Who will roll the stone away for us? Mary Magdalene, Mary, the mother of James and Salome approach the tomb of Jesus to perform the burial rites that they were unable to perform over the Sabbath. They were there at his crucifixion, they saw it all (the horror and the pain) and they want to ensure that his ending is observed appropriately. So they come, carrying spices, that they might anoint the body for burial: a lost of act of care and devotion to a beloved leader.
But there is a problem! The tomb has been sealed. An obstacle is in their way. So as they come, they ask themselves: “Who will roll the stone away for us? How shall we overcome this obstacle?”
In the readings set down for the Easter Vigil, the service held anytime between sunset on Holy Saturday and sunrise on Easter Day, we hear a rehearsal of key moments in the Judaeo-Christian story of salvation history: the creative saving/liberating presence of God with the people of God over the whole history of creation. The rehearsal is long. We hear about creation, of the great flood and Noah. We hear of Abraham, Sarah and Isaac; of Miriam and Moses. We hear the prophesies of Isaiah, Ezekiel and Zephaniah; and the wisdom of Proverbs. Not all the episodes of the saga of the Hebrew people are mentioned, so many more could be recalled: Esther and Daniel, Deborah and Jonah, and so on…
Yet even so, each of the episodes rehearsed in the Easter Vigil is significant. They represent snippets of the story of the way in which human beings confronted with the powerful, awe-ful, wonderful predicament of being human have often asked the question “Yet how shall we overcome this obstacle, this experience of being human, these experiences of being created, tested, displaced, exiled, searching, questioning, dying, drying out, burning out, losing hope? Who will roll the stone away for us?”
In each episode of the story the people are assured that, though it is not in their power to overcome such obstacles, God is with them, God is guiding them, God is even challenging them in the midst of those experiences. And despite their tendency to question, to feel isolated and disappointed, angry and frustrated, alienated, displaced and exiled, despite their inability to understand the ways of God, to want to be like God, to always look for more than they have, to go against the ways of God, God has been there, and just when they thought that they could go on no longer God’s creative saving/liberating presence shows them and takes them on the next step of their journey: into the wonderful world of creation; out of the place of slavery that is Egypt; away from testing and out of exile; out of ignorance and into understanding; out of despair and into hope. And you’d think from all that the people would have learnt wouldn’t you? You’d think from all that, we, human beings, creatures of God, would have learnt, wouldn’t you?
You’d think that just one of those episodes would have been just enough for God’s creatures, us, to stop the questioning and the searching and the agonising and the complaining and the despair and running away and the trying to be like God and going against the ways of God… but none of them did. The people of God persisted in asking the question, “How shall we overcome this obstacle: the obstacle of being human and all that it brings with it? Who will roll the stone away for us?”
Who will roll the stone away for us? The irony is that according to the end of the Gospel of Mark, the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus might have been just another one of those episodes in salvation history where the people of God were reminded once more that it is God who journeys with us, that it is God who understands and God who liberates and saves, God who rolls the stone away. For this resurrection story in Mark ends not with great celebration, not with a bang but a whimper. We are told that the women were afraid. They fled the tomb and their strange experience at that place in terror and amazement, and, according to the text, said nothing to anyone. It could have been just another episode in the grand narrative of people asking questions of God, seeking answers, receiving God’s assurance and forgetting it all again before the next trial befalls them.
But, we know that the story does not end there. We actually know that the women must have told someone. We know that it does not end there, or we would not be here. We would not be gathering to hear this story of the culmination of salvation and the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. The story did not end in fear or we would not be celebrating that we no longer have to ask the question “How shall we overcome this obstacle?”
In the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, God demonstrates that being human is not an obstacle to relationship with God; that none of the vagaries or foibles or pitfalls of being human can separate us from the love of God. God enables the relationship to continue beyond our wanderings and our yearnings, our questioning and our defiance, our ill-advised ventures and our sin. And God achieves all this by becoming one of us in Christ, experiencing the heights and the depths of human experience all the way to an ignominious death on the cross, and beyond that death to a resurrection that proclaims the overcoming of all that we might have expected to separate us from the love of God. How shall we overcome this obstacle? There is no obstacle to be overcome. Dare we believe it? It’s easy to maintain the patterns that we know and fail to hear the new good news: that God is with us, that God loves us, that forgives us, and the God travels beside us every step of the way.
