Sermons and thoughts on faith on Scripture from my time at Old Presbyterian Meeting House and Falls Church Presbyterian Church, plus sermons and postings from "Pastor James," my blog while pastor at Boulevard Presbyterian in Columbus, OH.
I once knew a man who insisted that he and his wife never fought and that they never had. I didn't know him well enough to judge the truth of his claim, but my doubt must have been apparent, because he reiterated his assertion in several forms, as though he felt the need to convince me.
I didn't try to argue with him, but I do have trouble believing that in a healthy relationship fights are non-existent. If you are really engaged in a relationship and have any significant expectations of the other person, surely there will be times when some level of conflict will emerge. The only way I can imagine a marriage or other serious relationship without conflict would be if neither party really cared. And I have seen marriages like this, relationships so dead that the couple is able to coexist peacefully.
Relationship with God is certainly different from a marriage. Unlike marriage it is not a relationship of equals. Still, I have trouble envisioning a relationship with serious God which has no conflict. And given how enigmatic God can be and how many things there are about God that I simply cannot understand, it seems inevitable that God will disappoint me, that I will occasionally feel let down by God, and even that I will become angry with God.
In human relationships, it is not uncommon to hear one person speak of being upset, even angry, because a partner seems distant or absent. Sometimes anger and conflict grow out of a deep longing for a partner who will not or cannot share themselves in a meaningful way. And of the frustrations I experience in my relationship with God, this is my biggest. Sometimes God seems so distant and unavailable that it grieves me. Sometimes this grief can lead to a standoff with God, an arrangement not unlike a dead marriage where the couple manages to coexist while barely acknowledging each other's presence. But sometimes my longing turns to frustration and even anger.
I don't know if the writer of Psalm 42 is angry, but I do sense the mixed emotions of a relationship that isn't quite right. There is a longing for God, but also a sense of being abandoned. There are memories of better times, and a restless and troubled soul that wonders if that can ever be recovered.
Now I don't mean to encourage anger and conflict in relationship with God or humans. But at the very least anger does mean there is some engagement in the relationship. And if we never get upset or angry with God, is our faith a relationship, or is it just a belief in a concept?
When I am having a really bad day and nothing seems to be going right, it is remarkable how easy it is to slip into a "Woe is me" mindset. All the world seems aligned against me. Life's unfairness was never more clearly on display. And considering my vocation as a pastor, God has clearly forgotten about me.
When I gain a little perspective from such moments, I can see unflattering parallels with Jonah, who complained bitterly to God about the death of a vine that had shaded him from the sun. When God asked, "Is it right for you to be angry about the bush?" Job answered, "Yes, angry enough to die." And if you're familiar with Jonah's story, you know that his self-absorbed petulance was all the more remarkable considering that the issue at hand was the fate of the great city, Nineveh, with over 100,000 residents, as well a "many animals."
In a Jonah like mindset, encountering the Shema in today's Old Testament reading is a bit jarring. (Shema is a transliteration of the Hebrew word that opens Deuteronomy 6:4, "Hear, O Israel..." and has become the name of this core of Jewish teaching that the faithful are to recite twice daily, affix to their doorposts, etc.) "Hear, O Israel: Yahweh is our God, Yahweh alone. You shall love Yahweh your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might." In a "Woe is me" moment, it is disorienting to be reminded, "It's not all about you; it's all about God."
You needn't be religious to think that our culture has become much more self-centered, much more narcissistic. As a culture, we find it harder and harder to view something as good unless it is immediately good for me. And these narcissistic tendencies are as apparent in religious life as they are in the culture at large. I hear from many pastors that the most common complaint that they hear regarding worship is, "It's not feeding me." Even worship, it seems, can be measured primarily by how it does or doesn't "meet my needs."
But Jesus calls us to discover a wonderful freedom from this tyranny of self. His good news promises release from the anxieties and fears that so often drive us, a freedom that comes from giving ourselves over to loving God and loving others.
