[Advent 4: Love] Jesus, waiting to be born, whether we like it or not

Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When Jesus' mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous person and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly.

But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of God appeared to him in a dream and said, "Joseph, child of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a child, whom you are to name Jesus, for this child will save the people from their sins."

All this took place to fulfill what had been spoken by God through the prophet: "Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a child, whom they shall name Emmanuel," which means, "God is with us."

When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took Mary as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a child; and they named him Jesus.

Matthew 1:18-25 (NRSV alt. -- again, thanks to Cole and Ruth Ellen)

In her sermon, Molly talked a lot about Molly's "Yes," suggesting it wasn't as whole-hearted as it gets made out to be. As she noted, Mary doesn't say anything in Matthew's account.

This silence (or less charitably, this erasure of Mary) is jarring in contrast to Luke's account. But perhaps this reticent, hidden mother-to-be resonates far more with us than the bold assured young woman who proclaims that God is doing great things through her, who proclaims not only that God will but that God has upended the order of the world.

Molly talked about Mary's being "found out." Have there been changes in your life that you have been reluctant to voice? Are there ways that God has been growing something new in you that you have wished to hide -- from others and perhaps even from your own self?

To give us some context, Matthew prefaces this story with Jesus' genealogy -- a genealogy which contains 4 women (Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba) plus Mary makes 5. Nanette Sawyer writes:

Each of these women acted boldly and against convention in order to bring about some kind of justice. [...] These women all practiced a kind of righteousness that might appear scandalous. And Joseph is invited to do the same by accepting Mary, even though she is pregnant, not by him. We might ask ourselves, when does breaking with convention actually lead us toward a greater righteousness? When is righteousness scandalous?

Even if we didn't have Luke's account, could we infer about Mary based on the company she is placed in? Tamar, who disguises herself, takes real risks, and makes bold requests ... subverting the patriarchy to achieve the goals the patriarch has denied her. Rahab, who protects the Israelite spies when they come to invade and destroy her city. Ruth, who insists on following her mother-in-law to a foreign land, trusting this old woman in everything, even letting herself be married off and taking her mother-in-law's advice on how to seduce this man. Bathsheba, who is taken to bed by King David while she is still married (and after she becomes pregnant, David sets her husband up to be killed in war and then marries her himself to hide his crime) and stays with David through his old age, at which point she successfully gets her son named as heir to the throne rather than David's firstborn son.

I could write at length about this genealogy -- about how sexuality, subversion of patriarchy, and Other-ness play out in their narratives and about what placing them in conversation with each other can bring up. But our text isn't actually the Matthean genealogy, so as a segue I offer you this excerpt from Warren Carter's Matthew and the Margins: A Sociopolitical and Religious Reading (as quoted by Brian Stoffregen):

This conception without male agency and outside marriage circumvents the patriarchal household structure emphasized in 1:1-17. God is not bound by a structure that privileges male power. God seems to counter it, a theme that will continue as Jesus creates a new community in which the household is "not ruled by or even defined by a male head of the house" [quote from Levine, "Matthew," 254](see 4:18-22; 12:46-50; chs. 19-20).

Given how insistent people are about Jesus' maleness (in progressive churches, you may well hear God and the Holy Spirit referred to as "She," but I can basically guarantee you that you will never hear Jesus so referred to), I find this somewhat ironic. But I really like this idea. Jesus consistently privileges chosen family over family of origin; and Jesus consistently shows up in unexpected places, rejecting societal rules and lifting up those whom society has cast aside. To insist that the new family Jesus is creating must be headed by a man is to deny the reversal of the ways of the world which is at the core of that new creation.

Joseph is nearly erased in Luke's account (in a blink-and-you'll-miss-him appearance, he brings his family to Bethlehem for the Roman census, but the person Mary actually converses with is her also-miraculously-pregnant cousin Elizabeth), but Matthew's account lets us into his head some. Luke shows us Mary who is told (by the angel Gabriel at the Annunciation) what is going to happen and who then elaborates on what this means (in the Magnificat, delivered in the presence of Elizabeth -- the first human to recognize what has happened to Mary). But Joseph is taken by surprise by these events.

Jerry Goebel writes, "The angel had to 'wake up' Joseph from a spiritual stupor lest he sleep away his opportunity to participate in God's plan."

Are there ways God has been trying to "wake you up"? Are there people you would like to send away quietly whom God is calling you to embrace? (Important caveat: Not people whom you genuinely need to distance yourself from for your health and safety, but people you'd like to avoid just because it's easier, more comfortable, that way.)

Are there ways in which God is calling you to participate in something new God is doing in the world which you would rather distance yourself from?

This Matthew passage contains the familiar naming of Jesus as "Emmanuel," "God with us."

Brian Stoffregen writes:

it seems to me that the translation "God is with us" doesn't completely capture the sense of the Hebrew. The words suggest that "God is in common with us people" -- or "God is one of us."

What would it mean for God to be common with you?

After Megyn Kelly's comments on Fox News, there have been many articles about the historical Saint Nicholas and the historical Jesus, and the ways that representation plays out today -- including "White People Need a Non-White Jesus" on Sojourners.

Sarah Over the Moon on Patheos has written about God as a woman and God as a baby (this last link contains curse words).

Do any of these resonate with you as a God who is common with you, or as a God who challenges you to radical openness by being UNLIKE you? Is there a particular incarnation you feel you need which is not represented among these options?

Brian P. Stoffregen writes:

Can we believe that in this infant, God is with us as our savior? It can be safer to argue about what might have happened at Jesus' birth way back in history; than to live our lives today confessing and believing that "God is with us/me right now". I think that some of the historical arguments can be ways of avoiding the living God now. I once suggested from something I read, that all some people want is an inoculation of Christianity -- just enough of it so that they don't catch the real thing. Sometimes Christmas is no more than a "booster shot" -- something that helps us not catch the real thing. The real thing is "God is with us". The "savior" has been born and is with us. Yet many people feel more in bondage at Christmas time -- bondage to attend parties, buy gifts, spend too much money, be happy, etc. We may celebrate the coming of the Prince of Peace by making our lives more chaotic; the coming of the Lord of Life by becoming more depressed. These can be indications that we need more of the real thing. How do we live today knowing that the savior, God-is-with-us now?

Where does this Nativity story break into your life, Beloved?

As we're recovering from secular Christmas, are there ways we can welcome the God of true life and true peace into our lives? Are there ways we can make room for something new to be born in us?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments -- responding to any of the questions I've asked throughout this blogpost or raising questions of your own, or simply sharing some thoughts. (As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Advent 3: Joy] the joy of liberation -- not just for ourselves but for all

The days are surely coming, says God, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. It will not be like the covenant that I made with their ancestors when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt—a covenant that they broke, though I was their spouse, says God. But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says God: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, "Know God," for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says God; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more.

Jeremiah 31:31-34 (NRSV, alt.)

This was our Scripture reading the morning of the Cantata, the Sunday of Joy during the season of Advent.

What joy does this promise bring to you?

What would it mean for God to forgive your iniquity and remember your sin no more?

What would it mean for you to know God and for God's law to be written on your heart?

Rev. Dr. Stan G. B. Duncan writes:

The central ethical principle of the Hebrew Scriptures and echoed in the Christian scriptures is that God has liberated (saved, redeemed) us and now we should liberate and redeem others. What it means to be a religious person is to liberate slaves. And that means slaves of psychic demons in abusive homes, and it means physical demons of countries so enmeshed in the depths of debt repayments that their children starve and die in infancy. But God, in spite of our perpetual inclination to break the covenant, comes to us in these words of Jeremiah and offers us a second (and third and fourth) chance. "Renew the covenant, and have it written on your hearts, where it will emanate out from you rather than being imposed from outside onto you." God is always calling us back to the basics of worship and justice. God is always offering us a chance to come home from Babylon. It is up to us to make the decision to make the journey.

"God is always offering us a chance to come home from Babylon."

Nothing we have done (or failed to do) can keep us apart from God. As Eugene Peterson puts it in The Message, "nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable" can separate us from the love of God (from Romans 8:38-39).

But as Duncan points out, this isn't just about our own personal liberation. To be united with God's love also means to be connected to God's love for all others -- to know God is to have God's law written on our hearts.

Advent 1 I quoted William Loader on what "the day of the Lord" meant in the prophetic tradition. Similarly, Duncan talks about the Jubilee Year in connection with "the day of the Lord" and "the year of the Lord’s favor." He reminds us that "sin" and "debt" are often nearly interchangeable terms in the Biblical tradition.

Many of us middle-class folks may not feel a bone-deep yearning for our debts to be forgiven (though certainly many of us wouldn't mind our student loans being forgiven), but for people suffering under Roman occupation, in debt slavery, to have their debts forgiven would have been literally life-changing.

Duncan writes:

A Jubilee sermon could be based on the justice demands of the notion of the "knowledge of God." Walter Brueggemann, commenting on this passage, argues that one cannot know God without being attentive to the needs of the poor and the weak. And he says it is not that one is derived intellectually from the other, "rather, the two are synonymous. One could scarcely imagine a more radical and subversive theological claim."^[5] This is very similar to the claims about loving God in the New Testament. See for example the blunt words of 1 John 4:20-21: "Those who say, 'I love God,' and hate their [siblings], are liars."

