Sunday, May 8, 2011
Sunday Sermon text - Headed to Emmaus
Luke 24:13-35
Headed to Emmaus
James Sledge May 8, 2011
If you go to your computer and Google the term “Emmaus walk,” you will find numerous listings for retreats and other events designed to foster spiritual renewal and revival. “Emmaus walk” and “Emmaus road” have become metaphors that speak of spiritual discovery, of encountering the presence of the living Christ.
I suppose that’s just as well considering that no one knows where the real Emmaus is. Luke tells us it was seven miles from Jerusalem, and so a number of places have been suggested, but it’s all speculation. And so we’re left with Emmaus as this wonderful metaphorical destination that people hope for, that they seek out.
But Emmaus does not start out as a happy place. Emmaus is a stop on the way out of town after everything has gone wrong and fallen apart. The two otherwise unnamed disciples in our gospel reading today are not headed there for a spiritual retreat. They are not headed there for enlightenment. They’re headed there because their hopes and dreams have been shattered. They’re headed to Emmaus because hope is gone.
It is evening on that first Easter Sunday, and so these disciples have heard the wild story told by the women about visions of angels who said Jesus was alive. But Luke tells us that the disciples thought their story “an idle tale, and they did not believe them.” And so these disciples say to Jesus as he walks along beside them incognito, “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. We had hoped that he was the one… We had hoped…”
They know the entire Easter story. They even explain it in great detail to the stranger walking beside them. Yet still they journey to Emmaus. Still the mutter, “We had hoped…” We are all familiar with this Emmaus. We’ve all headed there. We’ve all said, “We had hoped… ”
In his book, The Magnificent Defeat, Frederick Buechner writes,
…there is not one of us who has not gone to Emmaus with them. Emmaus can be a trip to the movies just for the sake of seeing a movie or to a cocktail party just for the sake of the cocktails. Emmaus may be buying a new suit or a new car or smoking more cigarettes than you really want, or reading a second-rate novel or even writing one. Emmaus may be going to church on Sunday. Emmaus is whatever we do or wherever we go to make ourselves forget that the world holds nothing sacred: that even the wisest and bravest and loveliest decay and die; that even the noblest ideas that [people] have had—ideas about love and freedom and justice—have always in time been twisted out of shape by selfish [people] for selfish ends. Emmaus is where we go, where these two went, to try to forget about Jesus and the great failure of his life. …[Emmaus] is the place where we spend much of our lives, you and I, the place that we go in order to escape—a bar, a movie, wherever it is we throw up our hands and say, “Let the whole damned thing go hang. It makes no difference anyway.”[1]
“We had hoped the doctors would be able to cure our little girl’s leukemia.” “We had hoped that Obama would bring real change to a bitter and broken political process.” “He had hoped to reconcile with his son before he died.” “We had hoped this would make a real difference in homelessness in our community.” We had hoped… We had hoped…
“We had hoped…” easily leads to cynicism, apathy, anger, and despair. If it makes no difference anyway, then my compassion, my sacrifice, my time, my energy aren’t worth the effort. What’s the point?
I think there must be significance to the fact that the very first appearance of the risen Jesus in Luke’s gospel is on the way to Emmaus. Just as Jesus enters fully into the suffering and brokenness of humanity there on the cross, so too he also joins us in our moments of hopelessness and despair, headed to Emmaus, caught up in the throes of “We had hoped…” Jesus joins us there, though we may well not recognize him. Perhaps he hides himself because we need to learn something along the way. Perhaps we do not see him because at that moment we cannot see beyond, “We had hoped…”
I wonder if either Cleopas or the other, unnamed disciple were introverts like me. When I find myself wondering if there is any point, headed on the way to Emmaus, I want to withdraw, to be by myself. But Cleopas and his companion welcome a stranger into their company, even insisting that he stay with them that evening. They offer him true hospitality and share their meal with him. And in breaking bread together, they meet their risen Lord.
His presence is fleeting – God’s presence often is – but nothing is quite the same afterward. They immediately head back to Jerusalem. Emmaus is forgotten. “We had hoped…” is forgotten.
One of the wrong turns that Christian faith sometimes takes is the notion that faith is mostly a private thing between us and God, that as long as we know the facts of the story and say we believe them, that’s faith. But if the road to Emmaus is any guide, the Jesus who walks beside us becomes fully present to us when we turn out from ourselves, when we welcome the stranger, when we show true hospitality, when we share our fellowship, our hopes, our table, our meal.
