Holding on to Bitter Memories

Rare is the person who does not carry with him or her the memory of some great failing.  Most of us have at some point betrayed our principles, our convictions, our notions of who we truly are.  The motivations for such acts are many. To save face, to be successful, to get something we really want, to preserve our safety or security, we act contrary to who we say we are. Out of anger, fear, or zealotry, we go against what we say we hold dear.

Following 9-11, the swiftness with which we did away with freedoms and rights we had long celebrated illustrates how easily we change direction under certain motivations.  It is probably too early to say if we will someday look back in anguished regret, but history gives us other examples where the judgment is clear. The internment of Japanese Americans accompanied by their loss of property, homes, and businesses, is one of those failings many would just as soon forget. And there are many others, slavery, segregation, the treatment of Native Americans.  These cast a dark shadow on American claims of greatness, godliness, and goodness, so much so that some people would rather they be glossed over in teaching US history.

I've always thought it a bit odd that this did not happen with Peter's denial reported in today's gospel. Peter became a leader in the early Church.  He must have had his ardent supporters, those who viewed him like George Washington was viewed by many 18th century Americans.  Strange then that the gospels show so little hesitation in telling of Peter's moment of awful failure, a moment so personally devastating that the gospel says he left the scene and "wept bitterly."

I wonder what Peter thought about this episode as he grew older. Did it always haunt him in someway?  Did he try to put it out of his mind?  Or was it something he wanted to touch from time to time, a reminder of how easily we betray what we say we love?

I don't know if this is in any way peculiar to our age, but we do not seem to have much interest in lingering over things that remind us of our failings.  I've lost count of the times people have suggested eliminating prayers of confession in worship.  "Such a downer," they sometimes say.  The refusal of the IOC to do anything during Olympic opening ceremonies to recall the murder of Israeli athletes at the 1972 games is supposedly because that might put a damper on the celebratory nature of the event.  No bitter memories please.

But the Church clung to the bitter memory of Peter's great failing, making his denial of Jesus one of the better known stories from the Bible. The same Peter who is celebrated as a founder of churches and remembered (in tradition at least) as the first pope, is perhaps best know for his colossal failure of nerve following Jesus' arrest.

I like to think that Peter himself cherished this memory in some way. It reminded him that, despite all his boldness and bravado, he could not be who he wanted to be, could not be who God wanted him to be, on his own. Only the presence of God within, the Holy Spirit working through him, permitted that.  I like to think that this bitter memory constantly reminded Peter of where his true strength lay, that it kept him humble and dependent on God so that he could say, like Paul does in his letter to the Philippians, "I can do all things through him who strengthens me."

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Freed from Ourselves

In America, with all our focus on freedom and personal liberties, discussions often center on where reasonable limits to such liberties should be placed.  The old example speaks of us having freedom of speech yet not permitted to yell, "Fire!" in a crowded theater.  And since 9-11, there have been frequent discussions about whether to give up freedoms in order to gain security.  But regardless of where people come down in such discussions, there is a basic agreement that we should be as free as possible.

The Apostle Paul speaks of Jesus freeing us from the Law, and so he might seem to be our kindred spirit with regards to personal liberty. But Paul never worships freedom for freedom's sake.  In fact he speaks of becoming a slave to righteousness, and he insists that we cannot exercise our freedom if it causes the slightest difficulty for someone else in regards to her faith.

The same Paul who trashes Peter for bowing to Jewish pressure regarding dietary laws, says in today's passage from Romans that freedom from dietary restrictions cannot be exercised if they cause a fellow believer to stumble. For Paul, freedom takes a back seat to community, for living in ways that " pursue what makes for peace and for mutual upbuilding."  And when Paul writes to his congregation at Corinth, a group that seems particularly enamored by their new freedom in Christ, he chastises them for not considering their brothers and sisters.

A key issue is the eating of meat because meat had generally been offered as a sacrifice before ending up at the butcher shop.  Paul is very clear that Jesus has freed him from the Law and that because idols are really only human-made objects, eating such meat is no problem.  And yet he tells the Corinthians, "If food is a cause of a brother or sisters falling, I will never eat meat, so that I may not cause one of them to fall."

In our culture, the other is often seen as a potential barrier to our freedoms and liberties and something we must guard against. Paul sees the other as a barrier to personal freedom and liberty as well, but in a completely different sense. They are opportunities for us to exercise what we have truly been freed to do in Christ: to love.

