4 Lent C 2010 (“Laetare”—“Be Joyful”)
Joshua 5:9-12;
Psalm 32;
2 Corinthians 5:16-21;
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
The Gospel came to life on the front page of yesterday’s Oregonian.
The story involves a husband and wife who own a family business in North Portland. They have a prodigal daughter who sounds even more spendthrift and sketchy than the younger son in today’s Gospel. This daughter did not ask to be given her inheritance face-to-face. She is a con artist, and she is having her parents evicted from the business and their apartment after having her mother sign over ownership when her mom was deathly ill with cancer.
It’s a strange story to tell on “Be Joyful” Sunday, but it is in the midst of our real lives that we must seek joy and refreshment. This woman legally evicting her parents from their home and business is as real as it gets. Were do we find Gospel here? Who is God and where is God in a world where daughters evict parents? Who are we in such a world, where demands on the limits and the rules of love confront us over and over again? This outrageous scalawag of a daughter may be an extreme example, but who of us hasn’t taken love and wasted it, taken goodness and disregarded it like the Gospel’s younger son? Or who of us have not felt our insides go cold with anger at the ingratitude of others or the injustice of a world where our quiet faithfulness is taken for granted like the Gospel’s elder son?
The world of today’s haunting story of Jesus is wild and strange, an undiscovered land where love is different and where we do not yet know the rules.
The story has always tempted us to place ourselves somewhere in the cast. Perhaps that young son, that no-good scallywag of a son, is each one of us, at least sometimes. If he is, then we need to face our own waste, and we also need to believe that no matter where we wander, no matter where we wake up and find ourselves, pigpen or motel room or in our own regretful hearts, that there is another chance and there is a road back and there is someone who will fling their arms out wide to welcome us home.
Perhaps we are the older son, at least sometimes. After all, we show up, we pay our dues, and we try to do the right thing. We may find the same resentful words and feelings well out of us that are on the lips of that poor guy who got up each day, went out to the fields, came home at night and ate his well-earned dinner, fell asleep only to have the rooster crow too early as usual and get up to do it all over again. What about me? Who sees me? What is in it for me after all this time? Why do those who do less or even mess up get all the attention? We want to know the answers to all these questions, and maybe we’re secretly frustrated that the father in the story can do no better than tell that angry son that he’s already gotten what is his due.
But what about the father in this tale?
We hear that Dad rolls over and, after giving away half of his wealth, then gives the bedraggled younger son more than he even asks for. He outdoes his generosity in the outpouring of the party and the welcome he gives.
We often cast God in the role of the father, and make this story a comforting tale of God’s unconditional love. That’s fine, but if we stop there we risk making the parable safe. Often we expect things of God that we do not expect of ourselves. What if the casting call in this story points to us in the role of the father?
How did this father get to this place of love with his arms flung wide? Was he this rare sort of naturally big-hearted guy? Or was he another broken soul, with his own history of poor choices like his younger son made as well as knowing the feelings of resentment and judgment like his older son? After all, the kids got it from somewhere.
Had this father been welcomed and loved and given an amazing second chance after he’d messed up? Or had he been loved even when he was acting judgmental and self-righteous and even less lovable than the kid who came home smelling like the pigpen?
Perhaps he was. And the good news for us is, we can be too, and we can live in that place of outrageous love where this father lives.
Paul says we have the “ministry of reconciliation” because we ourselves have been healed and loved by God beyond all reason and beyond all measure. We did not earn it, we did not receive this love by any right. Yes God is this sort of extravagant lover. But God also makes it possible for us to be a living echo and embodiment of this love and this reconciliation. That is why we gather to hear the Word, that is why we receive with awe and delight the Sacraments, that is why we pray and try to live with the Spirit’s power a life open to God’s amazing reconciling love. Because we too may inhabit this land of amazing extravagant love, and we can reveal this extravagant love ourselves.
There are no easy answers to the questions posed along the way. Should I give my kid extra cash even though he burned through his allowance? Should I keep taking my messed-up sister’s calls even though she’s nothing but a user and trouble? And in a sordid episode in North Portland, what does it mean when the prodigal daughter does not come asking for a job, but shows up with a deputy and an eviction notice? I do not know. I wish the world was not that way.
