Mark 13:24-37; Isaiah 64:1-9

A few weeks ago, I was driving Willem to school early in the morning, and he asked me an impossible theological question.  This is the usual time when I get the “Stump Pastor Mom” questions—in the car, where we don’t have to look at each other, kids feel this sense of safety to ask the hard questions. 

On this particular morning, when I was not yet at proper levels of caffination, Willem asked me this question:  “Mom, why did God create free will? 

Free will?  Really?  At 7:30 in the morning?

The question was intriguing to me, but the “why” of the question was of more interest.  “Why do you ask such a thing (so early in the morning)?”

Turns out that what Willem really wanted to know was not why God created it, but why God allows us to do stupid things, to our own detriment?  “Isn’t there a place we get to where God just reaches down and fixes it, so we don’t make such a mess out of things down here?”

Oh that you would rend the heavens and come down,

That the mountains would shake before you!

As fire kindles the brushwood and makes water boil,

Make your Name known to your adversaries,

And let the nations tremble before you!

When you did awesome things that we could not have expected,

You came down, and the mountains quaked in your presence!

From ages past no ear has ever heard,

No eye has ever seen any God but you intervening for those that wait for you!

Oh, that you would find us doing right,

That we would be mindful of you in our ways!

          The question of a curious 5^th grader is the same question of the Israelites.  “God, when will you open up the heavens, come down, and fix this mess?  We know you can and will intervene—we are waiting for you to do it—now!”

         

This text from Isaiah finds the Israelites in post-exile.  They had been in exile in Babylon (as Ezekial was in last week’s text), but when King Cyrus defeated the Babylonians, he decreed that the Israelites could return to their home—to Jerusalem.

          It sounded like a dream come true—after years of slavery, heading back home is what the people had longed for all these years!  But, that great feeling quickly left when it came time to get to work on rebuilding the city, and restoring the temple, the house of God.  The city was not coming together as some had hoped.  And, the people of God were calling out to God, saying, “Fix this!  Rend the heavens, come down, and make this right!”

          This demand of the Prophet Isaiah also implied something difficult to hear:  That the people of God—the chosen ones—were not feeling the presence of God among them.  They lament that God was not there and begged God to show up, to be present to them again. 

         

          If the Isaiah passage are the questions—Where are you God?  When are you going to intervene?—the Gospel of Mark could be the answer.  The prophet Isaiah called on God to open the heavens, and Mark showed in vivid images what happens when the heavens open up. 

But in those days, after that time of distress, the sun will be darkened, the moon will lose its brightness, the stars will fall from the sky and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.  Then they will see the Promised one coming in the clouds with great power and glory; then the angels will be sent to gather the chosen from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven.

            The people of Israel want God to show up in grand fashion, showing God’s power.  But, I wonder if they actually considered what that experience might be like.  A dark sun, pale moon, stars falling from the sky, and the heavens being shaken up, God coming down in the clouds—none of that sounds like the welcome event the prophet Isaiah was hoping for.  It sounds downright terrifying.  It sounds more like God leaving that God arriving.

          No, the apocalyptic God is not what Isaiah is hoping for.  In fact, I think that Isaiah was hoping for quite the opposite.  Isaiah was hoping for a God of order, a God that would straighten up the chaos of post-exilic life, that would solve the problems created by slavery.  Isaiah was thinking pragmatically—come down and solve these problems God! 

          But, take another look at Mark.  The author gives us some more ideas of what it might look like for God to show up:

Stay alert!  You do not know when the owner of the house is coming, whether at dusk, at midnight, when the cock crows, or at early dawn.  Do not let the owner come suddenly and catch you asleep.  What I say to you, I say to all:  Stay Alert!

          Do you catch anything interesting here in this verse? 

The time when God might show up is at dusk (when Jesus and the disciples gathered together to share a meal), at midnight (when Jesus prayed with the disciples and was arrested), when the cock crowed (when Jesus was put on trial and Peter denied him), and at early dawn (when Jesus arose from the grave). 