Hosea, a contemporary of Jeremiah, reports that when "there is no knowledge of God in the land, swearing, lying, and murder, and stealing and adultery break out; bloodshed follows bloodshed. Therefore the land mourns, and all who live in it languish...." (4:1b-3a). The Peruvian theologian Gustavo Gutiérrez makes the point that God is encountered in concrete acts of justice an mercy to others. So if justice is not present, then God is not present. "To know [YHWH]...is to establish just relationships among persons, it is to recognize the rights of the poor. The God of Biblical revelation is known through interhuman justice. When justice does not exist, God is not known; God is absent."^[6]

[5] Brueggemann, "Covenant as a Subversive Paradigm," A Social Reading of the Old Testament: Prophetic Approaches to Israel's Communal Life (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress: 1994), p. 49.

[6] A Theology of Liberation: History, Politics, and Salvation, tr. Sr. Caridad Inda and John Eagleson (New York: Maryknoll: 1988, revised ed.), p. 110-111.

We are reminded that Advent Joy is not just for ourselves, but for all of God's children. Living in harmony with God means also sharing in God's desires for justice and mercy for all.

I know for me, this is the hardest part. To believe that God loves me even with all the terrible things I think and say and do? That's easy. That doesn't require any work or change on my part.

But the reminder that I'm supposed to work toward liberation from all sorts of oppression for my kindred here on earth? That takes work. To be liberated from my insular self-interest, to risk my security and comfort on behalf of others (whom I may not know or even like), that kind of radical transformation is scary. But that's what it means to truly know God. And it's a one-sided God's covenant if I only reap the personal benefits and ignore any obligations on my end.

Hillel the Elder asks, "If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, who am I? If not now, when?" (Pirkei Avot 1:14).

What about you, Beloved? What spoke to you in this passage?

Is the promise of knowing God directly and intimately, appealing or frightening or a little bit of each?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments -- responding to any of the questions I've asked throughout this blogpost or raising questions of your own, or simply sharing some thoughts. (As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Advent 2: Peace] building peace by building relationships, and vulnerability

From the stump of Jesse a shoot will come out, and from Jesse's roots will grow a branch:
upon which the spirit of the God--the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of God--shall rest;
whose delight will be in the fear of God;
who shall not judge by sight alone, nor decide only by hearing;
but who will judge the poor with righteousness, and decide with equity for the meek of the Earth;
whose mouth's rod shall strike the Earth, and whose lips' breath will kill the wicked;
whose waist shall be belted with righteousness, and whose loins belted with faithfulness.

The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder's den. They will not hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain; for the earth will be full of the knowledge of God as the waters cover the sea.

On that day as a signal to the peoples shall stand the root of Jesse, of whom all the nations inquire, and whose dwelling shall be glorious.

Isaiah 11:1-10 (NRSV, alt. -- many thanks to Cole and Ruth Ellen)

This text is familiar from the Advent/Christmas cycle of texts every year, but its very familiarity means it can be hard to actually hear what it's saying.

Danielle Shroyer (you may remember her from last week, Advent 1, commenting about Revelation) wrote: " 'Tis the season to dream big dreams and hope big hopes. But the hardest question remains: Why is the earth not yet filled with the knowledge of the Lord?"

My immediate thought was that this invocation of "the earth being full of the knowledge of the Lord" seemed kind of random. Yes, it's the penultimate sentence of the entire passage and I had skipped right over it.

Before I even read the comments, I answered her question: "Because we [the Church] haven't lived out Christlike lives."

There was some discussion in the comments about the tension between abdicating responsibility and burning ourselves out, and Wesley Welborn said:

Let me offer a different way of phrasing one of your statements. Rather than saying, "If I get the idea that I can make things right by trying harder and fixing things, then it will always end in (disappointment?)" how about, "If we allow Christ to work through us to complete God's vision for creation, it will certainly end in victory." If we are trying to build God's kingdom on our own, it will certainly end in disappointment. If the church is guided and empowered by the Spirit of Christ, God's purposes cannot be thwarted. It has and will take a very long time, in part because the church has often been unfaithful to its calling. Why doesn't Christ just do it without us? Perhaps, in part, because a purpose of building the Kingdom of God on earth is to give us the opportunity to mature into the image of Christ as we take on the responsibility of kingdom-building. I think this is the sacrificial cross Christ has called us to take up.

Isaiah says that on this branch of Jesse will rest the spirit of God -- the spirit of wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of God. Are there ways we can cultivate an attentiveness to that spirit, stay still long enough to let it rest on us for a moment?

In reflecting on the various pieces of this text and on the numerous commentaries I've read, what has most struck me has been vulnerability.

The Meditation in our bulletin this Sunday was:

"The Son of God, by becoming flesh, summoned us to the revolution of tenderness." - Pope Francis

This is from Pope Francis' Apostolic Exhortation entitled Evangelii Gaudium ("The Joy of the Gospel") -- paragraph 88, specifically; part of the section entitled "Yes to the new relationships brought by Christ."

I think he is overly dismissive of relationships mediated by the Internet/electronics, but I do appreciate his emphasis on social gospel and on being in full relationship with people, with all the messiness and challenge that entails.

He writes (emphasis mine):

88. The Christian ideal will always be a summons to overcome suspicion, habitual mistrust, fear of losing our privacy, all the defensive attitudes which today's world imposes on us. Many try to escape from others and take refuge in the comfort of their privacy or in a small circle of close friends, renouncing the realism of the social aspect of the Gospel. For just as some people want a purely spiritual Christ, without flesh and without the cross, they also want their interpersonal relationships provided by sophisticated equipment, by screens and systems which can be turned on and off on command. Meanwhile, the Gospel tells us constantly to run the risk of a face-to-face encounter with others, with their physical presence which challenges us, with their pain and their pleas, with their joy which infects us in our close and continuous interaction. True faith in the incarnate Son of God is inseparable from self-giving, from membership in the community, from service, from reconciliation with others. The Son of God, by becoming flesh, summoned us to the revolution of tenderness.

The Isaian prophecy about the wolf and the lamb etc. is about all of Creation living together in harmony, none hurting or destroying any. While we can't rewire carnivore biology, we can build relationships with those around us. We can reach out to those we have hurt, those we fear we might hurt or disappoint, those we fear might hurt or disappoint us, and even sometimes those who have hurt us (caveat: sometimes in this fallen world it's not safe to do so -- just as we likely wouldn't bring a bear onto our cattle farm, sometimes we need to maintain a safe distance from people who are toxic to us).

Are there ways we can move out of our comfort zone, to be in fuller relationship with those around us, to bind up what is broken and build the world of God's longing?

Commenting on the Isaiah text, Melissa Bane Sevier writes:

All sides must have permission to hope. The weak need to be able to hope they will not be consumed by the powerful. The strong—and perhaps this is the more difficult type of hope—the strong need to be able to hope they do not need to consume another in order to prosper.

Isaiah told his people that they needed to give themselves permission to dream of peace, permission to hope for a better time.

It's easy to talk about this text as it relates to the weak, but many of us are in the position of the "strong" -- reluctant to give up our power, our wealth. What do we fear God might ask us to give up if we really said, "God, your will not mine be done"? What predatory urges, what grasping for security, is God asking us to let go of so that others can dwell amongst us?

One of the lines from this Isaiah text which most obviously connects it to the Nativity story is, "And a little child shall lead them."

Patheos blogger Sarah Over the Moon wrote:

White supremacist, capitalist, patriarchy (as bell hooks calls it) wants us to worship a cisgender, adult man who reflects the "right" class and who holds institutional power. It wants us to worship this image so that when we encounter cisgender, adult men from the "right" class who hold institutional power in the world, we will be less likely to question their right to rule.

The image of God as a baby born to a poor family, from the "wrong" part of town, can challenge that.

[...]

I believe in a God who is in solidarity with the oppressed, and I believe that God With Us is first and foremost God With The Oppressed. And the embodiment of God according to the Christian narrative begins in a baby.

"Take care that you do not despise these little ones..."

Many of us have grown up with strong theologies of Jesus as Lord -- Jesus who, triumphant over death, sits at the right hand of the Father and will return with a flaming sword to judge and destroy. But Jesus consistently rejected traditional earthly forms of power. To insist that Jesus operate according to our models of how power works, I would argue, in fact rejects Jesus' sovereignty -- saying we know better how to be God, how to be Savior.

As Sarah suggests, Jesus reminds us that institutional power. Chapter 2 of Matthew's Gospel has the Magi coming to King Herod in Jerusalem -- a seat of institutional power -- and Herod's response to this birth of a ruler who is to fulfill Micah 5:2 is to slaughter all the infants in and around Bethlehem. In case the import of this genocide fails to touch us, Matthew echoes the prophet Jeremiah: "A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more" (Jeremiah 31:15). We don't even need to get to the persecution of the grown-up Jesus for it to be clear that institutional power and God rarely sit comfortably together.

