So it’s the 9th day of the Christmas season, the second Sunday of that season and the day we may also commemorate as Epiphany, the celebration of the revealing of Christ, the “unfolding vision of wholeness that God has made manifest for all people in Jesus the Christ” (Seasons of the Spirit). Epiphany means “revelation” or “manifestation” or “display”. The day of Epiphany, 6 January, is the day after the Christmas season. It marks the unleashing of the impact of the incarnation upon the world.
At Epiphany, we hear and tell the story of the wise visitors to the infant Jesus, not in a manger, but in a house. And as we do, we disentangle a piece of Matthew’s story about Jesus from the trappings of the stable and the shepherds at the birth of Jesus.
We hear the story of the visit of the Magi, the wise ones, to the infant Jesus, not as part of the prettiness and wonder of the Christmas story, but as part of the ongoing storying in which the early Christian communities were involved in about the life of Jesus. This story is not a lovely story about some strange visitors. It is a strange story about knife-edge politics—a story about the challenging and confronting of traditions, about the way in which the emerging Christian story was being read back into the life of the infant Jesus.
We hear about the interplay of the light and the depth of the Jesus experience on the unfolding understanding of the early Christian community, and the way that that interplay was being enfolded into their own story.
Have you ever sat somewhere and watched the play of light on water? Perhaps you were at the ocean, or by a waterfall, or near a river. Maybe the sun was high and the glare was intense, so that you almost had to turn away. Perhaps the light was diffused by some rainforest trees so that the light jumped like the water constantly changing pattern and form. Perhaps there were clouds in the sky that cast intricate shadows of varying shades. Light illuminates and light obfuscates; light makes it impossible to see. We don’t see the light. We see that which the light shines upon.
Water is a symbol of the Christian community—the baptised ones; those immersed in the depths of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. And light is a sign of the revelation of God in Christ. And in this interplay of the light of Christ on the depths of the Christian community, the story of the sages who recognise what is right before the eyes of Israel, the light to the nations, emerges.
It is through our stories that we make sense of our world. It is by our stories that we describe who we are. And it is in the re-telling of those stories, the re-storying of our traditions, our histories, our identities that we learn to cope with our ever-changing world and ourselves within it.
The communities out of which the Gospel of Matthew arose were discovering who they were—as a reformist Jewish movement, as Jewish Christians, and then as Christians distinct from their Jewish counterparts. They valued the depths of Judaisim, the insights of their faith, the Jewish faith, and they understood that that faith had sustained the people for a long, long time. Within their tradition, there were various elements that were particularly important: respect for the law of God; interest in the idea of God’s wisdom and how that wisdom interacted with the wisdom of other peoples around the Jewish faith community; the challenging story of the people’s descent into Egypt, their liberation by God and the journey to the promised land. But they were also experiencing something new—something that stemmed from their faith, and extended it.
Now on top of the deep traditions of the Jewish faith, the people of the communities which Matthew addresses have the depth of the Jesus experience. The light is playing on their water and producing new understandings of who God is and who they are before God. The depth of the traditions which they embody are being illuminated anew to produce different patterns and different ways of seeing; and their storytelling reflects those new experiences and understandings. So they tell a new old story about a visit of some wise folk from the East who recognise the light when they see it.
In the telling of this tale, they confront the depths of their traditions with the light of the new, and in that process some of the old has to go, some of the new has to be re-interpreted and some of the old definitely has to stay. Because you cannot watch light play on water if there is no water, and none of us begin our stories from nothing. We all build from what we have storied before.
So a story is told which involves confronting a dubious part of the tradition. A bad king, Herod, takes the role of that which must be defied. The story includes a newer part of the tradition: an emphasis on wisdom in the persons of the visitors from the East. The wisdom tradition was barely centuries old at the time of Jesus. And the new light—the infant Jesus—more than a baby, not still in the manger, but residing with parents to protect and care for him—takes centre stage.
The old story is quoted to back up the plot. Bethlehem is cited as the place most likely to sporn a new ruler to defy the might of kings like Herod, no longer loyal to the tradition, but operated like puppets behind the scenes by Roman rulers. Last week you heard more of that story. The fear of Herod, the attempt to kill the infant, the journey to Egypt and out again: an upside down version of the earlier tale of the Exodus. This week we heard that story’s beginning: the alerting of Herod to a possible rival by the Magi from the East.
And when the old traditions have been subsumed into the new, the wise visitors and Herod the king depart the story, and the light falls fully on the new light and the teaching of Jesus, but that’s where our story continues next week.
The story is alarming, more like a crime novel, or a movie thriller than a cute fairy story for children. Because in this story there is confrontation and intrigue, violence and elusive escape. And it’s not just in the plot. It’s in the very story itself. For as the story unfolds, we are drawn into a re-storying of tradition; a playing of the light on the water that can at first dazzle, sometimes transfix and maybe even confuse. When we confront a new story, when we are confronted by a light that startles and overwhelms us, it is our traditions that we fall back upon, the things with which we are familiar. And it is from these old stories that we draw the stuff of the explanation for the new. In a way, that is a kind of violence too, because as we make the new story, we destroy the old. And while we always hope that our continuing story will help us to understand our living better and better we can never be sure. We trust in the play of water on light. Like the infant Jesus, we journey to Egypt in vulnerability uncertain whether the traditioning process will help us to re-make our stories again.
Re-making our stories is something we do every day of our lives, but it is particularly something that we do in times of immense change and challenge. The ability to re-make our stories is part of being resilient, part of being able to cope with life’s highs and lows.
The emerging Christian communities whose stories only Matthew records find comfort and resilience in the story of infant Jesus, visited by the wise, foretold by the prophets, bringer of light and keeper of the depths of old traditions. And in that delicate balance, they re-make their story and the story of the world.
So where does that leave this Christian community today. We continue that re-storing process. The light of Christ continues to play in our lives and to produce new patterns and experiences. And we are called to proclaim them.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Let All Creation Praise God!
Let all creation praise God! Let all creation praise God! It’s such a strong message in the Christmas season. The angels sing it. We sing it. And we want so much for the whole world to join in. Let all creation praise God!
But tragedy is never far from the Christmas scene; just as it is never far from the scene of creation, the very scene of our life. The cross looms over the horizon of our celebration of the birth of Jesus. The real world of pain and hunger, sickness and need is barely hidden below the surface of our celebrations; and the very day after we celebrate the joyful birth, we hear the story of the slaughter of the innocents. Let all creation praise God! But in Ramah, there is “wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel [is] weeping for her children; [and] she refuse[s] to be consoled, because they are no more." (Matthew 2:18)
How can we sing the Lord’s sing in this foreign land?
And yet that is what we are called to do: to sing God’s praise, to honour God in the midst of life whatever that is. Perhaps it is not easy for us in our comfortable setting to understand this calling, this vocation as it is for those who have less, who know their need more closely.