God showed up in the very middle of the most terrible, awful, sinful moments of life.  In the betrayal and denial, God was there.  In the death, God was there.  And in the resurrection, God was most certainly present. 

It seems that Mark may be giving us a few ideas of how God might show up—in terror and glory, in sin and doubt, right on our doorstep.  And it seems that the coming again doesn’t have to happen once.  It can happen again and again. 

For some—like me—this is a welcome relief.  Because I can be a little dense.  Sometimes it takes me a little while to catch on to the fact that God is here—again—in all of God’s glory and big energy, or in the smallest whisper of a moment. 

This week—of all weeks—I resumed my yoga practice.  Now, it’s probably been a good year that I’ve taken a little break from it.  I had another plan, another way that I was going to engage my body in fitness.  And it totally didn’t work.

So, a few months ago, I realized that I needed to get back to yoga.  I began researching places to go, looking at the times of the classes, and getting up the courage to get back to it.  And just when I was ready to go back, I couldn’t find my yoga mat, so I took a few more weeks to purchase  a mat that I liked (ok, the only spec was that it had to be purple), and THEN I was ready. 

So, I went back on Wednesday.  And it started out just awful.  I huffed and puffed through it.  The things I could do a year ago, I just couldn’t do any more.  I kept forgetting to breathe.  I began cursing certain positions that I was being made to hold for endless minutes. 

I was not in a yoga state of mind.  At all.  My mind was fighting with my body.  And losing.

Now, if you have ever attended a yoga class, the instructors are known to throw out nuggets of wisdom in the middle of the class—something about being kind to your body, or gratefulness or something positive.  Sometimes the wisdom feels corny.  Sometimes it’s nice but not necessarily applicable to where you are in that moment.  And sometimes it just smacks you right in the face. 

So, on Wednesday, as I was struggling along and feeling pretty mad at myself and my body for not doing what I wanted it to do, my instructor said this:  Be thankful for where you are right now; don't think about where you'd rather be.  I had to look around to see if she was talking to me directly.  It was exactly what I needed to hear at that moment.  It brought me to focus and clarity.  And that simple, yoga-style nugget of wisdom got me through the rest of the class.  It was my holy interruption, in the middle of my internal structure. 

This holy interruption did not come in a cloud from the heavens.  There was no atmospheric disturbance.  There was no major life event (besides coming to terms with my physical reality), but it was the interruption that aligned my mental and physical state. 

There are plenty of other holy interruptions that I miss though.  There are many times that my mind and body argue in yoga, and I forget to breathe, and no words of wisdom break through.  There a plenty of times that I’m looking for a detail, while God’s doing a heavenly jig in front of me.  There are plenty of times that I’m looking for the sky to open, and I miss the still small voice. 

This season in advent, we have so many distractions.  Black Friday sales that begin at midnight the day after Thanksgiving, holiday concerts, trees to get and decorate, Christmas cookies to make, cards to order and remember to send, suitcases to pack, travel arrangements to make. 

Expectations are high during this season.  We want things to be perfect.  We want things to go well.  We want nothing to interrupt our schedule or our well organized plans. 

But here, in our time together at church, we have an opportunity.  We can—in our worship together, listen for those places, both big and small, where God is interrupting our lives.  Perhaps God is breaking open the heavens in a big way, and wowing you with glory and terror both. 

Notice it.  Pay attention to what God is saying to you.

Perhaps God is revealing herself to you in small, quiet ways. 

Notice it.  Stay awake.  Pay Attention. 

God did not show up to the people of Israel in the way that the prophet Isaiah asked, but God was present—in the suffering, in the slavery, in messy return to Jerusalem.  God was with them in all of it.  God came to them, again and again. 

Mark reminds us of this in his text today.  God comes in big and glorious ways and in small whispered ways too.  God—our holy interrupter—is present to us, and comes to us in the most plain, and the most unusual of ways. 

