[Lent 2] righteous rebuke

Jesus said to the disciples, "Occasions for stumbling are bound to come, but woe to anyone by whom they come! It would be better for you if a millstone were hung around your neck and you were thrown into the sea than for you to cause one of these little ones to stumble. Be on your guard! If another disciple sins, you must rebuke the offender, and if there is repentance, you must forgive. And if the same person sins against you seven times a day, and turns back to you seven times and says, 'I repent,' you must forgive."

Luke 17:1-4 (NRSV, alt.)

Jeff opened his sermon with talking about how we as progressives are on board with the idea of of forgiveness (even if we're bad at practicing it) but are uncomfortable with judgment and rebuke.

My immediate reaction was "What you say 'we'?" (Stranger Ways' "I'm Judging You" was my house theme song) but honestly I am highly confrontation-averse, so Jeff's point wasn't inapplicable to me.

And in having conversations with other people about this sermon, I have been reminded that we're often very comfortable with judgment of people we deem Other -- people we believe to be doing damage through the actions they take based on their beliefs about abortion, sexuality, gun control, gender norms, climate change, health insurance, social safety nets, etc. -- but rebuking people we're actually in relationship with? That's difficult, and most of us avoid it.

Jeff said:

if we are here to build the Beloved Community together, then skipping the hard labor of rebuking sin around racism will sidestep the true intimacy of our relationships to one another. If we don't rebuke, but only rush on by to a "get-along" forgiveness and an easy peace, then that is likely to be the thing which truly messes up our ability to be a church to one another and a church for our future.

The passage Jeff preached on opens with Jesus noting that occasions for stumbling are sure to come but woe to us if we cause others to stumble. We probably think that failing to warn someone about a stumbling block that we recognize in their path isn't as bad as actually putting a stumbling block in front of them (it's a known cognitive bias), but I'm not sure that Jesus would agree with us. Jesus says, "Be on your guard! If another disciple sins, you must rebuke the offender."

Jesus calls us to a new Way of being in the world, and it's hard. And if we believe that this is the (or at least "a") Way to new life, then why would we abide by a policy of non-interference if someone were about to fall?

But, of course, we know that following Jesus takes different forms for different people and back to Jeff's opening point, we don't want to start judging people just because their path takes a different form from ours.

But in this passage, Jesus doesn't say "falling away" or anything else that would suggest that leaving someone else's pre-determined narrow path is the problem. Jesus says "stumble." If you stumble, the problem is that you fall down and hurt yourself.

We are called to be the Body of Christ, and that means protecting each other the way we would protect ourselves, because we are all part of the same Body.

We have a responsibility to uphold each other, and also to call each other out.

Jeff said:

When I was hired on staff at ROC-NY in 2009 I was the only white person out of a least 15 positions in the organization and the only white person who had ever been hired since the organization began paying people in 2002. I had some friends on staff who were nervous about me working there because they knew bringing a white person on staff was going to mean that race was going to become more of an issue in the office. And they liked me and they didn't relish the day they were going to have to rebuke me. And I didn't ever want to do or fail to do something that would hurt one of my friends – and I especially more than anything didn't want that something to be around the issue of race. But it did happen and as a staff and as friends we had to learn to talk to one another about it. We had to create an atmosphere of honesty where it was safe to make mistakes, where it was safe to share rebukes around issues of race and racism, and where it was safe to then repent and make true forgiveness together.

I think Jeff's point about places needing to be safe both to make mistakes and to share rebukes is important -- Jesus exhorts us to rebuke sinners but also to forgive, even if someone sins against you seven times in one day. We are all going to mess up, and acknowledging that and owning up to it and asking for forgiveness and trying to change for the better are all important and necessary things that need to happen after we mess up, and we aren't able to do all those things if we're afraid that if someone knows about our stumbles they're going to shun us or kick us out.

People need to understand what behavior is and is not considered acceptable, and we don't build a healthy community by either under- or over-reacting to violations.

Molly recently Shared a blogpost entitled "What Needs to Die in the Church" and highlighted #10 on its list:

10. Nice-ing ourselves to death. We are called to love, to be kind, to be honest. Jesus was not nice (and I'm working on that book, so keep your pants on) and we do not covenant to be "nice" to each other as Christians. Nice will not tell you your drinking has become problematic, your anger is an issue, your boundaries are invasive, and your pants are indeed too tight. Love finds a way to do all these things with dignity.

I don't think anybody has any business telling someone else their clothes are too tight, but yes, behaviors that harm yourself or others are stumbling blocks that we are called to warn each other against.

Sue D. commented:

Interesting. Makes me wonder - how is nice different than kind? I feel like kindness can tell you nicely that your pants are to tight? But niceness has trouble speaking kind truths?

I still remind myself daily of mother Teresa's words " the world is lost for want of sweetness and kindness" maybe it's that Kindness acknowledges and takes care of needs and niceness tends to ignore and chat about the weather?

I really appreciate Sue's framing of "acknowledging and taking care of needs." We are not called to rebuke people so that they will feel terrible (tempting though that can be when their behavior led to us feeling terrible) but instead we are called to be on guard against others stumbling, to be attentive to the needs of others (and ourselves) and to take action accordingly -- not to do everything but to do what we can.

***

What about you, Beloved? What does this passage bring up for you?

Do you want to dig deeper into what a rebuke with dignity entails? Do you wish I'd dug more into what forgiveness entails? Or maybe something else altogether that I didn't touch on.

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments -- responding to any of the questions I've asked or raising questions of your own, or simply sharing some thoughts.

As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.

[Lent 1] becoming vulnerable, like children

At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, "Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?"

Jesus called a child, and putting the child among them said, "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me."

Matthew 18:1-5 (NRSV, alt.)

This was the Sunday that folks who had gone to the Casa Hogar San José in Colima, México (an orphanage with which this congregation has a close relationship) inaugurated our Lenten theme: A People for Others.

On Jesus' telling the disciples that they need to be like children, Jamie T. deadpanned: "As we all know, children are humble, innocent, and pure." This has always been my problem with this passage -- it seems premised on a false conception of children, the kind of thing that no one who has known a child for more than five minutes would say.

Jamie reminded us that it is also true that children "have no power -- children are weak, defenseless."

Do we think this is what Jesus is calling us to be?

Discussing salt and light, I quoted Nadia Bolz-Weber at length about how surely Jesus wasn't telling a gathered crowd of broken and marginalized people to be meeker.

However, it wasn't these people who were asking Jesus this question about who would be the greatest in the kingdom of heaven -- it was people who considered themselves part of Jesus' inner circle.

Perhaps Jesus was reminding them (for the umpteenth time) that God's ideas of greatness are not our ideas (see also: Paul's famous assertion in 1 Corinthians that "God's foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God's weakness is stronger than human strength").

Nadia asserts that, "It is exactly at our points of weakness, of pain, of brokenness, of insufficiency that force us, like those who originally followed Jesus, to stand in the need of God."

If we, all of us, in community, are called to become vulnerable like children, then we also have an obligation to treat each other carefully -- as we would vulnerable children. (After all, Jesus said, "Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me" -- echoes of the parable later in Matthew about the sheep and the goats.)

To me, this is a much more powerful statement about how to embody the kin-dom of God than banalities about how children are inherently humble, etc.

To trust each other with our vulnerabilities and to honor the vulnerabilities of others...

Our Lenten theme this year is "A People for Others."

Sarah G. confessed that she had shown up at the Casa to be a people for orphans, and that the complexities of the realities she encountered at the Casa often made it difficult for her. But she was able to let go of her expectations and adjust to the reality she found -- aided by the other Mission Trippers as well as the children and staff of the Casa -- and was able to be a person for others, even if the others weren't quite what she had expected -- and also allowed those others to be people for her.

Perhaps one way we can honor each other's vulnerabilities (and help create a space that is safer for each of us to be vulnerable in) is to let go of some of our preconceptions, to let people tell us who they are (rather than expecting that we already know based on certain identity cues) and what they need from us (perhaps asking them what we can do for them, but not presuming that we know what they need or what's best for them).

Children certainly have plenty of preconceptions, but a framing that makes Jesus' advice to "be like children" more salvageable for me than child-like "humility" is the idea of radical curiosity. Children are so very curious about everything -- from tiny babies who put everything they can get their hands on into their mouths, to older children who haven't yet learned that there are questions one isn't supposed to ask (or at least contexts in which one isn't supposed to ask those questions).