In her sermon on Sunday, Molly commented on the image of all the animals living together in vegetarian bliss -- that one of the oddities of the text is that it seems to suggest there was something wrong with how some of the animals were created in the first place. I suggested in my email that perhaps this hyperbolic scene isn't meant literally but is meant to suggest just how radically God will be transforming the entirety of Creation.

What vicious cycles do we need to break (and/or, what virtuous cycles do we need to start) to make space for God's transforming peace in our lives? Are there habits that seem as deeply-ingrained in us as a lion's appetite for meat?

Rachel C. Lewis has a piece on ThoughtCatalog called "Tell The People You Love That You Love Them" in which she writes:

I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, "Kiss me harder," and "You're a good person," and, "You brighten my day." I live my life as straight-forward as possible.

Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.

[...]

Maybe it's weird. Maybe it's scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.

But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.

And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.

We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.

We never know when the bus is coming.

I think this kind of radical honesty heartens God -- we have a finite time on this earth (at least on this side of the Veil) and God wants us to live fully with all we have been given.

And I think it's not too bold to say that by being honest about our wants and needs, and being attentive and responsive to those of others, we can help build peace on earth.

I mostly think of "root" and "branch" when I think of this Isaiah passage, forgetting about the fact that it opens with "stump." Whatever we think is dead in our life, unable to bear fruit any longer -- God can grow something new. Whatever mistakes we have made, whatever we have done or failed to do, none of it is too big for God to repair. God calls us to be co-creators in this work, but we don't have to (in fact, cannot) do it alone.

What about you, Beloved?

What did this reading from Isaiah bring up for you? Does it call you into new cycles? Do you think I've overreached in my arguments about what this text might be saying? Have I not dug into pieces you would be more interested in, like what this six-fold spirit of God means or how a vegetarian diet might help build this Isaian vision?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments -- responding to any of the questions I've asked throughout this blogpost or raising questions of your own, or simply sharing some thoughts. (As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Advent 1: Hope] "Ours is only to watch and attend and love."

"But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Child, but only the Parent. For as the days of Noah were, so will be the coming of the Child of Humanity.

For as in those days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day Noah entered the ark, and they knew nothing until the flood came and swept them all away, so too will be the coming of the Child of Humanity.

Then two will be in the field; one will be taken and one will be left. Two women will be grinding meal together; one will be taken and one will be left.

Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day the Promised One is coming.

But understand this: if the owner of the house had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, the owner would have stayed awake and would not allowed the house to be broken into.

Therefore you also must be ready, for the Child of Humanity is coming at an unexpected hour.

Matthew 24:36-44 (NRSV, alt)

Advent is a season of expectant (one might say, pregnant) waiting. We prepare ourselves for the inbreaking of God Incarnate -- both recalling the baby born to Mary and anticipating the Second Coming of the Messiah.

But what does "being ready" in this context mean?

Anna Carter Florence reflected on this passage while sitting at an outdoor restaurant. She writes:

But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.

If you could learn exactly when and how your life would end, would you want to know?

If you could learn exactly when and how the world would end, would you want to know?

If you could learn exactly who would be taken and who would be left, and why, would you want to know?

[...]

Some of us believe that knowledge—of the when, the how, the who, and the why—will give us power.

No, says Matthew. No. It will not give you power. It will give you heartbreak.

If you could be the one to decide when, and how, and who, and why—would you truly want to be? Would you really want to hold each stranger and loved one and be forced to choose?

I have a friend in Budapest, a Protestant clergyman. Since the fall of Communism, it is now possible for each Hungarian citizen to go to the government and request his or her "file," to read the reports and denunciations it contains. My friend refuses to retrieve his file. "What would I learn?" he says. "That a colleague, perhaps, denounced me? That a friend betrayed me? What would I do with that knowledge? Would it make a difference in how I live? No," he says emphatically; "I do not want that knowledge. I leave it to God." Of that day and hour, no one knows; only God. So keep watch. Keep awake. It seems to me that God has given us the greatest blessing. Ours is only to watch and attend and love. It is not to choose. In God's immense wisdom and compassion, God has spared us that most inscrutable and painful of tasks, and instead, given us a table by the river.

I am really tempted to just drop the mic here -- so I won't judge you if you stop reading now and choose to meditate just on that for the remainder of the week :)

But if and when you're ready, there is more of a blogpost below.

This Matthew text is a favorite of "Left Behind" Rapture enthusiasts, with its dramatic images of people engaged in everyday activities suddenly and without warning magically sundered, its apocalyptic echoes of the Flood at the time of Noah...

As Florence puts it, "Some of us believe that knowledge—of the when, the how, the who, and the why—will give us power." But, she asserts, "It will not give you power. It will give you heartbreak."

"Ours," she says, "is only to watch and attend and love."

Now, this passage doesn't actually speak about love, so this may seem like a non sequitur reading into the text.

But just a couple chapters earlier, Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, who had tried a trick question about the Resurrection, and in the very next lines after that story, we read:

When the Pharisees heard that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, they gathered together, and one of them, a lawyer, asked a question to test Jesus. "Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?"

Jesus said, " 'You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.' ^{[Deuteronomy 6:4-5]} This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: 'You shall love your neighbor as yourself.' ^{[Leviticus 19:18]} On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets."

Matthew 22:34-40 (NRSV, alt.)

So if two chapters later Jesus says that we must be always ready for the coming of the Promised One, and we're not sure what that entails, those Greatest Commandments seem a very good place to start.

William Loader says:

The alternative is to accept that we are sometimes unable to control knowledge and need to trust. The opening saying is a dramatic way of reminding us that the main thing to know about the future is God! One could even argue that that is all we need to know - and then trust and live in openness to the same God here and now.

The passage assumes more than this. It assumes there is 'that day' to come. The 'day of the Lord' has prophetic roots. It is also a way of saying the future is God's. It is God's day! Traditionally it was thought of as a particular point of time in the future when God would intervene in history. Associated with it were hopes of deliverance, vindication, and the obverse: judgement. Amos attacked those who looked to it for their consolation while not addressing their injustices in the present and warned that the day of the Lord would be far from good news for them.

Judgement is a major theme for Matthew and Matthew's tradition. Belief in a particular wind-up of history in this way is more difficult to sustain these days, but it stands firmly in the tradition and it asserts strongly: in the end, God, as in the beginning, God. It also asserts: in the end accountability and justice, a ground for hope; in the end peace among the nations.

The christology comes in strongly as the day is now also the day of Christ. For it is a Jesus-shaped God who is our hope. More than that, it is asserting: in the end: God and Jesus. Elsewhere Jesus spoke of the 'day' as one where he would share a meal again with his disciples. The context is hope and inclusion, a vision of a transformed world. This is a vision which we make our agenda and which feeds us in the eucharist, itself a symbol of the hope of reconciliation for all.

[...]

The watching is a dramatic way of speaking about God-connectedness. It is not very edifying if it is reduced to an exhortation not to misbehave in case you get 'caught with your pants down', as they say, when Jesus comes. It is about developing an awareness of what the God of the future is saying and doing in the present, to take a God perspective on the issues of the day and the future and to let that happen at all levels of our reality, from our personal lives to our international community, including our co-reality in creation. It is a stance nourished by the eucharistic vision of hope. It is taking the eucharistic table into the community, into the present, and letting it watch us and keep us awake to what is happening.

Culturally conditioned as we are, I think it's easy for us to just take Jesus' mention of "the day" as a generic apocalyptic invocation, entailing destruction and judgment but generally hazy and unclear. Loader reminds us that "the day of the Lord" was a long-standing idea in Judaism and so when Jesus talks about "that day," it isn't just a dark mystery but has some very distinct connotations.

And those connotations are not just festive "Christmas cheer." Loader reminds us that, "Amos attacked those who looked to it for their consolation while not addressing their injustices in the present and warned that the day of the Lord would be far from good news for them." And although Loader doesn't say it explicitly, I would remind us that Amos would be raging against many of us -- we in our material comfort built on the suffering of so many.

Mary's Magnificat proclaims that God "has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts, has brought down the powerful from their thrones [...] and sent the rich away empty." (from Luke 1:51-53, NRSV). Eugene Peterson's The Message makes this much more dramatic -- "bluffing braggarts," "tyrants," and "the callous rich" -- but I think such language makes it easy for us to distance ourselves from those Monstrous Evil Others, to avoid any indictment that might be directed at us.

Christ's coming is Good News, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's going to be "good news" for all of us. God is turning the world and its usual way of doing things upside-down and inside-out, and that's going to disrupt and unsettle us.

I like Loader's idea of "developing an awareness of what the God of the future is saying and doing in the present, to take a God perspective on the issues of the day and the future and to let that happen at all levels of our reality, from our personal lives to our international community, including our co-reality in creation."

Some of this will be comforting and some of it will be distressing, but it is the attentiveness we are called to.