The prayer and praise of God’s people sustains them in hope. It forms them in love and it upholds them in the most extreme of difficult times when in Ramah, there is “wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel [is] weeping for her children; [and] she refuse[s] to be consoled, because they are no more." (Matthew 2:18)
Even in the midst of life, let all Creation praise God! Because as we turn to God and recognise that we are created and sustained by God, we may catch a glimpse of the reconciliation that God desires for the whole of creation—wherever there is need; wherever there is conflict; wherever there is illness; wherever there is pain, it is in recognising the God who calls us to something beyond the immediacy of our own situations towards God’s promised realm of justice, love and peace, begun in Jesus and being brought up through us the people of God as part of God’s mission in God’s world. Truly, may all creation praise God!
The Psalms frequently testify to creation singing God’s praises. The Psalm for today (148) does just that... This Psalm calls on Earth, sea and sky to be filled with celebration and singing… [T]he psalmist calls on all the components of creation to praise God because all creation has the creative impulse of the Word of God as their source [In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God.] The psalmist calls on Earth, the elements of Earth and the creatures of Earth to praise God. This colourful list includes sea monsters, fire, wild animals, humans, and birds. Everything from ants to atoms seems to be included. [Excerpted from Kinship with Creation by Norman C. Habel as found on the Season of Creation website. Seasons of the Spirit Year A Advent/Christmas/Epiphany 2010-2011]
But tragedy is never far from the Christmas scene; just as it is never far from the scene of creation, the very scene of our life. The cross looms over the horizon of our celebration of the birth of Jesus. The real world of pain and hunger, sickness and need is barely hidden below the surface of our celebrations; and the very day after we celebrate the joyful birth, we hear the story of the slaughter of the innocents. Let all creation praise God! But in Ramah, there is “wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel [is] weeping for her children; [and] she refuse[s] to be consoled, because they are no more." (Matthew 2:18)
How can we sing the Lord’s sing in this foreign land?
And yet that is what we are called to do: to sing God’s praise, to honour God in the midst of life whatever that is. Perhaps it is not easy for us in our comfortable setting to understand this calling, this vocation as it is for those who have less, who know their need more closely.
Taizé is a village in southern France that is home to an ecumenical Christian community. The community began in 1940 by Roger Louis Schütz-Marsauche (Brother Roger), a Swiss born theological student studying in France. When it first began, the Taizé community offered a safe haven to refugees during the Nazi occupation of France. After World War II, the community slowly established a mission to promote peace across Western Europe and eventually around the world. This mission is most evident in the international, ecumenical gathering of thousands of youth each week in the summer. Daily worship includes short, musical selections that are sung repetitively and often use a variety of languages. [Indeed, many of the songs are sung in Latin, a language that belongs to nobody now.] It is said the meaning of the songs transcends any particular people represented by the language, furthering the evidence of peace within all creation. Many congregations use Taizé prayers and songs in their worship, some offering a monthly service of Taizé prayer. The minister of one church tells how people ask him why the church continues to offer such a prayer service, as the attendance is low. [After all, why do we bother to continue to praise God when our numbers are small or when the world is in need of such proactivity?]
“Two of the brothers took part in prayers in many cities in Germany throughout nearly the whole of November. After the prayer in Hanover, a woman doctor shared this story: ‘I’ve just arrived today from Faluja, Iraq. I accompanied a seriously wounded American soldier. After these very difficult weeks in Iraq, I wanted to see something beautiful: a concert, a theatre performance, or something in a church. During the flight I asked the pilots what was on in the city this evening. They told me there would be a prayer with songs from Taizé. ‘I have never been to Taizé. These last weeks I have been working as a doctor in the emergency service in Faluja. One day during the fighting I had to operate on a man who would probably need to have both legs amputated. During that difficult operation I heard a melody with words in Latin. I didn’t understand, for I had to concentrate on the operation. The song became louder and louder; it sounded like a chorale; my colleagues – French, British, American, German, and Iraqi – were singing together. ‘Carried by the melody, I calmed down, and could even see a chance of saving the man’s legs. And finally, we succeeded. After the operation was over, I heard the French doctors saying that it was a song from Taizé. I had never heard of Taizé until then. From then on, the Taizé songs often accompanied me during operations and I felt protected by God in very dangerous circumstances. This evening, I discovered that the song I heard for the first time in Faluja was Laudate omnes gentes. [Let all the people praise God!] And there were others that we sang back there too. I am so grateful.’” [Fraser MacNaughton has been minister of St. Magnus Cathedral,Kirkwall, Orkney, Scotland since 2002. He also has served as minister in Ayrshire, University of Dundee, and Glasgow. Seasons of the Spirit Year A Advent/Christmas/Epiphany 2010-2011]
The prayer and praise of God’s people sustains them in hope. It forms them in love and it upholds them in the most extreme of difficult times when in Ramah, there is “wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel [is] weeping for her children; [and] she refuse[s] to be consoled, because they are no more." (Matthew 2:18)
Even in the midst of life, let all Creation praise God! Because as we turn to God and recognise that we are created and sustained by God, we may catch a glimpse of the reconciliation that God desires for the whole of creation—wherever there is need; wherever there is conflict; wherever there is illness; wherever there is pain, it is in recognising the God who calls us to something beyond the immediacy of our own situations towards God’s promised realm of justice, love and peace, begun in Jesus and being brought up through us the people of God as part of God’s mission in God’s world. Truly, may all creation praise God!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
God Has Sandy Feet!
“From a distance, God is watching us,” Julie Gold wrote (1985) and Bette Midler (among others) sang. The song described the way in which a beneficent, a good, a caring God envisioned the world that God had created—a world of peace and harmon and environmental sustainability. It hinted at the disappointment that the real world may have become for God, with its litany of conflict and pain.
Even at Christmastime, God can seem somewhat distant from our lives, hoping for something grand and being disappointed with what God has ended up with. Sometimes, this picture of God seems the only possible one when we claim God’s goodness and look around us at the mess of God’s creation; or experience something particularly traumatic and difficult at a time when we’re supposed to be celebrating.
Have you watched children on a beach playing from a distance? It can all look so idyllic, so pleasurable, so inviting… and then you walk over and get involved… and the scene is not nearly so serene. There’s a need for give and take—whose road goes way and which tower gets built and how? From a distance, the castle rises from the beach; but up close the builders are not just working with their hands, but also with their hearts and their hopes and their dreams; and different designers clash, and sometimes there’s tears, and maybe even a temper tantrum or too. Watching from a distance is not where the real action is, although it can sometimes be somewhat more serene.
But watching from a distance can also be lonely and boring. If you don’t get down on your hands and knees on the sand, you can’t discover the feel of the building material; and the way that you can gently drip mixtures of sand and sea water to make walls and towers of astonishing complexity and beauty. And you can get so much more done before the tide comes in when you have helpers—a small sand castle can mushroom into a medieval city in no time at all when a few people get together to work the sand.
Another song-writer, Eric Bazilian (1995), and another singer, Joan Osborne asked a slightly different question from Gold and Midler. Not “What is it like watching from a distance?”, but “What would it be like for God to be in the sand with us?”