To approach each person we meet as a bright, brilliant, beloved child of God (no pun intended) -- as a face of Jesus... To be curious about their story, rather than assuming we know (and perhaps don't want to hear) it... Back in October, Molly inaugurated a Year of Radical Curiosity, and I think it's difficult for us to really, helpfully, be a People for Others without some real curiosity about those others.

***

What about you, Beloved? What does this passage bring up for you?

Are there children you have known who have modeled for you ways to let go of some of what separates you from God (or from other people -- which is often much the same thing)?

Or perhaps none of what I've offered in this blogpost quite resonates for you and you still struggle with this strange teaching from Jesus (honestly, I'm not entirely sold on it myself).

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments -- responding to any of the questions I've asked or raising questions of your own, or simply sharing some thoughts.

As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.

[Transfiguration] "Redemption everywhere I look"

Six days later, Jesus took Peter and the siblings James and John and led them up a high mountain, by themselves.

And Jesus was transfigured before them -- face shining like the sun, and clothes becoming dazzling white.

Suddenly there appeared to them Moses and Elijah, talking with Jesus. Then Peter said to Jesus, "Lord, it is good for us to be here; if you wish, I will make three dwellings here, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah."

While Peter was still speaking, suddenly a bright cloud overshadowed them, and from the cloud a voice said, "This is my Child, the Beloved; with whom I am well pleased; listen this one!"

When the disciples heard this, they fell to the ground and were overcome by fear. But Jesus came and touched them, saying, "Get up and do not be afraid." And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus alone.

As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus ordered them, "Tell no one about the vision until after the Child of Humanity has been raised from the dead."

Matthew 17:1-9 (NRSV, alt)

The Transfiguration is a neat story of glitter and darkness, of the future meeting the past, of the disciples Still Not Getting It, and of an echo of Jesus' baptism.

But I don't actually know what to do with this story. The main takeaway seems to be about not trying to capture transcendent experiences, to not try to live in them at the expense of the "down the mountain" work that still needs doing. As someone who will identify as "the least spiritual religious person you're likely to meet," this isn't a big temptation for me.

I think of the similarly [unreal] opening of the Revelation to John on Patmos:

Then I turned to see whose voice it was that spoke to me, and on turning I saw seven golden lampstands, and in the midst of the lampstands I saw one like the Child of Humanity, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash across zir chest. Zir head and hair were white as white wool, white as snow; zir eyes were like a flame of fire, zir feet were like burnished bronze, refined as in a furnace, and zir voice was like the sound of many waters. In zir right hand ze held seven stars, and from zir mouth came a sharp, two-edged sword, and zir face was like the sun shining with full force.

Revelation 1:12-16 (NRSV, alt.)

Though maybe the Transfigured Jesus didn't look quite like that, as I'm not sure that anyone would have been yearning to stick around on that mountaintop if that's what Jesus looked like -- all glowy metal.

Molly said, "Jesus bedazzles. Jesus was a brown man, but all of a sudden, there before Peter and James and John, he reflects light like some of the white folks in here whose faces haven't seen the sun for 6 months. The disciples are nearly blinded." My mother is nigh transparently pale, and I don't ever think of her as blindingly white. So that image doesn't really work for me either.

In trying to imagine what this Transfiguration looked like, what I came up with is that Jesus Transfigured is soaking in the light of the Divine -- like Moses glowing so much that he had to wear a veil.

I like to imagine this looks something like those wedding photos where people are so so joyful and the sun is streaming such that they seem to be glowing.

Blogging about Transfiguration this year, Delmer Chilton talked about ordinary things being made holy.

How are the bread and wine of the Eucharist, for example, made holy he asks? He says it's not the pastor -- pastors don't have magic powers that way. He says:

It's us, us and God, together — God promising and acting and our believing and celebrating, which reveals the holy within the ordinary.

That's what happened to Jesus up on that mountain. Jesus was fully human, a man like every other man; smarter, holier than most perhaps, but still very much a fully human person. Even though the disciples called him Rabbi, Christ even, they still saw him as a man. And then this thing happened. And then they knew — Peter, James and John knew that here was the divine, the holy, in human form.

And we too are ordinary people, doing ordinary things. We too, as a church, as a community of faith, as the body of Christ in the world, we too carry in, with and under our human-ness, the brightness of the holy-ness of God. We don't have to go looking for it; we don't have to struggle after extraordinary spiritual experiences. God is here with us in all that we do.

Our calling is to pay attention — to listen, look, feel and know that God is here, in this place, and in all our places: at home, at work, at church, at school. God is present with us in the world. All we have to do is lift the veil and look for the holy with the eyes of the heart.

I really like this idea. It reminds me of Carrie Newcomer's song "Holy As A Day Is Spent" (from her album The Gathering of Spirits [lyrics]), part of which goes:

Holy is a familiar room and the quiet moments in the afternoon
And folding sheets like folding hands
To pray as only laundry can

I'm letting go of all I fear
Like autumn leaves of earth and air
For summer came and summer went
As holy as a day is spent

Holy is the place I stand
To give whatever small good I can
The empty page, the open book
Redemption everywhere I look

As I have mentioned before, Barbara Brown Taylor in An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith says that blessing does not bestow but recognizes that which is already present.

"God is present with us in the world. All we have to do is lift the veil and look for the holy with the eyes of the heart."

Of course, this is easier said than done. Carrie's song brings up in me the idea of letting go and leaning back, of relaxing and opening oneself up to let the holy just wash over and through one -- which sounds quite lovely, but isn't something I'm in a state to experience very often.

Some times are easier than others to "lift the veil and look for the holy with the eyes of the heart."

Four years ago, my best friend preached a beautiful sermon about falling in love (and also glitter and other such things). In telling the story of the Transfiguration, ze said:

So the others keep their eyes open as best they can, because they love their friend and admire their friend and are, as a matter of fact, a little besotted with their friend -- not in a romantic way, of course. It's only that they've given up their lives for this person, have given up family and financial security and the chance of a long lifespan, and one of them has just declared that, in his considered opinion, their friend is the Anointed One of God.

So these sleepy-eyed friends are rewarded with what is, at the time, the most magical moment of their lives (later there will be deeper magic, from before the dawn of time, but that is a story that must wait seven weeks for telling). They see their friend transformed, transfigured. They see the greatest prophets of their faith in living color and realize that their own friend is greater still than these prophets they've revered their whole lives.

At the necessary moment, the veil lifts entirely, and they see their friend transformed and hear God's own voice, announcing, "This is my Child, my Chosen, my Beloved. Listen to this one!"

They are entranced, enchanted, and everything is gold. Their friend, their beloved friend, face glowing and clothes glittering, is the Chosen One of God and they have witnessed this moment. They will never be the same. How could anything be the same ever again?

Returning to my to my off-the-cuff idea of the Transfiguration as wedding photo... most weddings don't involve calling forth Actual Magic (certainly not the kind that's going to make you literally glow), but sometimes all the love, and the joy, and the import of people choosing each other, and everything else, come together and cause a glow -- even if it doesn't happen quite the way we would have scripted it.

On A Bicycle Built for Two has beautiful photo sets from weddings (and wedding-like events -- engagements, domestic partnerships, civil unions, etc.). I wonder if the Transfigured Jesus looked a little like some of these people... [Content note: the folks pictured on that blog are mostly white, alas.]

***

What about you, Beloved?

What does this story bring up for you?

Are there ways you can imagine a Transfiguration experience? Being so in love with God and Her creation that everything (yourself included) seems to glow?

Perhaps your Transfiguration experiences are more subtle... "folding sheets like folding hands / To pray as only laundry can [...] Redemption everywhere [you] look."

Or perhaps you'd like to talk about a different angle on this story altogether.

As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.

[Epiphany 5 & 6] salt and light, just as we are

You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.

You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Parent in heaven.

Matthew 5:13-16 (NRSV, alt.)

In Jeff's sermon, he talked about how he's heard from a lot of newbies that they feel like other folks in the congregation have it all together, etc. -- but this passage is part of Jesus' Sermon on the Mount and Jesus said to EVERYONE on that mountain, "YOU are the salt and the light of the world," so it seems legitimate to extrapolate to us all as well.

Nadia Bolz-Weber made a similar point in her sermon on this text.

Like Jeff, she talked about how this pericope follows immediately after the Beatitudes (which we heard Sunday morning on retreat -- I'd considered doing a separate blogpost for that, but hey, we get to talk about it here anyway!).

She says:

it's so easy for us to default to hearing Jesus' sermon on the mount as pure exhortation. As though he is giving us a list of things we should try and be so we can be blessed – be meeker, be poorer, and mournier a little more and you will meet the conditions of earning Jesus' blessing. But the thing is, it's hard to imagine Jesus exhorting a crowd of demoniacs and epileptics to be meeker. He wasn't telling them what to try and become. He was telling them you are blessed and you are the salt of the earth and the light of the world. This was his special class of people to whom he preached.