Stay alert—Stay awake.  You never know how God is intervening in your life—in our lives—in big and small ways.  AMEN. 

Published 29 November 2011 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

Ezekial 47:1-10, Leviticus 25:1-12, Luke 4: 16-22

In the late 90’s U2 front man—and my personal hero—Bono, lent his voice and his passion to the Jubilee project.  This project was an attempt to get first world countries who lend money to third world nations to forgive the debt, to erase the slate, and to allow these poor nations to make a new start without the crippling debt. 

Bono and others met with world leaders, to try to convince them to cancel debt.  There were some successes with this project.  Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister at the time, publicly expressed his personal support for, and dedication to, debt forgiveness. The United States during the G-7 meeting in 1999 to cancel 100% of the debt that qualifying countries owed the U.S.  Jubilee also lobbied the U.S. Congress to make good on this promise. Congress committed $769 million to bilateral and multilateral debt relief.  It wasn’t 100% debt relief, but it was a start.

I love this idea of Jubilee.  Land returned, debts forgiven, slaves freed—it’s beautiful, and means that the gospel, the message of our holy scriptures, are more than just spiritual.  It has an immediate, justice effect on people than need freedom from financial and physical slavery. 

But as much as I love Jubilee, as much as I respect and honor this part of the levitical code—there’s something important you should know about it—in reality it was never fully practiced.  It has never been fully practiced, at least not to the extent that the levitical code required.  There is no record that anyone ever left all  of their land fallow for a year, or freed slaves from servitude, or forgave debt.  Jubilee is talked about in Exodus and Leviticus, and I see no record that anyone ever practiced this part of the law.  If it was ever practiced, it was a token, a shallow version of the Levetical mandate. 

In fact, no one much talked about this decree in the stories of Jesus.  Pharisees and Saducees instead talked about cleanliness—keeping themselves away from the unclean, and striving to be pure, both inside and outside.  The part of the Levitical code that is about personal purity somehow seems more attainable, and more do-able perhaps than the year of jubilee. 

Plus jubilee meant that one had to give up wealth and status for the sake of the oppressed.  Personal purity instead became a form of status in and of itself. 

The only ones that really talked about jubilee in the Hebrew scriptures were the prophets.  And the only one in the gospels that really talked about jubilee  was Jesus—in fact this is how he began his ministry in the gospel of Luke.  Jesus opened up the scroll in the temple, and read the words of the prophet Isaiah, and declared that in his reading it, the scripture was fulfilled. 

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me

Because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor

He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives

And recovery of sight to the blind

To let the oppressed go free

To proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

Jesus doesn’t say it explicitly, but he is declaring the jubilee.  Releasing the captives, recovering sight to the blind, letting the oppressed go free—this is jubilee.  This is what Jesus came to do. 

Jesus lived a life of Jubilee.  Jesus modeled it.  Jesus showed us how it was to be done, and send us disciples off to make it happen.  But still, Jubilee has not ever been practiced with totality.

Rather depressing to think about.  And this has shattered my view of jubilee.  I always thought the Isrealites accomplished the laws set out by God.  I always thought of the Levitical code as the laws that the Isrealites put into action, rather than ideals that they held up, but never really observed.

So then, why do we talk about jubilee?  Why do we social activist types hold up this jubilee concept, yet never practice it?  Why do the Israelites tout this law, yet never put it fully into practice?

Which brings me to the text from Ezekial. 

If Bono is my rock star hero, Ezekial is my prophet hero. Ezekial, a member of the priestly class, was sent into exile by the Babylonians.  The Babylonians thought that if they got rid of the leadership the people of Israel, then the people would be more easily controlled.  So Ezekial was sent into exile.  He went from being a leader among the Jews to being a common laborer, losing both status and prestige. 

Ezekial tried to understand why this had happened.  Where does the blame lie—what have the Israelites done to deserve this?