Rev. Bost commented on a Hardest Question post:

I think part of the difficulty with the idea of waiting, notwithstanding our general preoccupation with instant gratification, is that is seems so passive. I wonder if our waiting for Messiah is more akin to a parent sitting vigil by the bedside of a child who has only spoken softly recently or has not appeared to have spoken in a very long time. The parent sits there, not passively, but actively, ready to hang on the first word or sign of life. The parent knows that any movement will be enough to sustain them for the next 24 hours.

The image that comes to mind is that of Robert Louis Stevenson who, as a child, was very ill. One night young Robert was staring out his window, when his caregiver came in to check on him. When asked what he was doing, Stevenson said he was watching the man punch holes in the darkness. Of course, what he was seeing was the person in charge of manually lighting the street lamps.

Advent for me is, at least, a revolution of light. We dare not forget that the act of lighting a light in the midst of darkness is a profound gesture of hope. If nothing else, the light helps light up the hidden places of our lives, even if sometimes the nature of our "hidden places" is to attempt to overcome the light. Advent is then, also, an exercise in truth-telling.

How does our live manifest and bear witness to the crucified and risen Christ? Before rushing to the second noel, perhaps we would do well to better appropriate the first. I'm not sure I'm prepared for Jesus 2.0.

Remember the "eucharistic hope" that Loader mentioned? This is the kind of bedside vigil that Bost describes. This is the hope of people who are desperately yearning for a change in Business As Usual, who trust that God can make all things new and who cry out, "How long, O God, how long must we wait?" -- and who are always, achingly, listening for a whisper from the Spirit, searching the horizon for a hint of dawning light, skin prickling for a healing touch.

One of the great Advent hymns, Johannes Olearius' "Comfort, Comfort O My People," [#101 in The New Century Hymnal; YouTube link] draws on Isaiah 40:1-8:

"Comfort, comfort O my people, tell of peace," thus says our God;
Comfort those whose hearts are shrouded, mourning under sorrow's load.
Speak unto Jerusalem of the peace that waits for them;
Tell them that their sins I cover, and their warfare now is over.

This is our Advent hope.

I also really like Bost's suggestion that "Advent is an exercise in truth-telling." We speak truth to power about the present darkness and injustice, and we also proclaim truth about the One who will remake this world with justice and mercy.

Looking through the hymnal this evening, I was reminded that we haven't yet encountered John the Baptist:

And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High;
      for you will go before the Promised One to prepare her ways,
to give knowledge of salvation to God's people
      by the forgiveness of their sins.
By the tender mercy of our God,
      the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
      to guide our feet into the way of peace."

Luke 1:76-79 (NRSV, alt.)

I think it is probably Pastor Tiffany's fault that I always hear this as directed at me, at us.

Bost mentions Advent as a "revolution of light." How can we punch holes in the darkness, make a way where there seems to be no way, build the hoped-for realm of shalom?

John Bowring's hymn "Watcher, Tell Us of the Night" [#103 in The New Century Hymnal; YouTube link] opens: "Watcher, tell us of the night, what its signs of promise are." Can we be deeply attentive to all of Creation around us as Florence suggests? Can we seek the signs of promise in the night?

For whatever it may mean that Matthew's Jesus tells us that some will be taken and some will be left, Danielle Shroyer points out:

The entire Book of Revelation describes Jesus coming to live with us forever, here on Earth. "See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them" (Revelation 21:3).

So how do we build a home for Jesus among us?

I leave you with James Boyce's suggestion:

It will help to observe Matthew's own way of doing this. In the lessons that follow it is as if Matthew imagines in a series of parables unique to his gospel what this watchfulness would look like: a servant who takes faithful care of the master's household (24:45-51); ten maidens, five of whom keep their lamps trimmed (25:1-13); stewards who care responsibly for what is entrusted to them (25:14-30); or ones who "not-knowing" still go about unconsciously caring for those in need (25:31-46).

***

I think a number of these commentators are helpful in framing Advent hope -- as attentiveness and as action that organically grows out of that attentiveness to God and to the world.

What about you, Beloved?

Do you think I or others over-state or under-state the case at times? Have we elided important issues? Are the there other things this text brought up for you? Is any of this helpful to you in your own Advent journey?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments. (As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Reign of Christ] tithing to rejoicing

Each year set aside a tithe of all that you produce from the land. This tithe of your grain, your new wine and your oil, as well as the firstborn of your herds and flocks, you are to eat in the presence of God, at the site that God will choose as a dwelling place for the holy Name, so that you may learn to revere God for all times. But when God blesses you, if the place that is chosen as a dwelling place for God's Name is too far away and the journey is too great for you to carry your tithe there, them you may turn it into money, and bring the money safely to the place that God has chosen. There you may spend the money on cattle, or sheep, or wine, or strong drink, or anything else your soul desires, and there present your offering with joy, both you and your household, in the presence of God.

Deuteronomy 14:22-26 (The Inclusive Bible, alt.)

***

Bring the full tithe into the storehouse, so that there may be food in my house, and thus put me to the test, says the God of hosts; see if I will not open the windows of heaven for you and pour down for you an overflowing blessing.

Malachi 3:10 (NRSV, alt.)

We wrapped up this year's stewardship season with these texts from the Tanakh (the Hebrew Scriptures).

These are such texts of celebration, aren't they?

In her sermon on Sunday, Molly quipped: "get drunk in church, with the offering money?"

In her sermon, Molly put these ideas about feasting in our own context -- we don't order delivery for Coffee Hour and pay with the morning's offering, but it is the gifts (both monetary and non, both edible and non) of those gathered that make it what it is.

I really like this idea that we are called to rejoice and feast in what we are offering to God -- I firmly believe that God loves us and wants us to be happy (though of course God sometimes wants a deep-abiding joy for us, which may not be reached without some struggle, while we're tempted to prefer the easy fleeting happiness).

I don't believe in "prosperity gospel" -- the idea that if God is pleased with you, God will bless you with an abundance of all the worldly things you would like to be blessed with -- but I'm not sure that Malachi is overstating the case (see my previous parenthetical about God's joy versus the world's happiness). Our stewardship verse this year is "where your treasure is, there your heart will be also" (Matthew 6:21), and I think that the reorientation of our heart (or the intensifying of our heart's trajectory) can have a transforming effect on our whole selves. Molly said in her sermon on Sunday that it was easy to see what was in it for her, to see the fruits returned to her on the Coffee Hour table, but that after a time she was fed just by seeing others fed -- and I think this kind of slant on prosperity gospel, to be rewarded by others benefiting from your giving, is perhaps part of God's promise to us in Malachi.

My Inclusive Bible notes on the word "storehouse" in the Malachi: "This was the Temple warehouse, where grain, oil, and wine were stored so that poor people would have a supply of food, which operated rather like our modern food pantries for the homeless." God is clear throughout the Tanakh (and in the New Testament as well) that we are to care for those less fortunate. Frederick Buechner wrote, "The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet" -- we are not called to a condescending giving to "those less fortunate" but rather to fitting our talents and treasures and gifts and passions with the needs of those around us that all may be enriched. Being part of a church community provides us with many opportunities to do this for and with people we know intimately or peripherally (or a little bit of each) -- e.g., providing food for the families of the many new babies that have arrived this year, opening up a space for folks to (learn to) knit together -- and also to connect to the broader community -- e.g., cooking for the homeless once a month.

Of verse 23 of the Deuteronomy ("This tithe ... you are to eat in the presence of God ..."), Etz Hayim: Torah and Commentary says, "How will consuming the tithe in Jerusalem teach us to revere God? [...] Another commentator suggests that we attain a sense of reverence not through an intellectual process but by experiencing God's grace in our lives." We are an embodied people. I'm disinclined to entirely dismiss the intellectual process even as a path to reverence, but it is certainly true that many of the ways we come to know God are in very embodied ways. The act of tithing itself may not be a spiritual experience (though for some it is), but breaking bread together we can move deeper into relationship with friends and strangers, and "to love another person is to see the face of God."

On verse 24's "because the place ... is far from you" (JPS translation), Etz Hayim says: "Malkom [place] is also one of the names of God -- the site of all reality. Thus the verse can mean, 'should the distance seem too great for you because God is far from your heart.' "

I'm intrigued by this idea of it seeming like a great distance between oneself and the place of worship and feasting because God feels far from one's heart. Is this ever true for you, Beloved? Has it ever felt like a struggle to bring yourself and your gifts to this place (or to any place) because it feels like God is not in that place, or because it feels like God is not with you?

Of Malachi's "the windows of heaven," my Interlinear says "crevices-of the heavens," and I enjoy this idea of God opening up the heavens so fully even into the nooks and crannies. Are there ways that giving more fully to a community has opened up God's abundance for you?

Or perhaps there are other things these texts brought up for you.

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments. (As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Pentecost+26] Rooftop People (nothing but net)

One day, while Jesus was teaching, Pharisees and teachers of the law were sitting near by (they had come from every village of Galilee and Judea and from Jerusalem); and the power of God was with Jesus to heal.

Just then some people came, carrying a paralyzed person on a pallet. They were trying to bring this person in to set before Jesus; but finding no way to do so because of the crowd, they went up on the roof and let the person down through the tiles into the middle of the crowd in front of Jesus.

