. And if he lives, he will be compromised, very compromised. His life would hardly be life, just a boy who was unable to communicate or even feed himself.
Margaret already loved the child before he was even born. She could not explain why, she just loved him. But her husband did not. Worried about what this would do to his career, he left Margaret for a younger woman.
Margaret had no other family. She gave birth to the baby boy alone in a hospital in New York City. There were complications, many complications. The baby had to have multiple surgeries just to stay alive. He would never walk, never talk. His life-span was shortened. But from the moment that she looked upon him, Margaret felt that she had never seen anyone so beautiful. She changed the course of her life, devoting herself to his care. She did not travel. She was on a tight budget. She spent much of her day cleaning and feeding him. They communicated only in smiles and in touch, for he had no words that he could speak. She was often alone with him.
Margaret gave up her wide open life to give herself to this boy. Her life became small, it revolved around his eating and sleeping habits. She would dress him in the morning and clean him, setting him up in his wheelchair. She would bend down over his wheelchair and speak to him, looking right into his eyes. She would take him for slow walks, the same walks every day, for he loved routine and repetition. He loved to look at the sky, the trees. Anything out of the ordinary scared him so she made sure that they lived very simply and predictably. She played him beautiful music and read to him, hoping that some of it would sink into his soul. She was never sure what was reaching him, what he could hear and understand. She would feed him at the same time every night and put him to bed. When he was just 18 and Margaret just 58, her son died.
Her friends thought that her life was ruined. She spent 18 years tied to an invalid. But Margaret did not see it that way. To this day, she says that he is the best thing that happened to her in her life. He changed her forever. It was her greatest joy.
God chose to limit the Divine self, to move from the vast expanse of space and the beauty of heaven, to be condensed into a tiny human body, helpless and cold, held by his mother. To be burped and fed, cold and hungry, to grow in a body limited by time and space. To walk and talk, breath and eat, to sleep and wake again. And all this was so limiting for the One who created all things.
Scholars believe that Jesus was born in a cave. The shepherds still dig caves to escape the wind among the hills of Bethlehem. We cannot imagine the dirt and stench of such a place, so most Americans prefer to picture Jesus in a little wooden shack, kind of cozy and clean. But he was born in a cave full of animals. He was born in the dirt.
Jesus was not born into some fairy tale, don’t be fooled. The night was silent and it was holy but it was not fantasy land. It was holy precisely because it was real. Jesus was born in the heart of the Middle East to a homeless couple who did not know where they were going to eat next. He was born into a land with a dictator who was so paranoid that he would order the slaughter of baby boys. He was born in the messy, painful, beautiful world that WE live in, and nowhere else. Jesus came HERE.
I have never heard of a King who willingly gave up power. I have never heard of a powerful person who gave up power. It goes counter to all that we are taught in this world. Every day we hear of people who earn money, spend money. We see ads where people eat, go on vacation, take care of themselves. Everything in this world is about ME, the supreme Me and how do I take care of myself and what do I deserve. But Margaret loved her son more than she loved her life. God loves us that much, to give up being Creator and become man. God just did it. God condensed the whole Universe, decided that it would be better to live in only three dimensions instead of 300 dimensions. And it was God’s joy. That’s how much we are loved. It was and it is God’s joy to become Incarnation, in the flesh.
Why is it that we think we need to get better, to more holy in order to grow closer to God? Why is it that we feel that we must be well behaved to deserve God’s love? There are people who do not come to church because they do not feel worthy. There are people who shy away from God because they feel so small, so petty, so broken. They see this beautiful place, hear this beautiful music and they feel unworthy. Are you one of them? Are you afraid that God will not want you because you are so limited, because you have made so many mistakes?
Don’t buy into the myths about Christmas. Christmas is not a perfect time, when everyone gets along. Christmas is not designed for the perfect family with 2 children and a picket fence. It is not reserved for the harmonious and happy. So you don’t have to pretend to be someone you are not. Christmas is a miracle that happened in the midst of a mess.
God came to us even though we cannot see clearly and we don’t know how to live our lives right. God comes to you and God waits for you. God finds you so beautiful, with all your mistakes and problems and everything. God find you so beautiful.
I looked up at the moon that night and I asked myself, “God, how could you do this for me? How could you leave all that majesty and come down to me? Why me? Why did you come down for me?”
The light shone down as it did that night on the shepherds. And I knew that the answer was so simple, so simple that it is hard to believe.
Because I love you.