Who will roll the stone away for us? The stone is no longer there. It has been removed because of Christ. And we have been enfolded into Christ in our Baptism, plunged into the life, death and resurrection of Christ and all that that entails. It is awe-inspiring, it is amazing, it is even somewhat frightening, that you and I together now bear the marks of the risen Christ, as the body of Christ. Yet, this is the truth we celebrate here today. This is story to which we give witness. This is the covenant promise which governs our lives as the people of God who follow the way of Christ.
Who will roll the stone away for us? The stone is no longer in place. It is long gone, Jesus Christ is risen, and we celebrate our resurrection to new life in God with that risen Christ, alleluia, amen!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Taking Up the Cross
Year B Lent 2—Sermon—Armidale Uniting Church
The cross was an instrument of torture, humiliation and death. The Romans used it to ensure the most painful, shameful death for criminals and dissidents. Not only was it shameful and painful for those put to death on it; but also for their families and their communities. Often retribution upon families and communities would accompany the public execution of crucifixion victims. Crosses were designed to make sure that the many peoples whom the Romans had conquered were well aware of the consequences of crimes against the might of Rome. So painful and shameful was the cross as instrument of oppression that it was not until the late second century that it became widespread as the symbol for Christianity. Carrying a cross was about being lead out in humiliation in order to die; and about the accompanying humiliation and hurt meted out to families and communities. And yet here in the Gospel of Mark, we have Jesus enjoining his disciples to “take up their crosses” in order to follow in the way of Christ.
Now around about this time, you may just be thinking: “Oh no, not another sermon about taking up our crosses. I have enough in my life to contend with. I don’t need reminding that living is painful. And I certainly don’t need to be told that following Jesus is about thinking I’m a worm and that whatever my self is is useless. I’ve had enough of that from being alive.” And you’re right! That simple little clause that we take so much for granted in Christianity comes with huge baggage. “Take up your cross” has been used to exhort people into crusades against those of other faiths. It has been used to humiliate and deny the valid contributions of members of the body of Christ. It has been used to justify all kinds of suffering and to ignore the real problems of social and political oppression. “Take up your cross!”
The Gospel of Mark is, of course, quite concerned with oppression: political oppression by the Romans; physical and spiritual oppression by disease and demons; religious oppression by overly zealous religious leaders. Indeed, there are so many, many stories in Mark about people being released from oppression that this theme of willing suffering is hard to believe when we first come up against it. If Jesus comes to free us, then what is all this talk of suffering about? And anyway, it doesn’t exactly sound like “good news”, does it? So we have to be careful when we’re reading this familiar passage. It would be easy to overlook its real significance, or to write it off because the dubious interpretations of it we have received in the past.
So let’s get some of those dubious interpretations out of the way. This passage is not about justifying victims being on the receiving end of violence. It is not about telling abused people to stay in situations of abuse. It is not about self-mortification for its own sake. It’s not about wearing hair shirts and whipping yourself with thorns to show how repentant you are. It’s not all about sublimating who you are for the sake of some impossible, ethereal, religious ideal of perfection. It’s not about ignoring oppression and victimisation because “we all have our cross to bear”. And it’s not about using the Gospel to victimise, oppress and abuse just as some these interpretations have victimised, oppressed and abused already victimised, oppressed and abused people.
Rather this passage is about the consequences of living a Christian Life, the consequences of following the way of Christ and of seeking to put into practice Gospel values and Gospel actions. And such consequences come about not because we submit to or ignore oppression, but because we challenge it.