Very often, faith is understood to mean believing the right things. But I think true faith is about embracing this good news. True faith is something even the most devout among us struggle with because one of the most difficult things is turning our lives completely over to God. It is so hard for us to trust that giving ourselves to God without reservation and truly loving others will work out well for us. We just can't quite trust God more than we trust ourselves.
I'm not sure anyone ever fullys get there, but most of us know people who are better at it than we are. And most of us who are serious about faith have occasionally tasted this release from fear and anxiety Jesus' good news promises. And so, even on a "Woe is me" day, there is hope, even certainty that God's grace is drawing us toward life as we are meant to live it. The Spirit is working in us to help us become the "children of God" we are called to be.
When I was in seminary, I got to go on a three week long trip to the Middle East. From students who had been in previous years, I knew that one highlight would be an early morning ascent up Mt. Sinai where we would watch the sunrise. Our group assembled in the darkness around 4:00 a.m. Guides looked us over and decided if we were the right size for their camel. We then road the camels for about 45 minutes to a large flat area not too far from the summit and then hiked the rest of the way to the top. There, along with fifty or so other tourists and pilgrims, we waited as the pink glow of sunrise gradually gave way to a fiery, orange-red sun slowly emerging from behind the mountains of the Sinai peninsula.
I had seen pictures of this event in a seminary chapel service. I had heard a classmate speak of what a moving, “mountain-top” experience it was. I was all ready for my own experience, my own epiphany. But nothing happened.
Don’t get me wrong. It was a stunning view. I have some incredible pictures, and I cherish the memories. But God did not seem to be especially there. I did not encounter God’s presence in any profound way. I was hoping for a spiritual high, and all I got was a Kodak moment.
It seems to me that worship often suffers a similar fate. On some level, worship is supposed to be an encounter with God’s majesty, a brush with God’s holiness that inspires awe, praise, and commitment. But often, too often I fear, it is a collection of words and music, some of it perhaps beautiful, maybe even inspiring, but not because of God. Too often, many of us seem unaware of God even being here.
In our staff meetings we have been wondering a lot lately about this problem of encountering God, perhaps better, of failing to encounter God. And it’s not just a worship problem. Many people want to draw closer to God. The spirituality section at Barnes and Noble bespeaks a population desperately longing for the holy, the divine. There is a deep human yearning to connect with God. So why does this search so often seem to go awry? There are surely many reasons, but I found myself thinking about two that may seem a bit contradictory: an awe problem and an intimacy problem.
Annie Dillard has famously commented on the awe problem, noting how we come to worship blissfully unaware of what we are doing, like early polar explorers who carried with them fine china and flatware but neglected to bring warm winter clothing. She writes, “Does anyone have the foggiest idea what sort of power we so blithely invoke? Or, as I suspect, does not one believe a word of it? The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews.”[1]
Dillard laments how casually we often come into worship, into God’s presence. We think nothing of sipping our coffee and checking our iPhones. We act pretty much as we do every other moment of every other day. We don’t really expect God to show up, at least not the God of the Bible who causes Peter, James, and John to fall on the ground trembling in fear.
Sometimes I think that worship fails to encounter God because it seeks a small, trivial god we can manage and control, a god we can carry around in our back pocket, a god whose only concern is whatever little existential crises we may be having that day. We’re not looking for a God who might rattle us to our core, turn our lives upside down, and call us to become something new and different and wonderful that gets the world ready for God’s new day.
But if part of our problem is that we’ve lost the capacity to be thunderstruck by God’s presence, equally problematic is that we have forgotten the language of intimacy with God. We know how to talk about God, perhaps even to send requests to God now and then, but many of us have become terribly deficient in communicating with God.
Last fall during the Sunday education hour, we had a class for worship leaders. One of those mornings we were talking about what made for a good public prayer, and several people pointed out a common problem in the prayers they heard in worship. Too often those prayers seemed aimed more at worshippers than they did at God. They used the language of explanation and description, talking more about God than with God. A lot of us pastors deserve to be skewered by this critique. We’re far too fond of using prayers to reinforce our sermons or demonstrate our verbal prowess.