I mean, perhaps there were people in the crowd who totally had their crap together. People who had solid relationships and had paid off their student loans and always backed up their hard drives. People who had nothing they felt shame about and who didn't have terrible secrets and knew exactly what they were doing. Of course that is possible those people were in the crowd, it's just, that's not who we are told were coming to Jesus.

The ones we are told were coming to Jesus, the ones presumably to whom he was preaching, were described as the sick, those who were in pain, who fought with demons, who were broken and addicted and late on their back taxes. Who has more than one ex-wife, and who watch too much Netflix and think that maybe a little heroin might be a good idea. In other words, they were people standing in the need of God. And standing in the need of God is standing in the way of blessedness in a way that having it all together never is.

Yesterday at my office hours someone talked about how they had given up on church because church seemed to be a place that only well people went. People who were doing just great and totally had it all together. And if that is not who you are then you just pretend for as long as you can.

What's weird about that is that it's clearly not who came to Jesus when Jesus was walking the earth. It's just who we at some point decided Jesus wanted us to be after he'd left.

These people, the wretched ones left behind in the last verses of chapter 4, they follow Jesus, in a way that the least, the last, the lost and the lonely have followed him ever since, and to them he gives a blessing. The poor, those who mourn and are meek. Jesus gives them a blessing. You are blessed. He says, And then right after that, he says that they are salt and light.

To the broken and hurting he gives a blessing and then he says that they are of the Earth, that they are earth and breath of God. Like in Genesis 2:7 God breathed into the dust of the Earth and created humanity. To the flawed and sick and crippled he says Your bodies are created wonders filled with light. The salt in your tears and in your sweat is a reminder that you were created from dust and the very breath of God.

I thought that to be the light of the world, to let your light so shine before men, you have to be whole, be strong, be perfect. That special class of people I'll never belong to.

But perhaps this is when we best listen to the words of the prophet Leonard Cohen "ring the bells that still can ring, forget your perfect offering.

There's a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." In other words, It is exactly at our points of weakness, of pain, of brokenness, of insufficiency that force us, like those who originally followed Jesus, to stand in the need of God. To stand in the need of the true light.

So perhaps those cracks…made from bad choices, from anxiety and depression, from addiction, from struggle and remorse. Maybe those cracks are what lets the light of God's love in.

And maybe those same cracks also how the light gets out.

We perhaps should not miss the fact that Jesus does not say "here are the conditions you must meet to be the salt of the Earth." He does not say here are the standards of wholeness you must fulfill in order to be light for the world. He looks out into the crowd of people in pain, people who have been broken open – those cracks that let in and let out the Light, who have the salt of sweat and tears on their broken bodies, and says you ARE salt. You. You are light. You have that of God within you the God whose light scatters the darkness. Your imperfect and beautiful bodies are made of chemicals with holiness shining in it…you are made of dust and the very breath of God.

In other words, you are a broken jerk and Jesus trusts you. Don't wait until you feel as though you have met the conditions of being holy. Trust that Jesus knows what he is doing. And that you already are salt and light and love and grace. Don't try and be it. Know that you already are. And then, for the love of God, take that seriously. The world needs it.

I really don't have a lot to add to Nadia's words (and I'm aware that I stole at length).

We often talk about striving/being inspired to change our behaviors, but the good news is that God loves us just as we are (and as we are becoming).

Our very selves are a blessing.

When Val Tutson preached here, she said that she once asked her mother why she hadn't been at the March on Washington, and her mother (a white woman who had married a black man in 1963 -- when interracial marriage was still illegal in 17 of our United States) said: "We were marching every day of our lives, just trying to be family."

Just living into the authenticity of who we are can be a radical act, providing salt and light to others, and helping to build God's kin-dom.

Val said that when we elevate one single person (e.g., Martin Luther King, Jr., or Nelson Mandela) as THE light, we don't have to think about our own light or saltiness. But we ARE the salt of the earth and the light of the world. Jesus reminds us to let our light shine before others, to not let our salt lose its saltiness.

Jeff said that even if we don't feel like THE salt and THE light, we can do bright and salty things (fake it until you make it). And I would add that softer lights, lighter seasonings of salt, are sometimes what's called for -- just because we are not doing big unmistakable things doesn't mean we aren't doing exactly what God is calling us to do.

In the Prayers of the People the Sunday that Val was here, Molly said that when the light fills the whole house, it spills out into the streets.

It has been said that church is not a museum for saints but a hospital for sinners. And one of the functions of church is to bind up our brokenness, to fill us up when we felt empty and wanting. So maybe you don't feel very bright or salty in this moment, but you can bring yourself back into community and be filled up.

And yet I keep coming back to Nadia's point -- that the broken people Jesus was addressing were salt and light just as they were. Yes, the passage ends with an explanatory bit about people praising God on account of your good works -- and I'm not a scholar to speak to how likely that bit is to be a later interpolation -- but certainly there was a huge crowd listening to Jesus, and there is no indication that Jesus was being selective in these "you" statements.

What does it mean for us to be salt and light just as we are?

What do you think, Beloved?

Or perhaps you'd rather talk about some other aspect of the passage altogether.

As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.

[Epiphany 4] forgiveness -- letting go and moving forward?

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, "Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister or sibling who sins against me? Up to seven times?"

Jesus answered, "I tell you, not seven times, but seventy times seven."

Matthew 18: 21-22 (NIV, alt.)

+

"Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother or sister or sibling has something against you, leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to them; then come and offer your gift."

Matthew 5:23-24 (NIV, alt.)

Rev. Jerry Troyer preached about forgiveness and whole-hearted living, reflecting briefly on these passages in particular.

He noted that it's so much easier to be compassionate to others than to ourselves.

Honestly, I'd just as soon drop the mic there. But that's not much of a blog post.

When I looked on TextWeek for commentaries on these passages, I was reminded that they didn't come to us in isolation.

Matthew 18 begins with the disciples asking Jesus, "Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?"

Jesus responds: become humble like children; if anything causes you to stumble, rip it out of you and kill it with fire; the shepherd will leave 99 sheep to find the one that has gone astray and rejoice over it; if another member of the Body of Christ sins against you, confront them directly and privately, escalating as necessary; also, whatever you bind/loose on earth will be bound/loosed in heaven, and wherever two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them, so if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, God will grant it.

Jesus has said all that when Peter asks this question about whether there's a cap on how many times you have to forgive someone. Yup, I'm not too worried about the early church banding together and getting God to grant outrageous requests. It's kinda like Jesus hasn't said anything at all and we're back to the opening question of, "What about me?"

Jesus answered the initial question of "Who is the greatest?" with an assertion that we need to be humble -- and then goes on to talk about taking strong measures to ensure that one is following the Way, emphasizing aspects of being in community, being in relationship (as various commentators have noted).

Matthew 5 is the first chapter of Jesus' Sermon on the Mount, part of a series of statements in the structure of, "You have heard this rule, but I tell you that if you even think this terrible thing it's as bad as if you had done it."

I don't think of the Sermon on the Mount as being about community life particularly, but David Lose on Working Preacher commented (emphasis mine):

we think the law is about, well, being legal – you know, it's about doing the right thing, staying in the lines, keeping your nose clean. But the law is actually concerned with relationships.

Take the Ten Commandments, for instance: the first table is about our relationship with God and the second with our relationships with each other. Understood this way, the whole law is actually a way of pointing us toward ways to honor those with whom we are in relationship. But somehow we forget that, and so get caught up in keeping the law for the law's sake. Which is why Jesus intensifies the law – not to force us to take it more seriously or less seriously, but instead to push us to imagine what it would actually be like to live in a world where we honor each other as persons who are truly blessed and beloved of God. [...]

Law understood primarily in legal terms, you see, ends up being a moral and all-too-often self-justifying check list: No murder today; check! No adultery; check! Jesus wants more from us. Actually, Jesus wants more for us. He wants us to regard each other as God regards us and thereby to treat each other accordingly. Jesus is getting radical about the law precisely by calling us to look beyond the law it see its goal and end: the life and health of our neighbor! In this way Jesus calls us to envision life in God's kingdom as constituted not by obeying laws but rather by holding the welfare of our neighbors close to our hearts while trusting that they are doing the same for us.

So I wonder what would it be like, Working Preacher, if we took a leaf from Jesus' notebook and asked our members to think with us this week about what kind of community we want to inhabit.