I only know that the Realm of Extravagant Love is possible because Jesus Christ says so and Jesus Christ lived so. And we hunger for that realm, we need to be welcomed in it, and when we are we are equipped to be its ambassadors and its heirs.
archived musings and preachments
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Of caterpillars, kittens, and monkeys
THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT – Year C
March 7, 2010
Ss. Peter & Paul
+++++
Bring us, O Lord God, at our last awakening
into the house and gate of heaven;
to enter into that gate and dwell in that house,
where there shall be no darkness nor dazzling,
but one equal light;
no noise nor silence, but one equal music;
no fears nor hopes, but one equal possession;
no ends, nor beginnings, but one equal eternity;
in the habitation of thy glory and dominion,
world without end.
[John Donne]
+++++
It is easier to stay out than to get out—that is, when it comes to ruts. But given human nature—and our proclivity to exchange one for another—the wiser option of staying out of ruts is not so easy. Maybe the only choice we truly have, given the fallen state of things, is which rut we will end up in.
Lent calls us to examine our rutted patterns—the unproductive modes of being in the world that keep us from becoming who God calls us to be. An image that illustrates beautifully the nature of our ruttedness comes from the following study done on processionary caterpillars.
2
It seems that a team of researchers lined up a group of caterpillars around a pot containing a plant which the caterpillars loved to eat. From the lead caterpillar to the last one, they all were lined up in a row—head to head. The lead caterpillar started to move, and then the rest followed. Around and around the rim of the pot they went—for a full week.
Hungry, tired, with their very lives at risk, the caterpillars kept on going. They prōcéssed and prōcéssed. Not once did they glance over at the plant that could have fed them. Not one of them broke ranks with the others to get off the “merry-go-round” and find relief. Eventually, locked in their pattern of prōcéssing, they marched around the rim until they all died.
One way to approach the purpose of Lent is to understand it as the Church’s way of getting the faithful “un-rutted.” The call to self-examination, the call to reflection and renewal, the insistence on “giving something up and taking something on” presume the need to change. To become unstuck. To break free. To become, by the grace of God, a free and fruitful child of the Most High.
Ruts have always been around and each of us has his or her favorites. But the ones most commonly mentioned today have their origin in self-concern. Negative body-image. Low self-esteem. Procrastination. Perfectionism. Co-dependence. Under-employment. Over-commitment. Too much sugar. Too little sex. Not enough sleep. Credit card balance too high. Not enough free time. A job that isn’t satisfying. An addiction hard to break. A marriage that isn’t happy. A relationship going nowhere. A lack of friends.
3
The Church, on the other hand—while not discounting these modern ruts—has maintained that the wider and deeper ruts that keep humanity stuck have their genesis in something more theological than cultural: namely, “the world, the flesh, and devil,” and/or “the seven deadly sins.” Compared with these “theological Pharaohs of human bondage,” the “ruts” of today are mere flea bites. And the Church has said that our relationship to these perennial, more cosmic ruts needs to be addressed first. Otherwise, Lenten change will mean little more than moving “from rut to rut” in a life of perfect stuckness and perfect insignificance.
So, how do we get out of being stuck in “the world, the flesh, and the devil”?
How do we stay free of the seven deadly ruts—Pride, Greed, Lust, Gluttony, Envy, Anger, and Sloth?
How do we escape excessive self-concern that leads to contempt for others?
How do we let go of immoderate desire for possessions in general, and the possessions of others in particular?
How do we get away from inordinate and misdirected sexual desire?
How do we break free from excessive desire for food and drink, and making a god of the belly?
How do we let go of the consuming desire for others to be as unsuccessful as we are?
How do we free ourselves of the kind of pathological anger that destroys both the giver and the recipient?
Lastly, how do we break free of torpor, or spiritual apathy?
4
After considering these major league ruts, most of us would just as soon stick with lowering fat grams or giving up dessert for Lent. But if we want to be more than a barren fig tree, if we want to break free of the “Egypt” of sin and prōgréss toward the “Promised Land” that the Gospel confers, we need to do two things.
