Proper 28 B 2009
(1 Samuel 1: 4-20; Ps 16; Heb 10: 11-14, 19-25; Mark 13: 1-8)
Once there was a wise teacher of meditation and prayer in the East. It is said that he used to amuse his community of followers from time to time by searching about the monastery, anxiously peering into rooms, under furniture, and into corners. When asked what he was doing, he would say that he was looking for his own body. The students always seemed to think this was hilarious, and, so the story says, “never understood what the teacher was getting at.”
I thought of that story this week as I examined the readings and kept in mind today’s Collect. “All Holy Scripture is written for our learning”, so take a big bite, chew it up, and swallow it down. Well, today we’re given a helping of liver and onions to take in. The Gospel text gives us images that lie deep within the nightmares of the human soul. Wars, earthquakes, famines, and the great Temple itself torn apart like the great buildings of the East Coast were torn apart eight years ago: apocalypse. It’s a deep dread common to us all. That fear—that one day the dreadful violent end will come—gives rise to literature and to entertainment—look at all the disaster movies past and present. Apocalypse always seeks a contemporary plausible face—anyone here remember Y2K? Anyone here plan to see the movie “2012”, supposedly about the disaster predicted by an ancient Mayan calendar? An actual Mayan recently said that he wished people would stop asking him when the world will end—as far as he’s concerned his people ended their calendar at the western year 2012 because they ran out of room on the stone where they were carving the dates! But still, the images and the fear—fed by our own dread and sense of helplessness, fed by the fact that in this world bad things, violent things, seemingly senseless things can and do happen. Above all, we fear that the world and our lives may be ruled by nothing more than random chance, or even a cruel and faceless will.
Apocalypse can be earth-wide and cataclysmic. Usually, however, apocalypse is more personal, a private tragedy. Neither I nor anyone else has the right to make simple clichés or statements about the suffering of another, so trivializing pain that can only be experienced in order to be understood. An example of such pain is the story of Hannah in the Old Testament today. Infertility is a bitter and personal pain. So is living with serious illness or chronic pain, or loss of a loved one, or addiction.
But private or public disaster is not the meaning of the word “apocalypse.” The word actually means “uncovering”, letting us see what’s truly present, what’s truly at work in the world and in our lives.
What’s truly at work is God is in charge, in spite of all evidence to the contrary. What’s truly present is a cloud of witness and a God who loves us beyond measure. What is truly at work is the Spirit changing and renewing us even when we do not see or feel that change.
So what are we to do? How are we to live?
Remember that Eastern spiritual master, and open our eyes to see what is most deeply true about us and about our world. Don’t run madly to look for answers in blind alleys. God is with us, within us, around us. In times of challenge and fear and risk, keep standing on what is firm and unchanging. Know that Jesus has passed before us, and in ways we cannot begin to understand he has walked all our paths before us. Walk with confidence, and walk in the ways that Jesus has taught. Let’s help each other to walk this path, let’s walk with each other through good times and bad alike. And let’s keep gathering together, let’s keep showing up to pray and to be Christ’s body together. We go through our challenges together.
For we are never alone, our lives are never meaningless, and we are never forgotten. Desmond Tutu said it more clearly than do I. “I have some good news,” said Desmond. “I’ve read the book to the end, and guess what? We win.” In spite of all that happens, we are seen, we are known, and we are loved. And like the infant prophet to be born to Hannah, new hope is coming to birth in us in ways we cannot fully understand.
archived musings and preachments
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
How did it end?
Proper 27 B 2009
(Ruth 3: 1-5, 4…; Ps 127; Heb 9: 24-28;Mark 12: 38-44)
Some things work out perfectly. The Fall pledge mailing went out Friday, and look what we have here today—that lovely story about the poor woman and her gift of two copper coins!
Like many Gospel stories, we may think we know what this story is all about. That is always dangerous, because there is always something new for us in the Gospel. The lady who gave the small coins is often used as a morality play, an object lesson for generous giving. That’s fine. But there’s something I’ve always resented about this story. What I resent is this—we don’t hear what happened next.
Those folks who poured in big donations, those wealthy philanthropists—hey, big donations are always fun, that’s how new buildings and new projects are funded. But the Gospel is not primarily about fund-raising—the Gospel is about change and transformation. The wealthy folks went home, and I suspect nothing changed. They had an image of themselves as generous people, and that was confirmed. They had been proved in public as generous people. Their lifestyles were unchanged. Their self-images as devout and giving people were…unchanged. If what they wanted was to stay unchanged, then they got a good deal that day.
I have always wanted to know what happened to that poor widow when she got home. It is easy to romanticize this story and her sacrificial giving, and not ask what happened the same night, the next day. How did she live? Did she eat?
Generosity and sacrifice does not always have an immediate payback, the kind we want and expect. But maybe—maybe the woman’s poverty moved someone else, maybe a neighbor, to generosity in turn. Maybe her hunger was an invitation for someone to reach out to her. Random acts of giving have ripple effects, paybacks that we cannot anticipate.