The other day a read a story about Anglican priest Desmond Tutu that took place in the days of South Africa’s apartheid system. More accurately, the story was about a white supporter of apartheid who thought Tutu a rabble rousing trouble maker, a communist, and a heretic. That’s what the leaders of his country told him and he believed it. One day this white South African happened to cross paths with Tutu in an airport. Enraged at the sight of this enemy of his country, he moved toward the much smaller Tutu, intentionally and roughly bumping him as they passed, sending the priest sprawling onto his backside with a thud. The man glared down at the stunned Tutu whose dazed look gradually gave way to a smile. Then Tutu said, “God bless you, my child.”
The man stormed off, angered that he had not upset Tutu or provoked a confrontation with his enemy. But over the days that followed, those words of blessing ate at this fellow until he found himself deeply sorry for what he had done, until he saw Tutu in a whole new light. [2]
But how could Desmond Tutu possibly have offered that blessing to someone who hated him, who wished him ill, who in a dark alley might have done much worse than simply knock him down? What did Tutu know that allowed him to act in such a strange manner?
Someone headed to Emmaus, someone whom life had beaten into “We had hoped…” could not have offered that blessing. And considering the treatment of blacks in apartheid South Africa, there must have been times when Desmond Tutu thought that things would never get any better, when he lapsed into despair and said, “I had hoped; we had hoped…” Tutu, of all people, must surely have walked that road to Emmaus. But clearly he must have met the risen Jesus somewhere along the way.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Spiritual Hiccups - Turning toward the Kingdom
Slippery ice on the bridges, northeastern wind coming in.
You will bruise my head, I will strike your heel.
Drive past wind of northern pine, try not to let go of the wheel.
Dream at night
Girl with a cobra tattoo on her arm,
It's head flaring out like a parachute.
Prisms in the dew drops in the underbrush
Skatecase sailor's purses floating down in the black needlerush
Higher than the stars I will set my throne.
God does not need Abraham, God can raise children from stones.
Dream at night
Girl with a cobra tattoo
And try to hear the garbled transmissions come through.
I'm not really sure why I posted the lyrics to The Mountain Goats song, "Cobra Tattoo." The Mountain Goats are one of my all-time favorites, and I really like this song. And so today's gospel, where John the Baptist speaks of vipers and of God raising children to Abraham from stones, was enough of an excuse for me to share some of John Darnielle's wonderful poetry.
Scripture can often be every bit as enigmatic as a Mountain Goat song. What you hear often depends on the way certain emotionally freighted words impact you. Take the words "repent" and "repentance." To a lot of people these are fire and brimstone sorts of words hurled at pagans, heathens, or those caught up in immorality and debauchery. Such words fit well with many portraits of John the Baptist as a kind of wild eyed firebrand yelling that we had better straighten up before it is too late.
But of course Jesus uses the very same language about repenting. And Luke, in the verses just after today's reading, says of John the Baptists' words, "he proclaimed the good news to the people."
Religion gets branded - sometimes correctly - as a downer and a party-pooper. It's about "Don't do that," a nun with a steel ruler who's just itching to crack some knuckles. But Luke insists that John the Baptist brings "good news." And Jesus often connects repentance to the good news of the kingdom, God's glorious new day that has drawn near.
Repentance is about turning, heading in a new direction. And if you're trying to get somewhere, but you've gotten a bit lost, a helpful voice that says, "You don't want to go that way; you need to turn and go down that road," does indeed bring good news.
John the Baptist says to turn and head toward God's new day. "Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise." This is apparently what God's new day looks like, a world where no one need step on anyone else to get theirs, a world where all rest so comfortably in the promises of God's grace that they are free to share, to be truly generous. Generosity, by the way, is quite different than charity.
Good news, says John. A better world is drawing near. Turn toward it.
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Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Spiritual Hiccups - Overcoming Evil
The God of the Bible doesn't seem all that anxious about tomorrow, and sees no need to work 24/7, but lot of Christians seem not to share this relaxed demeanor. I have met more that a few very dedicated people of faith like that Baptist pastor who seem to think that without extreme vigilance, evil might triumph.
This week's killing of Osama bin Laden has produced a some exuberant celebrations, notably on college campuses. Here in Columbus, OH, students at OSU jumped into Mirror Lake, the sort of thing done to celebrate a victory over Michigan. I don't suppose this is so surprising. For people of college age, bin Laden was their boogeyman, the face of evil. And the college campus celebrations had Wizard of Oz feel; "Ding, dong, the witch is dead!"