In India, Joseph Campbell found that two rather amusing images were used to portray spiritual growth. One was “the way of the kitten,” and the other was the “way of the monkey.” When a kitten cries “meow” its mother comes and takes it by the scruff of the neck and carries it away to safety. On the other hand, when a band of monkeys comes scampering out of a tree and hits the ground running, the babies riding on their mothers’ backs hang on for dear life. They do it by themselves.
Accordingly, Campbell said that the two ways parallel the essence of spiritual growth. Each needs to be balanced with the other. The “way of the kitten” represents the person who prays for the Lord’s help—for “outside” help, such as strength, guidance, and an open and a loving will. In this “power from outside,” the belief “I can’t, but God can” is essential. Surrender forms the essence of this prayer for Divine deliverance in the face of human powerlessness—whether it describes the Hebrews in Egypt or someone struggling with an addiction in America.
The “way of the monkey,” on the other hand, concerns claiming one’s own “power from within.” It is the belief that God gave us a mind and a will; that, in many respects, we are not helpless to help ourselves. Like the monkeys, we can “hold on” without outside assistance. We can do whatever God puts within our power to do.
5
The majestic prayer attributed to Reinhold Niebuhr summarizes both the “way of the kitten” and the “way of the monkey.” As we seek to get out of the spiritual or physical ruts that bedevil us, both ways need to be employed.
In its full form, this “serenity prayer” goes as follows:
God, grant me the serenity1
to accept the things
I cannot change,
the courage to change
the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
enjoying one moment at a time,
accepting hardship as the way to peace.
Taking as He did, this sinful world as it is,
not as I would have it;
trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His will;
that I may be reasonably happy in this life,
and supremely happy with Him
forever in the next.
Amen.
(by Phil Ayers+)
March 7, 2010
Ss. Peter & Paul
+++++
Bring us, O Lord God, at our last awakening
into the house and gate of heaven;
to enter into that gate and dwell in that house,
where there shall be no darkness nor dazzling,
but one equal light;
no noise nor silence, but one equal music;
no fears nor hopes, but one equal possession;
no ends, nor beginnings, but one equal eternity;
in the habitation of thy glory and dominion,
world without end.
[John Donne]
+++++
It is easier to stay out than to get out—that is, when it comes to ruts. But given human nature—and our proclivity to exchange one for another—the wiser option of staying out of ruts is not so easy. Maybe the only choice we truly have, given the fallen state of things, is which rut we will end up in.
Lent calls us to examine our rutted patterns—the unproductive modes of being in the world that keep us from becoming who God calls us to be. An image that illustrates beautifully the nature of our ruttedness comes from the following study done on processionary caterpillars.
2
It seems that a team of researchers lined up a group of caterpillars around a pot containing a plant which the caterpillars loved to eat. From the lead caterpillar to the last one, they all were lined up in a row—head to head. The lead caterpillar started to move, and then the rest followed. Around and around the rim of the pot they went—for a full week.
Hungry, tired, with their very lives at risk, the caterpillars kept on going. They prōcéssed and prōcéssed. Not once did they glance over at the plant that could have fed them. Not one of them broke ranks with the others to get off the “merry-go-round” and find relief. Eventually, locked in their pattern of prōcéssing, they marched around the rim until they all died.
One way to approach the purpose of Lent is to understand it as the Church’s way of getting the faithful “un-rutted.” The call to self-examination, the call to reflection and renewal, the insistence on “giving something up and taking something on” presume the need to change. To become unstuck. To break free. To become, by the grace of God, a free and fruitful child of the Most High.
Ruts have always been around and each of us has his or her favorites. But the ones most commonly mentioned today have their origin in self-concern. Negative body-image. Low self-esteem. Procrastination. Perfectionism. Co-dependence. Under-employment. Over-commitment. Too much sugar. Too little sex. Not enough sleep. Credit card balance too high. Not enough free time. A job that isn’t satisfying. An addiction hard to break. A marriage that isn’t happy. A relationship going nowhere. A lack of friends.
