3 Lent A 2011
Exodus 17: 1-7; Ps 95; Rom 5: 1-11; John 4: 5-42
Funny how we can get so close to the water, but never drink.
The Tibetan Buddhist religion honors pilgrimage. There are many sacred sites in Tibet—shrines and holy mountains and ancient monasteries. There is a constant flow of pilgrims to these sites.
Once a pilgrim arrives at a sacred place there are certain rituals to perform, certain prayers to recite. Climb these steps while saying this prayer, for example, or spin this prayer wheel several times, or kneel by the tomb of this saint. I’ve experienced a similar rhythm of customs and prayers at many Catholic sacred site.
One photo of Tibetan pilgrims that I saw in a magazine haunts me to this day. At one monastery, pilgrims were lined up to pass crouched down under a long wooden table. On the table was piled ancient sacred manuscripts. The caption said the pilgrims believe that if they pass under the table, the wisdom contained in the manuscripts above them will descend through the table and bless those underneath.
My first reaction was “Ack! Take those books and preserve them, and then how about reading them?” But then I reflected that iI do something like this in my own life. On my nightstand a small stack of books usually rests, and all too often they lie there undisturbed or only cracked occasionally. On my office shelves are other books that I have bought with excitement, but never read. Maybe I secretly believe the wisdom contained within will silently pass through the air and reach me on my bed or at my desk!
And looking deeper, how often do I live my days caught up in my tiny anxieties and private to-do list, oblivious to the presence of God at all times? How often do I kneel in prayer and find my mind elsewhere? How often do I take Communion in my mouth, the taste of the bread and wine on my tongue, and fight a wandering mind and am not struck in quiet awe at the gift of the living Christ who has come to me again?
"If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, `Give me a drink,' you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water."
Jesus’ words to the Samaritan woman at the well are meant for each of us. The amazing woman who stays and matches words with the Jewish stranger gives us a great gift—her willingness to explore more deeply Jesus’ mystery invites us to do the same. Her average day’s weary chores becomes so much more. She dares to answer the strange traveler who breaks social convention by even speaking to her. And so an ordinary day of life in a small Samaritan village is transformed.
It is transformed because the woman asked the right things. “How is it that you ask me for a drink?” “Where do you get that living water?” And finally, “Sir, give me that water, so I may never be thirsty again.”
The woman receives an answer from Jesus each time, and so much more. She is so transformed that she must go and tell the story.
Faith and tradition says that we meet Jesus every day. By faith Jesus lives in the depths of our souls. Jesus is visible in the face of the poor and those in need. Jesus hears prayer. The living Word of Christ is read and proclaimed each Sunday. The living Jesus comes to us in the Sacraments.
What do we ask of him? Do we ask anything?
Do we ask for the strength and help to cope with our lives? We ask well. Do we ask that he help those whom we love, and all those in need? We ask well.
Or do we ask for living water? Do we ask to taste his living presence? Do we ask to plunge ever deeper into the mystery of his very soul? Do we ask to know him as he is, to see his face?
If we ask these things, we ask very well. And Jesus will answer. He waits by the well for each of us, hoping we will ask for living water.
archived musings and preachments
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Go
2 Lent A 2011
Genesis 12: 1-4a; Ps 121; Romans 4: 1-5, 13-17; John 3: 1-17
The only sadness in life is to refuse the journey.
On a recent retreat, our Bishop spoke of his two pilgrimages to Santiago. The ancient pilgrim road, which crosses all of northern Spain, has been revived. We hung on the Bishop’s words as he spoke of the long walk, because the traditional way to make the pilgrimage is to walk. Walking the Road to Santiago takes weeks.
There are many temptations on that strange road. One of the greatest temptations is to simply give up, to stop walking. One feels like one has come to the end of one’s own strength. One wonders if the long journey even means anything.
But those who give up miss that final climb to the top of Mount Joy. They miss the sight of the spires of the great gothic Cathedral of Santiago rising from the mist. They miss the final walk into the medieval city, touching the foot of the statue of Saint James, walking in deep silence past his tomb, standing on the floor of the Cathedral as the huge thurible, taller than an adult, swings from chains over one’s head as the pilgrims shout with joy. They miss the rest of their lives knowing that they have walked the Road, knowing that they were faith-filled enough or crazy enough to drop everything and simply walk a road worn smooth by centuries of pilgrim feet.
They miss the God who is the God of journeys.
