In the Torah, in the book we call Exodus, Moses climbs the sacred mountain alone. The journey has been hard, and the people have been tested along the way. After a long wait, Moses receives from God’s own hand the basic law of conduct that we call the Ten Commandments. As Moses ascends, he knows by God’s own words that the people waiting have already been unfaithful, and the coming of the Commandments among them as they hold festival will cause pain and division and even death.
In Matthew’s tale of the New Law (3: 1-12), Jesus the new Moses also ascends a mountain. But the differences reveal the newness of the reality he brings.
It is the “crowds”, the poor, the outcasts, those living on the fringe, who gather around Jesus, and not the wilderness-proven children of Israel. The place that Jesus chooses to speak is just a place, some nameless hill in the wilderness, a place like many others, ordinary. Jesus is not heroically alone like Moses—his disciples “gather around.” Jesus does not seek a stone on which to carve his words—his lips themselves, and the ears of those who hear, are the “living stones” of the new revelation. Unlike God on Sinai, Jesus does not claim reverence for himself. It is the broken people gathered before him that are the focus of his words. And the word that begins each “saying” is “blessed.” The Greek word may also be translated “happy.”
And who are happy? The new Law turns upside-down our assumptions of who is happy, who is blessed. The poor in spirit, the meek, those who mourn—they are happy. Those who long for healing and justice and a new earth—the peacemakers, the merciful—they are blessed in their longing. And those who are not only blessed, but who will rejoice and be glad, are those who are hammered and hunted and beaten down by the powerful, by the Herods and the High Priests and the Caesars of that and every world. Those who are so oppressed are the kinsfolk of the prophets, of the ancient saints.
Where are these people today? How do we stand in relation to them? Where are their cries, their sorrows, their longings heard? What “wild hope” within ourselves lies hidden, covered over by discouragement and by the dreary sameness of life-as-it-is. What is kindled to hope within us by this outrageous game-plan of the Kingdom of Heaven and its unlikely King?
archived musings and preachments
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Go
3 Epiphany A 2011
Isaiah 9:1-4 1 Corinthians 1:10-18 Matthew 4:12-23 Psalm 27:1, 5-13
“If you hear rumors about this church’s future, do not pay attention to them! Check them out with the Vestry or clergy first!”
This quote was found by an Episcopal priest as she cleaned out the drawers of an old desk at her church. The words, reeking of anxiety, were printed on a bulletin of that church circa 1993.
Churches develop diseases when they become preoccupied and fearful about their own survival. Soon, “just staying open” becomes a primary goal, and the only goal. That’s not attractive, and that’s not a New Testament concept of church life.
According to the New Testament, a healthy church does not place surviving and “keeping the doors open” as a value and a goal. That’s God’s business. No, the church’s business is to hear the Word of God, and to GO—to proclaim, to heal and teach, to be among the people that are God’s concern. Remember the words of William Temple, one of the great Archbishops of Canterbury: “The church is the only organization that exists for the sake of those who are not yet members.”
So the primary business of a church is not to take care of its own life for its own sake, but to GO—to hear the Good News and to allow Jesus to send us, empowered in his name. That’s what we prayed for in today’s Collect.
Isn’t it strange how soon we forget this? And isn’t it ironic—thinking about survival as a primary value is, for a church, the one best way to start on the road to extinction.
Saints Peter and Paul exists to hear God’s call and to GO, to proclaim the power and the promise and the wonder of God. We do not exist for the primary purpose of perpetuating a particular worship style or musical tradition or architecture or attitude. All those are simply the particular flavors, the distinct accent to our speech, which in many cases have changed over time. They are not the heart of the matter.
If we are feeling too stressed and stretched and challenged to even think about reaching out to proclaim the Gospel, then we need to hear today’s Gospel text again.
Jesus flees the power of Herod, which stretched out into his life once more by jailing his cousin John the Baptist. He withdraws into the fringe lands of Palestine, the mixed and marginal region which was Galilee. But there on the edge, there on the fringe, the teaching and the healing takes place. And there Jesus calls very marginal people—fishermen, probably illiterate, rough-edged people used to endless work and not much hope for change. These marginal men, seasonal workers, will be the great voices of the power of the kingdom of God. Never lose a sense of how unlikely and ridiculous and hopeless this was. But here the power of God broke forth, from these broken and marginal people. They understood the Good News.