This is a God in the midst of the construction of sand castles with the kids—in the joy, in the tears, in the tantrums, in the sense of achievement, in the disappointment when the waves wash it all away, and in the anticipation of the next sand castling building expedition tomorrow. This God is with us! This God is in the midst of it all, getting hands and feet sandy and messy, windblown and sun-tanned, in the fun and the learning to share, and the discovering of injustice and the trying to get along with each other.
In reflecting on the lyrics of the song “One of Us”, liturgical theologian, Brian Wren writes:
But even as a child, the story isn’t such an idyllic one.
God, fully human, fully with us, fully within God’s own created order—as a vulnerable child, at the mercy of authorities who take censuses and kill potential rivals, in inadequate housing and facing an uncertain childhood—the incarnation (God becoming human) is the great doctrine (teaching) of the church that we celebrate in the Christmas season.
This doctrine is one to blow our minds—God becomes human—the Creator enters the creation—the all-powerful becomes all vulnerable to the vagaries of creaturely existence. God just doesn’t watch us from a distance; God lives our life. God just doesn’t empathise with us, God knows what it is to live as a mortal being.
When I was a small child, on holiday with my family at the beach, one evening as we were walking along the beach, we were writing with sticks in the sand. I wrote in the sand what nearly everyone writes at some time in their lives, "I was here". It was a celebration of the great event in time of which I was a part, walking along the beach with my family without a care in the world.
A man came up to me. He was smartly dressed. He even had shoes on his feet as he walked along the beach. I don't think he really saw me or really understood what my sign was saying. For he gravely bent over to read the words and jauntly said, "Ah, but where are you going?" Politely, I responded, "I don't know" but I felt terrible inside. Didn't this man see this wonderful place we were in? Why did it seem not to matter to him?
The man smiled smugly and without another word he continued his walk along the beach. As he walked away, I wondered to myself, how differently he might have reacted if he had bothered to take his shoes off to walk along the beach so he could feel the sand and the water on his toes.
In Jesus, God has taken off his shoes to experience our life. Everything we experience, Jesus experienced. God was prepared to give up all the perks of divinity in order to show us just how much we are loved—in order to stand in utter solidarity with us, God’s creatures, God’s beloved children. God knows the frailty and the fragility, the vulnerability and the suffering, the wonder and the joy of being human just like us.
Julia Esquivel from Guatemala puts it this way (Bread of Tomorrow, pp. 46-48):
For God indeed is one of us! Our God has sandy feet... and hands... and there's quite a bit of sand in God's hair too!
From a distance we all have enough, and no one is in need.
And there are no guns, no bombs, and no disease,
no hungry mouths to feed.
From a distance we are instruments
marching in a common band.
Playing songs of hope, playing songs of peace.
They're the songs of every [one].
God is watching us. God is watching us.
God is watching us from a distance.
Even at Christmastime, God can seem somewhat distant from our lives, hoping for something grand and being disappointed with what God has ended up with. Sometimes, this picture of God seems the only possible one when we claim God’s goodness and look around us at the mess of God’s creation; or experience something particularly traumatic and difficult at a time when we’re supposed to be celebrating.
Have you watched children on a beach playing from a distance? It can all look so idyllic, so pleasurable, so inviting… and then you walk over and get involved… and the scene is not nearly so serene. There’s a need for give and take—whose road goes way and which tower gets built and how? From a distance, the castle rises from the beach; but up close the builders are not just working with their hands, but also with their hearts and their hopes and their dreams; and different designers clash, and sometimes there’s tears, and maybe even a temper tantrum or too. Watching from a distance is not where the real action is, although it can sometimes be somewhat more serene.
But watching from a distance can also be lonely and boring. If you don’t get down on your hands and knees on the sand, you can’t discover the feel of the building material; and the way that you can gently drip mixtures of sand and sea water to make walls and towers of astonishing complexity and beauty. And you can get so much more done before the tide comes in when you have helpers—a small sand castle can mushroom into a medieval city in no time at all when a few people get together to work the sand.
Another song-writer, Eric Bazilian (1995), and another singer, Joan Osborne asked a slightly different question from Gold and Midler. Not “What is it like watching from a distance?”, but “What would it be like for God to be in the sand with us?”
What if God was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Tryin' to make his way home?
This is a God in the midst of the construction of sand castles with the kids—in the joy, in the tears, in the tantrums, in the sense of achievement, in the disappointment when the waves wash it all away, and in the anticipation of the next sand castling building expedition tomorrow. This God is with us! This God is in the midst of it all, getting hands and feet sandy and messy, windblown and sun-tanned, in the fun and the learning to share, and the discovering of injustice and the trying to get along with each other.
In reflecting on the lyrics of the song “One of Us”, liturgical theologian, Brian Wren writes:
What if God was one of us? Not watching from a distance, but taking the risks and having the inside knowledge of being born, being human, living and facing death? This is the good news of Christmas… Every one of us, and everyone on earth, is born into a particular time, a particular place, a particular language and tradition. It is the only way of being human... In the song refrain… the line “just a slob like one of us” seems to have a slightly self-mocking tone. It suggests that the singer and her peers, or human beings in general, are average, ordinary, and unappealing. More often the word “slob” is an insult, a term of abuse for someone who is coarse, lazy, dirty, or rude... the adult Jesus was a controversial prophet, loved by many but also insulted and abused, treated as worse than a slob… (Advent/Christmas/Epiphany, pp. 126, 127, 130-131).
But even as a child, the story isn’t such an idyllic one.
God, fully human, fully with us, fully within God’s own created order—as a vulnerable child, at the mercy of authorities who take censuses and kill potential rivals, in inadequate housing and facing an uncertain childhood—the incarnation (God becoming human) is the great doctrine (teaching) of the church that we celebrate in the Christmas season.
This doctrine is one to blow our minds—God becomes human—the Creator enters the creation—the all-powerful becomes all vulnerable to the vagaries of creaturely existence. God just doesn’t watch us from a distance; God lives our life. God just doesn’t empathise with us, God knows what it is to live as a mortal being.
When I was a small child, on holiday with my family at the beach, one evening as we were walking along the beach, we were writing with sticks in the sand. I wrote in the sand what nearly everyone writes at some time in their lives, "I was here". It was a celebration of the great event in time of which I was a part, walking along the beach with my family without a care in the world.
A man came up to me. He was smartly dressed. He even had shoes on his feet as he walked along the beach. I don't think he really saw me or really understood what my sign was saying. For he gravely bent over to read the words and jauntly said, "Ah, but where are you going?" Politely, I responded, "I don't know" but I felt terrible inside. Didn't this man see this wonderful place we were in? Why did it seem not to matter to him?
The man smiled smugly and without another word he continued his walk along the beach. As he walked away, I wondered to myself, how differently he might have reacted if he had bothered to take his shoes off to walk along the beach so he could feel the sand and the water on his toes.
In Jesus, God has taken off his shoes to experience our life. Everything we experience, Jesus experienced. God was prepared to give up all the perks of divinity in order to show us just how much we are loved—in order to stand in utter solidarity with us, God’s creatures, God’s beloved children. God knows the frailty and the fragility, the vulnerability and the suffering, the wonder and the joy of being human just like us.