Seeing their faith, Jesus said, "Friend, your sins are forgiven you."

Then the scribes and the Pharisees began to question, "Who is this who is speaking blasphemies? Who can forgive sins but God alone?"

Perceiving their questionings, Jesus answered them, "Why do you raise such questions in your hearts? Which is easier, to say, 'Your sins are forgiven you,' or to say, 'Stand up and walk'? But so that you may know that the Child of Humanity has authority on earth to forgive sins" -- Jesus said to the one who was paralyzed -- "I say to you, stand up and take your bed mat and go to your home."

Immediately the individual stood up before them, took up their mat, and went home, glorifying God. Amazement seized all of them, and they glorified God and were filled with awe, saying, "We have seen strange things today."

Luke 5:17-26 (NRSV, alt.)

For some time, First Church Somerville had a group named from this story -- "Rooftop People," a place where people who work in caregiving professions (broadly defined -- social workers, teachers, massage therapists, etc.) or just do caregiving work in their lives could lay down their burdens in community.

Certainly this story is a familiar one to many -- and the obvious ways to find oneself in this story are as the friends or as the paralyzed person.

Martha Spong writes, "Sometimes I wish someone would do this for me, put me right in the middle of it with Jesus, put me right in front of his face and make it so he will look me in the eye and see me and fix what is wrong with me."

There is a boldness to this story -- the friends taking apart the roof of the house to get their friend to Jesus. (Do any of us identify with the owner of the house -- who may have developed very mixed feelings about letting Jesus in? Is there a message here about how openness and vulnerability can bring us more than we may have expected? I have a pin that says, "If I let Jesus into my heart, then everyone will want in.")

But there's a lot here that's left to the imagination. Were the friends acting largely out of desperation? Whose idea was this whole thing to begin with -- the friends or the individual on the mat?

In her sermon on Sunday, Molly preached on the idea of nets (riffing on Glennon Melton's Momastery blogpost) -- about the grasping and also about the release.

The friends had worked hard -- carrying their friend over who knows how long a distance, then up to the roof of a building, which they then took apart, and then down into the crowded room (did they have rope just lying about? were they worried about the bed hitting anyone on the way down?). We don't know how long this person had been paralyzed, so these friends may have been providing a net for a long time. But we can't do everything, and sometimes we need to let go. And it was after the friends had let go that the individual was healed.

Does this story provide any guidance for helping us balance the grasping and releasing elements of nets?

And what about Jesus' enigmatic opening: "Friend, your sins are forgiven you"? Elsewhere, Jesus is quite clear that God doesn't punish people for sin by sending infirmity upon them. Is there something here about the kinds of things we need to release before we can claim true healing? Jesus has also asked elsewhere, "Do you want to be healed?"

When I Googled "Do you want to be healed?" I was quickly informed that Jesus says this in a story from John 5. A lot of the results were commentaries or sermons on the story, and from one of them Google had pulled this excerpt: And honestly this has to be the most insensitive healing text in the Bible, because Jesus asks him the really harsh question: "do you want to be ... Intrigued, I clicked, and found it was a Nadia Bolz-Weber (Sarcastic Lutheran) sermon.

She writes:

This weekend at the retreat we kept a running list of overheard quotes from each other. [...]

But the one that struck me was when someone said "There's something satisfying about hating someone." To which someone replied "Yeah, there's definitely a pay off."

I can relate to that. When we seriously don't like someone we like to think that we hate them because they are awful horrible no good people – and that might be true. But if I'm totally honest, I have to admit that there also is a payoff to hating someone. Maybe I get to feel like a better person than them, or maybe then I don't then have to look at what I did wrong in our relationship, or maybe I then don't have to look at my own awful, horrible, no-goodness.

[...]

And if we are honest, there are payoffs, not just to hating people, but to so many things in life that hurt us.

I used to read Nadia's blog somewhat regularly (before she moved to Patheos, which doesn't play well with feed readers), and Nadia's church could probably never be my home church, but she speaks to my soul sometimes.

Beloved, what is it that speaks to you in this story?

Are there ways you are being called to offer a net to someone in need (or to ask for one for yourself)?

Are there things you are being called to release? Perhaps things you need to lay down in front of Jesus and let go of for your own healing and wholeness?

Or perhaps there are other things these texts brought up for you.

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments. (As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Pentecost+25] the Resurrected Christ still bearing the wounds of Crucifixion

While they were talking about this, Jesus stood among them and said to them, "Peace be with you."

They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost.

Jesus said to them, "Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have."

And having said this, Jesus showed them the wounded hands and feet.

While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, Jesus said to them, "Have you anything here to eat?"

They gave Jesus a piece of broiled fish, and Jesus took it and ate in their presence.

Luke 24:36-43 (NRSV, alt.)

For this second Sunday in our three-part series on disability and mental illness, Jeff chose to preach on one of the resurrection stories in which Jesus shows off the wounds of crucifixion as proof that, "Yes, it's really me."

We might not think much about this -- so used are we to the similar "doubting Thomas" story from John's Gospel. The talk of touching the wounds is more oblique here, so we might focus instead on the embodied aspect of eating in this story. But this question of whether resurrected bodies will be wounded comes up a lot when we imagine what our own bodies (or those of others) will be like in the resurrection.

Most people's idea of Heaven is that everything will be "better" -- an eternally happy, perfected existence; my best friend and I joke about Heaven where the "clouds never frown" (from the 19th-century hymn "In Heaven Above").

And our ideas of what "better" means are culturally conditioned. It seems obvious to many people, for example, that no one will be in a wheelchair -- that everyone will have two legs which function perfectly well. But what does "functioning perfectly well" mean? I have never trained for a marathon; will I wake up in Heaven with the ability to run a marathon? Will I struggle through that run, or will it be effortless? (I imagine that many runners would assert that feeling the effort exerted in one's body is, up to a point at least, an integral part of the experience.) What will the limits on our Heavenly bodies be? Will we all teleport around the vastness that is Heaven?

In her book Disability and Christian Theology: Embodied Limits and Constructive Possibilities, Deborah Beth Creamer proposes a "limits model" for understanding disability -- humans can't fly without assistance, and we don't frame that as a "disability" (nor do we refer to a passenger airplane as "assistive technology"), nor do we tend to frame a need for eyeglasses/contacts as a "disability" (ditto), but we do frame a need for a wheelchair as a "disability." So we may not expect to fly in Heaven (though maybe some of us do), or even think a lot about whether we'll still need glasses, but many of us may expect that no one will need a wheelchair or a guide dog or hearing aids. (By reminding us that we all have limits, Creamer's limits model points out the problematics of labeling specific points on the continuum of human experiences as inherently negative limits.)

Some would argue that the afterlife will be so radically different from this life that to speculate on these sorts of details is to miss the point -- and I don't necessarily think they're wrong. But I do think that what we imagine "an ideal world" (or "ideal bodies") to be is indicative of our values (and our assumptions) and is thus worth digging in to. What does it say that we imagine that people who in this life use wheelchairs (many of whom have never had use of their legs) will have their bodies radically altered in the afterlife rather than imagining that, for example, everything in Heaven will be accessible to a wheelchair user?

In his sermon, Jeff asked,

What would have happened if the disciples had said, "Show us your hands and your feet!" and there had been no holes there? I mean, it's not so unreasonable to imagine that they might NOT have been there. Going from dead to alive is some serious healing, so why not go from cut and punctured to whole again, as well?

What if Jesus' resurrection had also included a scar-free healing of all the wounds he carried with him in life? What if the disciple Thomas in the Gospel of John, who declared that he would not – that he could not – believe until he was able to touch the open wounds of Jesus had been unable to find any when Jesus invited him to inspect his body?

If Jesus' wounds had been healed up, disappeared, in the Resurrection, would the disciples have been able to believe that it was really Jesus?

Would the disappearing of the wounds diminish the magnitude of the Crucifixion? Is it important that we retain the marks of the experiences that have profoundly shaped us? Or does the work of healing sometimes mean we want to move on from those experiences, leaving all traces of them behind?

Does the wounded resurrected body have implications for what kinds of bodies (do not) need "fixing," or is it just a convenient device to "prove" to the astonished disciples that this really is the Jesus who was crucified?

What do you think, Beloved?

Are there other things this text brought up for you?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments. (As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Pentecost+24] "For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."

For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Matthew 6:21 (NRSV)

On Sunday, Molly reminded us that Jesus' familiar teaching is often misunderstood in reverse -- that we think it means that where our heart is, that's where we'll put our treasure; but that actually what Jesus' statement seems to say is that where we put our treasure, our heart will follow.

Do we believe that?

What do we think constitutes our "treasure"?

As we kick off stewardship season, we tend to think of money, but that certainly isn't the only way we can give to something. And I would argue that for those of us with economic privilege, money is perhaps the easiest thing we can give -- the thing least likely to have a significant impact on directing our hearts.