Saints Peter and Paul is perched on the margins of Montavilla and of Portland. Broken people walk back and forth before our doors, and sometimes they come in. Here among us, the power of God strains to break forth in seeming hopelessness and among an unlikely people.
That power is already breaking forth. Hungry people are fed on Saturdays, the broken and marginal women of the streets are welcomed at Rahab’s Sisters. Even broken teeth are fixed monthly. And all this happens as we welcome and nurture and care for one another on Sundays. Three years ago we did go out and proclaim, just by making a banner and a homemade signboard that spoke a different language than the one we formerly used exclusively on Sunday. That was all the reaching out we needed to do to begin nurturing a whole new community among us, who bring life and culture and energy to this changing community of ours.
Let’s keep listening to the call of God, and when we hear it then let’s go! How do we go? That is a question worthy of a church. That is a more Gospel-based question than “how can we survive?”
Isaiah 9:1-4 1 Corinthians 1:10-18 Matthew 4:12-23 Psalm 27:1, 5-13
“If you hear rumors about this church’s future, do not pay attention to them! Check them out with the Vestry or clergy first!”
This quote was found by an Episcopal priest as she cleaned out the drawers of an old desk at her church. The words, reeking of anxiety, were printed on a bulletin of that church circa 1993.
Churches develop diseases when they become preoccupied and fearful about their own survival. Soon, “just staying open” becomes a primary goal, and the only goal. That’s not attractive, and that’s not a New Testament concept of church life.
According to the New Testament, a healthy church does not place surviving and “keeping the doors open” as a value and a goal. That’s God’s business. No, the church’s business is to hear the Word of God, and to GO—to proclaim, to heal and teach, to be among the people that are God’s concern. Remember the words of William Temple, one of the great Archbishops of Canterbury: “The church is the only organization that exists for the sake of those who are not yet members.”
So the primary business of a church is not to take care of its own life for its own sake, but to GO—to hear the Good News and to allow Jesus to send us, empowered in his name. That’s what we prayed for in today’s Collect.
Isn’t it strange how soon we forget this? And isn’t it ironic—thinking about survival as a primary value is, for a church, the one best way to start on the road to extinction.
Saints Peter and Paul exists to hear God’s call and to GO, to proclaim the power and the promise and the wonder of God. We do not exist for the primary purpose of perpetuating a particular worship style or musical tradition or architecture or attitude. All those are simply the particular flavors, the distinct accent to our speech, which in many cases have changed over time. They are not the heart of the matter.
If we are feeling too stressed and stretched and challenged to even think about reaching out to proclaim the Gospel, then we need to hear today’s Gospel text again.
Jesus flees the power of Herod, which stretched out into his life once more by jailing his cousin John the Baptist. He withdraws into the fringe lands of Palestine, the mixed and marginal region which was Galilee. But there on the edge, there on the fringe, the teaching and the healing takes place. And there Jesus calls very marginal people—fishermen, probably illiterate, rough-edged people used to endless work and not much hope for change. These marginal men, seasonal workers, will be the great voices of the power of the kingdom of God. Never lose a sense of how unlikely and ridiculous and hopeless this was. But here the power of God broke forth, from these broken and marginal people. They understood the Good News.
Saints Peter and Paul is perched on the margins of Montavilla and of Portland. Broken people walk back and forth before our doors, and sometimes they come in. Here among us, the power of God strains to break forth in seeming hopelessness and among an unlikely people.
That power is already breaking forth. Hungry people are fed on Saturdays, the broken and marginal women of the streets are welcomed at Rahab’s Sisters. Even broken teeth are fixed monthly. And all this happens as we welcome and nurture and care for one another on Sundays. Three years ago we did go out and proclaim, just by making a banner and a homemade signboard that spoke a different language than the one we formerly used exclusively on Sunday. That was all the reaching out we needed to do to begin nurturing a whole new community among us, who bring life and culture and energy to this changing community of ours.