Julia Esquivel from Guatemala puts it this way (Bread of Tomorrow, pp. 46-48):
The Word, for our sake, became poverty clothed as the poor who live off the refuse heap. The Word, for our sake, became a sob a thousand times stifled in the immovable mouth of the child who died from hunger. The Word, for our sake, became danger in the anguish of the mother who worries about her son growing into manhood. The Word cut us deeply in that place of shame: the painful reality of the poor. The Word blew its spirit over the dried bones of the churches, guardians of silence. The Word awoke us from the lethargy which had robbed us of our hope. The Word became a path in the jungle, a decision on the farm, love in women, unity among workers, and a Star for those few who can inspire dreams. The Word became Light. The Word became History. The Word became Conflict. The Word became indomitable Spirit, and sowed its seeds upon the mountain, near the river and in the valley, and those of good will heard the angels sing. Tired knees were strengthened, trembling hands were stilled, and the people who wandered in darkness saw the light… The Word became the seed of justice and we conceived peace… The Word made justice to rain and peace came forth from the furrows in the land. And we saw its glory in the eyes of the poor transformed into real men and women. And those who saw the Star opened up for us the path we now follow.
For God indeed is one of us! Our God has sandy feet... and hands... and there's quite a bit of sand in God's hair too!
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Glory in the Wilderness!
In the midst of a Venetian orphanage for poor and illegitimate children, Antonio Vivaldi and his choristers (all female) produce the dramatic and weighty proclamation of God’s greatness, “Gloria”—a version of the great doxology of Christian tradition. Modelled on the song of the angels to the shepherds in the Gospel of Luke, the song proclaims;
The proclamation of the children and the “red priest” from this place of exile from their families and polite society—a veritable wilderness—declares the significance of the God who comes into the midst of God’s own people, God’s own creation. It announces and celebrates weighty matters indeed.
Isaiah, too, is intent on celebrating the weightiness of a God who brings new life to landscapes apparently barren; new hope to people afflicted and infirm; and a God who dares, not to wait for people to travel God’s way, to come in search of them in order to save, to liberate.
This glory is a weighty matter indeed—the Hebrew word, kebod, refers to its heaviness. These are matters of significance. God is a God who matters. God is a God who acts.
From the Babylonian Exile, Isaiah proclaims the significance of God in the wilderness of a people without a place; and the proclamation asserts that God is well and truly aware of the heaviness of the burden born by the chosen people; and of the weighty promise made generations before to Abraham and Sarah and the descendants—the promise of a great land and a great people. And God will do something about it!
The people have been in the wilderness before; and even then magnificent songs proclaiming God’s greatness held God’s promises before them. Miriam and Moses sang in the wilderness: “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously” (Exodus 15:21). They celebrated God’s significant delivery of the people from Egypt; but the people still had a long way to go. The wilderness stretched before them. God’s glory, God’s weightiness, wasn’t just about the previous triumph but the journey ahead. It would accompany the people on a pilgrimage that would test their spirits, their faith, their lives. God deals in weighty matters indeed.
From another kind of wilderness, Mary sings her song, proclaiming the significance of God’s action even in the midst of her own intolerable predicament—an unmarried women with child:
These are weighty matters. God will bring new life to dry land; new hope to desperate people; and God will not stand back waiting for all this to happen. God will come to bring it about. God will enter God’s own creation. God’s glory, God’s substance, God’s significance will be made known.
The poetry of Isaiah’s proclamation draws attention to its central claim: “Here is your God… God will come and save you.” God is with the people in creation. God is among the people in their despair. God is coming to the people to save them. God is a God of substance who concerns God’s self with substantial matters—the plight of God’s creation and the welfare of God’s people.
Such weighty actions of God deserve a weighty response. Don’t just stand there—start travelling—out of exile back to the land; out of despair into hope; out of waiting for someone else to do something and into taking responsibility for being part of God’s mission in the world now! Take the road made for God’s people through the wilderness towards the promise. This is a journey of significance; a expedition of substance.
I’ve been enjoying the local wetlands coming back to life in the midst of the lovely rain we’ve been experiencing. You can’t actually get into the bird hide at Dangar’s Lagoon because the entrance is under water. I didn’t think I’d get to see that!
The ebb and flow of the waters we share are weighty matters indeed—they are matters of life or death. They affect what birdlife will prevail; what food we can produce; what parts of this country will continue to be habitable. The things of God are equally as weighty. Indeed the ebb and flow of the very creation is a thing of God.
The ebb and flow of God’s living water is also a matter of substance—a matter of abundant life out of desperate death. It affects who we are and what we do; and where we stand before God.
Here in the midst of our own wilderness—the wilderness of living—there will be times when we are tempted to give up the hope of God’s promises. But it is precisely in those times when it is even more important to hold them before us; to remember God’s weightiness, God’s significance, God’s glory; to give God, God’s due; and to be prepared to sing “Glory to God in the highest!” Our God has significance. Our God has substance. Our God is present. And our God is coming to save us! Gloria in excelsis! Glory to God in the highest and peace to people of good will!
Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth peace to people of good will. (ICEL 2007)
The proclamation of the children and the “red priest” from this place of exile from their families and polite society—a veritable wilderness—declares the significance of the God who comes into the midst of God’s own people, God’s own creation. It announces and celebrates weighty matters indeed.
Isaiah, too, is intent on celebrating the weightiness of a God who brings new life to landscapes apparently barren; new hope to people afflicted and infirm; and a God who dares, not to wait for people to travel God’s way, to come in search of them in order to save, to liberate.
The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom… They shall see the glory of the LORD, the majesty of our God… He will come and save you (Isaiah 35:1-2, 4c).
This glory is a weighty matter indeed—the Hebrew word, kebod, refers to its heaviness. These are matters of significance. God is a God who matters. God is a God who acts.
From the Babylonian Exile, Isaiah proclaims the significance of God in the wilderness of a people without a place; and the proclamation asserts that God is well and truly aware of the heaviness of the burden born by the chosen people; and of the weighty promise made generations before to Abraham and Sarah and the descendants—the promise of a great land and a great people. And God will do something about it!
The people have been in the wilderness before; and even then magnificent songs proclaiming God’s greatness held God’s promises before them. Miriam and Moses sang in the wilderness: “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously” (Exodus 15:21). They celebrated God’s significant delivery of the people from Egypt; but the people still had a long way to go. The wilderness stretched before them. God’s glory, God’s weightiness, wasn’t just about the previous triumph but the journey ahead. It would accompany the people on a pilgrimage that would test their spirits, their faith, their lives. God deals in weighty matters indeed.
From another kind of wilderness, Mary sings her song, proclaiming the significance of God’s action even in the midst of her own intolerable predicament—an unmarried women with child:
My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour, for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant... He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors, to Abraham and to his descendants forever." (Luke 1:46-55)
These are weighty matters. God will bring new life to dry land; new hope to desperate people; and God will not stand back waiting for all this to happen. God will come to bring it about. God will enter God’s own creation. God’s glory, God’s substance, God’s significance will be made known.