I didn't tithe this year (I pledged, but not ten percent), and I'm aware that I'm much more financially comfortable this year than I often am as a result -- but I also know from past experience that I can afford to tithe ten percent without hurting financially. Not that I'm saying your tithe is supposed to hurt -- but I can set up an auto-debit and then basically never think about the money I'm giving to the church for the rest of the year, and that doesn't seem a very effective way to direct my heart.

In her sermon on Sunday, Molly suggested that, "Your valuables are a scout, the canary in the coal mine, for your vulnerable heart." For me, what's more effective in that than giving money is giving of my time and investing in relationships. I might not be so sure at the beginning -- I have a lot of things I could be doing with my time, and people can so often be disappointing -- but often I find myself valuing what I've invested in ... and not just due to cognitive biases that lead me to justify investments I've already made, but because over time I come to recognize value in these things that wasn't immediately obvious to me at the beginning.

That said, there's an oft-quoted line: "Every dollar you spend . . . or don't spend . . . is a vote you cast for the world you want." How we spend our money certainly matters -- both because the people and organizations that do work that we value have bills to pay, and also because how we direct our money is connected to how we direct our hearts. The decisions we make are cumulative, and we often identify ourselves based on choices we've made.

If I'm reading my Interlinear correctly, this word translated "treasure" means approximately "placed into tomorrow." Which is a nice segue into stewardship season: What sort of tomorrow are we building?

What about you, Beloved?

Do you think it's true that your heart follows your treasure? What have you found to be the most effective kinds of treasure for effecting that trajectory?

Are there other things this text brought up for you?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments. (As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Pentecost+23] exalted, humbled, prayerful -- and connected?

Jesus also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt:

"Two people went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.

The Pharisee, standing alone, was praying thus: 'God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.'

But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating their breast and saying, 'God, be merciful to me, a sinner!'

I tell you, the tax collector went home justified rather than the Pharisee; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted."

Luke 18:9-14 (NRSV, alt.)

It's difficult for me to hear these familiar stories as if I'd never heard them before. We who have heard these stories over and over know that the Pharisee (or any other religious authority or scholar, or anyone with wealth or power) is the "bad guy" and the tax collector (or anyone else labeled as a sinner or an outcast or on the margins in some way or in any way looked down upon by the mainstream) is the "good guy."

But Andrew Prior (in his 2010 commentary on this text) quotes Craddock:

If the Pharisee is pictured as a villain and the tax collector as a hero, then each gets what he deserves, there is no surprise of grace and the parable is robbed. In Jesus' story, what both receive is "in spite of," not "because of."

Prior says, "The story is not about us. It is about God,and God's scandalous love and forgiveness for us all."

To help us better understand God's scandalous love and forgiveness, I want to dig a bit more into who these two characters are.

Everything the Pharisee says about herself is true -- she goes above and beyond what her religion requires of her. We might liken her to the church member who gives ten percent of her gross income (not just her net) to the church AND pledges to the Capital Campaign -- and buys everything fair-trade/organic from pro-union local businesses...

The tax collector was an agent of the occupying Roman Empire -- she collected money from impoverished people, to fund the occupying forces; and she might well have garnished her own wages by collecting more from these oppressed people than they actually owed. Imagine she works for ICE (U.S. Immigrations and Customs Enforcement). Her job involves tearing apart families -- sending undocumented immigrants back to their countries of origin, while their children who have been born in this country are shunted into an overburdened foster care system.

Now you have in your mind a church member we probably all feel like we "should" strive to be like, and a loathsome government agent. Now hear the story again.

Imagine the church member prays, "God, I give thanks that I'm not like those other people -- those people who make millions by exploiting tax loopholes and exploiting the poor, those people who sexually harass people they're in positions of authority over, those people like that ICE agent over there."

And the ICE agent merely says, "God, have mercy on me a sinner."

And Jesus says, "That ICE agent? She went home right with God. Not that church member. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted."

There's no indication that either of them knows how God responded to their prayer -- the church member likely still thinks she's right with God. She hasn't repented of her self-righteousnes. And the ICE agent hasn't necessarily repented either.

Prior quotes John Petty:

... what about next week? Let's say that the same two guys show up in the temple. The cleanly-attired and clean-minded pharisee reminds God (again) of how devout he is, while, this week, the tax collector shows up (again) with his whisky-breath and a blonde on each arm, and intones the same "I'm a jerk/let me off the hook anyway" prayer.

Guess what? The pharisee would (again) not be justified, and the tax collector (again) would. Week after that, same thing. Week after that, same thing. How heartwarming is this story now?

You were thinking that this story is fine as a start, but, in the future, we expect some amendment of behavior on the part of the tax collector. In other words, while the pharisee is clearly going overboard, we want the tax collector to start acting like one anyway.

Some commentators wonder exactly where the tax collector repented. Fact is, he didn't, and it wouldn't have mattered a bit even if he did. The story is not about our righteousness after all, not about our piddly attempts at self-improvement, not about our crying our eyes out or feeling suitably bad about ourselves.

Quite the contrary. Our situation is always hopeless.

I want to be very careful here, because I think the "we're all sinners who are only redeemed by the grace of God" can often be really Bad News. But I do think it's important to note that we can never, under our own power, be perfect. We are limited, fallible human beings; and we are deeply embedded in broken systems. Even the apostle Paul (who was arguably given to self-righteousness at times) confessed, "I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate" (Romans 7:15 and elsewhere).

Commenting on the passage this year, Prior gives an example of a prominent politician who vaunts his Christian faith but who seems very un-Christ-like in many of his policies and attitudes. It's easy to condemn that politician, to accuse him of hypocrisy. But Prior says:

I am writing to you on a computer, wearing cheap jeans, enjoying the luxury of a country built upon exploitation. [...]

We are all compromised. We do not have a prayer. Each week we— I— come back to church with whiskey breath and a laptop in my arms. This is before I fail my parishioners, or am short with my family, or parsimonious with my offering.

In that same commentary, Prior reminds us:

Teresa Lockhart Stricklen says, "Self justification has no need of God." In fact, it sets itself as God! When we disparage others whom God loves; we say we have no need of God. The "piety which despises other human beings," becomes idolatry. We "exalt ourselves." (Luke 18:14)

Bruce Maples talks about "passive contempt" -- perhaps we wouldn't be as vocal as the Pharisee in this story, but how often do we treat other people as only means to our own ends or ignore them altogether? Maples quotes Elie Wiesel -- "The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference." -- and asserts that Jesus wasn't indifferent to anyone but really and truly recognized every single person, and treated them as special and beloved of God. And we, of course, are called to do the same.

As I mentioned in my email, one of the things that really interests me about this story is the different models of prayer.

One of the things this story tells me is that prayer is a positive model of prayer is offering one's truth up before God. I wonder if being able to be more honest about who we are (flaws and all) better enables to encounter the totality of each other. And accepting God's love and forgiveness of us can help us extend that same grace to others.

***

What about you, Beloved?

What did this text bring up for you?

In keeping with Molly's Year of Radical Curiosity, Jeff wondered about the ways in which the Pharisee and the tax collector were both standing alone/apart (despite the crowds filling the Temple) and about whether they could bridge the gap between them by reaching out and getting to know each other.

Do any of these ways in to the story help it feel more real and relevant to you?

Are there things that still trouble you about this story?

(As always, you're invited to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Pentecost+22] "Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed..."

Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is--God's good, pleasing and perfect will.

Romans 12:2 (NRSV)

[I've gotta say, I prefer the alternate translation, "what is the good and acceptable and perfect will of God" -- it just flows better.]

One of the people at Tuesday night Bible study commented that there are so many ways to conform to the world -- but what does being transformed mean?

In the next few verses (3-5), Paul elaborates:

For by the grace given to me I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think, but to think with sober judgment, each according to the measure of faith that God has assigned. For as in one body we have many members, and not all the members have the same function, so we, who are many, are one body in Christ, and individually we are members one of another.

My paraphrase of that is that we are called to use the gifts we are given, not to build ourselves up but to do the work that we're called to do -- and that we're called to do this work together.

I think community is really big for Paul, and William Loader agrees with me, saying:

Paul never saw being a Christian as a life membership on a roll somewhere. It was always entry into a relationship and growth in that relationship. Paul is always thinking about what shapes people's lives. It is another way of speaking of one's god. In his day - and certainly in ours - there are many people who count themselves as Christian, but are shaped by the prevailing values of those around them in a way that undoes anything that Christ might have wanted in their lives.

What is it that shapes your life, Beloved?

Are there ways you yearn to fall deeper into this community of love and service, to be shaped by relationships and values at work in this community?

At Bible study this week we had a couple newbies -- people who'd seen on the website that we had Bible study but had never worshiped at our church before. And I confess that I made assumptions about how conservative they might be, and further, that because of those assumptions I was hesitant to talk about Drag Gospel. The hesitation didn't seem to occur to anyone, and they spoke naturally about Sunday's service, which for me is a model of authenticity, of living out the reality of that which we profess.

On Sunday, Molly said:

God asks us in the letter to the Romans, to be transformed. God pleads with us not to be conformed to the world, but to be transformed by the renewing of our minds. Now the word Paul uses for "renewing" is not neo, like neologism or neoconservative, the putting on of a new label or face. Paul says we are to be metamorphousthei, metamorphosed into kainos, something whose character has been utterly changed.