3
The Church, on the other hand—while not discounting these modern ruts—has maintained that the wider and deeper ruts that keep humanity stuck have their genesis in something more theological than cultural: namely, “the world, the flesh, and devil,” and/or “the seven deadly sins.” Compared with these “theological Pharaohs of human bondage,” the “ruts” of today are mere flea bites. And the Church has said that our relationship to these perennial, more cosmic ruts needs to be addressed first. Otherwise, Lenten change will mean little more than moving “from rut to rut” in a life of perfect stuckness and perfect insignificance.
So, how do we get out of being stuck in “the world, the flesh, and the devil”?
How do we stay free of the seven deadly ruts—Pride, Greed, Lust, Gluttony, Envy, Anger, and Sloth?
How do we escape excessive self-concern that leads to contempt for others?
How do we let go of immoderate desire for possessions in general, and the possessions of others in particular?
How do we get away from inordinate and misdirected sexual desire?
How do we break free from excessive desire for food and drink, and making a god of the belly?
How do we let go of the consuming desire for others to be as unsuccessful as we are?
How do we free ourselves of the kind of pathological anger that destroys both the giver and the recipient?
Lastly, how do we break free of torpor, or spiritual apathy?
4
After considering these major league ruts, most of us would just as soon stick with lowering fat grams or giving up dessert for Lent. But if we want to be more than a barren fig tree, if we want to break free of the “Egypt” of sin and prōgréss toward the “Promised Land” that the Gospel confers, we need to do two things.
In India, Joseph Campbell found that two rather amusing images were used to portray spiritual growth. One was “the way of the kitten,” and the other was the “way of the monkey.” When a kitten cries “meow” its mother comes and takes it by the scruff of the neck and carries it away to safety. On the other hand, when a band of monkeys comes scampering out of a tree and hits the ground running, the babies riding on their mothers’ backs hang on for dear life. They do it by themselves.
Accordingly, Campbell said that the two ways parallel the essence of spiritual growth. Each needs to be balanced with the other. The “way of the kitten” represents the person who prays for the Lord’s help—for “outside” help, such as strength, guidance, and an open and a loving will. In this “power from outside,” the belief “I can’t, but God can” is essential. Surrender forms the essence of this prayer for Divine deliverance in the face of human powerlessness—whether it describes the Hebrews in Egypt or someone struggling with an addiction in America.
The “way of the monkey,” on the other hand, concerns claiming one’s own “power from within.” It is the belief that God gave us a mind and a will; that, in many respects, we are not helpless to help ourselves. Like the monkeys, we can “hold on” without outside assistance. We can do whatever God puts within our power to do.
5
The majestic prayer attributed to Reinhold Niebuhr summarizes both the “way of the kitten” and the “way of the monkey.” As we seek to get out of the spiritual or physical ruts that bedevil us, both ways need to be employed.
In its full form, this “serenity prayer” goes as follows:
God, grant me the serenity1
to accept the things
I cannot change,
the courage to change
the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time;
enjoying one moment at a time,
accepting hardship as the way to peace.
Taking as He did, this sinful world as it is,
not as I would have it;
trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His will;
that I may be reasonably happy in this life,
and supremely happy with Him
forever in the next.
Amen.
(by Phil Ayers+)
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
fragile
2 Lent C 2010
(Genesis 15: 1-12, 17-18; Ps 27; Philippians 3: 17-4: 1; Luke 13: 31-35)
Fragility is in the air these days.
A season of earthquakes shows us how fragile are our buildings, our roads, and our lives. Late winter snow falls on the Northeast, my birthplace, and travel stops and trees fall. And lives to which I am close are showing the fragility of human flesh and human minds.
Into this fragility comes the God who speaks and the God who draws near, the God whose glory, says the Collect, is mercy.
It’s hard to wrap ourselves around the idea of a God who is mercy when the earth shakes or the snow doesn’t stop, or the clinic is supposed to call with our test results or our lives feel like they are coming apart. Maybe it is best that we do not even try. We do not always have the strength or the will to reach out our arms. We cannot always stretch our minds to come up with a concept of God that fits the overwhelming pressure of our lives. We give up under the effort.