Most all of us are bound to some degree by fears: fear that we won't have enough, fear that we aren't safe, fear that others won't like us, fear that we will fail, fear that we won't find love, etc.  But "in Christ," we are freed from such fears and therefore freed to live more fully in the image of God, in the manner of Jesus, giving ourselves to others in love.  And for Jesus, loving freed him even from the need to save his own life.

At the beginning of the American experiment, our freedoms were always understood to exist within a "social contract." Our freedoms and liberties were for the good of society, not simply for our own use.  That's not quite Paul, but it is a bit closer to him than the increasingly individualistic notions of personal liberty in our day.

It strikes me that conversations on "gun control," which have flared up again in light of the Colorado theater shooting, are often argued almost entirely along individualist notions of freedom.  I'm not suggesting any particular stance with regards to gun ownership.  But I do not think I have ever heard anyone speak along the lines of Paul and say, "I believe in the right bear arms, but if it would make for a safer world, I would happily refuse to exercise that right." 

The same critique could surely be leveled at stances of all political persuasions. And that raises the question.  What rights, freedoms, or liberties that I cherish have become something from which I need to be freed in order to fully love my neighbor?

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Letting Go of Self

I've been thinking a lot about self and identity the last few days, spurred by Daily Devotions from Richard Rohr, comments on my blogs, and re-reading Graham Standish's Humble Leadership. I supposes this all started when a church member commented that my predecessor here once said there were only two Republicans who belonged to this church.  I must confess, I was stunned by that.

"All of you are one in Christ Jesus" is a fundamental Christian affirmation. The divisions of the world are obliterated when we our identity is reformed in the image of Jesus.  As Paul says in today's reading, "We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves. If we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord; so then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord's."

In the teachings of Jesus and the writings of Paul, new life emerges as the self is denied or dies.  But our culture worships the individual self.  It says that happiness comes from satisfying all the desires of the self rather than subjugating the self to some larger good.  Western individualism has always had tendencies in this direction, but they seem to have grown more pronounced in recent decades. There have always been conservative and liberal congregations, wealthy and working class congregations, but I think there was some recognition that this was a regrettable result of human frailty. It was certainly nothing to be proud about.

As one who is fairly liberal, I confess that there is a certain comfort in moving to a congregation that is closer to my liberal leanings than my previous one.  But at the same time, the idea that our liberalism could form a sufficiently large part of our identity that a Republican would not want to join is disconcerting.  We are all one in Christ Jesus, as long as you are a Democrat?

(Let me quickly add that I'm responding to a statement and not necessarily to reality. I hope my predecessor's observation some years ago was an exaggeration, a misread, or is no longer true.  And I've not experienced any in-your-face, strident politicizing that one might expect if we were managing to run off all non-liberals.)

If required to label myself, I will say I am a liberal or progressive Christian. But I hope it is the Christian part of that label that is primary, not the liberal or progressive. In Paul's letter to the Romans, he mentions some issues that divided Christians in his time: refusing to eat meat because almost all the items at the butcher shop had started out as sacrifices at some temple or worshiping on the Sabbath (Saturday) versus worshiping on the Lord's Day (Sunday). In different letters he mentions other dividing lines: Jew or Gentile, male or female, slave or free.  In our day perhaps he would have added liberal or conservative, Republican or Democrat, black or white, etc.  But he certainly would have said that none of these divisions matter because all are made one in Christ Jesus.  But such a notion seems difficult, even impossible, unless the self recedes and "in Christ" comes to the fore. 

Who am I?  That is a basic human question.  Many of us spend a great deal of energy trying to hone and stake a claim to a particular identity.  And the idea that our true identity requires letting go of self goes against the cultural grain.  Not me, but Christ; not my will but God's will; not what I want but what God wants; saying such things are difficult for many of us.  But Jesus, Paul, and the lives of countless Christians over the centuries all insist that we discover who we truly are, find a joyful new life and sense of being reborn, when we let go of self and become a new self in Christ.

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Sermon audio - Quiet Desperation

Audios of sermons and worship can be found on FCPC website.

Becoming Better Lovers

In seminary, my favorite subjects were theology and Bible exegesis (the careful study of Scripture in order to understand, explain, and interpret a passage).  I really enjoy the rational thought processes involved in such study.  I love trying to figure things out, trying to understand what something means, and there were times when I thought about further academic pursuit, about trying to become a theology professor perhaps.

I still love theology and exegesis. After all, it is not possible to be a Christian without doing both. All people of faith have some way of deciding what God is like, how to use the Bible, etc.  But sometimes I have tendency, as does my denomination, to make such things an end in themselves. That's likely one of the reasons Presbyterians tend to be a bit on the stuffy side.  A great deal of the time, faith operates only in our brains.