The poetry of Isaiah’s proclamation draws attention to its central claim: “Here is your God… God will come and save you.” God is with the people in creation. God is among the people in their despair. God is coming to the people to save them. God is a God of substance who concerns God’s self with substantial matters—the plight of God’s creation and the welfare of God’s people.
Such weighty actions of God deserve a weighty response. Don’t just stand there—start travelling—out of exile back to the land; out of despair into hope; out of waiting for someone else to do something and into taking responsibility for being part of God’s mission in the world now! Take the road made for God’s people through the wilderness towards the promise. This is a journey of significance; a expedition of substance.
I’ve been enjoying the local wetlands coming back to life in the midst of the lovely rain we’ve been experiencing. You can’t actually get into the bird hide at Dangar’s Lagoon because the entrance is under water. I didn’t think I’d get to see that!
The ebb and flow of the waters we share are weighty matters indeed—they are matters of life or death. They affect what birdlife will prevail; what food we can produce; what parts of this country will continue to be habitable. The things of God are equally as weighty. Indeed the ebb and flow of the very creation is a thing of God.
The ebb and flow of God’s living water is also a matter of substance—a matter of abundant life out of desperate death. It affects who we are and what we do; and where we stand before God.
Here in the midst of our own wilderness—the wilderness of living—there will be times when we are tempted to give up the hope of God’s promises. But it is precisely in those times when it is even more important to hold them before us; to remember God’s weightiness, God’s significance, God’s glory; to give God, God’s due; and to be prepared to sing “Glory to God in the highest!” Our God has significance. Our God has substance. Our God is present. And our God is coming to save us! Gloria in excelsis! Glory to God in the highest and peace to people of good will!
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Waiting Patiently
Year A Advent 1—Matthew 24:36-44
I’m not a very patient person really. I like things to be done in good order and on time; and I’m not averse to getting annoyed with myself or with other people when they’re not. Yes, patience is definitely a virtue that I’m still working on.
So, I’m not all that patient about the promises of God either. I want God’s realm of justice and peace right now! Why are we waiting and what are we waiting for? It’s all very well to talk about “the final consummation of all things which Christ will bring”, which the Basis of Union does, and about the “promised goal”; but just when is this promised end going to materialise—after all we Christians have been waiting for 2000 years already and the Jewish people have been waiting for a lot longer than that. Why are we waiting and what are we waiting for?
Of course, I’m not much interested in the end of the world as the movies have it—lots of chaos, havoc and destruction; nor am I much looking forward to the kind of scenarios that appear to be described in our Gospel reading for today—two people working together and one disappears; and I’m definitely not interested in the that rather dubious theological concept popularly known as the “rapture”. I really have no idea what some of our Christian brothers and sisters think that has to do with our shared Christian theology and the wonderful promises of God’s reign. Who on earth would think that that was worth waiting for?
In our shared Christian story, we wait with expectation the coming of the day of the Lord Jesus, i.e. we wait for the fullness of the relationship between God and Creation that Christ embodies, inaugurates and prefigures. But we do not agree on how that will happen, what it will be like, and the means by which it will come about.
The scenarios in today’s Gospel reading have tended to be popular around significant dates like turns of the millennia. Those stories were made very popular in the 1970s by a book called The Late Great Planet Earth by Hal Lindsey and Carole C. Carlson and by songs like Larry Norman’s “I wish we’d all been ready”. More recently, in the 1990s, the Left Behind series by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins resurrected them again for popular conception, with the same distortions of meaning that have plague this text for a very long time (but especially during the 19th century and a particular kind of what’s called “dispensationalist” doctrine).
The scenarios from Matthew are put together by “rapture” devotees with equally and even more gruesome tales from other apocalyptic literature in the Bible, i.e. with stories that predicted great disasters and even total destruction in the face of the coming reign of God. And this rather indiscriminate matching of biblical texts with its highly judgemental interpretative approach produced a rather dubious understanding of the Christian expectation that Christ will come again. The return of Christ was envisaged as a three-stage process: a time when “true believers” are caught up into God; a waiting period “in which the rest of humanity struggles to comprehend its situation and find faith”; before Christ’s final return (Vicky Balabanski, “A Surprise Ending!”, Seasons of the Spirit 28 Nov 2010).
New Testament scholar, Vicky Balabanski points out that, in this text from Matthew, we aren’t even told whether being taken is good or bad. Are the people taken rescued or are they taken away for judgement?
What is important is not the what will happen, but its relative predictability. Jesus is saying to the disciples in his “farewell discourse”, and Matthew is saying to his readers after the destruction of the second Temple that, if they think they know what is going to happen, they’d better think again. If they think they know what is going to happen, they’d better think again.
The disciples and the early Christians are warned against speculation. They are warned against thinking that they can control or even understand the future. In fact, probably the most important verse of the passage today is the first one, v. 36: no-one knows the day or the hour… except God. No-one knows the day or the hour except God. No-one knows the future. No-one can control events. No-one can predict—no-one except God. And we’re kidding ourselves if we think we can.
But if you think that’s about scaring us into submission, about frightening us into being good, so that we won’t be found wanting, then you’d also better think again. Any visions of the end times, any notions of what the fulfilment of all things in Christ will mean that are intended to instil belief in God through fear miss the point entirely. Waiting is not about doing good because we’ve been scared into it; or don’t want to end up eternally damned. Waiting is about taking the time to explore our relationship with God, about learning to love God and to love God’s creation. That’s what we’re called to do in this time of waiting—to explore our relationship with God; to get to know God. Not in order to win a place in some far off paradise; but because that is the very best that is offered to us right now.
The kind of scenarios envisioned by the “rapture” crowd shift the attention off God onto us; and even more than that they create a God-shaped image that is nothing like the God-shaped revelation we have in Jesus. Bill Loader, another New Testament scholar, reminds us that “it is a Jesus-shaped God who is our hope”: a God who empties God’s self for the sake of the Creation; a God who loves sacrificially; and stands in solidarity with the world God has made (Bill Loader, Advent 1 www.staff.murdoch.edu.au/~loader/MtAdvent1.htm).
As the people of God, we are called to wait attentively and patiently—not in an empty space, but in a God-given time for relationship with God and with one another. It isn’t about twiddling our thumbs, but being engaged. It isn’t about always looking for the next thing, but being present in the world in which we find ourselves, the world that God has given us.
It’s about being aware of what the God of future promises is saying and doing right here, right now, today. It’s about seeking God’s “perspective on the issues of today”—personally, environmentally, communally, nationally, internationally. It’s about making ourselves open to the vision of God now. That’s the patience God asks for in our anticipation of the fulfilment of all God’s promises already begun and accomplished in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus.
Now is God’s time—our time to wait in anticipation of the fulfilment of all God’s promises; not by trying to predict the future, but by seeking relationship with God know—by proclaiming justice, feeding the hungry, comforting the sick and bereaved, and announcing God’s reign in God’s world. Our left-behindness is not to be found in some future apocalypse but in the opportunities which exist now right before our very eyes—the opportunities to explore relationship with God and the whole of God’s creation. And that sort of patience is a virtue, I'm going to need to do a lot more work on.