The Romans did not crucify people who meekly submitted to being slaves, to having their communities overrun; and who offered no resistance. It was precisely those who challenged the might of the Romans who ended up on crosses. It was those who challenged their claims to property and persons; to sovereignty and to religious and spiritual supremacy who found themselves carrying their cross. Jesus is not saying, “Be meek and mild.” He’s saying, “Remember when you get so excited about all this stuff that it will have consequences. Be sure that you want to bear them. And don’t give me a fairytale view of where I’m going either. I know what’s ahead and I know it’s going to be nasty. So if you really believe this stuff about a loving God who cares for the least, then recognise that you’re not going to be the most popular person in the community, because you’ll be challenging the status quo and upsetting the equilibrium. And no-one likes that.”
The upside is, of course, that this stuff about a loving God who cares for the oppressed is exciting stuff. It gives you a reason to live and believe, to act and to speak. It gives you a life which kowtowing to false powers does not. “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”
So, be realistic. Face what being Christian means head on and decide. Decide to side with a loving God who cares for victims or to collaborate in your own victimisation by pretending that everything’s okay. Decide to be excited about working against injustice or to live in resignation in a very imperfect world. Decide to speak and act in love and faith; or to act and speak in submission to other powers that will not set you free. But when you decide, know this—it is not the easy road that you choose when you choose freedom in God. It is a road that has consequences. Others won’t understand; won’t want to join you; may even work against you. You too may know humiliation because you proclaim God’s freedom, God’s justice, God’s love.
Know this too—that this life with consequences is so much more exciting, fulfilling, challenging than any easy road. This life with consequences is life in God. For what does it profit anyone to live an easy life without the consequences in contrast to a life that continually seeks the things of God and works to bring about God’s realm? If you do want to follow Christ, don’t try to save yourself (that’s done), rather enter into the freedom that Christ brings and enjoy proclaiming God’s will for the world in everything you say and do—even when there are consequences, consequences like the humiliation of a cross.
The cross was an instrument of torture, humiliation and death. The Romans used it to ensure the most painful, shameful death for criminals and dissidents. Not only was it shameful and painful for those put to death on it; but also for their families and their communities. Often retribution upon families and communities would accompany the public execution of crucifixion victims. Crosses were designed to make sure that the many peoples whom the Romans had conquered were well aware of the consequences of crimes against the might of Rome. So painful and shameful was the cross as instrument of oppression that it was not until the late second century that it became widespread as the symbol for Christianity. Carrying a cross was about being lead out in humiliation in order to die; and about the accompanying humiliation and hurt meted out to families and communities. And yet here in the Gospel of Mark, we have Jesus enjoining his disciples to “take up their crosses” in order to follow in the way of Christ.
Now around about this time, you may just be thinking: “Oh no, not another sermon about taking up our crosses. I have enough in my life to contend with. I don’t need reminding that living is painful. And I certainly don’t need to be told that following Jesus is about thinking I’m a worm and that whatever my self is is useless. I’ve had enough of that from being alive.” And you’re right! That simple little clause that we take so much for granted in Christianity comes with huge baggage. “Take up your cross” has been used to exhort people into crusades against those of other faiths. It has been used to humiliate and deny the valid contributions of members of the body of Christ. It has been used to justify all kinds of suffering and to ignore the real problems of social and political oppression. “Take up your cross!”
The Gospel of Mark is, of course, quite concerned with oppression: political oppression by the Romans; physical and spiritual oppression by disease and demons; religious oppression by overly zealous religious leaders. Indeed, there are so many, many stories in Mark about people being released from oppression that this theme of willing suffering is hard to believe when we first come up against it. If Jesus comes to free us, then what is all this talk of suffering about? And anyway, it doesn’t exactly sound like “good news”, does it? So we have to be careful when we’re reading this familiar passage. It would be easy to overlook its real significance, or to write it off because the dubious interpretations of it we have received in the past.
So let’s get some of those dubious interpretations out of the way. This passage is not about justifying victims being on the receiving end of violence. It is not about telling abused people to stay in situations of abuse. It is not about self-mortification for its own sake. It’s not about wearing hair shirts and whipping yourself with thorns to show how repentant you are. It’s not all about sublimating who you are for the sake of some impossible, ethereal, religious ideal of perfection. It’s not about ignoring oppression and victimisation because “we all have our cross to bear”. And it’s not about using the Gospel to victimise, oppress and abuse just as some these interpretations have victimised, oppressed and abused already victimised, oppressed and abused people.