The God of the Bible is the God of journeys. Just ask Abram. Abram the Father of faith was simply a man who listened to the voice of God and chose to get up and go. Abram had no idea where the road would take him, only that the God of journeys had made a promise. If Abram had known that his family would be torn by strife, that he would face enemies, that he would be granted terrifying visions, that God would change his name and his wife’s name, that the promise of God would take years to come to fulfillment—would he have gone? Would he have had the nerve to set his foot on the road?
But he did set out. He decided to trust not in what was familiar and settled, but to trust in a promise. When I wrote the notes for this sermon, my finger slipped and I typed “tryst” rather than trust. I think my fingers were smarter than my brain. Abram decided to live by tryst, that ancient word for an agreement to go out and meet one’s beloved. Abram’s journey was a walk into the heart of a loving God.
Nicodemus walked out into the night to keep another tryst.
What drove him out, I wonder, into the night to meet the strange, new, young rabbi? What restlessness, what dissatisfaction with his old life, what curiosity or anxiety about the new teaching from the new prophet? Perhaps Nocodemus himself did not know. But he did walk out, only to keep a tryst and more. Strange images of uncontrollable wind, of adults being born a second time, of a bizarre ancient image of a metal snake raised on a pole and of a Man who would also be raised up just “that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.” A walk into the night became another tryst, a journey into the heart of Christ, the Christ sent by God. Nicodemus’ journey had only begun.
When we listen to Christ’s call, when we walk out in trust, when we keep the tryst, we are never the same again. We are called from what is familiar to a new life, a new journey, to meet the God we thought we knew as if for the first time.
I used to hear our Collect today, speaking of “all who have gone astray from your ways”, as those who wander off from the safe and stable teachings of God. I think that those who have gone astray are those who refuse the journey, who sit down or lay down by the path, who go back to the safe-seeming privacy of their homes and their predictable lives. To truly believe is to trust, to trust is to walk out of the familiar to keep a tryst with a God of journeys. That God calls us to the road, away from what seems safe, into new life and the new paths we each are called to explore, that we together as a church are called to explore.
The only sadness in life is to refuse the journey.
Genesis 12: 1-4a; Ps 121; Romans 4: 1-5, 13-17; John 3: 1-17
The only sadness in life is to refuse the journey.
On a recent retreat, our Bishop spoke of his two pilgrimages to Santiago. The ancient pilgrim road, which crosses all of northern Spain, has been revived. We hung on the Bishop’s words as he spoke of the long walk, because the traditional way to make the pilgrimage is to walk. Walking the Road to Santiago takes weeks.
There are many temptations on that strange road. One of the greatest temptations is to simply give up, to stop walking. One feels like one has come to the end of one’s own strength. One wonders if the long journey even means anything.
But those who give up miss that final climb to the top of Mount Joy. They miss the sight of the spires of the great gothic Cathedral of Santiago rising from the mist. They miss the final walk into the medieval city, touching the foot of the statue of Saint James, walking in deep silence past his tomb, standing on the floor of the Cathedral as the huge thurible, taller than an adult, swings from chains over one’s head as the pilgrims shout with joy. They miss the rest of their lives knowing that they have walked the Road, knowing that they were faith-filled enough or crazy enough to drop everything and simply walk a road worn smooth by centuries of pilgrim feet.
They miss the God who is the God of journeys.
The God of the Bible is the God of journeys. Just ask Abram. Abram the Father of faith was simply a man who listened to the voice of God and chose to get up and go. Abram had no idea where the road would take him, only that the God of journeys had made a promise. If Abram had known that his family would be torn by strife, that he would face enemies, that he would be granted terrifying visions, that God would change his name and his wife’s name, that the promise of God would take years to come to fulfillment—would he have gone? Would he have had the nerve to set his foot on the road?
But he did set out. He decided to trust not in what was familiar and settled, but to trust in a promise. When I wrote the notes for this sermon, my finger slipped and I typed “tryst” rather than trust. I think my fingers were smarter than my brain. Abram decided to live by tryst, that ancient word for an agreement to go out and meet one’s beloved. Abram’s journey was a walk into the heart of a loving God.
Nicodemus walked out into the night to keep another tryst.
What drove him out, I wonder, into the night to meet the strange, new, young rabbi? What restlessness, what dissatisfaction with his old life, what curiosity or anxiety about the new teaching from the new prophet? Perhaps Nocodemus himself did not know. But he did walk out, only to keep a tryst and more. Strange images of uncontrollable wind, of adults being born a second time, of a bizarre ancient image of a metal snake raised on a pole and of a Man who would also be raised up just “that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.” A walk into the night became another tryst, a journey into the heart of Christ, the Christ sent by God. Nicodemus’ journey had only begun.