I’m not a very patient person really. I like things to be done in good order and on time; and I’m not averse to getting annoyed with myself or with other people when they’re not. Yes, patience is definitely a virtue that I’m still working on.
So, I’m not all that patient about the promises of God either. I want God’s realm of justice and peace right now! Why are we waiting and what are we waiting for? It’s all very well to talk about “the final consummation of all things which Christ will bring”, which the Basis of Union does, and about the “promised goal”; but just when is this promised end going to materialise—after all we Christians have been waiting for 2000 years already and the Jewish people have been waiting for a lot longer than that. Why are we waiting and what are we waiting for?
Of course, I’m not much interested in the end of the world as the movies have it—lots of chaos, havoc and destruction; nor am I much looking forward to the kind of scenarios that appear to be described in our Gospel reading for today—two people working together and one disappears; and I’m definitely not interested in the that rather dubious theological concept popularly known as the “rapture”. I really have no idea what some of our Christian brothers and sisters think that has to do with our shared Christian theology and the wonderful promises of God’s reign. Who on earth would think that that was worth waiting for?
In our shared Christian story, we wait with expectation the coming of the day of the Lord Jesus, i.e. we wait for the fullness of the relationship between God and Creation that Christ embodies, inaugurates and prefigures. But we do not agree on how that will happen, what it will be like, and the means by which it will come about.
The scenarios in today’s Gospel reading have tended to be popular around significant dates like turns of the millennia. Those stories were made very popular in the 1970s by a book called The Late Great Planet Earth by Hal Lindsey and Carole C. Carlson and by songs like Larry Norman’s “I wish we’d all been ready”. More recently, in the 1990s, the Left Behind series by Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins resurrected them again for popular conception, with the same distortions of meaning that have plague this text for a very long time (but especially during the 19th century and a particular kind of what’s called “dispensationalist” doctrine).
The scenarios from Matthew are put together by “rapture” devotees with equally and even more gruesome tales from other apocalyptic literature in the Bible, i.e. with stories that predicted great disasters and even total destruction in the face of the coming reign of God. And this rather indiscriminate matching of biblical texts with its highly judgemental interpretative approach produced a rather dubious understanding of the Christian expectation that Christ will come again. The return of Christ was envisaged as a three-stage process: a time when “true believers” are caught up into God; a waiting period “in which the rest of humanity struggles to comprehend its situation and find faith”; before Christ’s final return (Vicky Balabanski, “A Surprise Ending!”, Seasons of the Spirit 28 Nov 2010).
New Testament scholar, Vicky Balabanski points out that, in this text from Matthew, we aren’t even told whether being taken is good or bad. Are the people taken rescued or are they taken away for judgement?
What is important is not the what will happen, but its relative predictability. Jesus is saying to the disciples in his “farewell discourse”, and Matthew is saying to his readers after the destruction of the second Temple that, if they think they know what is going to happen, they’d better think again. If they think they know what is going to happen, they’d better think again.
The disciples and the early Christians are warned against speculation. They are warned against thinking that they can control or even understand the future. In fact, probably the most important verse of the passage today is the first one, v. 36: no-one knows the day or the hour… except God. No-one knows the day or the hour except God. No-one knows the future. No-one can control events. No-one can predict—no-one except God. And we’re kidding ourselves if we think we can.
But if you think that’s about scaring us into submission, about frightening us into being good, so that we won’t be found wanting, then you’d also better think again. Any visions of the end times, any notions of what the fulfilment of all things in Christ will mean that are intended to instil belief in God through fear miss the point entirely. Waiting is not about doing good because we’ve been scared into it; or don’t want to end up eternally damned. Waiting is about taking the time to explore our relationship with God, about learning to love God and to love God’s creation. That’s what we’re called to do in this time of waiting—to explore our relationship with God; to get to know God. Not in order to win a place in some far off paradise; but because that is the very best that is offered to us right now.
The kind of scenarios envisioned by the “rapture” crowd shift the attention off God onto us; and even more than that they create a God-shaped image that is nothing like the God-shaped revelation we have in Jesus. Bill Loader, another New Testament scholar, reminds us that “it is a Jesus-shaped God who is our hope”: a God who empties God’s self for the sake of the Creation; a God who loves sacrificially; and stands in solidarity with the world God has made (Bill Loader, Advent 1 www.staff.murdoch.edu.au/~loader/MtAdvent1.htm).
As the people of God, we are called to wait attentively and patiently—not in an empty space, but in a God-given time for relationship with God and with one another. It isn’t about twiddling our thumbs, but being engaged. It isn’t about always looking for the next thing, but being present in the world in which we find ourselves, the world that God has given us.
It’s about being aware of what the God of future promises is saying and doing right here, right now, today. It’s about seeking God’s “perspective on the issues of today”—personally, environmentally, communally, nationally, internationally. It’s about making ourselves open to the vision of God now. That’s the patience God asks for in our anticipation of the fulfilment of all God’s promises already begun and accomplished in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus.
Now is God’s time—our time to wait in anticipation of the fulfilment of all God’s promises; not by trying to predict the future, but by seeking relationship with God know—by proclaiming justice, feeding the hungry, comforting the sick and bereaved, and announcing God’s reign in God’s world. Our left-behindness is not to be found in some future apocalypse but in the opportunities which exist now right before our very eyes—the opportunities to explore relationship with God and the whole of God’s creation. And that sort of patience is a virtue, I'm going to need to do a lot more work on.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Great Faithfulness!
Increase our faith Jesus! Make life easier for us! Don’t make it such a leap for us to believe, to act, to live in the hope you have given us. Increase our faith! Make it easier for us to pray, to focus on you, to give our lives in your service. Surely following you wasn’t meant to be such an effort of the will. We understand about it being difficult, but surely you could at least give us some more motivation; a greater sense of purpose; a clearer drive to get involved and keep going.
So you disciples think it’s all about being highly motivated and generally keyed up—like a rock concert or a political pep rally—everyone raring to go with no doubts or second thoughts—when actually it’s really more like cooking. It’s a very ordinary, everyday thing. You don’t expect to be thrown parties just for doing your everyday jobs, do you? You have to put the effort into it, to get the benefit out of it. But just like in cooking, you don’t need much spice to rev up a dish. You know if you put a little bit of pepper, just a little bit of mustard, in a casserole, it will add a whole lot of zing. And even if you only have the faith of a mustard seed, you will be faithful servants.
The faith of a mustard seed—now that’s a familiar phrase and we’ve been told often enough that that means that you just need a tiny thing to produce a huge tree; but mustard seeds are pretty ordinary and they’re certainly not the smallest seed, nor are they the tallest tree. Mustard seeds and mustard bushes are fairly ordinary in the world of the Middle East, more like prolific weeds than the cedars of Lebanon which were so easily logged out. Mustard is a very ordinary plant; but when you put it into a cooking pot, even just one seed, the stew is livened up. And overdoing it can ruin everything.
Faith wouldn’t be faith if it came without a second thought. Asking the questions and living with them gives a strength that a naïve gung-ho approach can’t touch.