Which brings us back to the passages Jerry read -- these exhortations from Jesus about forgiveness.

What does it mean to forgive?

It does NOT mean saying that the wrongdoer's behavior was acceptable, let's be clear.

Part of what it means to forgive is to let the past be the past -- not to excuse the wrongdoing of the past but to let it stop defining the present.

While it is true that forgiveness can be be a significant gift to grant another, the element of forgiveness that resonates most with me is how freeing it is to the one who is forgiving.

There is a popular quotation along the lines of: "Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die." Oftentimes people neither know nor care that we haven't forgiven them (sometimes they don't even know they've done something to hurt us). We are the ones who carry around this anger, this resentment. And I am the first to endorse externally-directed anger (it can be a powerful force for positive change, and I think it is frequently preferable to beating up on ourselves), but even I know that it's not always healthy or helpful.

And certainly Jesus doesn't endorse that kind of living. Externally-directed anger is appealing to me because it makes me feel powerful and superior, but those aren't the kinds of adjectives that Jesus encourages us to aspire to. Sure, I can point to Jesus turning over the tables of the moneychangers in the Temple (John's Gospel even brings in a whip), and I am in no way saying that Jesus is opposed to righteous anger. But Jesus' priority is the vulnerable -- lifting them up not in the way the world would, to just reverse positions while maintaining a broken and hurtful system, but transforming the system, reorienting our priorities.

William Loader says, "The reduction of the gospel to forgiveness of sins misses the point of the gospel which is about making people whole."

Which brings us back to community and relationship.

Jerry quoted Mary Morrissey that when a person can walk the streets of your mind and not be attacked, then you have truly forgiven them.

How many people do we attack in our minds? How can we build a community together if we're attacking each other? (Which brings us back to Jesus' Sermon on the Mount -- if we attack people in the streets of our minds, it may not be as immediately harmful to them as attacking them on the streets of their own lives, but ultimately some of the destruction is the same.)

Sure, not everyone is someone we're going to reconcile with -- sometimes the healthiest choice is to cease to be in relationship with someone -- but how can we transform our relationships with those who have harmed us so that we are no longer attacking them in the streets of our minds?

Jerry told the parable of a woman who is drowning but won't let go of a rock she's holding because, she says, "It's mine."

Are there things we hold on to because we don't know who we would be without them, even if we also know that they're killing us?

Are there ways we can release these resentments, hand them over to God?

I think "forgiveness" is a difficult (and fraught) word for many, but I wonder if loosening our grasp on old resentments could be a baby step toward living into the Beloved Community that God desires for all Creation.

***

What about you, Beloved? What do these passages bring up for you?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments -- responding to any of the questions I've asked or raising questions of your own, or simply sharing some thoughts.

As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.

[Epiphany 3] Jesus' entrance into public work

After hearing that John had been arrested, Jesus withdrew to Galilee -- leaving Nazareth and making a home in Capernaum by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what had been spoken through the prophet Isaiah might be fulfilled: "Land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles -- the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned." From that time Jesus began to proclaim, "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near."

Walking by the Sea of Galilee, Jesus saw two brothers, Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea -- for they were fishers. And Jesus said to them, "Follow me, and I will make you fish for people." Immediately they left their nets and followed Jesus. Leaving there, Jesus saw two other brothers, James son of Zebedee and his brother John, in the boat with their father Zebedee, mending their nets, and Jesus called them. Immediately they left the boat and their father, and followed Jesus.

Jesus went throughout Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and curing every disease and every sickness among the people.

Matthew 4:12-23 (NRSV, alt.)

When I was working on this passage for the Sunday bulletin, I considered editing down some of the repetitive language so as to not have so many brothers and fathers. I left it mostly because I was swamped that week. But reflecting on it on Sunday, I was curious what the author was trying to get at with the repetition of the familial relationships -- why not just say, "saw two brothers -- Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew," and, "two other brothers, James and John, in the boat with their father Zebedee"?*

Is there something here about how much we're called to give up to follow Jesus? These people weren't just quitting a job, they were leaving their family. The text explicitly tell us that James and John left their father (as well as their boat). Is the repetition of the familial language intended to emphasize it, to emphasize what they're leaving behind?

But these Call stories are about the calling of two pairs of brothers -- so they aren't leaving all their family behind; they still have each other.

Is there something about bringing companions with us on the journey? Jesus isn't opposed to family relationships in and of themselves, Jesus just doesn't privilege them above other relationships or priorities. [Feel free to refer back to discussion of Jesus' "Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother and parent, wife and husband and spouse and children, brothers and sisters and siblings, yes, and even life itself, is not able to be my disciple" in Luke 14:26.]

Does having a companion help Simon Peter and Andrew and James and John make this radical life change? One of the things that struck me in this story was that the fishers so quickly get up and go.

This is only the 4th chapter of Matthew. Jesus has been baptized by John in the Jordan and tempted in the wilderness, but has literally done nothing else -- except, as we learn in this passage, withdraw to Galilee, make a home in Capernaum by the sea, and begin to proclaim, "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near."

What is it that they sense in Jesus that calls them so strongly?

As Molly mentioned in her sermon, Jesus took up John the Baptist's catch-phrase -- after John the Baptist had been arrested.

I really don't think of Jesus telling people to repent that much. "The commonwealth of God has come near" is something I associate with Jesus, but repenting not so much.

Did John's arrest spur something in Jesus? I'm not attempting to discount the importance of the Baptism and Temptation in spurring/preparing/shaping Jesus' public work-life, but I think the arrest of John the Baptist gets a bit forgotten when we think about this narrative trajectory.

It doesn't show up in all the Gospels, but I'm intrigued by the idea that the Baptism and Temptation both prepare Jesus but that it's John's arrest (at least in Matthew and Mark's memories) that really spurs Jesus to leave the security of home for good (not just to visit cousin John at the Jordan but to really leave, to make one's home somewhere else). I don't think Jesus necessarily feels an obligation to take John's place (as Jesus' ministry is distinctly different from John's), but there's something there -- whether it's the idea that one only gets so long before the authorities clamp down and so maybe it would be more effective to start sooner rather than later... or whether Jesus knows there's now a power vacuum and wants to use the momentum of John's movement before someone else tries to take John's place... or whether it's something else altogether.

The last thing that struck me in this passage was that Jesus is reported to have healed EVERY ill. I'm reminded of the story of Jesus going home and doing "no deed of power there, except [laying] hands on a few sick people and cur[ing] them" (Mark 6:5 -- the "a prophet is not without honor except in his hometown" story), which seems almost the reverse of this instance. And even in other healing stories which don't emphasize the limits to Jesus' power, we only get accounts of select healings, which gives me at least the impression that it was only those particular individual healings that happened on those particular days.

Is there something about this story that caused the teller to emphasize that Jesus healed EVERY ill? I wonder if there's something in the thrill of initial conversion that leads to hyperbole. Or perhaps the writer is laying the groundwork of Jesus' power and compassion (and later on we can focus on the particulars of each healing); certainly it's true that this concluding sentence lists all of Jesus' major actions -- teaching, proclaiming the good news, and healing.

So those are three things this passage brings up for me. What about you, Beloved? What does this story bring up for you?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments -- responding to any of the questions I've asked or raising questions of your own, or simply sharing some thoughts.

As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.

-----

* This isn't just an NRSV translation quirk -- the Greek Intralinear I use says:

4:18 about-treading [walking] yet the Jesus beside the sea of-the Galilee he-perceived two brothers Simon the being-said Peter (Rock) and Andrew the brother of-him casting envelope-caster [purse-net] into the sea they-were for fishers

4:21 and before-stepping [advancing] thence he-perceived others two brothers Jacobus [James] the of-the Zebedee and John the brother of-him in the floater [ship] with Zebedee of-the [the] father of-them down-equipping [adjusting] the nets of-them and he-calls them
4:22 the yet immediately from-letting [leaving] the floater [ship] and the father of-them they-follow to-him [him]

[Epiphany 2] not deeming comfort and advantage something to be clung to

If our life in Christ means anything to you -- if love, or the Spirit that we have in common, or any tenderness or sympathy can persuade you at all -- then be united in your convictions and united in your love, with a common purpose and a common mind. That is the one thing that would make me completely happy. There must be no competition among you, no conceit, but everybody is to be humble: value others over yourselves, each of you thinking of the interests of others before your own. Your attitude must be the same as that of Christ Jesus:

Christ, though in the image of God,
didn't deem equality with God
something to be clung to--
but instead took on the image of oppressed humankind:
born into the human condition,
found in the likeness of a human being.
Jesus was thus humbled--
obediently accepting death, even death on a cross!