But for all the damage bin Laden did, for all the people he killed, and all the fear he inspired, he was basically a failure. His dreams of creating Muslim/Arab states based on his perverted understanding of Islam never happened. He never found favor with very many Muslims. And as this Spring produced uprising after uprising against Arab dictators, bin Laden's name and ideas were virtually absent. If anything these revolutions in Egypt and Syria and Yemen are the opposite of what bin Laden wanted, seeking more freedom and resisting religious fundamentalism or repression. If bin Laden is evil personified, evil is a pretty colossal failure.
Christians should already know this. Christians who live in constant worry and fear over what evil may try next seem to have missed the message of Easter. The very worst that evil could do - the death of God's Son on a cross - led only to the good news of Resurrection. Evil's best laid plans led to victory over sin and death. Surely that is why today's reading from 1 John can say to people that they "have conquered the evil one."
I don't for a moment mean to say that there is no need for vigilance, that we need not worry about who plot terror and violence. Bin Laden, Adolf Hitler, and countless others remind us that evil is not entirely impotent. But Christians know that evil is mortally wounded. And so while we are realists, we are also cosmic optimists. We know that for the foreseeable future there will always be those align themselves with evil, people who will cause great suffering and pain and who will have to be dealt with. But we also know that they are fighting a lost cause that they can never win.
Christ is risen! Love, good, and hope have triumphed! Thanks be to God.
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Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Spiritual Hiccups - For the Whole World
But regardless of how one deals with the mechanics of sacrifice, John says that more than fixing the problem of our sins, Jesus' death is "for the sins of the whole world." For the whole world... To be honest, I'm not entirely certain how to understand this. Does Jesus' death somehow absolve the whole world, and that's it? Or do you have to plug into the absolution in some way - say the magic words, be sorry for what you've done, believe in Jesus, etc?
Churches like clear answers to such questions. They are organizations, and like most organizations they want to be clear about their structures, purposes, mission, beliefs, etc. And so churches like doctrine, but no more than political parties or corporations. Such doctrines are necessary to give any sense of order to things. But inevitably questions arise as to which parts of a doctrine are absolutely essential and which are optional. Where is the line that determines whether I am inside or outside the camp?
The Church seems to be going through a lot of renegotiating on such things of late. Especially in Protestant circles, after centuries of defining the essentials as being about faith or belief, many have begun reengaging the question of just how one plugs into that for the whole world promise found in Jesus' death.
I think the Bible actually welcomes this process. I see quite a few divergent conversations going on in the Bible about just how it is that Jesus' death is for the whole world. And if we can step back, for the moment, from the assumption that many of us grew up with - that the main point of Jesus was to help us get to heaven - then we may hear the Bible saying some surprising things to us.
While many of us presume that "being saved" is synonymous with going to heaven, there is scant support for such a belief in anything Jesus said. In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, Jesus speaks mostly about "the kingdom," God's reign which is imminent and coming to this earth. And in John, Jesus speaks of "abundant life" and "eternal life." And while eternal life certainly speaks of a life beyond death, John is clear that eternal life is something that is a part of life now. "And this is eternal life, that they may know you, the one true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent." (John 17:3)
All theologies are provisional and subject to revision, my personal theologies much more so, but I find myself more and more rejecting traditional in-or-out boundaries that the Church has used. Perhaps better, I find myself rejecting the meaning of such boundaries. Abiding in Christ and obeying his commandments do form a distinct community, a community of love. But I don't know that such boundaries are ultimate boundaries. I wonder if the God who sends Jesus for the whole world sees them differently than we do.
What if "for the sins of the whole world" describes the nature of reality in God's new day? What if it is simply how things are, the true reality that cannot be seen or experienced until God's new day invades us, until our lives begin to be transformed by God's grace so that they fit this new and true reality? What if faith, relationship with Jesus, obedience, and love are not about getting our tickets punched for heaven, but are instead gateways to a still largely unseen reality that already is for the whole world?