It is unclear whether he was a performance artist prophet or skitzaphenic, or smoking something trippy.  Regardless, Ezekial has many visions regarding what is happening to the Isrealites.

Ezekial described God—as a spirit of glory and terror both.  He described this glory and terror—this kavod—as a spirit that has left the temple.  God was so disgusted with the people of Israel that God just left.  God had enough and left. 

Of course God does come back to God’s temple.  The temple is renewed as a place of hope and life.  And it culminated in this glorious vision of what the temple—what the church--can be. 

In his vision, Ezekial was led through the temple, a temple where water flowed from its center.  Outside the temple, the water flowed, first ankle deep, then knee deep, then waist deep.  The water was so deep that it was over Ezekial’s head .

Then Ezekial was led to the bank of the river, where he saw trees that were lush and thriving, and producing fruit.  In this river, people could fish, and eat from what they caught.  This river was full of fresh water and flowed to water that was stagnant, and it gave that stagnant water new life. 

This was a beautiful vision of what the house of God—the place of worship—could be.  And it inspires me.  What if the church was this place—what if Germantown Mennonite was a stream of new life that turned into a deep river of life that ran over our threshold, into the parking lot and down Washington Lane?  What if this water flowed from there down to the wissahickon, and made that dirty undrinkable water clean again?  What if that water that flooded from our doors made it possible for people to eat, not just one meal, but to eat in a sustainable way? 

This vision of the church gets me very excited!  It gets me far more excited than the jubilee texts.  Not that they are any different.  They both are calling for the people of God to be people of liberation.  They both seem rather unattainable.  How can we possibly bring about Jubilee?  How can we possibly create a church that is a source of liberation and life, from which clean waters flow?

What excites me about the Ezekial text is that it is the gospel—in this middle of this prophet’s possibly drug induced vision is a declaration that prisoners are free, that the captives are released.  In the middle of the Hebrew Scriptures is the image of what it looks like if we practice jubilee. 

Ezekial is not telling us—this is the law.  You must give money to make this vision happen.  Ezekial is not saying that God says you’d better tithe, God says you’d better give up all your wealth.  The prophet is showing us what it looks like when we participate in the vision.  He’s showing us in this beautiful, rich, elaborate vision what we can be as the people of God, participating in the vision with all that we have.

I like Jubilee.  But, I have some trouble with the idea that Jubilee is law.  It’s probably because I don’t like being told what to do.  And I know that I’m not the only one here with this stubborn streak.  I don’t want to be told that I must, I need to know the why.  I want to see the reason for following—for following this law, for following Jesus.  Perhaps this line of thinking sounds stupid to you, but I need to know why it’s important.  Why is it important that I follow the law of God, written thousands of years ago?

The prophet shows us this vision in Ezekial—when we all loosen our grip on the material, and share our resources—in this particular image, we are sharing with the church—we begin to see that church can be a place that is more than just paying for a building, or buying Sunday school materials, or paying the pastor’s salary.  Sharing our resources with the church is sharing in a vision that together God’s people will be nourished.  Together the captives will be released.  Together all we come to know the saving grace of God, not just intellectually, but spiritually and physically.  Because we share our resources with this community, this place becomes a place of hope and sustaining grace. 

Ultimately this vision of Ezekial is not different than Jesus declaration of what he was called to do.  And that’s not much different from Jubilee.  All of these things are a call to the people of God to share what we have—I share all three of these texts with you today because for each of us these texts appeal in different ways.  Some of us like the trippy vision of the prophet—we need to see that vision of what will be, when we work together.  Some of us need that Jubilee law—the commandment that is so lofty, but that pushes us.  And for others of us, it is important to hear that Jesus declare this vision to be so—in the reading of the word.  And as his diciples, we share in that vision.

Whatever the reason that we give, we give so that the grace of God is shared—in word and deed.  Let us hold to this vision—as unattainable as it might seem—as we look towards the future of the church. Let us hold on to this vision as we consider carefully how we share our resources with our church.  Let us hold on to this vision, as we—the disciples of Jesus—seek the kingdom of God with all that we have.