Philippians 2:1-8 (The Inclusive Bible)

Molly preached on this passage to launch a 12-month series on multiracial life (like the 12 month series we did on the 12 Steps of AA, on addiction and recovery).

What I'm struck by in reflecting on this passage is the part about Jesus not deeming equality with God something to be "clung to."

I don't think we can "give up" our privilege per se.

Peggy McIntosh writes, "I was taught to see racism only in individual acts of meanness, not in invisible systems conferring dominance on my group." Her "Daily effects of white privilege" list (the most famous portion of her piece, "White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack") lists lots of privileges that are bestowed on us white folks, that we can't relinquish without changing the very water we swim in.

But we can stop clinging to the advantages we have.

I co-chair the Boston Pride Interfaith Coalition, and while we've gotten better about including more women, young people, and non-Christians in the coalition, we're still very white. I've given myself lots of homework involving reaching out to people of color and under-represented faith traditions. At a recent meeting, the one person of color on our committee (who is not Christian herself) suggested reaching out to African-American Christian communities. I've been really resistant to adding more Christian voices to the planning committee because we Christians have always been the majority on the coalition, so I pushed back against this suggestion. She reminded me that folks from African-American traditions would have very different perspectives than the white Christians that have dominated the coalition.

I knew she was right, and I also knew that part of the resistance I felt was at the possibility of giving up some of my space at the table (I worried that they would be more conservative than me, and I didn't relish the idea of navigating more compromises as we crafted the service). It's easy for me to insist that other people need to stretch to accommodate others on the margins, and I like to think that I myself do a fair job of stretching, but when my principles might require me to make things that feel like sacrifices, I'm a lot more hesitant.

Mia McKenzie on Black Girl Dangerous posted "4 Ways to Push Back Against Your Privilege" -- the first of which is "Relinquish Power." This, I think, is something much more actionable than relinquishing "privilege" (especially since privilege is often something bestowed on us by the surrounding society).

How much you believe that Jesus gave up power by incarnating depends in large part on your theology of God's power, but I think Paul's assertion that Jesus didn't consider equality with God something to be clung to remains true.

Susan Eastman on Working Preacher wrote about this passage when it came up in the lectionary a couple years ago. She wrote, "the story of Christ also moves from separation to solidarity, and from difference to likeness, as Christ moves into the most despairing depths of human experience."

My main takeaway from reading Eastman's piece is that this is a joint endeavor -- us and God/Jesus and all of humanity.

A few verses after we stopped reading in Philippians, Paul writes, "work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure" (2:13).

Eastman writes:

A better translation might be, "God is the one working in you both the willing and the working." The Greek word translated "work" is the source of our word, "energy" or "energize." God gives us the desire and the energy to enact Christ's compassion in the world. The "you" is plural, showing that God is among us, having come among us as a slave, as one who serves. This divine condescension and companionship thus is not only or even primarily an example for us in our dealings with one another, but the actual motivating power operating in and through those mutual relationships.

Similarly, the "salvation" we are to work out is not our private, individual destiny, but rather, the quality of our corporate life as it is lived under the rule of the Savior. Paul already has described this quality of life in terms of mutual love and affection, sharing in the Spirit, unity, humility, putting others first -- and all of this "in Christ" (2:1-4). Here is real "quality of life!" And it is a public life, a public "politics."

Just as last week's lesson told us to let our manner of life, our "politics," be worthy of the gospel so that it is a public demonstration of the meaning of salvation, so immediately following today's lesson, Paul tells us we "shine as lights in the world" (3:15). Echoing the story of God's revelation on Mount Sinai, the "fear and trembling" (2:12) evoked by Christ's incarnation, death and exaltation tell us we are in the presence of God. This is the language of theophany. God's self-revelation issues in a transformed community that itself becomes a kind of theophany, a manifestation of God's presence in the world.

This focus on remaking our communal life reminds me of Molly's list of reasons why we want to become a multiracial church:

1) Because being multiracial, we will experience heaven on earth

There is nothing more beautiful than walking into a room where people of every color are moving and speaking in peaceful and loving ways. I think we can do it even better than Dunkin' Donuts

2) Because it will make us rich in the ways that being many kinds of people together does

…I never learned anything from people just like me, but I've learned a lot about music, culture, politics and history from people who are different from me

3) Because it may heal old (and new!) racial wounds

One at a time, we can undo a hurt that society has inflicted, just as we have with homophobia—our assistant music director Marcus Mack is here today because he came to worship with us during the interview process, and a white woman hugged him and said she was glad he was here, and he looked in her eyes and knew her welcome was authentic, that her love was real

And, because I am a little pugnacious, there is a fourth reason: because becoming a multiracial church, apparently, as an East Coast, mainline, progressive church, is just about impossible to do.

God taking on flesh and becoming human and dying and conquering death for everyone might seem just a touch impossible as well... so how can we connect to the desire and energy that willed and worked all that, as we attempt some impossible work ourselves?

How can we loosen our clinging to some of our advantages and comforts in order to do the work that needs to be done?

How can we move more deeply into community and solidarity so that the issues and concerns of those who may initially seem unlike us can become no longer "your" or "their" concerns but "our" concerns?

(As always, feel free to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)

[Epiphany 1] selfies in the dirty water

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by John.

John would have prevented Jesus, saying, "I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?"

But Jesus answered, "Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness." Then John consented.

And when Jesus had been baptized and was coming up from the water, suddenly Jesus saw the heavens open and the Spirit of God descending, alighting like a dove. And a voice from heaven said, "This is my Child, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased."

Matthew 3:13-17 (NRSV, alt. -- with thanks to Emily Aviva)

Every time I encounter this passage I think, "The very first sermon I preached was on this passage. I don't remember what I said."

When I think about this story (without referring back to the records of the sermon I wrote), I wrestle with why Jesus needed to be baptized (complicated by my lack of knowledge about what such ritual actions imported in Jesus' pre-Christian Jewish context). What is Jesus on about with "it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness"?

And eventually I let that go and I remember that God says, "This (You) are my beloved -- with whom I am well-pleased," before Jesus has done anything of note in our records (aside from Luke's incident in the Temple) besides exist. And I really really like that. We don't "earn" our belovedness, God just loves us because that's what God does, that's who God is.

I remember Tiffany telling the "You are a bright, brilliant, beloved child of God -- who is beautiful to behold" story.

When I was prepping for this Sunday, I read Nancy Rockwell:

And so, Jesus was baptized in the river, one in the midst of many, and when he came up from the water, according to Matthew, the heavens opened to him. To him. To no one else. Not even to John. According to Matthew, Jesus saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, 'This is my son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.'

And that's it, according to Matthew. Gosh, in Luke, the whole huge crowd was wowed by the sight of the dove and the voice and the blessing words, My Beloved Son. This was epic, an epiphany for the record books. According to Luke. But according to Matthew, it was a Selfie. It was a snapshot moment Jesus kept, and pulled out to help him through the forty days of struggle and temptation in the wilderness, and maybe even the hours on the cross. My Beloved Son. It was something to remember.

This is what has stayed with me throughout the week. This idea of a "Selfie."

"Selfies" are strongly (and often negatively) associated with (young) women, so partly this is because I have a girl!Jesus agenda and have acquired a discomfort with the dismissal of things coded as "feminine" (and/or relating to teen girls).

I won't bore you with a rehash of the selfie debates, but I will posit that in a culture that spends so much money and energy convincing people (especially people who are or wish to be read as female) that they are obliged to look "good enough" in other people's views and that they will probably never achieve that, at least not without lots of external aid (purchased with time and money) -- I would posit that in that culture, for women to take pictures of themselves and say, "hell yeah I'm okay with people seeing this image of myself," is a counter-cultural act. Rachel Simmons asserts: "The selfie is a tiny pulse of girl pride."

At Church Council this week, we did an Affirmation exercise. We each wrote our name on the top of a sheet of paper and passed it around, each of us writing an affirmation for the person whose paper we received (folding the paper so you didn't see what people before you had written). Mine is pinned up on the corkboard in my bedroom. Once I got past being struck by how all the affirmations I got were way more thoughtful and articulate than the ones I gave other people (I said all true things, I just had difficulty coming up with a succinct phrasing, so I felt like mine came off as mostly generic), I was struck that (1) the totality of the sheet of paper covered so many different aspects of myself, and (2) none of them felt foreign to my self-conception.