Rather this passage is about the consequences of living a Christian Life, the consequences of following the way of Christ and of seeking to put into practice Gospel values and Gospel actions. And such consequences come about not because we submit to or ignore oppression, but because we challenge it.
The Romans did not crucify people who meekly submitted to being slaves, to having their communities overrun; and who offered no resistance. It was precisely those who challenged the might of the Romans who ended up on crosses. It was those who challenged their claims to property and persons; to sovereignty and to religious and spiritual supremacy who found themselves carrying their cross. Jesus is not saying, “Be meek and mild.” He’s saying, “Remember when you get so excited about all this stuff that it will have consequences. Be sure that you want to bear them. And don’t give me a fairytale view of where I’m going either. I know what’s ahead and I know it’s going to be nasty. So if you really believe this stuff about a loving God who cares for the least, then recognise that you’re not going to be the most popular person in the community, because you’ll be challenging the status quo and upsetting the equilibrium. And no-one likes that.”
The upside is, of course, that this stuff about a loving God who cares for the oppressed is exciting stuff. It gives you a reason to live and believe, to act and to speak. It gives you a life which kowtowing to false powers does not. “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.”
So, be realistic. Face what being Christian means head on and decide. Decide to side with a loving God who cares for victims or to collaborate in your own victimisation by pretending that everything’s okay. Decide to be excited about working against injustice or to live in resignation in a very imperfect world. Decide to speak and act in love and faith; or to act and speak in submission to other powers that will not set you free. But when you decide, know this—it is not the easy road that you choose when you choose freedom in God. It is a road that has consequences. Others won’t understand; won’t want to join you; may even work against you. You too may know humiliation because you proclaim God’s freedom, God’s justice, God’s love.
Know this too—that this life with consequences is so much more exciting, fulfilling, challenging than any easy road. This life with consequences is life in God. For what does it profit anyone to live an easy life without the consequences in contrast to a life that continually seeks the things of God and works to bring about God’s realm? If you do want to follow Christ, don’t try to save yourself (that’s done), rather enter into the freedom that Christ brings and enjoy proclaiming God’s will for the world in everything you say and do—even when there are consequences, consequences like the humiliation of a cross.
Prelude to Declaration of Forgiveness for Lent 2 - Year B
Let no distrust make you waver concerning the promises of God.
Grow strong in faith even as you give God glory.
Be fully convinced that God is able to do what has been promised.
(Cf Rom. 4:20-21)
Grow strong in faith even as you give God glory.
Be fully convinced that God is able to do what has been promised.
(Cf Rom. 4:20-21)
Call to Worship for Lent 2 - Year B
We will tell of your name, O God.
In the midst of the congregation, we will praise you!
Praise God, all who stand in awe of God’s grace.
We honour and glorify God’s name.
For God does not hide or recoil from those who suffer.
When we call, God answers.
The poor shall eat and be satisfied.
Those who seek God will live in God forever.
(Cf Ps 22:22-24)
In the midst of the congregation, we will praise you!
Praise God, all who stand in awe of God’s grace.
We honour and glorify God’s name.
For God does not hide or recoil from those who suffer.
When we call, God answers.
The poor shall eat and be satisfied.
Those who seek God will live in God forever.
(Cf Ps 22:22-24)
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Enfolded into God
A Reflection for a Funeral
Perhaps facing death is the most difficult thing that we do as humans. Death reminds us of our mortality; of the frailty and fragility of our existence; of the transient nature of God’s created order.
Even when we can celebrate the well-lived life of a close friend or a dear relative, we are confronted with the impermanence of that person and of ourselves. “Remember we are dust and to dust we shall return.”
Surely, then we are tempted to cry out and ask, “Why?” Why is it that we are born, we live, we endure joy and pain, we die? Why is it that God created such a world of fluctuation and impermanence?