AMEN.  

Published 21 November 2011 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)   

Matthew 23: 1-12

          Today, in the protestant church tradition, is reformation Sunday.  Reformation Sunday is a remembrance of the day that Catholic Priest, Martin Luther, nailed his 95 theses on the door of the Wittenburg Church in 1517.  Luther was concerned about the burdens that the church was putting on its people, for the sake of money and control and order. 

          But today, we are not going to be talking about Martin Luther.  He is a heroic icon in other parts of the Christian tradition.  But, the Anabaptists don’t typically look to Luther as their bold leader.  His protest of the church in the early 16^th century may have been the spark that began the reformation, but Luther turned his back on the radical reformers, our theological ancestors.  In fact, he led the charge against the Anabaptist, advocating for their murder, and sending them into hiding. 

          So, today, unlike much of the church universal, we’re not thinking about Martin Luther so much.  We’re thinking today about our own radical reformers, and about Jesus, the great reformer. 

         

You heard the story shared by Dottie with our children this morning.  This story is how our tradition began.  A few people gathered together to study the texts, and to understand the meaning of Jesus for themselves.  And, inspired by the holy spirit, the members of this group baptized each other and shared communion together. 

          Lest we forget the radical nature of this event, I’ll remind you of a few key things:  First, their gathering together to read and study the text was illegal.  It was against the law of the church and the state for them to do this.  And, second, adult baptism was completely forbidden.  It was beyond the scope of the Church’s imagination, really.  Why would you be baptized again?  Baptism at that time was done for infants to secure their salvation, and was part of the state system of record-keeping.  Refusing to baptize children, and baptizing each other—it was utter destruction of the social, theological and church systems that had been created and upheld for centuries. 

         And yet, in doing these simply radical, or radically simple acts of love for each other—sharing communion and baptism rituals together in a home, while reading the texts together—these first Anabaptist seemed to get closer to those first teachings of Jesus.  They released themselves of the burdens of the church—the burden of hierarchy, of order, and of certainty.  And in sharing secret baptism and communion together, they took their first life changing, life threatening steps of radical discipleship.

         

          In our text from the gospel of Matthew, Jesus said some confusing, contradictory things. After Jesus answered the question of the Sadduceess—what is the greatest law?—Jesus launched into an angry rant against the Pharisees.  Jesus said to the people—your leaders have inherited their authority, so listen to what they say, but don’t do as they do.  They do not practice what they preach.  They give you the burden of the law, but do not practice the law.  All that they do, they do so that others will see them and be impressed.  So they wear large phylacteries—doesn’t that sound like such a naughty thing?  Phylacteries?  Well, phylacteries are large amulets that religious leaders used to wear—they held portions of the holy scripture in them.  These scriptures we held close to their hearts.

          Jesus was concerned about the shallow showiness of the leaders at the time.  All piety, purity, and place, with seemingly little interest in social justice.  If they did care about social justice, they would not have asked Jesus about the greatest law, and they would not have plotted to kill him for suggesting that all were welcome at the banquet table.

         In hearing this text today, I can just about hear Grebel, Blaurock and Manx discussing it in secret in their homes on January 21, 1525.  I can just about hear the water being poured over their heads, and see the bread and cup being shared.  I can imagine that the words of Jesus were liberating to them, as they re-imagined what it meant to be the body of Christ.  They had been part of a church that had placed great burdens on the people, and had made no attempts made to lighten the load—Anabaptist’s sluffed off these burdens in favor of what was most essential about the gospel.  Instead of the indulgences, and fear based theology, they choose to risk their lives to live in community, and to try—in their time and in their context, to follow in the way of Jesus. 