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Monday, May 2, 2011
Spiritual Hiccups - Bin Laden, Faith, and Darkness
The military operation against bin Laden seems necessary to me, even from a Christian perspective. He was a mass murderer of thousands of Americans and of many more Muslims in the Middle East. It seems more than justifiable to go after him, to prevent him from killing any more innocent people, here or anywhere else in the world (though I harbor no illusions that bin Laden's death will end the threat of terrorism). Yet at the same time I claim to serve a Lord and Master who says, "Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you," a Savior who prayed from the cross on which he was brutally killed, "Father forgive them." And I find it almost inconceivable that this Jesus would dance to celebrate anyone's death.
The fact that operations such as the one against bin Laden are necessary speaks of the brokenness and darkness that are all too much a part of this world. That this is so seems to me a cause for lament. And while this sad state of affairs may require that we wield the sword, that we kill, there is a sense in which we are thus drawn into the world's darkness.
I still recall watching a portion of the service at the National Cathedral in Washington D.C. just after 9-11. The pastor warned us that while it might indeed be necessary to address the threat of terrorism, to bring guilty parties to justice, that we needed to be careful "lest we become the evil we deplore."
Although it troubles me at times, I am no pacifist. As a Christian I am convinced that there are times when violence is justified, when it must be employed for the sake of the innocent. But this is no joyful task; it is grim business. And while it may be necessary to use violence against the violent, to inflict pain and death upon those who deal in pain and death, I am not sure that this necessity accomplishes as much as we would hope. My faith insists that "God is love," and that God's greatest power is the cross. And it is very difficult to hold onto love and bear the cross while engaging in violence, however necessary.
And so while I find myself heartened by the president's announcement last night, I will not dance. I will not celebrate that the world's darkness compels us to employ the methods of darkness. I will continue to trust that the greatest weapon we have, and the one we need to employ much more often, is love.
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Sunday, May 1, 2011
Sunday Sermon text - Post Easter Let-Down
John 20:19-23
Post Easter Let-Down
James Sledge May 1, 2011
I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but all four of the gospels in our Bible are really short. The Gospel of John that we just heard from is only about 30 pages long. And that means that there is a great deal about Jesus and his followers that we just don’t know. For example, what happened to Jesus’ father, Joseph. Other than his brief appearance at the beginning of Luke and Matthew, he is never seen again. Lots of scholars presume that he must have died before Jesus began his ministry, but there is no way to be certain.
I wish there was a bit more detail provided in our gospel reading for today. We’re told that it is Sunday evening, late in the same day when Peter and the beloved disciple had seen the empty tomb, and Mary Magdalene had met the risen Jesus. She had gone to the disciples and told them what had happened, but we hear nothing about how they reacted, whether or not they believed her. John tells us nothing more until the verses we just heard. And when the story resumes, we still learn nothing about what the disciples had done all day.
Do you think all the disciple all went to the tomb during the day? Did they hang out there hoping Jesus would appear to them as well? And when Jesus didn’t show did they conclude that Mary’s imagination had gotten the better of her in a darkened graveyard? Did they decide that the empty tomb was one last insult, with Jesus denied a final resting place, his grave desecrated? I don’t know.
But when darkness descends, the disciples gather behind locked doors, hiding from the same religious authorities who had come after Jesus.
No doubt they had talked about the outlandish possibility that Jesus was alive, but there wasn’t a lot to say. Either he was or he wasn’t, and they really didn’t know what it meant either way.And so I suspect that they were doing what most people do when all their plans for the future have collapsed around them; they look back; they reminisce. Think of the kind of conversations that took place after they had finished with, “Do you think he’s alive?” “I don’t know. What do you think?” Once that had been around the room a few times surely the conversation began to shift toward, “Hey, remember that time Jesus changed water into wine? Man, that was something. People said it was the best wine they had ever tasted.”
“Yeah, and what about that time when he fed all those thousands of people with that one little boy’s lunch basket? That was wild. I thought the crowd was going to rush us and try to make Jesus king right then and there.”
Like members of the high school football team at a class reunion, the disciples would recall the excitement and the triumphs of those times they had spent with Jesus, the good ole days. And there were probably a lot of sighs as they looked back on those heady days, wondering if they would experience anything remotely like that ever again.
If you’ve ever been to a funeral home visitation, you’ve likely engaged in something similar. You’ve reminisced with others about those times when… People have smiled and laughed and remembered and sighed, knowing that it’s all in the past.