I am overstating things a bit, but there is some truth to Presbyterian stereotypes.  And as one somewhat comfortable in those stereotypes, I find Paul's words today a tad unsettling.  "The one who loves another has fulfilled the law.... Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law." 

Paul is referring to law in the sense of Torah, so we're not necessarily talking about speed limits here.  But neither did Paul divide things into religious and secular spheres.  The religious permeated all things for Paul and most ancient people, and so he might well has seen speed limits as religious.  Speeding or running a red light does increase the chance of me injuring a neighbor.

But the bigger issue for me is this idea that loving the other fulfills all the law, rules, and regulations.  Can it really be so simple?  If we just all loved one another, would everything else take care of itself?

In my denomination, pastors, along with elders and deacons (who might be called "lay leaders" in other traditions), are ordained.  One of my favorite questions asked to those being ordained is also probably the most difficult promise to keep. "Do you promise the further the peace, unity, and purity of the church?" The problem is that some folks tend to emphasize one component while other folks have a different favorite. Some will happily sacrifice peace for the sake of purity while others will happily toss out any notion of purity to maintain peace. 

(One of the reasons there are liberal Presbyterian Churches and conservative Presbyterian Churches is because we can't figure out how to do all three.  And so we divide up, allowing individual congregations to live more or less peacefully in unity as they practice the particular purity of their position.  This moves the purity fights that reveal our lack of peace and unity, [and love?] mostly to a regional and national level.)

But if we take Paul seriously, and if we draw some parallels between purity and the law, then loving one another would seem to take care of purity.  And certainly loving one another would seem to build peace and unity.  Of course it must be said that Paul had opponents, and he wasn't always shy about saying nasty things about them.  Was this a matter of Paul having trouble practicing what he preached, or was he simply dealing with people who were hurting others because they weren't loving their neighbors?  I'm not sure there are easy answers to such questions, but I do think that embodying the idea that love fulfills the law in doing no wrong to the neighbor would makes things better.

There's an old line that says, "I'm a lover, not a fighter." In my experience, we Presbyterians (and plenty of other groups) are sometimes better fighters than lovers.  We are very good at rational exercises of theology and exegesis that allow us to marshal compelling  arguments to help our side win.  But how might it look if we focused more on loving?

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Sermon - Quiet Desperation

Mark 6:30-34, 53-56

Quiet Desperation

James Sledge                                                                                       July 22, 2012

Jesus and the disciples needed a little R and R.  They had scarcely had a moment’s rest for weeks.  It had been a nonstop preaching, teaching, and healing tour. The crowds were everywhere, pressing in on them, demanding access to Jesus.  Perhaps that is why Jesus had sent the disciples out in pairs on a tour of their own.  He needed surrogates to help in the face of so much demand.

When the disciples returned from their mission trips with tales of their own crowds and of teaching and healing many, everyone was exhausted.  But still people swarmed around.  And so Jesus said, “Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest awhile.” And like celebrities escaping the paparazzi, they got into a boat and slipped away.

But the crowds were as persistent as paparazzi.  Jesus and his entourage had not made their getaway completely undetected.  They had been spotted, the direction they were headed observed. Word quickly spread, and by the time Jesus and his crew came ashore at their deserted hideaway, a huge, clamoring crowd was waiting for them.

Time to make another break for it. Time to give the crowds the slip.  Send a couple disciples one way, a few more the other, then slip out the back.  Except that Jesus looks into the faces of the crowd, and he had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd.

How pathetic those folks must have been. They were so desperate that they chased after Jesus like pre-teen girls chasing Justin Bieber.  They were so desperate for help that they begged just to touch his clothes. The disciples could have made a fortune if they had known about mass marketing.  “Get you own piece of Jesus’ cloak for only $19.95, plus shipping and handling.”

I’m sure glad I’m not like those pitiful Galileans.  Sure, I’ve got my problems, but I’m not going to come unglued over them.  I don’t need to push and shove and beg.  I have things under control. I have resources as my disposal.  I’m not going to let myself get in a situation where I need to act like those folks who chased after Jesus, begging for him to help.

Feelings this way may be why the images out of New Orleans shortly after Hurricane Katrina were so disturbing. 

Not Much to Say

I imagine there were people who expected that I would write something about the horrible shooting in Colorado yesterday, but the truth is I really had little to say.  Calls for prayer were everywhere, I and I didn't feel the need to echo those.  Facebook and Twitter were filled with comments and messages. Many faith based responses struck me as trite. Other struck me as almost cruel, insisting so forcefully on joyful hope that they seemed to deny people their grief.  And so I said nothing.