It’s then that we need to let God do the reaching. In fact, that’s really all we can do. One preacher said recently, “God’s habit is to draw near.” I say yes, and more. God’s habit is to strain towards us, and to break the divine heart in the reaching and the straining. God’s habit is to reach beyond all limitations, and to break down the barrier of his own flesh in the reaching.
Abram was sunk in his own fragility and anxiety and failing. He had lived with the promise made to him, the promise that set him off on his epic journey from his home in the east. His life and Sarai’s life had seen ups and downs, joys and disappointments, but the promise of his and Sarai’s own flesh and blood inheriting his life and the promise had not come true. And now he was old, Sarai was old, and Abram was feeling his own fragility and the fragility of the hope and the promise that had kept his life together.
That’s when God draws near, or rather God strains forward through the cosmos and through Abram’s own doubt and disappointment. “Look up, see the heavens, see the stars…You are akin with the stars, your descendants will be as many as them.” Abram’s disillusion and disappointment and fear are raised to see the stars.
But the light of the heavens is not the only way that the God of promise strains to reach out.
The lovely scene of stars and peace switches to blood and darkness. A dark and ancient ritual is where God and Abram next meet. Animals are chosen and split open, and the scent of blood lingers in the air as Abram sits and waves off the vultures. Old, old ways, the old ways that people felt were the only way to feed the desires of bloodthirsty gods whose help and protection needed to be bought.
We may shudder or shake our heads at this bloody ancient ritual, but the instinct and the practice is alive and well in our own lives. Who has suspected that, when cruel things happen, that God is angry or has turned away or has been revealed as cruel or even to be non-existent? So much lovely comforting faith withers under the heat of loss and pain. Through the years I have often wondered at why people seem to drop away from the church when life goes wrong. But we feel that our lives are supposed to be all together and settled and resolved before we bring ourselves before a God who we were raised to think was all about order and resolvedness and having one’s life all worked out.
But the God who strains forward to us is at home in our mess and our unresolvedness, in the heat and the unevenness of our real lives. God comes to Abram in the midst of this dark sacrifice, as Abram lays in a dark trance overcome with primordial darkness, the kind that we taste a little of when we awake with our hearts pounding in the middle of the night. God comes, and passes with smoke and fire between the halves of the sacrifice. God comes in the midst of Abram’s doubt and fear and darkness, and shares it. The ancient gesture of passing through the halves of the sacrifice is known still in some parts of the world. It’s what we get the expression “cutting a deal” from. In darkness and doubt, in the fear of the night, God comes and cuts the deal, makes the promise again.
God can be trusted to come to us wherever we are, whomever we are, in whatever darkness or doubt or discouragement we find ourselves. God does not scorn mess or darkness or primitive emotions or undeveloped thoughts. We do not need to have it all together in order to be loved with passion by a seeking, longing, passionate God.
It is this God who speaks in anguish in the words of Jesus. With the love and anxious care of a mother hen I love you. And you would have none of it. But the day will come when my love will be raised up and in the breaking of my heart you will know me.
Every Sunday we sing (say) those simple words that Jesus said would be said only when we see him, only when we know him. “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.” When we sing (say) those words today, the question for each of us is, do we see him? Do we know him? The words and images are familiar of course. But do we see him as he is?
Do we see the unspeakable love of God straining towards us through the struggle of the world and the struggle and murk of our own lives?
Do we see the God who scorns nothing that is us, nothing that is human, and embraces us in order to love and transform us?
Do we see the God who enters our lives and pushes past all reason and doubt and all our inability to keep up appearances, to keep ourselves together?
This God’s love is only truly visible when we stop trying to reach out to him with lives resolved and work out, and instead know that this God reaches out to us.
(Genesis 15: 1-12, 17-18; Ps 27; Philippians 3: 17-4: 1; Luke 13: 31-35)
Fragility is in the air these days.
A season of earthquakes shows us how fragile are our buildings, our roads, and our lives. Late winter snow falls on the Northeast, my birthplace, and travel stops and trees fall. And lives to which I am close are showing the fragility of human flesh and human minds.
Into this fragility comes the God who speaks and the God who draws near, the God whose glory, says the Collect, is mercy.