At 2.30 on the dot, I woke from a deep sleep. Startled at the time, I still struggled to get out of my warm bed despite the fact that it was clear to me that I was supposed to see this cosmic event. I did rouse my lazy body and went to my son Jacob’s room to wake him. He went outside with me, where we witnessed one of the most beautiful celestial events that I have ever seen. Jake wanted to go back to sleep so I woke up Luke, his older brother. Luke looked at the eclipse for awhile, then he too wanted to go back to bed, so I woke up Max, my youngest and carried him downstairs. He loved the sight but was cold and wanted to return to his warm bed, so I woke my husband, JD, and stood outside marveling with him, until he too asked to go inside. Then I stood out there alone, until my neck hurt.
The sight of that eclipse granted me a moment of pure awe. These kind of moments happen briefly to many of us, when we become overwhelmed with the size of the Universe and our own relative obscurity. It is so powerful, this sense of awe, but it does not last for long. I don’t think that our small human brains can stretch that far. We can only contemplate God’s greatness for a short period of time before our minds begin to hurt and shrink back to the daily worries and thoughts of our lives.
I remembered how small we human creatures are in comparison with the vast expanse of the Universe. That eclipse was millions of miles away and yet it was considerably closer than most of the rest of outer space. The Universe is vast and we are tiny in comparison. And the God who makes it all, that God is far beyond anything that our tiny brains can fathom.
What does it mean that the God of the Universe, the God of light years, of eclipses and cosmic events, that this vast Creator became a baby? For years I have spoken to congregations about what it means for us to have God do such a thing, to make such a sacrifice. But I have never really asked myself what it must have been like for God, to be so large, so vast and creative and exquisite, and to empty himself/herself/itself of all greatness in order to become helpless. What was it like for God? We can never fully know this for we can never fully know what it is like to be God, but we can catch glimpses of the nature of this sacrifice and of what it took for God to become human.
I caught a glimpse of God's sacrifice in my friend, Margaret. Margaret was a traveler of the world, a lover of art and books. Her husband was in the foreign service and they lived much of their lives abroad. They had never wanted to be encumbered by children, they were free to chose their own destinies, free to live life fully. Margaret loved to read, to listen to music, to paint. Then, at forty years old, Margaret got pregnant.
An amniocentesis revealed that the child had severe developmental disorders. He might die, the doctors said. And if he lives, he will be compromised, very compromised. His life would hardly be life, just a boy who was unable to communicate or even feed himself.
Margaret already loved the child before he was even born. She could not explain why, she just loved him. But her husband did not. Worried about what this would do to his career, he left Margaret for a younger woman.
Margaret had no other family. She gave birth to the baby boy alone in a hospital in New York City. There were complications, many complications. The baby had to have multiple surgeries just to stay alive. He would never walk, never talk. His life-span was shortened. But from the moment that she looked upon him, Margaret felt that she had never seen anyone so beautiful. She changed the course of her life, devoting herself to his care. She did not travel. She was on a tight budget. She spent much of her day cleaning and feeding him. They communicated only in smiles and in touch, for he had no words that he could speak. She was often alone with him.
Margaret gave up her wide open life to give herself to this boy. Her life became small, it revolved around his eating and sleeping habits. She would dress him in the morning and clean him, setting him up in his wheelchair. She would bend down over his wheelchair and speak to him, looking right into his eyes. She would take him for slow walks, the same walks every day, for he loved routine and repetition. He loved to look at the sky, the trees. Anything out of the ordinary scared him so she made sure that they lived very simply and predictably. She played him beautiful music and read to him, hoping that some of it would sink into his soul. She was never sure what was reaching him, what he could hear and understand. She would feed him at the same time every night and put him to bed. When he was just 18 and Margaret just 58, her son died.
Her friends thought that her life was ruined. She spent 18 years tied to an invalid. But Margaret did not see it that way. To this day, she says that he is the best thing that happened to her in her life. He changed her forever. It was her greatest joy.
God chose to limit the Divine self, to move from the vast expanse of space and the beauty of heaven, to be condensed into a tiny human body, helpless and cold, held by his mother. To be burped and fed, cold and hungry, to grow in a body limited by time and space. To walk and talk, breath and eat, to sleep and wake again. And all this was so limiting for the One who created all things.