Let’s keep listening to the call of God, and when we hear it then let’s go! How do we go? That is a question worthy of a church. That is a more Gospel-based question than “how can we survive?”
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Changing everything
Baptism of the Lord A 2011
(Isaiah 42: 1-9; Ps 29; Acts 10: 34-43; Mt 3: 13-17)
Light, peace, and love can live in the midst of darkness.
Our Coptic Christian brothers and sisters are in the midst of their festival time. The ancient church of Egypt, for centuries one of the largest and most influential churches, observes the old ways and January 7 is their Christmas. The Egyptian Coptic Christians are used to suffering. After Islamic forces conquered Egypt, the Copts have tried to live alongside Islam. Christians are still 10% of Egypt’s population, but radical Islam has subjected them to increasing violence and pressure. This past New Year’s Eve, a suicide bombing outside of an Egyptian church killed 20 and wounded over 100.
The Copts have every reason to feel bitterness and even despair. Many have fled Egypt. But as a community of Copts here on the SE Side celebrated their Feast of the Nativity, sadness gave way to peace and joy. After the 5-hour Christmas liturgy, one man whose family still lives in Egypt remarked simply, “My God is love. He brings peace and love.”
Light, peace, and love can shine forth from the darkness. That is the great lesson of this feast of the Epiphany.
Today is part of that ancient, beautiful Epiphany cycle. Today we remember one of the many Great Revealing stories of Christ, his Baptism as an adult at the hands of John the Baptist. Today’s feast takes the wonder and joy of God Incarnate, God-as-one-of-us, and puts that wonder on the road. The road is the journey of our own lives and of our own Baptisms. Today we feel again the tickle of renewing water on our heads. Today, no matter what darkness or what struggle we carry, no matter how deeply the shadows have penetrated our hearts and covered our eyes, light and life and wonder burst forth. We stand with John and with Jesus and with the crowds and the sun sparkles off the water, dazzling our eyes, driving away the darkness.
We are surprised by Jesus along with John. Even though we have faith, even though we have walked the ways of the Gospel with differing levels of success, still we are startled to find out how concrete are the promises of God. There standing before us in the flesh is the one promised, God with a name and a face, Jesus the Christ. Like John, we do not know what to say. Jesus is patient and guides us into the simple words and actions that are asked of us. It is John’s hand, said an early preacher, which is sanctified by touching the head bowed before him to be baptized. It is the river which is made holy by the one who walks into it, the river and all creation. It is our lives that are made holy by the One who shares water and light with us today.
And with Jesus we enter the waters of new life, and we are filled with unspeakable joy. We see through his eyes when the heavens open, our hearts lift as the Spirit-Dove circles down to touch his head and ours, we hear with his ears as those words of unspeakable joy are spoken. “This is my son, the beloved, with whom I am well-pleased.”
The ancient church, Matthew’s church, told this tale so that every baptized member of the community would re-live their own baptisms with their Lord. When we approach in faith, and the water is poured, the Spirit descends, and we each hear the words of unspeakable joy, “This is my beloved, with whom I am well-pleased.” This can change everything.
A few years ago a seven year-old boy was baptized and was handed a candle lit from the Paschal candle. His eyes grew wide with wonder as he cried out, “I know that light! I know that light!”
We know that light. We hear that voice. We are swept away again with the news that light can overcome darkness and fear, and that our lives can be a light to the world in Christ. The wise young Coptic man spoke the essence of Epiphany, “Our God is love. He brings peace and love.” From him, that is no cheap and sentimental thought. It is hard-won faith in the face of centuries of persecution. The Christ-light, and the Christ-light shining forth from our lives, is what is real and what is true in a world that often prefers to love its own shadows.
(Isaiah 42: 1-9; Ps 29; Acts 10: 34-43; Mt 3: 13-17)
Light, peace, and love can live in the midst of darkness.