I don't have much more to say today.  I'm not at all certain how to salvage any "good" from this terrible and evil act. But neither am I comfortable simply chalking this up to how things are in a broken and fallen world.

There's a line in the old John Prine song, "Sam Stone," about a man who gets addicted to morphine after being wounded "in the conflict overseas." His life spirals downhill upon his return home, and he finally dies of an overdose.  The chorus to the song goes,

There's a hole in Daddy's arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin' I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don't stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios. 
Mmm....

 Sometimes I don't feel very far from such sentiments, and I simply rest in a quite, poignant sadness. But feeling I should say something, I looked at the lectionary readings for yesterday, and there were these verses from Paul.

Let love be genuine; hate what is evil, hold fast to what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in showing honor. Do not lag in zeal, be ardent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, be patient in suffering, persevere in prayer. Contribute to the needs of the saints; extend hospitality to strangers. Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Live in harmony with one another; do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly; do not claim to be wiser than you are. Do not repay anyone evil for evil, but take thought for what is noble in the sight of all. If it is possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, "Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord." No, "if your enemies are hungry, feed them; if they are thirsty, give them something to drink; for by doing this you will heap burning coals on their heads." Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

 I've often heard the line, "Vengeance is mine" quoted, but rarely with Paul's intent, rarely arguing that we are to love our enemies and leave all the vengeance stuff to God. Paul seems to think that evil can be defeated with good.  But evil seems amazingly resilient.  Can we really believe it will be overcome by good, by love?  Dare we believe it?

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Non-conformists

I've likely mentioned this before, but one of the classic 20th Century works in my faith tradition is a book by H. Richard Niebuhr entitled, Christ and Culture.  It speaks of several possible relationships between the two, "Christ against Culture, The Christ of Culture, Christ above Culture, Christ and Culture in Paradox," and finally argues for "Christ the Transformer of Culture." 

I'm not sure the Apostle Paul is thinking at all along Niebuhr's lines when he wrote the verses in today's epistle reading, but I think they underlie such thought. 

I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God - what is good and acceptable and perfect.

Paul says that being in Christ makes us non-conformists.  That might not lead directly to Niebuhr's conclusions. A non-conformist might choose simply to be "against culture."  But clearly a non-conformist has to have some sense of tension with any culture this side of the reign of God, the full-blown arrival of the Kingdom on earth.

Church congregations vary widely with regards to their level of non-conformity, but I don't think it unfair to say that on the whole, church congregations are a fairly conformist group.  My own Presbyterian tradition, which proudly claims both H. Richard and Reinhold Niebuhr, certainly has been very at  home in the culture for much of its time in America.  We Presbyterians have been referred to as the "Republican party at prayer" (a moniker we've shared with others). Granted, this referenced a Republican party no longer in existence, but I'm not sure the Republican party was very non-conformist in the 1950s either.

For much of American history, Mainline churches were viewed as cultural institutions that helped raise solid citizens who shared a common moral framework.  That did not necessarily prevent working to make changes in the culture, but it did pose problems.  Mainline churches often came late to movements to change society, drawn to things such as the Civil Rights movement by members who caught the fever for change outside their congregations.  (I should add that much of that fever was faith induced, but its origins tended to be non-Mainline churches.)

Of course we Mainline denominations have lost our special place in the culture.  There are still vestiges of it, especially in the South, but by and large the culture decided it doesn't need us as one of its key institutions for raising good, community citizens.  And perhaps this is nothing short of a gift from God, though one we don't yet know how to use.

We Presbyterians still love to pass resolutions with regards to the environment, the Middle East peace process, health care reform, gambling, immigration, and so on as though we spoke with some authority to the culture.  We still operate out of patterns that evolved when we were an important cultural institution.

I'm not sure I know just what patterns we should be embracing in this new time, although I suspect such patterns will require a lot more being "transformed by the renewing our your minds" at a congregational level. Congregations need to become places of personal transformation if we are to be non-conformist, transforming agents in the culture, in the world. 

And so that is what I'm struggling with myself right at this moment.  What sort of non-conformity am I being called to in Christ?  And what sort of transforming non-conformity needs to catch fire in this and other congregation?

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Becoming Least

Today's gospel reading with its famous Jesus quote, "Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me," is loved by many. But I'm not entirely sure what to do with this passage, sometimes called "The Judgment of of the Nations," other times "The Judgment of the Gentiles."  And my dilemma is related to those different titles.