I’ve also heard something a bit similar in some church congregations. “Remember when the confirmation class had 50 youth in it? Things were really bustling back then. Remember when the nursery was overflowing with babies, and we would sometimes baptize five or six on a single Sunday?” Such conversations sound a lot like the ones I imagine the disciples having behind locked doors. Not that we have to hide behind locked doors, but we do often hide away in our sanctuaries. We do our own thing, hidden away from a world that scarcely notices us. And we remember those good ole days when we were big time, when mayors and governors and presidents wanted to be seen with us, when they sought advice from pastors and theologians.
But sometimes as we reminisce, as we get all nostalgic about the good ole days, Jesus shows up just like he did on that first Easter. And if we become aware of his presence, we may squirm just a bit wondering what he must think of us, huddled in our sanctuaries, dutifully going to church, safely hidden away from the world.
You’d think Jesus might be ticked, but instead he says, “Peace, Shalom; God’s grace be with you. Peace, Shalom; wholeness and life to you.” He reminds us of our calling, and then he breathes on us. If that sounds a bit odd, it is an echo from the creation story in Genesis. God formed a man from the dust and then breathed the breath of life into him. And in the biblical languages breath and spirit and wind are all related words. Sometimes it’s not clear when the Bible is talking about wind from God and when it’s the Spirit of God. And when Jesus comes into our midst he breathes the breath of life, the Spirit comes, the wind blows and moves everything around.
Church sanctuaries are sometimes rather stuffy places, even musty places that don’t feel or smell very alive. But then Jesus breathes, the wind blows, the Spirit moves.
Barbara Brown Taylor tells of a time when she, an Episcopal priest with a Sunday off, decided to get far away from her Anglican roots. She happened to be in Memphis and so she chose to attend Al Green’s Full Gospel Tabernacle, where the service begins at 11:00 and ends in the neighborhood of 2:00. There was a huge choir, a full band, and a sound system cranked way up. The service began slowly, but then it grew, finally reaching full tilt.
Then they sang and danced and raised hands in the air for the next three hours. Children stood in the pews and stomped their feet. People started to get caught up, to be “slain in the spirit,” as the saying goes. One woman jumped up and ran around the sanctuary two times. Another woman danced so vigorously that she fell to the floor where she continued to thrash about. The ushers covered her with a sheet so her slip wouldn’t show.
Taylor says she felt like she was caught in a thunderstorm. She made herself small and held perfectly still. Lightening didn’t strike her which took as her prayers being answered. But she says that later she began to wonder about her reaction. Was she just uncomfortable with that worship style, or was she unnerved at the thought of the Spirit coming over her?
When Jesus shows up that first Easter evening, I’m sure that the disciples were overjoyed to see him, to know that he really was alive. But I wonder if they were less thrilled about the Holy Spirit. The Spirit certainly wasn’t going to let them keep the doors locked. The Spirit was going to turn their lives upside down.
Back when I served as the chair of our regional governing body’s Committee on Ministry, one of my jobs was to approve the elaborate forms congregations must fill out describing themselves as part of our denomination’s system of searching for a pastor. I read a lot of these forms, and I came to realize that most said something very similar. In so many words nearly all of them said, “We’re warm and friendly, and we want to grow.” Even congregations with 15 members and on life support said this; and their dwindling group sat behind closed doors, doing church, and wondering where the people were.
By contrast, there is much life and vitality here, but I still hear the occasional, “Remember when…” I still hear the occasional voice that suggests we turn inward, do what we do, maintain, hold the fort. But then Jesus shows up. He blesses us. He sends us. He breathes life into us. The Spirit moves, the wind blows, stirs things up and scatters them all around. And the living body of Christ moves on the face of the earth.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Spiritual Hiccups - Alabama Tornadoes and Dry Bones
Some of the scenes in Alabama and other parts of the Southeast seem every bit as terrible. In places, nearly everything is gone, replaced by piles of rubble with a few skeletons of trees, their limbs and barks ripped away, poking up here and there. The prophet Ezekiel could just as easily have been set down in a scene such as this and then asked, "Mortal, can these bones live?"
Gazing on such scenes, amidst unanswerable question of "How?" and "Why?" the immediate and pressing need is practical, hands-on help: rescue workers, places to stay, supplies, money, volunteers. And as Christians, we are most surely called to help provide this. But the need for hope is there, too, and that need will quickly grow.