I looked up that "transformation" ("metamorphosis") word in my Interlinear Bible, and interestingly it only shows up only a few times in Scripture.

It shows up in the Transfiguration story (Matthew 17:2 and Mark 9:2, specifically), which gives me an entirely new way of imaging that story -- I'm used to thinking of Jesus as just made kinda glowy, but this idea of Jesus as really transformed is intriguing to me.

The one other time it shows up is also from Paul, in 2 Corinthians 3:18 -- "And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of God as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from God, the Spirit." (This perhaps helps with thinking about what it means that Jesus was "transfigured.")

Someone brought up the idea that using the gerund form of "renewing" in Sunday's text implies that it's not something that happens just one time but is a continuous process. John Wesley talks about journeying on toward Christian perfection, and certainly we know from our own experience that there is never a time when we have "arrived," when we can rest on our laurels knowing we don't have any more internal work or growth we need to do.

Are there ways this community can support you (perhaps spur you) on this journey?

Are there ways that you feel God's call on your heart, calling you to be transformed in some way, calling you out of the places the world is pressing on your soul and into more fulness of life?

I invite you to continue the conversation in the comments on this post (as always, you're invited to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer), or in conversation with others perhaps during Coffee Hour, or in the silence of your heart (or a little bit of each, or some way else altogether).

As a final meditation, I leave you with further words from Paul, as he continues on this theme:

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 God. 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 God." 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.

(Romans 12:9-22)

[Pentecost+21] "Were none of them found to return and give thanks except this foreigner?"

On the journey to Jerusalem, Jesus passed along the borders of Samaria and Galilee. Upon entering a village, Jesus was approached by ten people with leprosy. Keeping their distance, they raised their voices and said, "Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!"

Seeing them, Jesus responded, "Go and show yourselves to the priests."

As they were going, they were cleansed. One of them, perceiving the healing, returned, praising God in a loud voice, then fell down at Jesus' feet and gave thanks to Jesus. The individual was a Samaritan.

Jesus replied, "Weren't all ten cleansed? Where are the other nine? Were none of them found to return and give thanks except this foreigner?" Then Jesus said to the Samaritan, "Stand up and go your way; your faith has saved you."

Luke 17:11-19 (The Inclusive Bible, alt.)

The tenth individual was already cleansed of leprosy along with the other nine, so what "faith" "saved" this individual?

The word "faith" is just the standard Greek pistis.

"Saved" is the Greek sozo, which my Interlinear Bible says means, "to save, i.e. deliver or protect (literally or figuratively)" and in the KJV is variously translated "heal, preserve, save (self), do well, be (make) whole."

Elsewhere in Luke's Gospel, Jesus says this same thing ("your faith has saved you") to:

• the "sinful" woman who anointed Jesus at the house of a Pharisee (7:50 in 7:36-50)
• the woman who had suffered from a flow of blood for twelve years who touched the hem of Jesus' garment (8:48 in 8:42b-48)
• the blind beggar near Jericho who called out to Jesus despite being shushed (18:42 in 18:35-43)

In those three instances, there's a common thread of an active boldness, so one might suggest that that is what is what is being called out and praised.

The individual in this story, though, isn't any bolder than the other nine -- except in returning to Jesus.

The word "thanks" is euchariste -- as in, Eucharist. The commemoration of the "Last Supper" wasn't necessarily known by that name at the time that this story was written down, but those telling the story would hear that word every time they did so, every time they recalled that Jesus took bread, gave thanks, broke it, and shared it with those gathered.

At Bible study on Tuesday, someone suggested that the use of that word for "gave thanks" here suggested an outpouring (like the outpouring of the Cup and all that that symbolizes). In this context, perhaps, an idea of being so overcome by emotion, so in the moment, that you don't censor yourself -- that you're able to be fully present, fully experiencing and expressing, in the moment. I think "euchariste" is a fairly standard word for "thanks," but I'm intrigued by this interpretation.

Pastors Robb McCoy and Eric Fistler, in their worship notes for this Sunday, say:

More than just saying “thank you,” this is an outpouring of worship that shows us the Samaritan is the only one that gets the full benefit of Jesus’ healing. The others are healed, yes. This is the one that is redeemed.

“The passage confronts us with more than a push for common courtesy of saying our thank-yous. It gives us an outsider whose unrestrained and spontaneous appreciation dramatizes the essence of faith and who disrupts an otherwise easy perception that we know who the real insiders are.” (Charles Cousar, Texts for Preaching, Year C)

This idea of disrupting expected ideas of who is "inside," who is preferred, who is specially blessed, is something we'll return to.

First, I want to be clear that this thanksgiving, this gratitude, is not a condition of this salvation.

Brian P. Stoffregen's Exegetical Notes on this passage remind us:

In contrast to a common understanding that "If you just had enough faith, God would heal you," we have this story where faith is not mentioned before the healings, but comes afterwards. Did the other nine, who are not told, "Your faith has saved/healed you," suddenly have their leprosy return?

[...]

Green (The Gospel of Luke) writes about the declaration, "Your faith has saved you":

Here, something more than healing must be intended, since (1) the efficacy of faith is mentioned and (2) all ten lepers experienced cleansing. The Samaritan was not only cleansed, but on account of faith gained something more -- namely, insight into Jesus' role in the inbreaking kingdom. He is enabled to see and is thus enlightened, itself a metaphor for redemption. [p. 627]

[...]

I think that our text relates the typical pattern of God's activities throughout scriptures -- namely, God acts first. Then our proper response to God's actions is praise and thanksgiving -- to see God's hand in what has happened.

God did not tell the Israelites in Egypt, "If you only had enough faith, I would lead you to the promised land." God led them out of slavery to Canaan.

God did not tell us, "If you only had enough faith, I would send Jesus to suffer and die for your sins." It was because we had no faith that he sent us Jesus. As Paul writes in Romans 5:8: "God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us."

God doesn't wait for us to have enough faith. God acts first. God's actions are to lead to a faithful response.

Stoffregen notes that the literal meaning of "orthodoxy" is "correct praise" (the "doxology" in a worship service is a hymn of praise), and I wonder about the idea of directing our praise correctly. Not that we need to thank God instead of the medical professionals for healing, but I know I for one have a tendency to overstate the degree to which I'm responsible for my own good fortune.

Certainly those of us in positions of privilege often fail to acknowledge the many ways in which we've been handed good fortune through no effort or "merit" of our own.

Stoffregen says:

A friend of mine, after returning from a trip to Africa, said that he had become much more thankful for many things we often take for granted in America: flush toilets, running water, drinkable water, gasoline stations, paved roads. Should we thank God that we have such good things in our lives?

The rest of the world may be like the nine lepers. They have been graced by God in many ways, but they don't recognize the source of such blessings. They don't offer the proper thanks and praise through Jesus.

My family did two month-long camping trips when I was an adolescent, and I still remember how emphatically grateful I was for running water, a bed with a mattress, a bedroom door of my own to shut, etc., when we got home.

What most brought home for me how gratitude can be a blessing on top of an already positive situation was David Lose on Working Preacher saying:

Have you ever noticed just how powerful it is not only to receive blessing but also to name it and give thanks for it? Maybe you’re at dinner with family or friends, and it’s one of those meals, prepared with love and served and eaten deliberately, where time just stops for a little while and you’re all caught up and bound together by this nearly unfathomable sense of community and joy. And then you lean over to another, or maybe raise your glass in a toast, and say, “This is great. This time, this meal, you all. Thank you.” And in seeing and giving thanks, the original blessing is somehow multiplied. You’ve been blessed a second time.

Meda Stamper on Working Preacher writes:

The Samaritan’s thanksgiving and prostration at Jesus’ feet; his recognition that God is at work when Jesus notices and heals hurts and brokenness that are not noticed by others; his understanding that to thank Jesus is to glorify God: this is the manifestation of faith that makes well, as the NRSV puts it here. And this seems to come easiest to the people who have received most from Jesus, the ones who are otherwise ignored, scorned, untouched. As Jesus observes in the case of the anointing woman (7:47), the one who has been given much also loves greatly. Love that springs from gratitude is the essence of faith.

[...]

There is no doubt something to be understood here about the people who live on the margins of our communities, who are treated as invisible or unlovely because of how they look or who they are or where they come from. Jesus clearly notices and loves them and calls us to do the same.

But we might also consider the parts of us that are hidden in the borderlands of ourselves where we may least want to be seen and most need to be touched. Jesus, who is not afraid of borderlands, does not mind meeting us in those places, and it may be that by recognizing him there, we will find in our deepest selves a new outpouring of the grateful love that makes well.

I want to call out that last bit: the parts of us that are hidden in the borderlands of ourselves where we may least want to be seen and most need to be touched.