Our Coptic Christian brothers and sisters are in the midst of their festival time. The ancient church of Egypt, for centuries one of the largest and most influential churches, observes the old ways and January 7 is their Christmas. The Egyptian Coptic Christians are used to suffering. After Islamic forces conquered Egypt, the Copts have tried to live alongside Islam. Christians are still 10% of Egypt’s population, but radical Islam has subjected them to increasing violence and pressure. This past New Year’s Eve, a suicide bombing outside of an Egyptian church killed 20 and wounded over 100.
The Copts have every reason to feel bitterness and even despair. Many have fled Egypt. But as a community of Copts here on the SE Side celebrated their Feast of the Nativity, sadness gave way to peace and joy. After the 5-hour Christmas liturgy, one man whose family still lives in Egypt remarked simply, “My God is love. He brings peace and love.”
Light, peace, and love can shine forth from the darkness. That is the great lesson of this feast of the Epiphany.
Today is part of that ancient, beautiful Epiphany cycle. Today we remember one of the many Great Revealing stories of Christ, his Baptism as an adult at the hands of John the Baptist. Today’s feast takes the wonder and joy of God Incarnate, God-as-one-of-us, and puts that wonder on the road. The road is the journey of our own lives and of our own Baptisms. Today we feel again the tickle of renewing water on our heads. Today, no matter what darkness or what struggle we carry, no matter how deeply the shadows have penetrated our hearts and covered our eyes, light and life and wonder burst forth. We stand with John and with Jesus and with the crowds and the sun sparkles off the water, dazzling our eyes, driving away the darkness.
We are surprised by Jesus along with John. Even though we have faith, even though we have walked the ways of the Gospel with differing levels of success, still we are startled to find out how concrete are the promises of God. There standing before us in the flesh is the one promised, God with a name and a face, Jesus the Christ. Like John, we do not know what to say. Jesus is patient and guides us into the simple words and actions that are asked of us. It is John’s hand, said an early preacher, which is sanctified by touching the head bowed before him to be baptized. It is the river which is made holy by the one who walks into it, the river and all creation. It is our lives that are made holy by the One who shares water and light with us today.
And with Jesus we enter the waters of new life, and we are filled with unspeakable joy. We see through his eyes when the heavens open, our hearts lift as the Spirit-Dove circles down to touch his head and ours, we hear with his ears as those words of unspeakable joy are spoken. “This is my son, the beloved, with whom I am well-pleased.”
The ancient church, Matthew’s church, told this tale so that every baptized member of the community would re-live their own baptisms with their Lord. When we approach in faith, and the water is poured, the Spirit descends, and we each hear the words of unspeakable joy, “This is my beloved, with whom I am well-pleased.” This can change everything.
A few years ago a seven year-old boy was baptized and was handed a candle lit from the Paschal candle. His eyes grew wide with wonder as he cried out, “I know that light! I know that light!”
We know that light. We hear that voice. We are swept away again with the news that light can overcome darkness and fear, and that our lives can be a light to the world in Christ. The wise young Coptic man spoke the essence of Epiphany, “Our God is love. He brings peace and love.” From him, that is no cheap and sentimental thought. It is hard-won faith in the face of centuries of persecution. The Christ-light, and the Christ-light shining forth from our lives, is what is real and what is true in a world that often prefers to love its own shadows.
So really, what DO you seek?
A RESPITE IN JOHN'S GARDEN
Alexander Shaia, the Maronite lay scholar of the four Gospels, describe the Gospel of John as a "garden of joy." He points out that John intersperses Sunday reading of the other three Gospels with insights into the beauty of the story being told in them.
This Sunday we have John's version of the "Baptism of Jesus." It is told, not as an "eyewitness" of the event, but as John's testimony. It is John, not Jesus, who speaks of the experience of Spirit's descent "like a dove." And John goes on to reflect on the meaning of the event, its impact on John and John's own sense of his call, the mystery of God in his life: "I myself did not know him...I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Son of God."
Testimony and seeing is at stake here. What have you seen of the astounding purposes of God? And how have you "given testimony"? That word tends to be jargon in our religious culture--I think of Bart Simpson singing "testify!" as he conducts a lucrative revival ministry under a sheet-tent in the Simpson's back yard. But we testify when our actions and words try to reflect with integrity what we most deeply believe, what we think is most deeply real. How do our lives "testify"?