And the woman, and those near her, had the chance to change, to be transformed. The devout members of the people of Israel sometimes called themselves the “anawim”, the poor of God. Sometimes spiritual poverty is just a cliché, a symbol without power. No one could say that the widow’s poverty was just a symbol, that it was without startling power.
The Gospel is a school of practice and of change. Mark Scandrette, teacher in the Emerging church movement, calls a authentic church setting a “Jesus dojo”, borrowing the word for a martial arts practice hall. The dojo only does you good if you show up, if you practice, and if you seek to grow and improve. In a talk entitled “The Five Myths Of Community,” Mark says that one of the myths is that of the “healthy skeptic.” “I used to be this guy,” says Mark. “I didn’t think the local church was ever doing the right thing really, so instead of giving money to my church I gave it for starving children in Africa. And I was always sidling up to the leadership and say, ‘You know, I’m reading this really cool book and I think you should read it too. And I think you should do…’ I was always on the fringe.” He stops, chuckles, and says, “I wasn’t right. I was messed up.”
The Jesus Way, says Mark, the Jesus dojo, is not about endless complaining, but it is a collective. Pitch in, and you will live the life. It is grace-filled and forgiving. Don’t moan about your past journey or the community’s past—instead give thanks. “Make a serious commitment to your present tribe” says Mark. And it’s not cool to suggest that the tribe do something that you yourself are not willing to do. Be direct, be involved, be here now.
Give in a different way. As we do this canvass, how can our giving change us? How can we see what we do with our money to be part of our following the Jesus Way? How can this customary process of talking about goals and money be different, be something that changes us all? And what will we be like the day after, once we’ve gone home?
(Ruth 3: 1-5, 4…; Ps 127; Heb 9: 24-28;Mark 12: 38-44)
Some things work out perfectly. The Fall pledge mailing went out Friday, and look what we have here today—that lovely story about the poor woman and her gift of two copper coins!
Like many Gospel stories, we may think we know what this story is all about. That is always dangerous, because there is always something new for us in the Gospel. The lady who gave the small coins is often used as a morality play, an object lesson for generous giving. That’s fine. But there’s something I’ve always resented about this story. What I resent is this—we don’t hear what happened next.
Those folks who poured in big donations, those wealthy philanthropists—hey, big donations are always fun, that’s how new buildings and new projects are funded. But the Gospel is not primarily about fund-raising—the Gospel is about change and transformation. The wealthy folks went home, and I suspect nothing changed. They had an image of themselves as generous people, and that was confirmed. They had been proved in public as generous people. Their lifestyles were unchanged. Their self-images as devout and giving people were…unchanged. If what they wanted was to stay unchanged, then they got a good deal that day.
I have always wanted to know what happened to that poor widow when she got home. It is easy to romanticize this story and her sacrificial giving, and not ask what happened the same night, the next day. How did she live? Did she eat?
Generosity and sacrifice does not always have an immediate payback, the kind we want and expect. But maybe—maybe the woman’s poverty moved someone else, maybe a neighbor, to generosity in turn. Maybe her hunger was an invitation for someone to reach out to her. Random acts of giving have ripple effects, paybacks that we cannot anticipate.
And the woman, and those near her, had the chance to change, to be transformed. The devout members of the people of Israel sometimes called themselves the “anawim”, the poor of God. Sometimes spiritual poverty is just a cliché, a symbol without power. No one could say that the widow’s poverty was just a symbol, that it was without startling power.
The Gospel is a school of practice and of change. Mark Scandrette, teacher in the Emerging church movement, calls a authentic church setting a “Jesus dojo”, borrowing the word for a martial arts practice hall. The dojo only does you good if you show up, if you practice, and if you seek to grow and improve. In a talk entitled “The Five Myths Of Community,” Mark says that one of the myths is that of the “healthy skeptic.” “I used to be this guy,” says Mark. “I didn’t think the local church was ever doing the right thing really, so instead of giving money to my church I gave it for starving children in Africa. And I was always sidling up to the leadership and say, ‘You know, I’m reading this really cool book and I think you should read it too. And I think you should do…’ I was always on the fringe.” He stops, chuckles, and says, “I wasn’t right. I was messed up.”
The Jesus Way, says Mark, the Jesus dojo, is not about endless complaining, but it is a collective. Pitch in, and you will live the life. It is grace-filled and forgiving. Don’t moan about your past journey or the community’s past—instead give thanks. “Make a serious commitment to your present tribe” says Mark. And it’s not cool to suggest that the tribe do something that you yourself are not willing to do. Be direct, be involved, be here now.
Give in a different way. As we do this canvass, how can our giving change us? How can we see what we do with our money to be part of our following the Jesus Way? How can this customary process of talking about goals and money be different, be something that changes us all? And what will we be like the day after, once we’ve gone home?
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