When we listen to Christ’s call, when we walk out in trust, when we keep the tryst, we are never the same again. We are called from what is familiar to a new life, a new journey, to meet the God we thought we knew as if for the first time.
I used to hear our Collect today, speaking of “all who have gone astray from your ways”, as those who wander off from the safe and stable teachings of God. I think that those who have gone astray are those who refuse the journey, who sit down or lay down by the path, who go back to the safe-seeming privacy of their homes and their predictable lives. To truly believe is to trust, to trust is to walk out of the familiar to keep a tryst with a God of journeys. That God calls us to the road, away from what seems safe, into new life and the new paths we each are called to explore, that we together as a church are called to explore.
The only sadness in life is to refuse the journey.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Rickety
1 Lent A 2011
Gen 2:15-17; 3:1-7; Ps 32; Rom 5: 12-19; Mt 4: 1-11
How do we feel about being “rickety”?
In the 19th century a few dedicated people revived monastic life in the Church of England. One of the first Orders had a rough beginning—only three or four men to start, no money, lots of suspicion in a country and a church where monks had been suppressed centuries before. One or two members of the original group left.
After several hard years, things picked up for these monks. They attracted a couple of wealthy patrons, and moved into a nice building. Public attention became more positive. They attracted more new members.
It did not last. One of the patrons died and the other decided to do other things with his money. Several of the new candidates did not stay. The monks were back to being broke with only a few members sticking it out.
One of these, very discouraged, complained to another: “We’re back to where we started! Things feel all rickety again!”
After a moment, the other monk replied, “The day things stop being rickety is the day we stop depending on God.”
The truth is, thing are always “rickety”, insecure, unstable, liable to change at any moment. We ourselves are “rickety”—fragile, with weak and changeable wills and uncertain faith. At different life-stages we change—we acquire new health concerns, our relationships change or end, even the state of our souls change. Faith that was once warm goes cold. Things we felt to be sure feel less certain, or completely uncertain.
This week we were given stark reminders that our life on this planet is rickety. A technologically advanced nation is brought to a standstill by an earthquake that even they did not expect. Thousands of miles away, the waves wrecked docks and boats and swept the unwary out to sea. As of Friday Noon, the Vicar of St. Timothy’s Church Brookings was at sea with his father, having chosen like experienced sailors to ride the tsunami surge in open water.
But the rickety nature of our lives calls forth what is deepest in us, and faces us with choice. The Oregonian printed a photo of a Japanese soldier tenderly carrying an old man on his back through flood waters. The article said that an American aircraft carrier is steaming to Japan’s coast to offer aid. There are still those among us here who remember a time when gentle Japanese soldiers and American ships coming to help Japan would be inconceivable. But we are called away from anger and fear and the ways of war to the ways of peace, once we acknowledge our common human “ricketyness” and our dependence on one anther in this lovely, uncertain, rickety life we share.
The Gospel says that Jesus the Son of God completely shared our rickety life.
Jesus’ own baptism was an experience of wonder and assurance and light. But Jesus does not go from this moment of wonder into a successful career as professional Messiah. He goes into the desert, away from fame and assurance and light. In the desert, life is stripped to its basics. In the desert, you realize that you are small and not strong at all. In the desert, you are not in control. Wild animals call the desert home. Spirits are there. The devil is there. And God is there, although God can be as strange and unpredictable as the wild animals.
That desert, that disorienting place where we are small and rickety and not in control—that is the place where the baptized Jesus must face what is real.
“Temptations” are not urges to be naughty. Temptations are tests—to uncover what is in our hearts, to reveal what is true about our humanity. Tests—to reveal what is true about the world and about God. Tests—the kind of tests where, one way or the other, we emerge changed. That change is unpredictable.
The proctor of the test is the devil, whose name in Hebrew means “the accuser”, the one who knows our weaknesses and uncovers our doubts and fears, our anger and our greed.
“Command these stones to turn into bread”—gratify yourself, be self-sufficient, feed yourself independently of God or farmers or bakers or anyone else.
“Throw yourself down”—be exceptional, unique, entitled to care and supernatural tricks over and above any other human being who walks this earth.
“All these I will give you…” be greater, be in control of others, be master of your own fate. But the devil trips himself up here—he adds “worship me.” For as Bob Dylan said, you gotta serve someone.
Jesus refuses—refuses a self-sufficient life, refuses an exceptional life entitled to more care than any other person, refuses a dominating life controlling others and his own fate. He brings God into the equation—we live through God’s constant living speech, we are entrusted to God’s care, all true power belongs to God and we are entrusted with the humble care of one another.