It’s hard to wrap ourselves around the idea of a God who is mercy when the earth shakes or the snow doesn’t stop, or the clinic is supposed to call with our test results or our lives feel like they are coming apart. Maybe it is best that we do not even try. We do not always have the strength or the will to reach out our arms. We cannot always stretch our minds to come up with a concept of God that fits the overwhelming pressure of our lives. We give up under the effort.
It’s then that we need to let God do the reaching. In fact, that’s really all we can do. One preacher said recently, “God’s habit is to draw near.” I say yes, and more. God’s habit is to strain towards us, and to break the divine heart in the reaching and the straining. God’s habit is to reach beyond all limitations, and to break down the barrier of his own flesh in the reaching.
Abram was sunk in his own fragility and anxiety and failing. He had lived with the promise made to him, the promise that set him off on his epic journey from his home in the east. His life and Sarai’s life had seen ups and downs, joys and disappointments, but the promise of his and Sarai’s own flesh and blood inheriting his life and the promise had not come true. And now he was old, Sarai was old, and Abram was feeling his own fragility and the fragility of the hope and the promise that had kept his life together.
That’s when God draws near, or rather God strains forward through the cosmos and through Abram’s own doubt and disappointment. “Look up, see the heavens, see the stars…You are akin with the stars, your descendants will be as many as them.” Abram’s disillusion and disappointment and fear are raised to see the stars.
But the light of the heavens is not the only way that the God of promise strains to reach out.
The lovely scene of stars and peace switches to blood and darkness. A dark and ancient ritual is where God and Abram next meet. Animals are chosen and split open, and the scent of blood lingers in the air as Abram sits and waves off the vultures. Old, old ways, the old ways that people felt were the only way to feed the desires of bloodthirsty gods whose help and protection needed to be bought.
We may shudder or shake our heads at this bloody ancient ritual, but the instinct and the practice is alive and well in our own lives. Who has suspected that, when cruel things happen, that God is angry or has turned away or has been revealed as cruel or even to be non-existent? So much lovely comforting faith withers under the heat of loss and pain. Through the years I have often wondered at why people seem to drop away from the church when life goes wrong. But we feel that our lives are supposed to be all together and settled and resolved before we bring ourselves before a God who we were raised to think was all about order and resolvedness and having one’s life all worked out.
But the God who strains forward to us is at home in our mess and our unresolvedness, in the heat and the unevenness of our real lives. God comes to Abram in the midst of this dark sacrifice, as Abram lays in a dark trance overcome with primordial darkness, the kind that we taste a little of when we awake with our hearts pounding in the middle of the night. God comes, and passes with smoke and fire between the halves of the sacrifice. God comes in the midst of Abram’s doubt and fear and darkness, and shares it. The ancient gesture of passing through the halves of the sacrifice is known still in some parts of the world. It’s what we get the expression “cutting a deal” from. In darkness and doubt, in the fear of the night, God comes and cuts the deal, makes the promise again.
God can be trusted to come to us wherever we are, whomever we are, in whatever darkness or doubt or discouragement we find ourselves. God does not scorn mess or darkness or primitive emotions or undeveloped thoughts. We do not need to have it all together in order to be loved with passion by a seeking, longing, passionate God.
It is this God who speaks in anguish in the words of Jesus. With the love and anxious care of a mother hen I love you. And you would have none of it. But the day will come when my love will be raised up and in the breaking of my heart you will know me.
Every Sunday we sing (say) those simple words that Jesus said would be said only when we see him, only when we know him. “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.” When we sing (say) those words today, the question for each of us is, do we see him? Do we know him? The words and images are familiar of course. But do we see him as he is?
Do we see the unspeakable love of God straining towards us through the struggle of the world and the struggle and murk of our own lives?
Do we see the God who scorns nothing that is us, nothing that is human, and embraces us in order to love and transform us?
Do we see the God who enters our lives and pushes past all reason and doubt and all our inability to keep up appearances, to keep ourselves together?
This God’s love is only truly visible when we stop trying to reach out to him with lives resolved and work out, and instead know that this God reaches out to us.
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