         

But, even as I talk about this Radical Reformation story, I see how easy it is to make a phylactery out of it.  How easy it is for us to become burdened by the powerful story of discipleship.  We carry these burdens around in our collective anabapist psyches—burdens of martyrdom, right relationship in community, the ways we live out peace, the ways we baptize—the list could go on and on.  And, of course, there’s nothing intrinsically wrong with these things in our history.  There’s nothing wrong with remembering the martyrs, with being right with our brothers and sisters, with striving to live at peace in all the layers of our lives, and valuing adult choice in baptism—the problem is when we wear them around our necks like phylacteries.  The beautiful gift of our stories and tradition should not become our piety our adornment, our idols.  They should become—like Jesus—a model for following God. 

          In Matthew 23, Jesus was calling his community to reform.  He was calling his community put aside their piety, and follow God.  He wanted them to recall that loving God could not be separated from loving neighbor, that justice and mercy were at the heart of God’s relationship with God’s people. 

         

The radical reformers were calling the church to reform as well.  Perhaps some of you Anabaptist historians will correct me if I’m wrong, but I have never understood the radical reformation as the act of petulance or or belligerence.  These Anabaptists loved God, they loved the church, and they were inspired and confronted by the words of Jesus as they read them together. 

          Jesus’ words in Matthew 23, and in the last few chapters of Matthew that we’ve read this fall—they confront us, and challenge us.  And, in light of reformation Sunday, they remind me that reformation is not something that happened 2,000 years ago, when Jesus was alive and in conflict with the Phariseess and Saduccees.  This is not something that took place 500 years ago in Europe, and ended the difficulties of the church.  Re-form-ation is constantly happening.  We must always be listening to the words of Jesus as we are challenged to be the church together in our context. 

          And, what worries me about the Mennonite church is that there is a part of the church that has decided that what is means to be Mennonite is to have the right name, to act with certain sensibilities, to attend the right schools.  Because is doing this, our church becomes an ethnic tradition, rather than a community embodying discipleship.

           

This summer the Mennonite convention, I met a pastor who is leading a small intentional community and house church in Minneapolis.  Matt and I had spent the evening with other urban Mennonite pastors, and the next day I saw him in the convention center, looking rather deflated.  When I asked him if he was ok, he told me his story.  He was new to the tradition, and coming to the convention, he realized that he was not “one of them.”  Matt had no familial connections here.  He didn’t know the songs in the hymnals, he didn’t understand the politics.  Matt also works for his conference, and had just written two articles in a Mennonite publication.  One was about sexuality, and one was about church polity.  He was not criticized for the sexuality article, but his job was threatened for criticizing the denomination’s structure and leadership.  Between his experience at the convention and this experience with his bosses at the conference level, his bubble was burst. He wasn’t sure anymore that he wanted to be Mennonite. 

Now it’s very easy to criticize our denomination—with some distance we can see the holes in the polity, the problems with the structure, and the areas of neglect.  But, it’s almost too easy. 

What we really are being asked to do in this text is to examine ourselves—our own community.  As the priesthood of all believers, what are the phylacteries that we wear around our necks?  Is it our pedigree?  Is it our rigid interpretation of the story? Is it “we’ve never done it that way” and “Anabaptism can only be expressed in this way”? 

Jesus calls us to not just teach the words, but live the words we teach.  Otherwise those good words that have become so dear to us, are no more than ornaments around our necks.  They are nothing more than flash and show.  The words become our idolatry, but do not change us. 

Our radical reformation story is incredible to me—these folks read the scriptures together and decided that the church was not acting the way Jesus called them to be.  And so they decided to live differently.  But we cannot hold up the radical reformation story if we are going to be unmoved by it, if we will not allow it to re-form us.  Because when we do this, we make that incredible 500 year old story our phylactery, our icon. 

Following in the way of Jesus is never static.  We are—in every age and generation—being called to re-form-ation.  Let us seek to day those places where the words of Jesus and the actions of our reformers re-form us.  AMEN.  

Published 01 November 2011 - 0 comments (View/Post Comments)