Jesus chose a rickety life.
Rickety means that we entrust ourselves to God. Rickety means that we know we cannot and do not have to manage our lives alone. Rickety means that God is at the center, and we rely on God for all things. Rickety means that we are free to live a loved and vulnerable human life, dependent on one another, dependent on the earth and its creatures, dependent on God the source of all that is good.
Rickety is the only true strength.
Gen 2:15-17; 3:1-7; Ps 32; Rom 5: 12-19; Mt 4: 1-11
How do we feel about being “rickety”?
In the 19th century a few dedicated people revived monastic life in the Church of England. One of the first Orders had a rough beginning—only three or four men to start, no money, lots of suspicion in a country and a church where monks had been suppressed centuries before. One or two members of the original group left.
After several hard years, things picked up for these monks. They attracted a couple of wealthy patrons, and moved into a nice building. Public attention became more positive. They attracted more new members.
It did not last. One of the patrons died and the other decided to do other things with his money. Several of the new candidates did not stay. The monks were back to being broke with only a few members sticking it out.
One of these, very discouraged, complained to another: “We’re back to where we started! Things feel all rickety again!”
After a moment, the other monk replied, “The day things stop being rickety is the day we stop depending on God.”
The truth is, thing are always “rickety”, insecure, unstable, liable to change at any moment. We ourselves are “rickety”—fragile, with weak and changeable wills and uncertain faith. At different life-stages we change—we acquire new health concerns, our relationships change or end, even the state of our souls change. Faith that was once warm goes cold. Things we felt to be sure feel less certain, or completely uncertain.
This week we were given stark reminders that our life on this planet is rickety. A technologically advanced nation is brought to a standstill by an earthquake that even they did not expect. Thousands of miles away, the waves wrecked docks and boats and swept the unwary out to sea. As of Friday Noon, the Vicar of St. Timothy’s Church Brookings was at sea with his father, having chosen like experienced sailors to ride the tsunami surge in open water.
But the rickety nature of our lives calls forth what is deepest in us, and faces us with choice. The Oregonian printed a photo of a Japanese soldier tenderly carrying an old man on his back through flood waters. The article said that an American aircraft carrier is steaming to Japan’s coast to offer aid. There are still those among us here who remember a time when gentle Japanese soldiers and American ships coming to help Japan would be inconceivable. But we are called away from anger and fear and the ways of war to the ways of peace, once we acknowledge our common human “ricketyness” and our dependence on one anther in this lovely, uncertain, rickety life we share.
The Gospel says that Jesus the Son of God completely shared our rickety life.
Jesus’ own baptism was an experience of wonder and assurance and light. But Jesus does not go from this moment of wonder into a successful career as professional Messiah. He goes into the desert, away from fame and assurance and light. In the desert, life is stripped to its basics. In the desert, you realize that you are small and not strong at all. In the desert, you are not in control. Wild animals call the desert home. Spirits are there. The devil is there. And God is there, although God can be as strange and unpredictable as the wild animals.
That desert, that disorienting place where we are small and rickety and not in control—that is the place where the baptized Jesus must face what is real.
“Temptations” are not urges to be naughty. Temptations are tests—to uncover what is in our hearts, to reveal what is true about our humanity. Tests—to reveal what is true about the world and about God. Tests—the kind of tests where, one way or the other, we emerge changed. That change is unpredictable.
The proctor of the test is the devil, whose name in Hebrew means “the accuser”, the one who knows our weaknesses and uncovers our doubts and fears, our anger and our greed.
“Command these stones to turn into bread”—gratify yourself, be self-sufficient, feed yourself independently of God or farmers or bakers or anyone else.
“Throw yourself down”—be exceptional, unique, entitled to care and supernatural tricks over and above any other human being who walks this earth.
“All these I will give you…” be greater, be in control of others, be master of your own fate. But the devil trips himself up here—he adds “worship me.” For as Bob Dylan said, you gotta serve someone.
Jesus refuses—refuses a self-sufficient life, refuses an exceptional life entitled to more care than any other person, refuses a dominating life controlling others and his own fate. He brings God into the equation—we live through God’s constant living speech, we are entrusted to God’s care, all true power belongs to God and we are entrusted with the humble care of one another.
Jesus chose a rickety life.
Rickety means that we entrust ourselves to God. Rickety means that we know we cannot and do not have to manage our lives alone. Rickety means that God is at the center, and we rely on God for all things. Rickety means that we are free to live a loved and vulnerable human life, dependent on one another, dependent on the earth and its creatures, dependent on God the source of all that is good.
Rickety is the only true strength.
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