During Lent our congregation has done a study using the book What's the Least I Can Believe and Still Be a Christian: A Guide to What Matters Most. The author, Martin Thielen, has provided an online study guide for such use, as well as a guide for an accompanying sermon series. The final session for the seven week study - which our congregation will actually do this Sunday - is entitled, "Jesus' Resurrection: Is There Hope?" And in the sermon helps is the story of tornadoes that struck Piedmont, AL in March of 1994. A twister struck the Goshen Methodist Church as they celebrated Palm Sunday. Nineteen people died, including the pastor's four year old daughter. The pastor and 86 others were injured. Pastor Clem performed 19 funerals that week, including her own daughter's. And as the week went on, she began to get calls asking, "Reverend Clem, are we having Easter this year?"
Pastor Kelly Clem recognized that what people were really saying was, "Reverend Clem, we desperately need Easter." And she realized that she desperately needed it, too. And so she and members planned an Easter sunrise service. And to a reporter's question about the disaster shattering her faith, she said that faith was what was holding her together, that all the people were holding on to each other and to the hope of rebuilding. And she added, "Easter is coming."
On Easter morning, 200 people gathered in the yard of the destroyed church. Pastor Clem, head bandaged and her shoulder in a brace, stood at a makeshift pulpit, opened a Bible, and read from Romans 8: "Nothing in all creation can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord."
Why? Why did the horrific events of last night happen? I do not know. I cannot answer such questions. But I can answer Ezekiel's question. Yes, these bones can live. Nothing is beyond God's power to redeem and make new. Nothing is beyond the hope of resurrection. Nothing in all creation can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Thanks be to God!
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Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Spiritual Hiccups - Bearing Fruit
Therefore we Protestants like to think of ourselves as biblically shaped and formed. We think of our faith and beliefs as embodying what it says in the Bible. Unfortunately, we do not always confer with the Bible on these assumptions. We simply assume that the beliefs we cobbled together from what we heard at church and what we picked up here and there are, in fact, solid biblical faith.
Yet the Protestant focus on "justification by grace through faith" - a very biblical idea - has often so overshadowed other parts of Scripture so that our presumed biblical faith gets reduced to, "Believe in Jesus and go to heaven." The notion that God lovingly embraces us without regard to any merit of our own (grace) is a solidly biblical concept. But the idea that God wants nothing from us other than to believe in or accept our "salvation" through grace requires ignoring large parts of the very Bible we claim as the source of our faith.
Today's gospel is simply one of many such texts. Over and over in today's reading, Jesus calls his followers to "bear fruit." He says to "abide in" him, which happens when we keep his commandments. Now I don't suppose anyone is likely to keep Jesus' commandments without believing in Jesus, but clearly believing in Jesus and obeying his commandments are not the same thing.
I wonder if we Christians don't tend to get off track when we worry too much about "salvation," understood as getting into heaven rather than being left out. What if we were simply left the "in or out?" question to the gracious love of God, and we focused on being disciples, on following Jesus, on bearing much fruit, on letting him show us the shape of human life as it is meant to be lived? If the Church turned out people who lived in ways conspicuously different from the world, bearing much fruit and demonstrating the shape of God's coming Kingdom, I wonder if people wouldn't beat a path to our door to find out what we knew that they didn't?
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Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Spiritual Hiccups - If You Love Me...
Some Christians seem to reduce the faith to a set of beliefs. Believe in Jesus and you get a reward. But Jesus himself doesn't speak this way. Jesus asks people to follow him, to emulate the sort of life he lives. And in today's reading, he predicates doing as he has taught on loving him. "If you love me, you will keep my commandments."
Now and then I have counseled married couples who are struggling. Often both work very hard at the marriage and are more than willing to change their behaviors for the sake of the other. But sometimes one or both seem unable to do so. They are happy when "love" makes them feel good or meets their needs, but they seem incapable of doing something purely for the sake of the other, especially if that involves setting aside their own wants. In my experience, such people are emotionally quite immature, and it can be very difficult for them to save their marriages unless they can do some significant "growing up."
Sometimes I think that traditional American churches have been very good at bringing people to immature faith. Such faith is happy with the personal benefits of faith, but it never learns to go much deeper, to develop a loving, spiritual relationship with God that is happy to change behaviors for the sake of that relationship.
But in my own faith, and in the life of many congregations, I see hopeful signs. And here I think the popular interest in spirituality has been a real blessing to us. Despite how misguided some pop spirituality helps are, the spiritual hunger behind this has revealed the need for deeper faith relationships, a genuine need that the Church's traditional focus on doctrine and right beliefs has done too little to encourage and nurture.
If you love me...
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