When "the nations" are gathered before the Son of Man and separated "as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats," just who is it that is gathered?  For much of my life, I assumed it was everyone who was so gathered, but I'm now reasonably certain that is not the case.  In the original Greek of the gospel it is the ethnos who are gathered.  This word can mean "nations" but it more regularly is used to refer to the "Gentiles."

Matthew's gospel is a very Jewish gospel, and in Jewish thought, ethnos, Gentiles, nations, provides the ultimate us-them demarcation. Matthew seems here to use it just that way. The Gentiles, the goyim, the others, are gathered for judgment.  And in a surprising turn, they are judged worthy because they were kind to members of Jesus' family (presumably meaning his followers) who were in need.

When I think about the gospel passage from this point of view, it resists simple, moralistic understandings, but it is rich with interpretive possibility. If Jesus judges outsiders, not on their receptiveness to the Christian message but on their kindness to Christians in need, what does that say about Jesus' priorities?  And if this passage is about how Jesus judges outsiders, what does that say about how the Church should relate to outsiders?

Matthew's gospel ends with Jesus commanding his disciples (and the Church) to "make disciples of all ethnos," and so the Church is clearly charged to call people to lives of following Jesus. Yet Jesus says here that these ethnos won't necessarily be judged on how they respond to this disciple making enterprise.  In fact, putting ourselves at the mercy of the ethnos, thus giving them a chance to show us kindness, would seem to offer salvation every bit as much as the stereotypical evangelistic appeal.

As part of a denomination that is not terribly good at evangelism, and sometimes seems to dabble in it only out of some survival instinct, I wonder what it would look like for us to reach out to them in an entirely different way.   What would it mean for us to put ourselves at the mercy of them, to become the "least of these" who are dependent on others' kindness?

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Risky Business

I'm guessing that most church folks have at one time or another heard a sermon from today's gospel with an Aesop's Fable type moral.  "Use your talents wisely."  Trouble is, the parable of the talents is not about that at all.

The two slaves who doubled their master's investment most certainly had to engage in risky behavior.  They were no safe, prudent investors.  But the third slave was.  In Jesus' day, there were no reliable banks.  On top of that, the Bible has prohibitions against lending money at interest.  And so the third slave did the safe and prudent thing, the one thing that guaranteed he would not lose any of his master's money.

On a number of occasions, I've been part of groups that were discussing how to invest a church's endowment funds.  And I probably don't need to tell you that risky, speculative investments were not seriously considered. I don't disagree with such financial prudence, but the same sort of timidity often saturates all church planning and thinking.  Yet Jesus' parable lifts up risky behavior and says, "Well done, good and trustworthy slave."

I don't think that Jesus meant that we are never supposed to consider the risks before doing something. In fact, he tells a parable about doing just that.  But clearly Jesus thinks there will be times and places where we are called to risk it all for the sake of God's coming reign.  Jesus certainly did so, risking even his very life.

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Sermon audio - Dancing Naked

Sermon and worship audios also available at Falls Church Presbyterian site.

Acting on Predictions

One of the comic strips in this morning's paper featured a scraggly character holding a sign that said, "Repent! The world ends tomorrow."  The fellow is a stock character we've all seen many times, the crazy who has figured out the end is coming and wants everyone to be ready.

But if this is a fringe, stock figure, tamer versions of him are quite popular. On the one hand are those who presume they can do reasonably accurate predicting by deciphering a code for the book of Revelation.  And on the other hand are the larger number of folks who laugh at such attempts but do a different sort of predicting themselves, insisting that nothing will happen in any foreseeable future.  Things will go on pretty much as they are well beyond all of our lifetimes.  And both sorts of predicting are used to support behaviors, or the lack of them.

"Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour," says Jesus in today's parable.  Jesus says this sort of thing a number of times, but his followers seem not to have heard him. Some insist they will not be surprised by the kingdom's arrival because they will have seen it coming, but others insist they will not be surprised because it won't come.

 I have really been intrigued in recent years by the Emergent Church movement and its attempt to reclaim an emphasis on the Kingdom, on the promise of God's coming rule. This is certainly central to what Jesus teaches. He calls people to reorient their lives in preparation for a very different world whose arrival will take us by surprise. But somehow Christianity's focus shifted over the centuries to an off-world heaven rather than the transformed world Jesus proclaimed.

My own faith is probably more about personal solace, about hope and guidance for the day than it is about being transformed so that I conform to an as-yet-unseen, new world.  "It's gonna happen.  It's gonna happen," says Jesus.  Sure it is, but right now I need a nap.

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