But the prayer language Jesus taught us is intimate language. It addresses God not with formal titles but with a child’s familiar Abba, Daddy. And I think I hear God’s side of this in our reading today. We tend to translate the Bible in an overly formal manner. Abba, Daddy, becomes Father. And when we hear God speak on the mountaintop today, to my ear it comes across a bit too much like a royal decree rather than a Daddy’s joyful utterance, “This is my son, my beloved, my delight.”
Watch a mother or a father with an infant sometime, and listen to them “talk” with one another. There’s not a lot of information in such interactions. Such intimate language is often without grammar or even words. But no one would deny that they are communicating with one another. No one would deny that they are sharing powerful emotions, solidifying their bonds to one another, delighting in one another’s presence, influencing one another’s behavior, even if not a single intelligible word is spoken.
Lovers sometimes use similar “language,” a language that can sound like gibberish to one not caught up in the throes of love. And for centuries, this sort of talk was part of the language of Christian spirituality. But in our modern world, where language is used mostly to inform, explain, and influence, the Church has often forgotten how to join in the intimate “gibberish” of lovers, infants, and poets. And we have impoverished ourselves immensely.
Awe and intimacy might seem to be so far apart that they couldn’t possibly go together, but then you might say the same of Jesus being “fully human, fully divine.” And I am convinced that meaningful faith requires both awe and intimacy. We must encounter the awesome, even fearsome presence of a holy and other God that makes us dive for cover; otherwise we will imagine that God’s job is to serve us and meet our needs. And we must also encounter the grace of God that touches us and says, “Do not be afraid. I love you, and I long to show you life, true human-ness, in all its wonder.”
All praise and glory to the God of mountain peaks and oceans’ depths, who created far flung galaxies and the vastness of space, and who reaches out to touch us in the person of Jesus.
Thanks be to God!
[1] Annie Dillard, quoted in Eugene Peterson, The Contemplative Pastor (Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 1989) p. 83.
This week's obituary for Peter Gomes, professor, theologian, and minister at Harvard University, contained a quote from him that has been posted frequently on facebook and Twitter. And while I worry that the term "fundamentalism" can mean many things to many people, I think the quote worth repeating here. “Religious fundamentalism is dangerous because it cannot accept ambiguity and diversity and is therefore inherently intolerant... Such intolerance, in the name of virtue, is ruthless and uses political power to destroy what it cannot convert.” (from a 1992 op-ed piece by Gomes in The New York Times)
I think that one of the worst examples of faith, and therefore a terrible hindrance to sharing faith, is faith with no room for doubt or ambiguity. Sometimes this faith seems to be so tenuous that the slightest doubt would cause it to crumble, and so its defense is to become so rigid that all other formulations are simply wrong.
In today's reading's Paul speaks of boasting of his weakness, and Jesus says, "For with the judgment you make you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get. Why do you see the speck in your neighbor's eye, but do not notice the log in your own eye?" Surely all human theologies and faith formulations fall far short of the glory of God. There is much we do not know or see clearly, as Paul himself says in his famous words about seeing "in a mirror dimly." Surely all of us have enough trouble with our own eyes to be cautious about correcting others' faulty vision.
As I read Jesus' words on judging, it seems to me that they forbid any absolute fundamentalism, any insistence that my understanding is exactly how things are, and no other formulation can be considered. And if that is true, then certainty is actually an enemy of faith. A little doubt, and the humility that goes with it, leads to a closer walk with Jesus.
I'm not sure why this has been on my mind so much of late, but I've been thinking a lot about adding and subtracting with regards to what makes for a good and full life. We live in a world that presumes addition lies at the heart of a better life. We need more; we need bigger; we need better. We need more money, more and better things, a bigger and better house. We also need more and better experiences. We want to travel to places we've never been before. After all, to be well rounded is to be acquainted with many things.