It’s not in great achievements that the people of God show their faithfulness, but in the ordinary, everyday sharing, caring, persisting and enduring that God’s enduring mercy is embraced, demonstrated and discovered by others.
The covenant relationship of marriage is such a good metaphor for the covenant in which we find ourselves with God. We want it to be all champagne and roses, but really it’s more about tea and toast—it’s about the ordinary, everyday stuff of continuing to learn to listen to and work with one another.
God’s faithfulness to us, as extraordinary as it is, is all about God being with us in the everyday, the ordinary. And God’s call to us to faithfulness is the same—a call to listening to and working with God in the everyday ordinariness of our lives, whether we feel like it or not, whether we are motivated or not, whether we feel the buzz or not. Faith wouldn’t be faith if it came easy.
And yet it’s a miracle that God believes that we can believe; that God expects that we will be faithful servants, being and acting for God, just as our employers and our families expect us to be the people that we are to them—parent, child, grandparent, uncle or aunt, niece or nephew, sister or brother—and to do the work that we are employed to do. And if that’s all we do, surely we have done something as miraculous as saying to a mulberry tree, “Move and be planted in the sea.”
Faith, just takes a modicum of ordinary, everyday living, to demonstrate its truth, its effectiveness, its reality.
Increase our faith! Surely we have already enough to achieve what it is that God asks of us; because after all, all that we need has already been achieved by God. Faith, like an ordinary mustard seed, spreads like wildfire, like weeds and extends God’s realm to the ends of the earth.
So you disciples think it’s all about being highly motivated and generally keyed up—like a rock concert or a political pep rally—everyone raring to go with no doubts or second thoughts—when actually it’s really more like cooking. It’s a very ordinary, everyday thing. You don’t expect to be thrown parties just for doing your everyday jobs, do you? You have to put the effort into it, to get the benefit out of it. But just like in cooking, you don’t need much spice to rev up a dish. You know if you put a little bit of pepper, just a little bit of mustard, in a casserole, it will add a whole lot of zing. And even if you only have the faith of a mustard seed, you will be faithful servants.
The faith of a mustard seed—now that’s a familiar phrase and we’ve been told often enough that that means that you just need a tiny thing to produce a huge tree; but mustard seeds are pretty ordinary and they’re certainly not the smallest seed, nor are they the tallest tree. Mustard seeds and mustard bushes are fairly ordinary in the world of the Middle East, more like prolific weeds than the cedars of Lebanon which were so easily logged out. Mustard is a very ordinary plant; but when you put it into a cooking pot, even just one seed, the stew is livened up. And overdoing it can ruin everything.
Faith wouldn’t be faith if it came without a second thought. Asking the questions and living with them gives a strength that a naïve gung-ho approach can’t touch.
It’s not in great achievements that the people of God show their faithfulness, but in the ordinary, everyday sharing, caring, persisting and enduring that God’s enduring mercy is embraced, demonstrated and discovered by others.
The covenant relationship of marriage is such a good metaphor for the covenant in which we find ourselves with God. We want it to be all champagne and roses, but really it’s more about tea and toast—it’s about the ordinary, everyday stuff of continuing to learn to listen to and work with one another.
God’s faithfulness to us, as extraordinary as it is, is all about God being with us in the everyday, the ordinary. And God’s call to us to faithfulness is the same—a call to listening to and working with God in the everyday ordinariness of our lives, whether we feel like it or not, whether we are motivated or not, whether we feel the buzz or not. Faith wouldn’t be faith if it came easy.
And yet it’s a miracle that God believes that we can believe; that God expects that we will be faithful servants, being and acting for God, just as our employers and our families expect us to be the people that we are to them—parent, child, grandparent, uncle or aunt, niece or nephew, sister or brother—and to do the work that we are employed to do. And if that’s all we do, surely we have done something as miraculous as saying to a mulberry tree, “Move and be planted in the sea.”
Faith, just takes a modicum of ordinary, everyday living, to demonstrate its truth, its effectiveness, its reality.
Increase our faith! Surely we have already enough to achieve what it is that God asks of us; because after all, all that we need has already been achieved by God. Faith, like an ordinary mustard seed, spreads like wildfire, like weeds and extends God’s realm to the ends of the earth.
Just Peace!
So Jeremiah goes out to buy a field, and you’d have to wonder why. As King Zedekiah points out, Jeremiah has prophesied, in the name of God, that the land of Judah will fall to the Babylonians, and, as we know, it did. But Jeremiah goes out to buy a field.
And it’s not just any field that Jeremiah buys. It’s a family field—the field of a cousin. And that’s significant for not only does Jeremiah have a right to buy the field to keep it in the family, he also has something of an obligation. He is a possible redeemer—a member of the family who is able to bail another member out in order that all members and all the property of the family stay in the family.
But still, why buy the field if the whole community is about to be uprooted—if there is little hope of avoiding the Babylonian captivity, and little chance that the land will not be taken over by others?
King Zedekiah may be at a loss in the story, but Jeremiah knows God’s plan, for God also is a redeemer and will not let the people of God be taken away completely, nor the land which God has given them be lost to them entirely. Well at least that’s the hope that is embodied in Jeremiah’s action. Jeremiah redeems a field ensuring that the title deeds will be safe for a long time—whatever the length of time there is for the people of God to be redeemed by God. Jeremiah is acting out his hope in the promises of God in an ordinary commercial transaction, and a common family practice.
The Babylonians may be besieging Jerusalem, but Jeremiah is acting out his hope in God’s peace, God’s restoration, beyond the battle raging and the captivity expected. In the midst of this chaos, Jeremiah buys a field.
I imagine that Jeremiah was not the only person doing ordinary things in the middle of the siege. People needed feeding; babies needed tending; water needed fetching; clothing and tools needed mending. Undoubtedly, anxiety and fear and insecurity were in abundance. But still the ordinary things needed doing.
It is the ordinary practices of everyday living that show where we place our hope. And Jeremiah buys a field expecting that God’s promises will be fulfilled beyond the chaos of the siege and a captivity. That’s the story of Jeremiah’s prophesy and hope—through chaos to peace.
The everyday practices of the rich man in Jesus’ story also revealed a hope; but this hope is not in a future beyond conflict and captivity. This hope is in the good things of life: fine food and fancy clothes—purple was the most expensive dye. This hope is not in sharing in community or helping out your neighbour. This hope is in status and power.
You would have thought that he might get it—Lazarus was just outside the gate with his sores and his hunger. Surely, this everyday sight was a powerful sign. And if that wasn’t enough, wasn’t the whole society based on the traditions of the Law and the Prophets, and didn’t these also speak of mercy to the widow, the orphan and the stranger—those in need of sustenance and support because they were disconnected from their families and communities.
The rich man has missed these everyday signs. He had been looking in the extraordinariness of the good life.
It’s easy to think that the signs of important things come with loud fanfares, glossy covers and rich clothing. It’s easy to look for cataclysms and Sydney Harbour fireworks displays to tell us where things are at and what’s important in life. But the real stuff of who we are and where we place our hope is in the ordinary, everydayness of routine family, community and business interactions.