Seeing and testimony is still at stake in the next dreamlike sequence. John points to Jesus and uses that potent image: "Lamb of God." John loses two disciples who leave him to follow the new rabbi. Then one of the shortest and most powerful conversations in the Bible follows: "What are you looking for?" "Where do you stay?" "Come and see"
When we hear these words, we are invited to not be content with mere words, even the words of the Bible. It is we who are addressed, we who are asked, "What are you looking for?", and we fumble for the best answer to the most profound question we shall ever be posed. One of the rock band U-2's most powerful songs has the chorus "And I still haven't found what I'm looking for." What do WE seek? What do we answer? And are we willing to "come and see", or was just asking the question all that we can handle at the moment?
To paraphrase an old movie catchphrase: can we in fact "handle the truth"?
Alexander Shaia, the Maronite lay scholar of the four Gospels, describe the Gospel of John as a "garden of joy." He points out that John intersperses Sunday reading of the other three Gospels with insights into the beauty of the story being told in them.
This Sunday we have John's version of the "Baptism of Jesus." It is told, not as an "eyewitness" of the event, but as John's testimony. It is John, not Jesus, who speaks of the experience of Spirit's descent "like a dove." And John goes on to reflect on the meaning of the event, its impact on John and John's own sense of his call, the mystery of God in his life: "I myself did not know him...I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Son of God."
Testimony and seeing is at stake here. What have you seen of the astounding purposes of God? And how have you "given testimony"? That word tends to be jargon in our religious culture--I think of Bart Simpson singing "testify!" as he conducts a lucrative revival ministry under a sheet-tent in the Simpson's back yard. But we testify when our actions and words try to reflect with integrity what we most deeply believe, what we think is most deeply real. How do our lives "testify"?
Seeing and testimony is still at stake in the next dreamlike sequence. John points to Jesus and uses that potent image: "Lamb of God." John loses two disciples who leave him to follow the new rabbi. Then one of the shortest and most powerful conversations in the Bible follows: "What are you looking for?" "Where do you stay?" "Come and see"
When we hear these words, we are invited to not be content with mere words, even the words of the Bible. It is we who are addressed, we who are asked, "What are you looking for?", and we fumble for the best answer to the most profound question we shall ever be posed. One of the rock band U-2's most powerful songs has the chorus "And I still haven't found what I'm looking for." What do WE seek? What do we answer? And are we willing to "come and see", or was just asking the question all that we can handle at the moment?
To paraphrase an old movie catchphrase: can we in fact "handle the truth"?
Friday, January 7, 2011
Matthew's third Great Appearance--the sanctified sanctifying at the Jordan
The rich feast of Epiphany was of old the Great Feast of the Christmastide cycle. Only after centuries did the day chosen in the West as the actual “feast of the Nativity”, “Christ’s Mass” (“Christmas”) overtake Epiphany in importance. In the Eastern Orthodox churches and in many Latin-influenced cultures, Epiphany is still the Great Feast, the feast for rich liturgies and for feasts and for gift-giving to the children.
On this feast, not only the familiar story of the “Magi”, the mystic pilgrims and wizards from the East following their star was re-told, but also the other great Biblical stories of the manifestation of Christ’s glory. The birth of the Lord at Bethlehem, the visit of the Magi from Matthew, the accounts of the Baptism of Jesus as an adult at the Jordan River, and even the tale from John of changing water into wine at a wedding feast were all read and preached. This was a Baptismal time, when adult candidates for Baptism linked their own Baptism with that of their Lord’s.
We remember this ancient and powerful time of the “Great Appearing”, the Epiphany, by observing the Baptism of the Lord today, part of this ancient and mighty cycle. Matthew tells this story as a surprise ending to his description of the powerful ministry of John the Baptizer, the “last Old Testament prophet” who proclaims the coming of one who “will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire” (Mt 3: 11) John himself seems shocked that Jesus, whom he seems to recognize even before the actual baptism, is submitting to John’s ministry. Jesus insists “to fulfill all righteousness.” Then, the wonder of the vision which it suggests only Jesus sees—heavens open, Spirit as a dove, the Voice which says “this is my son, the Beloved, listen to him.”