Now who would argue against reading more classic literature or having college students experience study abroad. And there are certainly times when more money comes in very handy. But the fact that more of certain things is often good does not necessarily justify the notion that more is better, that the good life is about having it all.
Our obsession with more underlies a lot of the anxiety in our world. It puts us in endless competition with other folks who also want more. We vie for attention, favors, influence, and prestige. People worry about whether or not they have "made it," by which they usually mean having acquired the requisite amount of things, status, position, etc. Our anxieties are sometimes aggravated by those who have added more than us and gotten ahead of us, just as they are sometimes soothed by comparing ourselves to those who have not been as good at addition as we have.
"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life... Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these." In his teachings, Jesus acknowledges that we need certain things, but he also insists that true life comes, not from grasping for these things, but from letting go. Quite often, Jesus argues for subtraction over addition.
Recently someone pointed out to me that I and just about everyone that I have ever met has read more books than Jesus ever did, learned more than Jesus ever did, traveled to more places than Jesus ever did, enjoyed more entertainment and fine food than Jesus ever did, lived in luxury Jesus never dreamed of, and so on. By the math of our culture, our lives are infinitely superior to Jesus' life. And yet many of us label ourselves "Christian" and say that following Jesus is the way to true life.
I have heard it said, and believe it true, that you can tell more about a person by looking at her checkbook and credit card bills than you can from anything she tells you. That is because when you figure out where someone's money goes, you figure out where his passions lie.
I think it is common in our day for people to think of spirituality as an add-on, another consumer item acquired to enhance the quality of life. It means learning some techniques on meditation or prayer, and perhaps some sort of participation in a group or even in a religious organization. It is somewhat akin to an exercise program for the interior life. And unless one gets caught up in it, its financial implications are limited to the costs of the program. Like joining a gym or buying some running shoes, a spiritual program may require purchasing some books, attending a class, or going on a retreat.
But Jesus makes an explicit link between spirituality and finances, between one's heart and one's checkbook."For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." Where your money goes, there goes your soul.
Given that we live in a consumer society, and that our religious culture has lived in a capitalist system for the entire life of America, it is hardly surprising that we tend to view faith and spirituality as one more thing to help life be good and full and complete. But true spirituality aims to draw us into the divine mystery and, in so doing, to help us discover who it is we are truly meant to me. This cannot happen by adding more or by acquiring something. It can only happen when our lives, both inwardly and outwardly, are reshaped so that they conform more to the character of the divine.
And when this happens, our passions begin to look more like God's passions. And the evidence will be found in checkbook registers and on MasterCard statements.
I have discovered over the years that one of the great spiritual difficulties for me is remembering. By that I mean that moments which were formative, that spurred me to make some change in my life or convinced me that God wanted me to take a particular path, become fuzzy, without the power they once had.
I presume such many others have had similar experiences. Remembering, at least meaningful remembering, can be a difficult thing. Over time, couples often forget the feelings they once had for each other. Current irritations are more vivid. Sometimes they drown out those old moments to the point that people doubt old feelings of love, dismissing them as youthful infatuations.
When relationships run out of steam, the present overwhelms the past. All relationships deal with this at times, and remembering is essential. Remembering old promises, remembering old commitments, remembering formative moments in the life of a relationship is necessary for it to grow and continue.
Today's reading from Deuteronomy realizes this need for remembering. Even the powerful experiences of God in the wilderness will lose potency in the face of the present if people do not work to remember. "But take care and watch yourselves closely, so as neither to forget the things that your eyes have seen nor to let them slip from your mind all the days of your life; make them known to your children and your children's children."
When I was growing up in the Church, I was taught some of the history of God's people. I was drawn into this remembering. But too often, it seemed an academic exercise. Faith was about knowing the material and agreeing with it. But faith is about relationship, right relationship with God. And relationship is not about knowing the correct facts and agreeing with certain doctrines. But it is about remembering.