Perhaps we may be angry at a God who could concoct such a cruel equation of life and death. “How could you do this to us God?” “We loved her. How could you take her from us?”
Certainly, it takes a little time to settle in. We may lift the phone to ring or find that we are still including the deceased in our routine plans for today. We can’t initially believe that someone whom we knew, whom we loved, whom we cared for is just no longer with us in the same way.
The Christian tradition does not offer easy answers to our predicament. It is not content with platitudes about everything being in God’s plan, about God’s appointed time, or even about lives well-lived.
The Christian tradition reminds us that God created us to be in relationship with God and with one another; and that God’s creation is both good and demanding. Relationships are demanding. Living is demanding. Change is demanding. Death is demanding. Life is demanding. For our world is a dynamic world, it revolves around our interactions with one another, with our environment and with God. A dynamic, relational world is a demanding one.
But the Christian tradition also does not leave us in our shock, in our pain, in our grief, in our disbelief, in our anger, in our questioning, in our confusion on our own. It says that because our world is a dynamic and relational one, it is in and through our relationships that we endure and survive and indeed may live well our transitory lives.
So we gather today to share with one another our grief, our pain, our joy, our celebration, our hope, our confusion. So we gather today to pour it all out together to God. Because the Christian tradition, says that God knows it all, God hears it all, God experiences it all, God understands it all and God stands in utter solidarity with us as we experience so much in life and in death. God waits and watches as a loving parent waits and watches the throes of adolescence and the discoveries of each new stage of life. And always God is ready to embrace us, God’s children, whatever state we are in.
The Christian tradition also offers the hope that nothing and no-one is lost in God. That death is an end and a beginning. And that all things are finally caught up into God’s reign in a way that is beyond our understanding, but not outside our imagination.
So then, today we have come to grieve and to celebrate, to cry and to sing, to rail against God and to praise God for a life well-lived, a life taken away and a life that is now enfolded into the very life of God.
Perhaps facing death is the most difficult thing that we do as humans. Death reminds us of our mortality; of the frailty and fragility of our existence; of the transient nature of God’s created order.
Even when we can celebrate the well-lived life of a close friend or a dear relative, we are confronted with the impermanence of that person and of ourselves. “Remember we are dust and to dust we shall return.”
Surely, then we are tempted to cry out and ask, “Why?” Why is it that we are born, we live, we endure joy and pain, we die? Why is it that God created such a world of fluctuation and impermanence?
Perhaps we may be angry at a God who could concoct such a cruel equation of life and death. “How could you do this to us God?” “We loved her. How could you take her from us?”
Certainly, it takes a little time to settle in. We may lift the phone to ring or find that we are still including the deceased in our routine plans for today. We can’t initially believe that someone whom we knew, whom we loved, whom we cared for is just no longer with us in the same way.
The Christian tradition does not offer easy answers to our predicament. It is not content with platitudes about everything being in God’s plan, about God’s appointed time, or even about lives well-lived.
The Christian tradition reminds us that God created us to be in relationship with God and with one another; and that God’s creation is both good and demanding. Relationships are demanding. Living is demanding. Change is demanding. Death is demanding. Life is demanding. For our world is a dynamic world, it revolves around our interactions with one another, with our environment and with God. A dynamic, relational world is a demanding one.
But the Christian tradition also does not leave us in our shock, in our pain, in our grief, in our disbelief, in our anger, in our questioning, in our confusion on our own. It says that because our world is a dynamic and relational one, it is in and through our relationships that we endure and survive and indeed may live well our transitory lives.
So we gather today to share with one another our grief, our pain, our joy, our celebration, our hope, our confusion. So we gather today to pour it all out together to God. Because the Christian tradition, says that God knows it all, God hears it all, God experiences it all, God understands it all and God stands in utter solidarity with us as we experience so much in life and in death. God waits and watches as a loving parent waits and watches the throes of adolescence and the discoveries of each new stage of life. And always God is ready to embrace us, God’s children, whatever state we are in.