The Promise and the Promised One comes as a surprise even for the devout. Expectations are overturned: it is the baptized who sanctifies the hand which baptizes and the water as well, it is the recipient who is to be listened to, it is the humble one who is proclaimed “beloved.”
In this season, how ready are we to have our expectations overturned? How can we be John, who is willing to change and to be changed when faced with the New? And do we too hear the Voice echoing our own Baptism—“This is my Beloved.” How does that change everything?
On this feast, not only the familiar story of the “Magi”, the mystic pilgrims and wizards from the East following their star was re-told, but also the other great Biblical stories of the manifestation of Christ’s glory. The birth of the Lord at Bethlehem, the visit of the Magi from Matthew, the accounts of the Baptism of Jesus as an adult at the Jordan River, and even the tale from John of changing water into wine at a wedding feast were all read and preached. This was a Baptismal time, when adult candidates for Baptism linked their own Baptism with that of their Lord’s.
We remember this ancient and powerful time of the “Great Appearing”, the Epiphany, by observing the Baptism of the Lord today, part of this ancient and mighty cycle. Matthew tells this story as a surprise ending to his description of the powerful ministry of John the Baptizer, the “last Old Testament prophet” who proclaims the coming of one who “will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire” (Mt 3: 11) John himself seems shocked that Jesus, whom he seems to recognize even before the actual baptism, is submitting to John’s ministry. Jesus insists “to fulfill all righteousness.” Then, the wonder of the vision which it suggests only Jesus sees—heavens open, Spirit as a dove, the Voice which says “this is my son, the Beloved, listen to him.”
The Promise and the Promised One comes as a surprise even for the devout. Expectations are overturned: it is the baptized who sanctifies the hand which baptizes and the water as well, it is the recipient who is to be listened to, it is the humble one who is proclaimed “beloved.”
In this season, how ready are we to have our expectations overturned? How can we be John, who is willing to change and to be changed when faced with the New? And do we too hear the Voice echoing our own Baptism—“This is my Beloved.” How does that change everything?
Sunday, January 2, 2011
First Sunday After Christmas
(by Malcolm Heath - Guest Preacher)
As we were preparing for Christmas, my wife turned on the radio, briefly. It was what we call “Christmas Eve Eve” at our house, and we were busy trying to get as much cooking done as we could, so that we could relax on the holiday.
It was the usual Thursday afternoon sort of show on NPR – no special programming was on, and so it was the regularly scheduled litany of woe and despair that constitutes our news reporting, admittedly with a bit more depth and insight than one might find on cable TV.
My wife quickly turned it off. She said something along the lines of “that’s not very Christmas-ey” and I agreed. News of war, of children being harmed, of deadly weather and delayed justice do not, as a rule, a good Christmas backdrop make.
And yet, I found myself thinking, is this not precisely why Christmas took place at all?
We’re Episcopalians, and so we know our Incarnational theology well. We hold that particular take on the Gospel dear, and think about it deeply. And here we are, just after the very thing has taken place – God, Incarnate, in a manger born. Are we thinking about it now?
Lancelot Andrewes spoke of this, saying:
"He is not only God for us, or God with us, but God one of us.”
Why is that so powerful? Some sort of intervention is obviously needed. All that stuff on the radio shows us that. Our hearts show us that too, as we grieve, or fear, or rage or despair.
But why on such a personal level? Couldn’t have God simply come down, two-thousand years ago, or even earlier, and fixed things? Even in the history of his chosen people, the children of Abraham, where he does intervene, his children never quite seem to get it. They get it with their heads, but maybe not with their hearts.
Bet better than you are, says God. Be righteous. Brave and strong, and compassionate. Love justice. Help the widow and the orphan. Treat others fairly.
We don’t believe him, that we’re capable of such a thing. I suppose we can’t be blamed too much for that. We’re weak, and the world is scary and dangerous. Who could blame us if we sought to merely protect ourselves, and our loved ones? That we might struggle to “get our share” before someone stronger or meaner takes it from us?