Scholars believe that Jesus was born in a cave. The shepherds still dig caves to escape the wind among the hills of Bethlehem. We cannot imagine the dirt and stench of such a place, so most Americans prefer to picture Jesus in a little wooden shack, kind of cozy and clean. But he was born in a cave full of animals. He was born in the dirt.
Jesus was not born into some fairy tale, don’t be fooled. The night was silent and it was holy but it was not fantasy land. It was holy precisely because it was real. Jesus was born in the heart of the Middle East to a homeless couple who did not know where they were going to eat next. He was born into a land with a dictator who was so paranoid that he would order the slaughter of baby boys. He was born in the messy, painful, beautiful world that WE live in, and nowhere else. Jesus came HERE.
I have never heard of a King who willingly gave up power. I have never heard of a powerful person who gave up power. It goes counter to all that we are taught in this world. Every day we hear of people who earn money, spend money. We see ads where people eat, go on vacation, take care of themselves. Everything in this world is about ME, the supreme Me and how do I take care of myself and what do I deserve. But Margaret loved her son more than she loved her life. God loves us that much, to give up being Creator and become man. God just did it. God condensed the whole Universe, decided that it would be better to live in only three dimensions instead of 300 dimensions. And it was God’s joy. That’s how much we are loved. It was and it is God’s joy to become Incarnation, in the flesh.
Why is it that we think we need to get better, to more holy in order to grow closer to God? Why is it that we feel that we must be well behaved to deserve God’s love? There are people who do not come to church because they do not feel worthy. There are people who shy away from God because they feel so small, so petty, so broken. They see this beautiful place, hear this beautiful music and they feel unworthy. Are you one of them? Are you afraid that God will not want you because you are so limited, because you have made so many mistakes?
Don’t buy into the myths about Christmas. Christmas is not a perfect time, when everyone gets along. Christmas is not designed for the perfect family with 2 children and a picket fence. It is not reserved for the harmonious and happy. So you don’t have to pretend to be someone you are not. Christmas is a miracle that happened in the midst of a mess.
God came to us even though we cannot see clearly and we don’t know how to live our lives right. God comes to you and God waits for you. God finds you so beautiful, with all your mistakes and problems and everything. God find you so beautiful.
I looked up at the moon that night and I asked myself, “God, how could you do this for me? How could you leave all that majesty and come down to me? Why me? Why did you come down for me?”
The light shone down as it did that night on the shepherds. And I knew that the answer was so simple, so simple that it is hard to believe.
Because I love you.
Finding Home
An angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, "Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt..."
Matthew 2:13
Something strange happened to me when I was pregnant with each of my three boys. I got this instinct to nest. I wanted their nursery set up just right. Two weeks before my first boy was born, I got kind of rabid and rearranged all the cans in my pantry. Now, if you know me, rearranging cans is not normally on the top of my priority list. But some part of me wanted to make the home perfect and ready for the baby.
Every parent wants their child born into a peaceful, idyllic life. I think that is why we work so hard getting ready, with baby showers, books, the latest gear. Because we want to do our very best, to make the child have the perfect childhood. Stability, love, a good home- Dr. Spock, the baby guru, says that all of these things are essential to a happy childhood.
But within the first week of a baby’s life, something happens. Maybe you burst into tears, or you leave them in a dirty diaper too long. Maybe they get sick or you get sick or your mother-in-law drives you nuts. Whatever it is, the world does not present itself as perfectly as you’d hoped. And the child’s peaceful, stable life is disrupted. And things only get crazier in the toddler years.
We try to create Eden for our kids and when things break or we disappoint ourselves, we feel as if we hurt or ruined the child. Adults will spend valuable time in therapy discovering how the broken world of their families shaped them and gave them sometimes bad habits or feelings. But there is a myth behind therapy and that is the myth of perfection. The Myth of the perfect home. It simply does not exist. No home, no family is perfect. Not here, at least, not on planet earth.
Look at Jesus. He is born to the most incredible parents. There were both good and faithful people. But Jesus had no stability at all as a child. He was born without a home at all. Presumably, Mary and Joseph settled in Bethlehem. Scholars now believe that the Wise Men did not arrive until somewhere in Jesus’ toddler years. But then, in today’s gospel, Joseph has a dream and God urges him to move. So Mary and Jesus had to walk to Egypt with a toddler.
We like to picture Mary on a donkey, holding a baby. But donkeys were for those who had money, and there is little indication that Joseph had much. And even if they had a donkey, can you imagine walking from Israel to Egypt with a toddler? I can hardly drive in a car with a toddler, and that is with videos, music and snacks. The journey to Egypt was at least 300 miles. No hotels, no rest stops, no McDonalds or playscapes. Just dust and dirt and the stars.
