In today's reading from Acts, the "rejection" of the gospel by some Jews spurs Paul to carry the good news to the Gentiles, "and as many as had been destined for eternal life became believers." This isn't one of the primary texts for formulating a doctrine of predestination, but it certainly is compatible with such a doctrine. People became believers, not because the figured things out, not because it made sense to them, but because they had been "destined for eternal life."
Personally, I am glad that the Bible doesn't develop this idea at great length, a reticence that might have served my own denomination's theologians well at times. Presbyterians didn't come up with predestination. Calvin borrowed it from Augustine and we share the doctrine with Roman Catholics, Lutherans, and others. But we emphasized it more and became known for it. We've backed away from it some in more recent years. It's still on the books, but we don't talk about it a lot. After all, it seems so... un-American.
We Americans are big on notions of merit, of people getting what they deserve, of people getting ahead on effort and not status. What business does God have destining anyone for good or bad?
Someone once noted that no one would be inclined to embrace a doctrine of predestination without believing she was one of the chosen ones. But be that as it may, I wonder why it is that so many of us are more comfortable leaving things in human hands rather than simply trusting God. Most all Protestants want to talk about God's unmerited grace, about being "saved" as a gift and not by our own merit. So why does the idea of predestination bother us so? (It's important to distinguish between predestination and determinism. Predestination - formally known as the Doctrine of Election - is not about every event in one's life being preset. It is concerned almost exclusively with salvation.)
Part of being human is not knowing everything. Faith seeks understanding, but faith also knows that God is incomprehensible to humans in many ways. "For my thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says Yahweh. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts." (Isaiah 55:8-9) So while I will seek to understand God and live as God calls me to live, I'm pretty comfortable leaving ultimate questions of judgment, of who's in and who's out, up to God. After all, the God we meet in Jesus is not only just, but loving, caring, merciful, and forgiving.
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Love that embraces the most wayward and irresponsible; such is the love Jesus describes in his Parable of the Prodigal Son and his Brother, Luke 15:11-32. It's a beautiful parable. At least it would be if not for the problems presented by the good, responsible, older brother.
There is a lot of conflict between Jesus and religious authorities in the gospels. It shows up in today's reading from Mark in the form of a Sabbath controversy. Over the years, Christians have tended to picture these authorities as evil folks in black hats, as cartoon bad guys. But that seems highly unlikely. No doubt they had mixed motives, as do religious leaders in every age. Some of them were concerned with preserving the status and privilege they had. And some worried about religious movements that might get out of control and lead to conflict with the powerful Romans. But along with such concerns, there were genuine religious concerns that God's laws be upheld. The Pharisees, especially, were a reform movement that wanted people to embrace the Law in day to day living, compared to what they saw as overly ritualized Temple Judaism.
My childhood was spent in North and South Carolina, when the Bible belt was a much stronger cultural force than it is today. And if you wanted a lot of folks in the neighborhood to look at you and shake their heads, all you had to do was cut the grass on a Sunday afternoon. Even though Sunday isn't the Sabbath, the culture had built in all sorts of safeguards to assure that the Christian Sabbath was not violated. And if you go back a bit further in the history of this country, you will find Sabbath enforcement that rivaled anything Jesus encountered.
Sometimes in these musings, I find myself sounding like one of those folks that hates organized religion. I'm not. I think that faith without a community that teaches and embodies the practices of the faith is a pretty nebulous and vacuous thing. But as much as I think the institutional Church is an absolute necessity, it, like all things human, has its dark side. The notion that Christians or the Church are somehow immune to the influences that made the religious authorities oppose Jesus, is a dangerous one, for it frees us from examining ourselves to see where we may be opposing God.
Now no genuine Christian would intentionally set out to oppose God, but then again, no genuine Jew of Jesus' day would have either. And Jesus himself notes how easy is can be to miss him in one of his parables. There people both good and bad say, "Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison?"
Lord, don't let my religious certainties cause me to miss you or reject you.
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Here are a couple of verses from today's reading in Mark. "When the scribes of the Pharisees saw that he was eating with sinners and tax-collectors, they said to his disciples, 'Why does he eat with tax-collectors and sinners?' When Jesus heard this, he said to them, 'Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick; I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.' "
Complaints about the company Jesus kept crop up all the time in the gospels. There is also a phrase I've heard all my life that I suppose is rooted in Jesus' response to his critics. "A Church is a hospital for sinners and not a museum for saints." (supposedly said by Abigail Van Buren) I've heard all sort of people quote some form of this line, but in my experience most congregations seem closer to a doctor's office than a hospital. We'll all admit to being sinners and in need of help, but our sins are like strep throat or a cold, not heart attacks of pancreatic cancers. And we're not real comfortable when people with such serious conditions show up at our church. To stretch this metaphor perhaps to breaking, we're more comfortable dealing in preventitive care than we are in treating life threatening diseases.