Leo Tolstoy told the story of a cobbler, Martin Avdyeeich, who, having lost both his wife and child, was left in despair of life until someone pointed him to the stories of Jesus. Martin was engaged by the stories of the hospitality given to Jesus by Simon the Pharisee and the woman who anointed Jesus’ feet. He wished for the opportunity to afford such hospitality to Christ; and dreamed that he would be given it.
The next day, he avidly watched out for the coming of Christ, but there was only the old soldier Stepanuich, and Martin made him a cup of tea.
After Stepanuich left, Martin continued to look out for Christ, but there was only a woman and a child dressed too thinly for the cold, and Martin offered them some hot food.
When they left, Martin continued to look out for Christ, but there was only a widow and a young scoundrel trying to steal her apples, and Martin intervened, buying an apple for the boy and watching the boy assist the widow with her burden.
And still Martin watched for Christ until the end of the day. But he dreamt that night that Christ had come in the old soldier, Stepanuich, the woman and child dressed too thinly for the cold, and the widow and the young scoundrel.
So many times we look in the wrong places for the signs we seek when the hope we are promised is found in the routine everyday actions of an ordinary life. Jeremiah bought a field, but the rich man missed the poor man sitting at his gates.
This year’s Social Justice Sunday Statement from the Australian Catholic Bishops Conference asks Christians to ask themselves a series of questions about their everyday practices in order to counteract violence and promote peace.
1. How do we acknowledge the dignity of others?
2. How can we respond positively to anger?
3. How attentive are we to prayer and our spiritual development?
4. Are we prepared to seek help when we are not coping?
5. How can we foster strong families?
6. What can we contribute to the life of the community?
7. How does the community meet the needs of all its members?
8. How do we support and celebrate our cultural diversity?
9. Does our community reject violence?
10. Can we provide a meeting place [for reconciliation]?
11. Are we engaged in the life of our nation?
12. Are we aware of the most vulnerable?
13. Are we prepared to question assumptions and misinformation?
14. Will we defend the rights of others?
If we wait for a big sign to tell us what to do, we will wait in vain and miss out on it all together, but if every routine everyday interaction is an opportunity for living out our hope, we may just have peace, and a peace that is just!
And it’s not just any field that Jeremiah buys. It’s a family field—the field of a cousin. And that’s significant for not only does Jeremiah have a right to buy the field to keep it in the family, he also has something of an obligation. He is a possible redeemer—a member of the family who is able to bail another member out in order that all members and all the property of the family stay in the family.
But still, why buy the field if the whole community is about to be uprooted—if there is little hope of avoiding the Babylonian captivity, and little chance that the land will not be taken over by others?
King Zedekiah may be at a loss in the story, but Jeremiah knows God’s plan, for God also is a redeemer and will not let the people of God be taken away completely, nor the land which God has given them be lost to them entirely. Well at least that’s the hope that is embodied in Jeremiah’s action. Jeremiah redeems a field ensuring that the title deeds will be safe for a long time—whatever the length of time there is for the people of God to be redeemed by God. Jeremiah is acting out his hope in the promises of God in an ordinary commercial transaction, and a common family practice.
The Babylonians may be besieging Jerusalem, but Jeremiah is acting out his hope in God’s peace, God’s restoration, beyond the battle raging and the captivity expected. In the midst of this chaos, Jeremiah buys a field.
I imagine that Jeremiah was not the only person doing ordinary things in the middle of the siege. People needed feeding; babies needed tending; water needed fetching; clothing and tools needed mending. Undoubtedly, anxiety and fear and insecurity were in abundance. But still the ordinary things needed doing.
It is the ordinary practices of everyday living that show where we place our hope. And Jeremiah buys a field expecting that God’s promises will be fulfilled beyond the chaos of the siege and a captivity. That’s the story of Jeremiah’s prophesy and hope—through chaos to peace.
The everyday practices of the rich man in Jesus’ story also revealed a hope; but this hope is not in a future beyond conflict and captivity. This hope is in the good things of life: fine food and fancy clothes—purple was the most expensive dye. This hope is not in sharing in community or helping out your neighbour. This hope is in status and power.
You would have thought that he might get it—Lazarus was just outside the gate with his sores and his hunger. Surely, this everyday sight was a powerful sign. And if that wasn’t enough, wasn’t the whole society based on the traditions of the Law and the Prophets, and didn’t these also speak of mercy to the widow, the orphan and the stranger—those in need of sustenance and support because they were disconnected from their families and communities.
The rich man has missed these everyday signs. He had been looking in the extraordinariness of the good life.
It’s easy to think that the signs of important things come with loud fanfares, glossy covers and rich clothing. It’s easy to look for cataclysms and Sydney Harbour fireworks displays to tell us where things are at and what’s important in life. But the real stuff of who we are and where we place our hope is in the ordinary, everydayness of routine family, community and business interactions.
Leo Tolstoy told the story of a cobbler, Martin Avdyeeich, who, having lost both his wife and child, was left in despair of life until someone pointed him to the stories of Jesus. Martin was engaged by the stories of the hospitality given to Jesus by Simon the Pharisee and the woman who anointed Jesus’ feet. He wished for the opportunity to afford such hospitality to Christ; and dreamed that he would be given it.
The next day, he avidly watched out for the coming of Christ, but there was only the old soldier Stepanuich, and Martin made him a cup of tea.
After Stepanuich left, Martin continued to look out for Christ, but there was only a woman and a child dressed too thinly for the cold, and Martin offered them some hot food.
When they left, Martin continued to look out for Christ, but there was only a widow and a young scoundrel trying to steal her apples, and Martin intervened, buying an apple for the boy and watching the boy assist the widow with her burden.
And still Martin watched for Christ until the end of the day. But he dreamt that night that Christ had come in the old soldier, Stepanuich, the woman and child dressed too thinly for the cold, and the widow and the young scoundrel.
So many times we look in the wrong places for the signs we seek when the hope we are promised is found in the routine everyday actions of an ordinary life. Jeremiah bought a field, but the rich man missed the poor man sitting at his gates.
This year’s Social Justice Sunday Statement from the Australian Catholic Bishops Conference asks Christians to ask themselves a series of questions about their everyday practices in order to counteract violence and promote peace.
1. How do we acknowledge the dignity of others?
2. How can we respond positively to anger?
3. How attentive are we to prayer and our spiritual development?
4. Are we prepared to seek help when we are not coping?
5. How can we foster strong families?
6. What can we contribute to the life of the community?
7. How does the community meet the needs of all its members?
8. How do we support and celebrate our cultural diversity?
9. Does our community reject violence?
10. Can we provide a meeting place [for reconciliation]?
11. Are we engaged in the life of our nation?
12. Are we aware of the most vulnerable?
13. Are we prepared to question assumptions and misinformation?
14. Will we defend the rights of others?
If we wait for a big sign to tell us what to do, we will wait in vain and miss out on it all together, but if every routine everyday interaction is an opportunity for living out our hope, we may just have peace, and a peace that is just!
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