This was not the stable life that Dr. Spock talks about. This was not peaceful, this was not home. There were bands of robbers, people who told stories around fires at night. Camels and slave traders. This was no play date, folks. Jesus definitely did not have a set nap time. Jesus was raised on foot.
I used to sit and pray in the chapel of the Holy Innocents at St. James Church in Kansas. I would look up at the great stained glass window above the altar and think about all those little boys who were killed by Herod because of his paranoia. All those children, dead. It is unfathomable to me, that a ruler could order the killing of babies and children and still worse that anyone would carry it out.
It seems that Jesus was fleeing violence for a good portion of his life. He was hunted as a child, forced to move about to stay alive. And later, he would be hunted and killed as an adult. There was no home for Jesus here on earth. He did not model stability for us. So phrases like a Christian home, what do they mean? Jesus never had one.
Most of us spend our lives searching for the perfect home or trying to keep one. We hold this illusion in our minds of the perfect family in a beautiful house with lots of love and harmony. We long for this. And yet, a home is a building which needs to be cleaned and repaired, which changes over time. Even the best homes do not last long enough.
I spent this past week packing my mother-in-laws belongings. She will be moving to Jacksonville to be closer to us. We will have to sell her five bedroom house in Memphis, Tennessee. She will most likely move to a two bedroom apartment. We spent five days saying goodbye to things and having to make decisions about what to keep and what to sell. Every little trinket had a memory. It was hard work, and not just on the body. It was grieving work, having to say goodbye to so much.
But God does this to all of us when we grow old. We too are forced to move, like Jesus, like Moses, like Abraham. For there is no true home for those who love God here on earth and in the end, we all will be forced to shed all of our things. There is nothing that we can bring with us when we go to meet God. Not even a suitcase.
When we say home, we are really referring to something else. We are referring to a hunger that we have for deep and abiding peace and comfort. We are not referring to a bit of furniture or a house full of relatives. We are referring to something deep inside of ourselves, some longing that we have for stability. We are really longing for God.
The Psalmist writes, “How dear to me is your dwelling place, O Lord of Hosts!”
Grace Church in Orange Park has a wonderful sign outside of their front door. It is very simple. It says Welcome Home.
When we long for the beautiful nursery or the perfectly stacked pantry, what we are really looking for can be found here. Here is the home that you have always longed for, with a meal that will truly feed you. This place is not perfect, but it can be a place where you can rest, here in the service on Sundays, you can truly rest.
There is a reason why every Sunday we do the Holy Eucharist. We know that you need that comfort, that stability. Sure things change a bit with the seasons, but basically, we do the same thing over and over and over again. And God would have us do it this way for two thousand years because God knows that we need a place where we can rest. And that the children of God need some predictability.
Because out there, everything is changing. You will be moving, like it or not, you will have to say goodbye to your things. Your bodies will change, your minds will change. Your friends and relatives, even your pets will change. But here, on Sundays, we will tell the story over and over again. The sacred words will run over you like water running over a rock, shaping your life forever.
Don’t look for stability out there. Don’t look for comfort. Look to serve. Seek out ways that you can serve God. Try to follow God’s will, for you will be moving, but the question is where…
Come here for comfort, here to God’s house, to the place where the Eucharist is offered. Come Home.
Matthew 2:13
Something strange happened to me when I was pregnant with each of my three boys. I got this instinct to nest. I wanted their nursery set up just right. Two weeks before my first boy was born, I got kind of rabid and rearranged all the cans in my pantry. Now, if you know me, rearranging cans is not normally on the top of my priority list. But some part of me wanted to make the home perfect and ready for the baby.
Every parent wants their child born into a peaceful, idyllic life. I think that is why we work so hard getting ready, with baby showers, books, the latest gear. Because we want to do our very best, to make the child have the perfect childhood. Stability, love, a good home- Dr. Spock, the baby guru, says that all of these things are essential to a happy childhood.
But within the first week of a baby’s life, something happens. Maybe you burst into tears, or you leave them in a dirty diaper too long. Maybe they get sick or you get sick or your mother-in-law drives you nuts. Whatever it is, the world does not present itself as perfectly as you’d hoped. And the child’s peaceful, stable life is disrupted. And things only get crazier in the toddler years.