It would be interesting to know if people outside the church saw things in a similar light. If they do; if they see the the church as a place that only handles mundane little problems, will they consider coming to us when they have a big problem, a full blown spiritual crisis?
We say we're in the salvation business. Barbara Brown Taylor writes in her latest book of being asked many years ago to speak at a church. When she asked what she was supposed to talk about, the "wise old priest" said to her, "Come tell us what is saving your life now." What is saving your life now? That's an interesting question. Maybe we should ask it to each other in our congregations.
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One reason I enjoy writing these "musings" comes from the fact that I don't approach the lectionary readings in the same manner I do when I prepare a sermon or a Bible study. What I do is closer to lectio divina, where you simply read a text and let it draw you where it may. This means that I am sometimes drawn to something in a reading that isn't its central point, that may even have nothing to do with its main point. I wouldn't want to approach scripture this way all the time, but sometimes this method lets the Bible touch me in unexpected and rewarding ways.
When I read today's story in Mark about the paralyzed man whose friends lower him to Jesus through a hole in the roof, I was not drawn to the issue of Jesus first forgiving the man's sins and then healing him as proof of having such authority. And I didn't think about the great faith of this man's friends. Instead, I found myself reflecting on what it was that drew these people to Jesus.
The story does not tell us what these four men carrying a friend know about Jesus. It seems quite possible that they knew nothing of his teachings, perhaps nothing that he had said. But they certainly had heard that he could heal. They had heard that there was something about Jesus that restored people, that made them whole. Here was salvation in the biblical sense. Nothing about going to heaven when you die. This was about life.
And so it seems to me that if the Church is somehow the body of Christ, we should exude life. We should be all about becoming whole, about being restored to full and abundant living. But I know that I sometimes worry so much about getting things right - whether it's doing worship correctly or trying to improve a congregation's programs - that any sense of vibrant life can get obscured.
Surely the picture in the Bible of crowds flocking to Jesus is not a picture of people coming to make sure they have their doctrines straight. Rather they sensed a life giving power and presence that drew them in. Lord, help us as the living body of Christ, to be a life giving presence in the world.
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Sunday's worship focused on singing favorite hymns and songs, and so the sermon was replaced by a very brief communion mediation from 1 Corinthians 11:27-34. In this letter, Paul is upset with his Corinthian congregation because of divisions that have developed there. One is particularly troubling. When they gather in homes for worship, the well to do are arriving early and finishing off all the food and wine before the poorer members can arrive. Paul's insistence that they not eat the Lord's Supper without first "discerning the body" is sometimes thought to mean discerning Christ's presence in the bread and cup. But a quick look at the context shows that "the body" Paul speaks of here is the congregation, the Church.
In today's reading from Mark 1, Jesus does a whole lot of healing. In Mark, Jesus' ministry begins with him proclaiming the coming kingdom and calling disciples, but the focus seems to be much more on the healings. Initially, we hear very little about the content of Jesus' message.
I'm not sure if I should make anything of this or not. But it seems to me that when we think of sharing Jesus' message, we often think of beliefs and teachings first. Presbyterians may not employ that evangelical stereotype of asking strangers if they're saved, but I've had many Presbyterians tell me that they don't share their faith with others because they don't know it well enough. I presume that means they think faith sharing to be primarily about explaining doctrines and such.
But in the picture I get from reading today's gospel, Jesus simply heals everyone who is brought to him. No faith statements are required, no promises to join his movement, no donations to the cause.
Don't get me wrong. Doctrine has its place, and people of faith should be seeking to deepen their understanding. But reaching out to people who are in need or are hurting does not require any doctrinal expertise. And if congregations did more to help hurting people, I suspect a lot of them would want to talk with us about what made us care for them with no strings attached.
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On a Sunday featuring a "hymn sing," this short meditation, drawn from 1 Corinthians 11:27-34, replaces the sermon. Paul is upset with his Corinthian congregation because of divisions that have developed there. One is particularly troubling. When they gather in homes for worship, the well to do are arriving early and finishing off all the food and wine before the poorer members can arrive. Paul's insistence that they not eat the Lord's Supper without first "discerning the body" is sometimes thought to mean discerning Christ's presence in the bread and cup. But a quick look at the context shows that "the body" Paul speaks of here is the congregation, the Church.
How lovely is your dwelling place,
O LORD of hosts!
My soul longs, indeed it faints
for the courts of the LORD;
my heart and my flesh sing for joy
to the living God.
So opens Psalm 84. Compare that to the plea my siblings and I whined to our parents. "Do we have to go to church today?" I've heard the same from my own children, and I don't think this experience is unique to my family.