As a boy, I loved Mad Magazine and its slacker icon, Alfred E. Neuman. Neuman's catchphrase, "What Me Worry?" seemed to bespeak more a devil-may-care attitude than his having figured anything out. His lack of worry appeared to be the product of dullness and ignorance more than anything else. Alfred E. Neuman doesn't worry because he doesn't know any better.
Small children and slackers may not worry, but that's only because they don't get it. Anyone who pays much attention to the state of the world, anyone who has responsibilities and a family to support, how could she not worry? And yet here is Jesus, suggesting we strike a more Alfred E. Neuman like pose in our lives. "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life..."
Our culture is certainly filled with worry and anxiety. Much of the partisan rancor in our politics is driven by this. People are worried and anxious and easily become afraid. When we are frightened our actions become more primal, more primitive. Those old fight of flight instincts kick in.
You see it in the Church, too. With all the major denominations losing members, losing influence, and struggling financially, people of faith worry, they grow anxious and afraid. Far too often, we lash out at those who disagree with us. We identify "them" as the problem.
I wonder how one becomes less of a worrier without simply burying his head in the sand. How do we find a way to say "What, me worry?" without it being a sign that we don't have a clue about what is happening? Jesus is no Alfred E. Neuman, but he says stepping back from our worry is part of life in the Kingdom, in God's new day.
I don't think Jesus means by this that we are not to respond to the situation around us. After all, when Jesus saw people's needs, sickness and hunger, he tried to help, and he commanded his disciples to help as well. But Jesus seemed unconcerned with whether or not what he did solved all problems or fixed everything. He was able to live out his call and trust that God would use his ministry to bring about God's plans. And I think that is exactly what Jesus is asking of us.
What, me worry? Actually, I do more than my share. But now and then I do experience a touch of what Jesus is talking about. When I am willing to give up control of things, when I am able simply to do what I should, and let God do with that what may, there is a genuine peace there. But that is the heart of the faith problem isn't it, really trusting our lives to God.
I live in Ohio, one of several states currently considering legislation to curb the bargaining power of public employee unions. While Ohio hasn't produced the sort of headlines coming out of Wisconsin, the rhetoric here is no less bitter. Republicans are "attacking the middle class," while Democrats help unions gorge themselves on taxpayer money, totally unconcerned about the state's fiscal crisis.
American politics has long been a "contact sport," but it isn't all that hard to find instances where fights in the church don't look so different from the polarized, partisan bickering that passes for legislative debate. I am over-generalizing and stereotyping, but I have seen debates on the floor of my own denomination's governing bodies that appeared to be opposing sides employing whatever carefully crafted strategy they deemed most likely to defeat their evil opponents.
Contrast this with Paul's words in today's epistle reading. He says that because it is only by God's mercy that he is who he is and engaged in his ministry, he does not lose heart even in the face of huge difficulty, suffering, or what appears to be defeat. Because he doesn't measure by the world's standards he can say, "We refuse to practice cunning or to falsify God's word; but by the open statement of the truth we commend ourselves to the conscience of everyone in the sight of God." Paul doesn't need to employ a slick strategy to counter the equally slick strategy of his opponents. He simply speaks the gospel and leaves the rest up to God.
And if that seems like an unworkable, impractical way of accomplishing anything, consider what Jesus says. "Do not resist an evil doer... Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you." Now I've never been sure if Jesus expects people to employ such methods, or if Jesus would condemn force used to save someone. And the Church has long wrestled with how to reconcile Jesus' teachings with the states need to employ force and "just wars." But even if there are reasonable exceptions to Jesus' teachings on non-violence and pacifism, surely such exceptions must be carefully weighed and thought out. Surely we must acknowledge that we are acting contrary to a particular teaching of Jesus, and own up to that.
One of the arguments that has become a part of America's current partisan divides is the question of whether we are a "Christian nation." Without engaging that debate, it seems to me that, in light of Jesus' teachings on love, at times we would do well to consider whether or not we are even a Christian church.