We try to create Eden for our kids and when things break or we disappoint ourselves, we feel as if we hurt or ruined the child. Adults will spend valuable time in therapy discovering how the broken world of their families shaped them and gave them sometimes bad habits or feelings. But there is a myth behind therapy and that is the myth of perfection. The Myth of the perfect home. It simply does not exist. No home, no family is perfect. Not here, at least, not on planet earth.
Look at Jesus. He is born to the most incredible parents. There were both good and faithful people. But Jesus had no stability at all as a child. He was born without a home at all. Presumably, Mary and Joseph settled in Bethlehem. Scholars now believe that the Wise Men did not arrive until somewhere in Jesus’ toddler years. But then, in today’s gospel, Joseph has a dream and God urges him to move. So Mary and Jesus had to walk to Egypt with a toddler.
We like to picture Mary on a donkey, holding a baby. But donkeys were for those who had money, and there is little indication that Joseph had much. And even if they had a donkey, can you imagine walking from Israel to Egypt with a toddler? I can hardly drive in a car with a toddler, and that is with videos, music and snacks. The journey to Egypt was at least 300 miles. No hotels, no rest stops, no McDonalds or playscapes. Just dust and dirt and the stars.
This was not the stable life that Dr. Spock talks about. This was not peaceful, this was not home. There were bands of robbers, people who told stories around fires at night. Camels and slave traders. This was no play date, folks. Jesus definitely did not have a set nap time. Jesus was raised on foot.
I used to sit and pray in the chapel of the Holy Innocents at St. James Church in Kansas. I would look up at the great stained glass window above the altar and think about all those little boys who were killed by Herod because of his paranoia. All those children, dead. It is unfathomable to me, that a ruler could order the killing of babies and children and still worse that anyone would carry it out.
It seems that Jesus was fleeing violence for a good portion of his life. He was hunted as a child, forced to move about to stay alive. And later, he would be hunted and killed as an adult. There was no home for Jesus here on earth. He did not model stability for us. So phrases like a Christian home, what do they mean? Jesus never had one.
Most of us spend our lives searching for the perfect home or trying to keep one. We hold this illusion in our minds of the perfect family in a beautiful house with lots of love and harmony. We long for this. And yet, a home is a building which needs to be cleaned and repaired, which changes over time. Even the best homes do not last long enough.
I spent this past week packing my mother-in-laws belongings. She will be moving to Jacksonville to be closer to us. We will have to sell her five bedroom house in Memphis, Tennessee. She will most likely move to a two bedroom apartment. We spent five days saying goodbye to things and having to make decisions about what to keep and what to sell. Every little trinket had a memory. It was hard work, and not just on the body. It was grieving work, having to say goodbye to so much.
But God does this to all of us when we grow old. We too are forced to move, like Jesus, like Moses, like Abraham. For there is no true home for those who love God here on earth and in the end, we all will be forced to shed all of our things. There is nothing that we can bring with us when we go to meet God. Not even a suitcase.
When we say home, we are really referring to something else. We are referring to a hunger that we have for deep and abiding peace and comfort. We are not referring to a bit of furniture or a house full of relatives. We are referring to something deep inside of ourselves, some longing that we have for stability. We are really longing for God.
The Psalmist writes, “How dear to me is your dwelling place, O Lord of Hosts!”
Grace Church in Orange Park has a wonderful sign outside of their front door. It is very simple. It says Welcome Home.
When we long for the beautiful nursery or the perfectly stacked pantry, what we are really looking for can be found here. Here is the home that you have always longed for, with a meal that will truly feed you. This place is not perfect, but it can be a place where you can rest, here in the service on Sundays, you can truly rest.
There is a reason why every Sunday we do the Holy Eucharist. We know that you need that comfort, that stability. Sure things change a bit with the seasons, but basically, we do the same thing over and over and over again. And God would have us do it this way for two thousand years because God knows that we need a place where we can rest. And that the children of God need some predictability.
Because out there, everything is changing. You will be moving, like it or not, you will have to say goodbye to your things. Your bodies will change, your minds will change. Your friends and relatives, even your pets will change. But here, on Sundays, we will tell the story over and over again. The sacred words will run over you like water running over a rock, shaping your life forever.
Don’t look for stability out there. Don’t look for comfort. Look to serve. Seek out ways that you can serve God. Try to follow God’s will, for you will be moving, but the question is where…
Come here for comfort, here to God’s house, to the place where the Eucharist is offered. Come Home.
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