It all makes a terrible kind of sense.
But God says, “Don’t believe it. You’re better than that. I know you are.” And so, since we’re such terrible listeners, He becomes one of us, so he can tell us to our face. One on one. “You’re better than this, don’t let anyone tell you different. Here, let me show you how.”
Not only God for us, or God with us, but God one of us.
As it turns out, studies have shown of late that God had the right idea. It turns out that if you show someone one person who needs help, almost everyone will give to help that person. If it’s more than one, even if it’s just two, the number of people willing to help drops dramatically. Once you get into the 3 to 4 person range, the number is dramatically down, into the single digits of percentage points.
One on one is the way to go, it seems.
And so, if we are, in fact, believers in an Incarnate God, a God so loving that He would become something as screwed up and dangerous as we are, something as blind and incapable as we are, in order to show us that we can be better, then, what do we need to do ourselves, as we live out that incarnational belief in the world?
I think we know. And I think that it will be one to one, seeing the incarnate Christ in the face we look into next, and the one after that, and the one after that.
God one of us.
As we were preparing for Christmas, my wife turned on the radio, briefly. It was what we call “Christmas Eve Eve” at our house, and we were busy trying to get as much cooking done as we could, so that we could relax on the holiday.
It was the usual Thursday afternoon sort of show on NPR – no special programming was on, and so it was the regularly scheduled litany of woe and despair that constitutes our news reporting, admittedly with a bit more depth and insight than one might find on cable TV.
My wife quickly turned it off. She said something along the lines of “that’s not very Christmas-ey” and I agreed. News of war, of children being harmed, of deadly weather and delayed justice do not, as a rule, a good Christmas backdrop make.
And yet, I found myself thinking, is this not precisely why Christmas took place at all?
We’re Episcopalians, and so we know our Incarnational theology well. We hold that particular take on the Gospel dear, and think about it deeply. And here we are, just after the very thing has taken place – God, Incarnate, in a manger born. Are we thinking about it now?
Lancelot Andrewes spoke of this, saying:
"He is not only God for us, or God with us, but God one of us.”
Why is that so powerful? Some sort of intervention is obviously needed. All that stuff on the radio shows us that. Our hearts show us that too, as we grieve, or fear, or rage or despair.
But why on such a personal level? Couldn’t have God simply come down, two-thousand years ago, or even earlier, and fixed things? Even in the history of his chosen people, the children of Abraham, where he does intervene, his children never quite seem to get it. They get it with their heads, but maybe not with their hearts.
Bet better than you are, says God. Be righteous. Brave and strong, and compassionate. Love justice. Help the widow and the orphan. Treat others fairly.
We don’t believe him, that we’re capable of such a thing. I suppose we can’t be blamed too much for that. We’re weak, and the world is scary and dangerous. Who could blame us if we sought to merely protect ourselves, and our loved ones? That we might struggle to “get our share” before someone stronger or meaner takes it from us?
It all makes a terrible kind of sense.
But God says, “Don’t believe it. You’re better than that. I know you are.” And so, since we’re such terrible listeners, He becomes one of us, so he can tell us to our face. One on one. “You’re better than this, don’t let anyone tell you different. Here, let me show you how.”
Not only God for us, or God with us, but God one of us.
As it turns out, studies have shown of late that God had the right idea. It turns out that if you show someone one person who needs help, almost everyone will give to help that person. If it’s more than one, even if it’s just two, the number of people willing to help drops dramatically. Once you get into the 3 to 4 person range, the number is dramatically down, into the single digits of percentage points.
One on one is the way to go, it seems.
And so, if we are, in fact, believers in an Incarnate God, a God so loving that He would become something as screwed up and dangerous as we are, something as blind and incapable as we are, in order to show us that we can be better, then, what do we need to do ourselves, as we live out that incarnational belief in the world?
I think we know. And I think that it will be one to one, seeing the incarnate Christ in the face we look into next, and the one after that, and the one after that.
God one of us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)