I don't want to press this too much, but I do wonder what separates the experience of the psalmist from so many worshipers. I suppose that in a culture which no longer puts any real pressure on people to attend worship, the fact that so many still attend says that some of them may feel more like the psalmist. But I still wonder if there is something about the way we do worship or construe church that makes the experience something many people can't imagine longing for. What do you think?
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Today's gospel reading is the conclusion of Luke, where Jesus tells his followers to remain in Jerusalem until they are "clothed with power from on high." Then Jesus ascends into heaven. (These events are reported again, with more detail, at the start of Acts, the companion piece to Luke.) In his final words, Jesus is clear that "repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations."
I suspect that the intent of Jesus' words would be better served if the translation said all "peoples" or all "Gentiles." The Greek word ethnos carries those meanings and is often translated as such. Jesus' instructions do include the notion of missionaries going to new places, but just as importantly and perhaps more so, they are an emphatic statement that God's love and grace are offered to those once thought to be outside the boundaries of us and them.
Given this command from Jesus (see the similar command from Matthew 28:16-20 where the same word ethnos is again translated "nations"), it is perhaps surprising that the early church struggled so over the mission to the Gentiles. Read Paul's letter to the Galatians and you will see how intense this conflict became. Clearly even Jesus' closest companions struggled to do as he commissioned them to do. The boundaries of Jew and Gentile, us and them, we so much are part of them, they sometimes found themselves working against Jesus' command rather than for it.
Makes me wonder what boundaries that seem certain and unquestioned are at odds with the love Jesus has to share.
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Brett, my coll
eague at Boulevard Church, is using this picture on a poster advertising a young adult event. Aside from the weird twin thing going on, what's with the clothes and the hair? Did someone actually think this looked good?
I wonder if a lot of congregations don't look a bit like this picture to the world, or at least to people who did not grow up in the church. After all, you can enter into many congregations on a Sunday morning to find things virtually unchanged from what took place there in the 1950s.
Of course many would argue that part of Christianity's strength lies in its traditions. That is certainly true. Hearing Scripture read, sharing the peace that comes from being loved and forgiven by God, joining together at the Lord's Table; these are all wonderful traditions that have sustained the Church over the centuries. But that is not to say that most everything going on during Sunday worship is tradition. Much of it merely custom, the way we do it. Customs are like clothing and hair. Styles come an go. I thought that silk shirt looked good when I bought it. By I cringe to see a picture of me in it now.
Customs and styles change. But sometimes we in congregations act as though our styles and customs of worship are eternal. We insist that the hymns we grew up with are a tradition, not a custom. Pastors are supposed to wear robes, and don't dare mess with the layout of the sanctuary.
I ran across this quote from Abraham Heschel the other day. "Religion declined not because it was refuted, but because it became irrelevant, dull, oppressive, insipid. When faith is completely replaced by creed, worship by discipline, love by habit; when the crisis of today is ignored because of the splendor of the past; when faith becomes an heirloom rather than a living fountain; when religion speaks only in the name of authority rather than with the voice of compassion, its message becomes meaningless."
Looking around this congregation, what part of us is genuine, Christian tradition bearing the truth of our faith, and what part is mere custom? Something to ponder.
Today's gospel reading tells the "Emmaus Road" story, where the risen Jesus joins a pair of his followers on the road. He walks with them and interprets the scriptures to them along the way, but they do not recognize him. When they stop for the evening they invite him to stay with them. At the table, Jesus "took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him."
The allusion to the "Last Supper" a few nights earlier is obvious. But what about this reenactment of that meal reveals Jesus to them? Over the years, a lot of doctrinal fussing and fighting has gone on over the meaning of the Lord's Supper, Eucharist, Communion, or whatever you choose to call it. Certainly this story argues for this meal to have an important, prominent place in Christian practice.
I don't want to discount a mystical, spiritual presence of Jesus in the meal. I believe this is a part of the sacrament. But I wonder if Luke is talking about that here. If I try to ignore the doctrinal issues about the meal and look just at this story, it is quite possible that Luke is not focusing at all on the mystical. Two elements are here that are prominent in the early Christian movement: hospitality and table fellowship.
The story tells us that the disciples have to urge Jesus "strongly" to stay with them. Without this hospitality, no meal would ever have happened. And the idea of table fellowship with others will become extremely important as the Church begins to reach out to Gentiles. And in the second half of the two volume work, Luke-Acts, the issue of table fellowship with those who do not adhere to Jewish dietary laws becomes a big issue.
This story can certainly be read in other ways, but it seems very much in keeping with Jesus' basic message to say that when radical hospitality welcomes strangers into close fellowship, Jesus' presence becomes known.
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