We talk a lot in this congregation about extending our ministry outside the walls of this church -- partnering with other organizations. But what about ministry within this community? On Sunday, Molly talked about turning church-friends into friend-friends. Are there ways that we can make ourselves vulnerable, to cry out to those around us, "Have mercy!"? Are there ways we can make this space feel like a safe one for people to reveal those leper piece of themselves? (Not that we don't do that already, but are there ways we can continue that work?)

Mark Davis (whose blog I really appreciate for digging into language/translation) says, "Showing oneself to the priest was an essential step in being welcomed/permitted back into the community by being declared no longer unclean. Perhaps within the language of this pericope, the priestly declaration is where the 'cure' (ἰάομαι) takes place."

While commentaries concur about the role of the priest, I'm uncomfortable with the implication that they all showed themselves to the priests and got their "clean of leprosy" certification -- because I think the point brought up by many commentaries that the Samaritan would not necessarily have been received by the Temple authorities is an important one.

Stoffregen also notes:

Another addition to this image is the fact that Jesus calls the Samaritan a foreigner (allogenes) in v. 18. Although this is the only occurrence in the NT of this Greek word, it was used in an inscription in the temple in Jerusalem: "no foreigner is to enter." The same word was used in the Septuagint in laws that forbade outsiders from coming near the tabernacle -- with a penalty of death for those who did (Numbers 1:51; 3:10, 38; 16:40; 18:4, 7; Ezekiel 44:7, 9). However, Isaiah welcomes foreigners (53:3, 6). This man who would not have been allowed in the inner areas of the Jerusalem Temple, is welcomed to worship at Jesus' feet.

I am really uncomfortable with basically any commentary that criticizes the institutional Judaism of Jesus' time because it's so easy to slide from there to asserting that Jesus (and the institution that grew up around Jesus) is better than all Judaism -- but it's true that there were deep divides between Jews and Samaritans, and Jesus works to bring about Isaiah's vision of welcoming the Gentiles into the kindom of God.

Luke tells us that Jesus saw the lepers. Unlike in some of the healing stories, Jesus doesn't physically touch them at all to heal them. This is healing at a distance -- both physically and temporally; the people aren't healed until they're on their way to the priests.

I wonder if they went to the priests because they had faith that something good would happen, or if they were just sort of going through the motions, thinking, "Well that Jesus sure wasn't all he was cracked up to be -- maybe we'll find somewhere else to beg along the way."

I'm hard-pressed to come up with a contemporary equivalent to leprosy -- yes, it still exists, but in our First World lives it's rather distant.

And then I read something Barbara Sholis wrote in The Christian Century almost a decade ago:

When chemotherapy causes your hair to fall out, robs you of your energy and fills your mouth with canker sores, you begin to develop empathy with the ten lepers. There is no hiding the fact that you are diseased. Your cancer walks into the room before you do and people who know better still flinch -- as they did before lepers, who were made to live outside the community, who had to beg for survival.

Many of us remember when Molly was going through chemotherapy treatment for her cancer. Often, we couldn't touch her lest we risk her health.

A friend of mine has chronic pain, and when I worshiped with her, I (and the rest of the small community) learned to hug her very gently during the Passing of the Peace. There are those who due to past trauma or other reasons do not want a full-contact Passing of the Peace and may not want physical touch (even a gentle handshake) at all.

I wonder if there's a way in which Jesus not touching the lepers was a gift to them.

This certainly seems a kinder reading than one comment I read while prepping for Bible study -- "Perhaps, he just doesn’t have time for this kind of distraction. Jesus is on a purposeful journey – Luke’s story. His ability to heal is no longer a question in most people’s minds. His objective, Jerusalem and the cross, are very close."

I'm sure that my theology of the import or purpose of the Cross differs greatly from that of this commentor, but I don't think I'm unorthodox in insisting that Jesus cared about individuals, had a particular mission to those on the margins. Earlier in Luke, Jesus asserted that God knows the very hairs on our head (Luke 12:7; also Matthew 10:30). And even earlier in Luke (4:18), Jesus proclaims that Isaiah's prophecy has been fulfilled in Jesus:

The Spirit of our God is upon me,
    because God has anointed me
      to bring good news to the poor.
God has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
    and recovery of sight to the blind,
      to let the oppressed go free

GoodPreacher.com posted an excerpt of a piece by Prince Raney Rivers (or possibly David Howell -- I'm a little confused) that says:

The Gospel is for those who are crying out.

[...]

Jesus sees the lepers and tells them, "Go show yourselves to the priests." As they go, they are cleansed. Whenever Jesus sees someone, everything changes. When Jesus sees a person, they move to the center stage of God’s redemptive drama. When Jesus sees a person, she or he becomes the primary beneficiary of the Father’s love. We are never so isolated that God cannot see us. We are never so hopeless that God does not want to see us. You may want to remind people of this good news.

We are never so isolated that God cannot see us. We are never so hopeless that God does not want to see us.

Picking up on the movement of those cleansed to the priests for certification (so they can begin their reintegration into society), Nancy Rockwell says:

But joy will always elude them, for they only believe their healing when others believe it, they seek its confirmation from others, and so they will be forever subject to the joy-snatching comments Anne Lamott calls ‘drive-by shootings of the mouth’: Hey, aren’t you the guy who had leprosy?

They’ll be held at arms’ length by some, maybe even by some in the family. Recovering alcoholics, clean addicts, ex-cons, the disabled, all know about this kind of life. You can go home, but belonging at home is something else, when in someone else’s opinion you are still unclean, still unacceptable. And that seems to be where Jesus brought wellness in. Giving thanks is the beginning, because thanks is an act of accepting yourself as the be-gifted, the be-loved.

[...]

The one healed leper who could never belong in Israel because of being foreign, knew this. He understood that his home was now with the man who understood his misery in grace, who heard his prayer. The unkindness of the world cannot touch him, for he is not seeking a return to life before leprosy. He is walking forward into the unknown world of wellness, where what is foreign is no longer of importance, nor is what has been unclean, nor are there distinctions between the spirits of the living and the dead.

Are there ways that we have found healing from God?

What new life is God calling you into?

One piece of the story I really hadn't noticed until some of the commentaries noted it was that Jesus doesn't just say, "your faith has saved you," but also says, "Stand up, and go your way."

Alyce M. McKenzie on Patheos comments that:

[Jesus] is not interested in having people hang around and thank him. Often, when he heals people, he doesn't say "Stick around and thank me." He says, "Go your way, your faith has made you well." I am reminded of the college president faced with a large graduating class. As each person came across the stage, he handed them their diploma, while shaking their hand and said, "Congratulations ...and keep moving." It was a stage direction to keep the ceremony moving, but it was also good life advice. Jesus says to those he heals, "Congratulations and keep moving. Don't stick around thanking me."

Robert Cornwall says:

One of the ten, a Samaritan, upon recognizing that he is now clean, doesn’t continue on his way to the priests. He returns to Jesus, prostrates himself before Jesus and praises God with a loud voice. Jesus points to this act of faith and commends the man, for alone among the ten he had recognized the source of his healing. But, I wonder if there’s not another reason. This Samaritan could have gone to the priests, but would they have received him – for he was a stranger. Perhaps the Samaritan recognized in Jesus a person who would welcome him though he was a Samaritan. This isn’t to condemn the Jewish people or its priests, but simply to point out that being the stranger can be difficult. Recognizing the source of his healing to be found in Jesus, he returned to that source, and offered words of praise.

Jesus commends the man, and points out that it is a foreigner who recognizes the work of God in Jesus. Luke tells this story in part to draw contrasts between those who should have been at the forefront of recognizing presence in Jesus, and those who actually did. Whether they recognized it or not all had been liberated from the borders that had kept them separated – whether by disease of ethnicity – from the whole people of God. De La Torre writes that the Samaritan is the one who truly recognized his liberation – liberation from marginalization.

He was no longer forced to live in the borderlands. In this passage we discover a Jesus who saves all living on the borders between what is defined as clean and unclean, between native and foreign. [Preaching God’s Transforming Justice, p. 424].

As I read this passage I hear in it not just the story of healing a body. I hear in it an invitation to allow Jesus to transcend our borders, to liberate us from our cells, so that we can enjoy the fullness of God’s realm. For many of us, it’s difficult to imagine this border situation, but in what way does Jesus liberate all of us from living beyond the borders of separation? How might we participate in God’s work of healing rifts within the world community? What does Jesus have to say to us about this matter?

These seem as good questions as any with which to close:

• in what way does Jesus liberate all of us from living beyond the borders of separation?
• How might we participate in God’s work of healing rifts within the world community?

On Sunday, Molly inaugurated A Year of Radical Curiosity (and Gratitude), largely in response to the fact that First Church Somerville is growing and it can be difficult to retain some of what we really valued about being a small(er) more intimate community in that growth. When there were fewer people, everyone did all the work and everyone knew each other -- because we didn't have a choice. Perhaps not unlike the ten lepers, who banded together because they had no choice. And perhaps those lepers sometimes felt lonely even in that constant group of people. Can we find ways to grow more deeply in relationship with each other, to lay open our vulnerabilities and make space for healing, to ask for aid from those around us, to become radically curious about the particular situations of those around us?

(As always, you're invited to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)