The Christian tradition also offers the hope that nothing and no-one is lost in God. That death is an end and a beginning. And that all things are finally caught up into God’s reign in a way that is beyond our understanding, but not outside our imagination.
So then, today we have come to grieve and to celebrate, to cry and to sing, to rail against God and to praise God for a life well-lived, a life taken away and a life that is now enfolded into the very life of God.
Covenant of Love
Year B Lent 1—Sermon—Armidale Uniting Church
A reading of the poem "An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow" by Les Murray began this sermon: http://www.lesmurray.org/pm_aor.htm
An absolutely ordinary rainbow. An absolutely, ordinary rainbow. An absolutely, ordinary rainbow! This is the sign of God’s covenant with God’s people: a rainbow hung like a warrior’s bow upon the tent wall—a bow put up for peace—“ain’t gonna worry about war no more”. An absolutely ordinary rainbow.
An absolutely ordinary rainbow made from sunlight shining through the prisms of moisture in the atmosphere: a meteorologist could give us a long treatise on its scientific explanation. But it’s still an absolutely ordinary rainbow. And nevertheless, a sign: a sign of God’s covenant, at least according to Genesis—a sign of God’s covenant “never again” to “cut off” “all flesh” “by the waters of a flood”; “never again” “to destroy the earth” “by flood”. And it’s a special kind of covenant—an unconditional one. There’s nothing that humanity has to do. God will simply fulfil the promise. An absolutely ordinary rainbow. An absolutely extraordinary, unconditional promise.
So, according to the story of Noah and Shem and Ham and Japheth and their unnamed wives and that impossible menagerie of pairs or was it sevens of every kind of animal in all the earth (there are 2 different takes on the plot), according to this story, God offers an unconditional promise, an unconditional promise of peace (“there ain’t gonna be war no more”) between God and humanity. An absolutely ordinary rainbow. An absolutely extraordinary, unconditional promise. A covenant between God and humanity made unconditionally by God.
Surely, that is enough to make one weep: unconditional acceptance from a powerful, warrior God who has just wiped out a sizeable proportion of God’s people with tactics nothing short of terrorism: a great flood.
But the story of our Judaeo-Christian heritage doesn’t stop there. There a several extraordinary covenant “cuttings” along the way. One cuts a covenant as one divides a carcass to share among the covenant partners for surely a covenant demands a celebration. (Noah has already built an altar and had quite a barbeque in the lead-up to the account of the making of the covenant.) And any occasion for celebration, particularly, a covenantal one, is surely one for weeping—haven’t you watched the parents at a wedding or perhaps been one yourself? They’re so happy they could cry and they do. But it’s just an absolutely ordinary thing, the making of a covenant, and yet at the same time absolutely extraordinary—an unconditional compact between 2 or more parties. We’ve learnt to second guess ourselves and make sure all the bases are covered, even with marriages in these days of pre-nuptial contracts.
But if Noah hasn’t got you weeping, surely the story of Jesus’ baptism will. How many of us have waited for that affirming word from a parent, a boss, a friend, a colleague, a stranger? And how often has it not come? And here in this story, an adult child is willing immersed in the chaotic waters (even after that promise from God about no floods), willingly immersed in a ceremony that changes lives and changes worlds. And according to Mark, something extraordinarily ordinary happens: the child is affirmed as beloved, unconditionally by his parent, by God. An absolutely extraordinary, unconditional, ordinary parental promise.
Both the covenant witnessed to by the bow in the sky and the one by the Spirit descending as a dove are wrought in the chaotic waters of flood and immersion, both are reliant on the gifting of God, both are unwarranted and both are freely given. Of course, by the time we get to Jesus, the warrior God has been left a little way behind (although the hangover is still there), but the worry about what God will or should do in the face of human behaviour probably hasn’t—despite the Noachian covenant.
In the story of Noah, in the aftermath of the flood, a covenant is wrought. In the story of Jesus, following his immersion an affirmation is given. Out of the trials of water, new discoveries are made about the promises of God: absolutely extraordinarily ordinary. It is enough to produce weeping: the promise of unconditional love, unconditional acceptance, unconditional peace, unconditional relationship.