A young adult group I attended at a different church a few years ago had a closing ritual in which we each Affirmed each of the other people in the circle (it could be "I like your sparkly sneakers" -- it didn't need to be profound). I remember often noting that people saw me differently than I saw myself -- and my journal will attest that this identity/perception disconnect happened elsewhere in my life as well.

Sometimes people are just wrong about us, it's true -- but sometimes it takes an outside perspective to point out to us things we hadn't realized about ourselves, whether it's because we've changed and haven't noticed ourselves because it's been so gradual from the inside, or because we've internalized untruths other people have told us, or for some other reason.

GetReligion correctly (though boringly at length) answers "A Christmas question: Did the baby Jesus cry?"

But then I made the mistake of reading the comments and Julie Gould commented:

He misses the point. Away in the Manger is a song for children. Children want to know that their beloved Jesus is not a gross, screaming, stinky intruder like their little brother or sister. He was perfect, so of course he didn't cry. He was beautiful like a little doll, adorable, and therefore easy to adore. We suffer now from too much worldly realism. Go back and learn truth from the old paintings and poetry.

I would like the record to note that I did not actually punch the computer screen.

I assert that Jesus does show up as "a gross, screaming, stinky intruder."

By this I mostly mean that Jesus disrupts our lives, puts difficult calls on our hearts, calls us to give up what is comfortable and move to places of discomfort and challenge. Some of you may recall the button I had on my hoodie for a while that said, "If I let Jesus into my heart, then everyone will want in."

But it's also true that Jesus showed up as fully human -- not as a shining doll. Jesus tells cryptic parables; gets schooled by the Syro-Phoenician woman; privileges chosen family over family of origin; turns over the tables of the moneychangers in the Temple; weeps after Lazarus' death; cries out while dying, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" This is a not a static, easy-to-adore figure. This is arguably a flawed human being -- as all human beings are.

I know, I know, to argue that Jesus was flawed or imperfect in any way, or perhaps even sinned, is blasphemous to some -- but if Jesus really became fully human, doesn't that have to be true?

Gregory of Nazianzus wrote:

That which He has not assumed He has not healed; but that which is united to His Godhead is also saved. If only half Adam fell, then that which Christ assumes and saves may be half also; but if the whole of his nature fell, it must be united to the whole nature of Him that was begotten, and so be saved as a whole. (Epistle 101)

At Jesus' baptism, God says, "This is my Beloved Child, with whom I am well-pleased." I don't think anyone reading the Bible doubts that God was well-pleased with Jesus. But if Jesus is able to function as a stand-in for us, for humanity, for each of God's beloved children ... if we can hear God's affirmation directed at us as well as at Jesus, I think that's really powerful.

"You are my Child, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased."

Molly preached this Sunday about mistakes -- about how we are all going to make mistakes and that the aftermath can allow God's grace in. Speaking about the time of Jesus' baptism, she said that Jesus was, "This person who hasn't yet done a single thing to earn this love—and maybe even done some things to test it. Which maybe means God's love can't be earned at all, and that we should stop trying."

However we might compare ourselves to the Jesus of a few years later -- the itinerant preacher, teacher, healer, rabbi, who has amassed followers (and enemies) and a reputation -- this Jesus, the one who shows up at the Jordan that day, has been living in relative obscurity, has done nothing of note except maybe slipping away from parents to spend time with the cooler grownups. This Jesus grew up a child of promise, but that promise is yet waiting to be fulfilled. Each one of you is also a child of promise, a promise whose fulfillment is still being written.

In her sermon, Molly said:

I want to remind you that the line that Jesus got in for baptism, was not a line of deserving people, it was not a line of people who never made a mistake. It was not a line of people who were at a spiritual end-point, but were at a beginning. And Jesus got right into line with them.

This declaration of belovedness was not the result of a long ministry but rather an affirmation given at the beginning to be carried with and returned to throughout the difficult times -- a worry stone to touch in one's pocket and think, "I remember that day at the River. I remember when Ze said, 'I love you.' I remember how supported and protected I felt."

While Jesus' experience was unique, its purpose wasn't to set Jesus apart from everyone else but rather to more firmly and deeply situate Jesus amidst everyone else.

Dan Clendenin writes:

Jesus's baptism inaugurated his public ministry by identifying with what Luke describes as "all the people." He allied himself with the faults and failures, pains and problems, of all the broken and hurting people who had flocked to the Jordan River. By wading into the waters with them he took his place beside us and among us. Not long into his public mission, the sanctimonious religious leaders derided Jesus as a "friend of gluttons and sinners." They were surely right about that.

With his baptism Jesus openly and decisively declared that he stands shoulder to shoulder with me in my fears and anxieties. He intentionally takes sides with people in their neediness, and declares that God is biased in their favor: "For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin. Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in our time of need" (Hebrews 4:15–16, NIV). God's abundant mercy, Jesus declared, is available directly and immediately to every person; it's not the private preserve doled out by the temple establishment in Jerusalem.

One of the things I often remember when I think about the story of Jesus' baptism is Ian Holland's sermon ("Good Enough?" January 9, 2010) about how messy the Jordan River was. Though digging up the sermon, I find that I actually have Marlin to thank for that imagery.

Ian said:

If we have been too quick to forget the cold and the dirt of the manger, or the smell of dung in the stable at Christmas day, in the baptism of Jesus in the Jordan River, God makes it plain.

The Jordan River is not a grand river like the Nile, the Euphrates, or the Mississippi; it is a scrappy, scraggly wind of water through the Rift Valley. It begins at the inland Sea of Galilee and meanders down into the Dead Sea.

Then as now, it is the major source of water for millions of people in Israel, Syria and Jordan. Then as now, it has been used as a sewer. Then, as now, animals and humans used the river for whatever they needed.

A member of our church, Marlin Collingwood was baptized by his father at the age of 14 at the site near Jericho that some scholars identify as the site of Jesus Baptism. Marlin writes:

"This area of the Jordan is very narrow and very muddy and very slippery for walking! I can remember that my Dad baptized 8 or 9 folks that day – we all changed into white choir robes and were in our bare feet. My Dad was already in the Jordan and as we walked down into the water it was very slippery and slick. The water was muddy, muddy, muddy and you couldn't see your feet or legs once you were in the water. It was a hot, humid day and the water didn't smell very good if I remember correctly."

And so Jesus walks 70 miles on the dusty road from Nazareth to the river outside of Jericho. It is crowded in that place, with hundreds, maybe thousands of people trying to hear John preach and baptize them.

It is slippery, muddy, mucky, and perhaps smelly in the heat. This is the water that Jesus enters. It is maybe a bit murky. It is not pristine, perfect, or beautiful.

This is, of course, a lovely metaphor for the incarnation.

The humanity that Jesus enters is not pristine -- it's slippery, mucky, smelly, and perhaps a bit murky. But it is beautiful in its way.

And Jesus allows herself to be plunged into it fully -- when the dove alights on Jesus (and I often imagine this as a six-foot tall dove enveloping Jesus in an embrace), heaven is fully embracing wet, sticky, muddy, blinking earth.

Ian went on to say:

His Baptism reflects his ministry to come. He is ready to get into the grime, slime and mess of human living. He will go to the people that the world judges to be inferior, impure, imperfect, and unholy. And he will make them whole, and holy - they are worthy and are admitted to the Kingdom of God made present through his actions.

He will go to the places of brokenness – to the homeless, and lepers, to prostitutes, and bleeding women. He will go to foreigners, aliens and the demon possessed, and he will sanctify them.

In Christ, God comes to us, where we are. We don't have to go to God, to reach some mountain, and attain some kind of purity.

God comes to us in our brokenness and says to us I am with you – you are my beloved son, you are my beloved daughter.

You people of all genders are God's beloved children.

***

What does this story bring up for you, Beloved?

We use that word "Beloved" a lot to greet and name each other, as individuals and as community. Is that an identity you feel able to claim?

Does it feel like too much to hear God naming you as Beloved at Jesus' baptism? Can you imagine God blessing you at this point in your journey, empowering you to move forward loved and supported?

What does it mean for Jesus to be God incarnate, to fully tent among us, to take on the fullness of humanity in the flesh? How can we reimagine Jesus in ways that make real Jesus' shared humanity, that enable us to feel and experience Jesus truly among and with us rather than as a distant figure?

What might it mean for us to plunge ourselves into the waters of rebirth, to allow God into the broken places in ourselves, to allow God's grace to transform our mistakes, to ally ourselves with those who are broken or oppressed and to open ourselves up to be vessels of God's grace transforming others?

You're invited to continue the conversation in the comments -- responding to any of the questions I've asked or raising questions of your own, or simply sharing some thoughts.

As always, you're welcome to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.

[Christmas 2] Jesus, Sophia Wisdom tenting among us

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The Word was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through the Word, and without the Word not one thing came into being. What has come into being in the Word was life, and the life was the light of all people.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. There was a person sent from God, whose name was John. John came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe. John was not the light, but John came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. This light was in the world, and the world came into being through this light; yet the world did not know the light. To its own home the light came, yet the people of the light did not accept it. But all who received the light, who believed in its name, were given power to become children of God, born not of natural descent, nor of urge of flesh nor of human will, but of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen the glory of the Word, the glory as of a parent's only child, full of grace and truth.

(John testified to this one and cried out, "This was the one of whom I said, 'The one who comes after me ranks ahead of me because that one was before me.' ") From the fullness of that one we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Child, who is close to the Parent's heart, who has made God known.

John 1:1-18 (NRSV, alt. -- with thanks to Cole)

Attentive folks may have noticed that since mid-October, the Scripture readings on Sunday mornings have contained distinctly less "he" language than they used. I'm really grateful to Molly for the opportunity to inclusify the texts, and I've endeavored to make minimal changes to the text -- only making the changes necessary to make the language flow without gendered referents.

Someone commented that stripping out the gendered language makes the texts feel "sterile." It's true that eliminating gendered referents removes some of the genuine richness of human experience. It also makes language awkward at times, as pronouns are a natural part of the English language -- but when I've been tempted to fall back on personal pronouns, my impulse has always been to use she/her or ze/hir (this last one is pronounced "here"), because it's important to me to open up space for people to find themselves reflected in the biblical texts.

In looking at the other texts for this Sunday, the second Sunday in Christmastide, I noticed that both of our alternative Old Testament readings (from books not considered canonical by our Protestant denomination, so don't fret if you've never heard of them) talk about Wisdom -- who gets "she" pronouns in the original (Sophia Wisdom, as in the Hagia Sophia).

Our first alternative reading is from "The Book of the All-Virtuous Wisdom of Joshua ben Sira, commonly called the Wisdom of Sirach or simply Sirach, and also known as The Book of Ecclesiasticus or Siracides or Ben Sira" (to quote Wikipedia):

Wisdom praises herself,
     and tells of her glory in the midst of her people.
In the assembly of the Most High she opens her mouth,
     and in the presence of his hosts she tells of her glory:
"I came forth from the mouth of the Most High,
     and covered the earth like a mist.
I dwelt in the highest heavens,
     and my throne was in a pillar of cloud.
Alone I compassed the vault of heaven
     and traversed the depths of the abyss.
Over waves of the sea, over all the earth,
     and over every people and nation I have held sway.
Among all these I sought a resting place;
     in whose territory should I abide?

"Then the Creator of all things gave me a command,
     and my Creator chose the place for my tent.
He said, 'Make your dwelling in Jacob,
     and in Israel receive your inheritance.'
Before the ages, in the beginning, he created me,
     and for all the ages I shall not cease to be.
In the holy tent I ministered before him,
     and so I was established in Zion.
Thus in the beloved city he gave me a resting place,
     and in Jerusalem was my domain.
I took root in an honored people,
     in the portion of the Lord, his heritage.

Sirach 24:1-12 (NRSV, unaltered)

Some of that Wisdom language sounds really similar to the text from John, huh?

In this passage from Sirach, Wisdom comes forth from the mouth of God, covers the earth, seeks a resting place there, and then pitches her tent -- taking root in an honored people. Sounds a lot like the opening of the first Genesis Creation narrative (which John is of course evoking -- "in the beginning..."), with God's Spirit brooding over the watery abyss -- followed by John's enfleshment of the Word.

Sirach's Wisdom says, "my Creator chose the place for my tent," and what's translated as "lived among us" in John could also be translated as "dwelt," "encamped," or "pitched tent among us" -- and "tent" can also mean "tabernacle" (the portable dwelling place of God amidst the ancient Israelites before they had a land of their own).

"I came forth from the mouth of the Most High" reminds me of what Rev. Jeff and other commentators have said about what "Logos" in John means.

Craig A. Satterlee on Working Preacher suggests that "speech" would be a more accurate translation of "logos" than "word," and that immediately had me thinking of the breath of God.

Satterlee talks about song and writes:

John says, "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." I might say, "Though other voices strive to drown it out, God's Love Song is not silent."

Our second alternative reading is from "The Book of Wisdom, often referred to simply as Wisdom or the Book of the Wisdom of Solomon" (Wiki again):

A holy people and blameless race
    wisdom delivered from a nation of oppressors.
She entered the soul of a servant of the Lord,
    and withstood dread kings with wonders and signs.
She gave to holy people the reward of their labors;
    she guided them along a marvelous way,
    and became a shelter to them by day,
    and a starry flame through the night.
She brought them over the Red Sea,
    and led them through deep waters;
    but she drowned their enemies,
    and cast them up from the depth of the sea.
Therefore the righteous plundered the ungodly;
    they sang hymns, O Lord, to your holy name,
    and praised with one accord your defending hand;
    for wisdom opened the mouths of those who were mute,
    and made the tongues of infants speak clearly.

Wisdom of Solomon 10:15-21 (NRSV, unaltered)

In this passage from the Wisdom of Solomon, Wisdom is strongly identified with God -- the actions attributed to her (e.g., bringing the Israelites over the Red Sea, guiding them by flame by night) are actions attributed to God in our standard tellings of the Exodus story.

And "entered the soul of a servant of the Lord," while not an orthodox understanding of the Trinitarian Incarnation, certainly echoes John's imagery of the Word becoming flesh and dwelling among us.

Do you notice what happens there? This Sophia spirit -- she who covered the Earth like a mist, she who saved the Israelites -- she pitches her tent among humans. And going back to the story that John tells, it seems like the tent she pitches is named Jesus.

Commenting on the passage from John, David Lose on Working Preacher talks about those things which define us versus those things that merely describe us.

Yes, gendered pronouns describe people -- but do they define them?

Michelle Nijhuis wrote:

My 5-year-old insists that Bilbo Baggins is a girl.

The first time she made this claim, I protested. Part of the fun of reading to your kids, after all, is in sharing the stories you loved as a child. And in the story I knew, Bilbo was a boy. A boy hobbit. (Whatever that entails.)

But my daughter was determined. She liked the story pretty well so far, but Bilbo was definitely a girl. So would I please start reading the book the right way?

I hesitated. I imagined Tolkien spinning in his grave. I imagined mean letters from his testy estate. I imagined the story getting as lost in gender distinctions as dwarves in the Mirkwood.

Then I thought: What the hell, it's just a pronoun. My daughter wants Bilbo to be a girl, so a girl she will be.

And you know what? The switch was easy. Bilbo, it turns out, makes a terrific heroine. She's tough, resourceful, humble, funny, and uses her wits to make off with a spectacular piece of jewelry.

Yes, there are plenty of valuable things to say about how Jesus transgressed norms of masculinity, or about how Jesus' experience (and impact) would have been different if Jesus had been read by the culture as female -- but if you're not going to preach about those particular things, why can't Jesus have "she" pronouns?

So what if I take the NRSV text and use "she" pronouns for the Word? God the First Person of the Trinity can retain "he" pronouns, and John the Baptist can have "ze" pronouns (this maximizes clarity of pronoun referents, and also maximizes representation).

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. She was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through her, and without her not one thing came into being. What has come into being in her was life, and the life was the light of all people.

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. There was a person sent from God, whose name was John. Ze came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through hir. Ze hirself was not the light, but ze came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. She was in the world, and the world came into being through her; yet the world did not know her. She came to what was her own, and her own people did not accept her. But to all who received her, who believed in her name, she gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen her glory, the glory as of a father's only daughter, full of grace and truth.

(John testified to her and cried out, "This was she of whom I said, 'She who comes after me ranks ahead of me because she was before me.' ") From her fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Daughter, who is close to the Father's heart, who has made God known.

For myself, I'm really struck by the "the glory as of a father's only daughter." What might it mean to women to hear that Jesus was Daddy's little girl? For women who have a positive relationship with their fathers, how might it open up their relationship to God to not only think of God as Father but to think of Jesus as God's Daughter?

Karyn Wiseman on Working Preacher says:

Dealing with embodied issues can often be problematic in our culture. Womens' and young girls' bodies are objectified on a daily basis. Vulnerable persons are abused and exploited physically and sexually. Men and boys are taught to be tough and that their physical strength is their greatest asset.

What might it mean for people to hear in church not just that God created humanity and called it good, but that when God said, "I think bodies are so good, I want one for myself," the body God chose for Godself was that of a woman?