And yet it is precisely the overwhelming nature of extraordinary unconditional ordinary covenants that produces a response: weeping and celebration, sacrifice and worship, entry into the wilderness—responses to the extraordinary gift of God.
It’s Lent. During Lent, we are called to remember and to honour God’s extraordinary unconditional promise to us: that through Christ, eternal peace has been made; because of Christ, there will not be war between humanity and God anymore; in Christ, we are immersed into the body of Christ and enfolded into the life of God. All that we need do is respond to such an extraordinary gift as an absolutely ordinary rainbow!
Lord God,
in baptism, you brought us into union with Christ
who fulfils your gracious covenant;
and in bread and wine
we receive the fruit of his obedience.
So with joy
we take upon ourselves the yoke of obedience,
and commit ourselves to seek and do your perfect will.
Amen.
[from the service for “Renewing the Covenant”, UiW2]
A reading of the poem "An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow" by Les Murray began this sermon: http://www.lesmurray.org/pm_aor.htm
An absolutely ordinary rainbow. An absolutely, ordinary rainbow. An absolutely, ordinary rainbow! This is the sign of God’s covenant with God’s people: a rainbow hung like a warrior’s bow upon the tent wall—a bow put up for peace—“ain’t gonna worry about war no more”. An absolutely ordinary rainbow.
An absolutely ordinary rainbow made from sunlight shining through the prisms of moisture in the atmosphere: a meteorologist could give us a long treatise on its scientific explanation. But it’s still an absolutely ordinary rainbow. And nevertheless, a sign: a sign of God’s covenant, at least according to Genesis—a sign of God’s covenant “never again” to “cut off” “all flesh” “by the waters of a flood”; “never again” “to destroy the earth” “by flood”. And it’s a special kind of covenant—an unconditional one. There’s nothing that humanity has to do. God will simply fulfil the promise. An absolutely ordinary rainbow. An absolutely extraordinary, unconditional promise.
So, according to the story of Noah and Shem and Ham and Japheth and their unnamed wives and that impossible menagerie of pairs or was it sevens of every kind of animal in all the earth (there are 2 different takes on the plot), according to this story, God offers an unconditional promise, an unconditional promise of peace (“there ain’t gonna be war no more”) between God and humanity. An absolutely ordinary rainbow. An absolutely extraordinary, unconditional promise. A covenant between God and humanity made unconditionally by God.
Surely, that is enough to make one weep: unconditional acceptance from a powerful, warrior God who has just wiped out a sizeable proportion of God’s people with tactics nothing short of terrorism: a great flood.
But the story of our Judaeo-Christian heritage doesn’t stop there. There a several extraordinary covenant “cuttings” along the way. One cuts a covenant as one divides a carcass to share among the covenant partners for surely a covenant demands a celebration. (Noah has already built an altar and had quite a barbeque in the lead-up to the account of the making of the covenant.) And any occasion for celebration, particularly, a covenantal one, is surely one for weeping—haven’t you watched the parents at a wedding or perhaps been one yourself? They’re so happy they could cry and they do. But it’s just an absolutely ordinary thing, the making of a covenant, and yet at the same time absolutely extraordinary—an unconditional compact between 2 or more parties. We’ve learnt to second guess ourselves and make sure all the bases are covered, even with marriages in these days of pre-nuptial contracts.
But if Noah hasn’t got you weeping, surely the story of Jesus’ baptism will. How many of us have waited for that affirming word from a parent, a boss, a friend, a colleague, a stranger? And how often has it not come? And here in this story, an adult child is willing immersed in the chaotic waters (even after that promise from God about no floods), willingly immersed in a ceremony that changes lives and changes worlds. And according to Mark, something extraordinarily ordinary happens: the child is affirmed as beloved, unconditionally by his parent, by God. An absolutely extraordinary, unconditional, ordinary parental promise.