What might it mean for women to hear that their bodies are valued, not just as vessels to bear the Divine like Mary's did, but to embody the Divine in themselves like Jesus did?

What might it mean for men to hear that women's bodies are so valued by God? Would that reduce, even by a little bit, men treating women like their bodies only exist to be used by others?

What might it mean for people whose gender identity doesn't match the one assigned them at birth to hear that God Incarnate might have had a complex gender identity?

William Loader talks at more length than I have about the threads of Wisdom narrative that seem to continue in the Jesus story, as well as how Jesus Jesusself draws on wisdom imagery (though I'm uncomfortable with Loader's closing assertion that all of Judaism ultimately points to and finds its fullness in Jesus).

Loader says, "The gospel writer has composed the overture to the gospel using the theme songs of wisdom. The effect is to assert and celebrate that Jesus is that word and wisdom of whom they sang."

What would it mean for us to take that seriously? Not that you need to start using "she" pronouns for Jesus, but to think about the Wisdom traditions and to think about them continuing in Jesus.

What does it add to your understanding of Jesus to read the texts Loader references and notice how steeped in those stories Jesus was, how some of them seem to come to life in new ways in the person and life of Jesus?

Loader says, "Already in Proverbs wise counsel is pictured as a woman appealing to young men on the streets. It is a striking image, forged as the opposite of the image of folly which is pictured as a street walking prostitute luring young men into her den. The language of the love affair features often in the imagery (eg. Sirach 51:13-22; Wisdom 6:12 – 8:21)."

Plenty of people have asserted that Jesus must have been very charismatic, but we probably imagine that in very different ways if Jesus is a woman. I'm really struck by the imagery of this seductiveness (honestly, I want my Jesus to be "a street walking prostitute luring young men into her den," but "virtuous" seductiveness is also really interesting). Y'all, in Wisdom 8:2, Solomon loves Wisdom, is enamored of her beauty, and wants to marry her. I'm really interested in this Jesus.

***

What does this story bring up for you, Beloved?

Do you want to talk more about the connections between Sophia Wisdom and Jesus Christ?

Would you rather delve more deeply into what it means that the light's own people did not receive it? Or how we are called to be like John the Baptist, pointing toward the light? Or something else altogether?

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.)

[Christmas 1] on darkness surrounding the light

Now after the Magi had left Herod, an angel of God appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, "Get up, take the child and the mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy it." Then Joseph got up, took the child and the mother by night, and went to Egypt, and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfill what had been spoken by God through the prophet, "Out of Egypt I have called my child."

When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the Magi, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the Magi. Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through 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."

When Herod died, an angel of God suddenly appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, "Get up, take the child and the mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child's life are dead." Then Joseph got up, took the child and the mother, and went to the land of Israel. But when Joseph heard that Archelaus was ruling over Judea in place of his father Herod, Joseph was afraid to go there. And after being warned in a dream, Joseph went away to the district of Galilee. There Joseph made his home in a town called Nazareth, so that what had been spoken through the prophets might be fulfilled, "This one will be called a Nazorean."

Matthew 2:13-23 (NRSV, alt.)

In his sermon on Sunday, Jeff talked about dreams. But what strikes me in this story is the darkness.

Christmas is about God putting skin on to be with us; and many of the preparatory texts we read during Advent talk about things like "He will save his people from their sins" (Matthew 1:21) and "the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples; the nations shall inquire of him, and his dwelling shall be glorious" (Isaiah 11:10) -- statements that make us feel excited about the ways that God is going to triumph over darkness.

Celebrating the birth of light in the midst of darkness is an ancient tradition testifying to humanity's hope that the darkness is never permanent; and Christians latched onto this tradition as deeply fitting with their understanding of what happened when God came to Earth in the form of the baby Jesus. Our liturgical tradition gives us 4 weeks of preparing for this birth: weeks with themes of Hope, Peace, Joy, and Love -- all positive things.

So why do we get barely any time to celebrate before we're thrown into genocide and refugee status?

David Lose on Working Preacher reminds us that God incarnated to share in the full experience of humanity, including the bad stuff:

Sometimes life is beautiful and wonderful and filled with goodness and grace. And God is a part of that, giving blessing and celebrating with us and for us. And sometimes life is hard, gritty, disappointing, and filled with heartache. And God is part of that as well, holding on to us, comforting us, blessing us with promise that God will stay with us through the good and the bad, drawing us ever more deeply into God’s loving embrace and promising that nothing – not even death – will separate us from God.

I really like this.

But as I settle into this reading, I remember my commentary in my email on Sunday.

It's true that Jesus doesn't live a charmed life -- the infant and family have to settle in a strange place not once but twice.

But Jesus survives.

Yes, Mary watches her firstborn die a few decades later; and Simeon, encountering the baby Jesus, warns the new mother, "a sword will pierce your own heart too" (Luke 2:35). But Mary seems exempted from "Rachel weeping for her children [...] because they are no more."

Later, Jesus will express maternal longing for the city that kills the prophets (and is about to kill Jesus -- Luke 13:34 / Matthew 23:37), but we don't hear of Jesus having any children, nevermind any children who died. (Jesus does weep over Lazarus -- but then raises Lazarus from the dead, so it's a rather less long-lasting grief.)

Does God provide special protection for the Messiah and abandon all the nobodies to suffer? Does that seem in keeping with the Gospel accounts which are full of Jesus' (and God's) preferential option for the poor, the oppressed, the marginalized?

Jeff talked about dreams, but where are the warning dreams for all the other parents in Bethlehem?

Karyn Wiseman on Working Preacher writes:

The story of the flight from Egypt and the killing of innocent boys under the age of two in Bethlehem and the surrounding area are often called "fulfillment" texts, in that they supposedly fulfill Hebrew Bible texts and prophesy (verses 15, 17). While the "fulfillment" of these texts in this passage is limited at best, the text makes clear that this event was not ordained by God -- it was ordered by Herod. These acts are not "fulfillment" of God's desires; these are examples of human fear, power seeking, anger, and evil (verse 16).

I am comforted by the reminder that while God works all things toward the good, God did not give Herod the idea to inflict genocide just so we could achieve some handy prooftexting about being called out of Egypt.

The Sunday before Christmas, Molly talked about Mary's silence in Matthew's story and suggested that Mary's "Yes" may have been somewhat reluctant. Not just Matthew's Annunciation, but Matthew's entire Nativity story lacks the triumphant joy of Luke's narrative.

We start with a troubled genealogy tracing Jesus back through the Davidic line to Abraham.

Then Mary is "found" to be pregnant and a dream angel has to convince Joseph not to divorce her. The angel makes promises about this baby's future, but they are all promises yet to be fulfilled -- a waiting perhaps echoed by Joseph's not having marital relations with Mary throughout the pregnancy, despite his taking her as his wife.

Then foreign court priests show up at King Herod's, seeking the newborn "king of the Jews" whom they wish to honor. Herod facilitates their search and claims that he, too, wants to honor this newborn king. In fact, he wishes to kill the baby, and when the magi are warned in a dream to avoid Herod on their way home (after they drop off their rich gifts with the family), Herod deals with his lack of specific information by ordering the slaughter of all babies who might be the baby in question. We get more warning dreams and more travel as the baby and family move from Bethlehem to Egypt to Nazareth.

And then if we were to keep reading in Matthew, we would get John the Baptist, living in the wilderness, dressed in camel's hair and eating locusts and wild honey -- preparing the way of the Lord! But referring to religious authorities as "You brood of vipers" and saying that the One who is to come will baptize with the Holy Spirit and with fire, with a winnowing fork in hand. The story might be revving up at this point, but it is still arguably not "cheerful."

I would suggest that Matthew's Nativity story takes seriously the messy, broken world we still live in -- even though God has come to dwell amongst us in that world -- and the fact that God's redemption of this world has yet to be completed. (Not that I'm trying to say that Luke's doesn't.)

So where does that leave us this Christmas season?

What do we do with this story about a power-hungry despot who was willing to commit genocide of infants in order to secure his throne? This story about the parents who, like the matriarch Rachel, wept over their dead children -- victims of state-sponsored violence?

Does this story call us to work on behalf of refugees, those at risk for violence, and other vulnerable and oppressed populations?

Does this story offer us some consolation when our own shadowy lives don't seem to let in any Christmas light? Does this reminder that even the original Christmas wasn't all light and joy give you some permission to sit with your own sadness? Can you feel God traveling with you from Bethlehem to Egypt to Nazareth?

What does this story bring up for you, Beloved?

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.)