Both the covenant witnessed to by the bow in the sky and the one by the Spirit descending as a dove are wrought in the chaotic waters of flood and immersion, both are reliant on the gifting of God, both are unwarranted and both are freely given. Of course, by the time we get to Jesus, the warrior God has been left a little way behind (although the hangover is still there), but the worry about what God will or should do in the face of human behaviour probably hasn’t—despite the Noachian covenant.
In the story of Noah, in the aftermath of the flood, a covenant is wrought. In the story of Jesus, following his immersion an affirmation is given. Out of the trials of water, new discoveries are made about the promises of God: absolutely extraordinarily ordinary. It is enough to produce weeping: the promise of unconditional love, unconditional acceptance, unconditional peace, unconditional relationship.
And yet it is precisely the overwhelming nature of extraordinary unconditional ordinary covenants that produces a response: weeping and celebration, sacrifice and worship, entry into the wilderness—responses to the extraordinary gift of God.
It’s Lent. During Lent, we are called to remember and to honour God’s extraordinary unconditional promise to us: that through Christ, eternal peace has been made; because of Christ, there will not be war between humanity and God anymore; in Christ, we are immersed into the body of Christ and enfolded into the life of God. All that we need do is respond to such an extraordinary gift as an absolutely ordinary rainbow!
Lord God,
in baptism, you brought us into union with Christ
who fulfils your gracious covenant;
and in bread and wine
we receive the fruit of his obedience.
So with joy
we take upon ourselves the yoke of obedience,
and commit ourselves to seek and do your perfect will.
Amen.
[from the service for “Renewing the Covenant”, UiW2]
Entering Lent
Uniting in Worship 2 (p. 573) reminds us that “Lent is a time of preparation for Easter”. It lasts 40 days plus Sundays. Sundays don’t count because that is the day when Christians celebrate Christ in fullness—life, death and resurrection. Lent ends at sunset (the beginning and end of the biblical day) on Easter Saturday.
In this time of preparation, we are encouraged through prayer, fasting and acts of generosity and compassion to reflect on the love of God for us.
Lent Event focuses that reflection by asking us to “give up” something and to donate the money we save to a significant project supported by Uniting Church Overseas Aid (UCOA). The “giving up” reminds us of what the Triune God gives up in sending, coming and being in our world in the person and work of Christ. God does all this because of God’s great love for us and desire to be in continuing relationship with us.
Perhaps you might like to include this short prayer (or collect) in your daily prayer during the season of Lent as you focus on God’s great love for the world and desire for reconciliation with the whole of creation:
Spirit God,
we pray that in this Lenten season,
by prayer, study and self-giving,
we may penetrate more deeply
into the mystery of Christ’s journey;
that, following in the way
of Christ’s cross and passion,
we may come to share
in the healing and celebration
of Christ’s resurrection
through Christ, with Christ, in Christ,
for the glory of God. Amen.
This Collect is adapted from Carden, John (ed.) 1989. With All God’s People: The New Ecumenical Prayer Cycle. Geneva: WCC, 29, 37-38.
In this time of preparation, we are encouraged through prayer, fasting and acts of generosity and compassion to reflect on the love of God for us.
Lent Event focuses that reflection by asking us to “give up” something and to donate the money we save to a significant project supported by Uniting Church Overseas Aid (UCOA). The “giving up” reminds us of what the Triune God gives up in sending, coming and being in our world in the person and work of Christ. God does all this because of God’s great love for us and desire to be in continuing relationship with us.
Perhaps you might like to include this short prayer (or collect) in your daily prayer during the season of Lent as you focus on God’s great love for the world and desire for reconciliation with the whole of creation:
Spirit God,
we pray that in this Lenten season,
by prayer, study and self-giving,
we may penetrate more deeply
into the mystery of Christ’s journey;
that, following in the way
of Christ’s cross and passion,
we may come to share
in the healing and celebration
of Christ’s resurrection
through Christ, with Christ, in Christ,
for the glory of God. Amen.
This Collect is adapted from Carden, John (ed.) 1989. With All God’s People: The New Ecumenical Prayer Cycle. Geneva: WCC, 29, 37-38.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)