The Christmas Sermon

It would appear Roald Dahl, British author of bizarre (usually) children's literature as well as some rather macabre short stories, has a soft spot for dyslexics.  He wrote a children's book entitled Esio Trot which is "tortoise" backward.  In support of an English charity which supports dyslexics he wrote an amusing little volume called The Vicar of Nibbleswicke.  (Illustrated by Quentin Blake.)  It is the story of a new Anglican pastor, Robert Lee, in his first church in Nibbleswicke (and hence the title).  He has a rather distressing dyslexic condition which Dahl uses skillfully to comedic effect.  I find it hard to read it without laughing aloud.  (Warning: those who are offended by slightly off-color language and those who think it might be charming to read to young children should preview it first.)

It is neither Dahl nor dyslexia which got me to thinking today but rather an experience of the reverend Lee in his first days of parish life - sermon preparation.  Mr. Lee agonizes over his homiletical task.  Now having done the sermon prep thing for 20 years or so, I do not experience the angst that our protagonist does.  At least on most days.  But Christmas is coming - the goose is getting fat.  And one wonders what to say at Christmas.  For Christians, the story of Jesus' incarnation is well-known, to say the least.  What is there to say that has not been said?  But that is not really the right question.  If it has not already been said it is likely theological innovation.  Theological innovation is what leads us down the path to the heretical and the simply silly. (I once was at an Easter service where an innovative creed was recited that began, "I believe in bunnies and butterflies..." - sadly I don't remember the rest of it so am unable to dust it off for next year's Paschal celebration.)

No, here is the question: "What can one say this in a way that rouses us from the unique kind of slumber that comes with over-familiarity."  We don't notice the shocking nature of God becoming man because it is so very familiar to us. To the man whose life is spent underground, the first glimpse of a sunrise is a thing of unspeakable wonder.  To most of us it is the same old thing that happens each day.  We hardly notice it.

The Incarnation of Jesus is like this for Christians who have heard the story many times.  For many of us there is a reawakening of the wonder of the Incarnation when we come to a deeper faith and realize its implications.  But eventually it is same old, same old again.

One is tempted to showiness, cleverness or oratorical art to make it fresh again - but even this becomes predictable over time.  In a parish I served in I had the inspiration to do a one-man skit which involved entering the sanctuary in my pajamas.  It certainly got people's attention - not all of it positive.  But then every subsequent year I wrote a new one and the Rector's Christmas skit became predictable and expected - anticipated by some, avoided by others.  I gave up the practice not because of the mixed reviews but because I felt that the attention it was getting was to me and not to Jesus.  As soon as that happens you are in trouble.

In recent years something else has occurred to me.  Why not lay all innovation aside -theological as well as oratorical - and just tell the story and preach the Gospel?  The work of rousing people from the sleep of familiarity is not actually my job.  It is the unique work of the Holy Spirit.  It was folly and hubris all those angsty years when I thought I could do that.

I will spend my time in preparation this Christmas - that the moving of hearts is His work does not get me off the hook for mine.  And some of that work is simply to pray, "Come, Holy Spirit, come."

Like Trees in November

A book that I return to frequently is Richard Adam's Watership Down.  For those who have not had the pleasure, it is the story of a group of rabbits escaping a warren being destroyed for a housing development and their journey and struggle to establish a new warren.  I give the synopsis for those who might be inclined ot read it but aren't fond of books with talking rabbits - it is about talking rabbits.  And that makes it sound rather cartoonish.  It is anything but.

There is a chapter entitled "Like Trees in November."  The plot of the chapter is not what got me thinking - rather simply its title.  November is just behind us and the emptiness of the trees and the grey cold dampness in the air are all familiar to me.  I have lived in this clime for decades and it has been the same.  The skeletal branches and colorless sky are hardly cheering images.  Perhaps not cheering, but comforting.  Comforting like a minor key in music.  November, or early December for that matter, is just like that.  It is not uplifting like the brightness of a May day or refreshing like a spring shower but comforting nonetheless.  And largely so because it is familiar; like every other November I have seen - an old friend.  This season is rather like Eeyore or Puddleglum - gloomy but steadfast, predictably there.

I wonder if the pursuit of happiness, our deep desire to be pleased or entertained or joyful at all times, isn't unrealistic and ultimately unhealthy.  The things we need to do to maintain the perky and up state have a toll on our bodies and our souls.  I wonder if the quiet sadness of November isn't actually a gift to us.  We simply can't be perky and up all the time and if we were, it would no longer seem so.  The grey seasons add flavor to the glory ones.

I write this in the first week of Advent - a new beginning to the church year - after a hiatus of some weeks from writing.  Advent, like the month in which it often begins, has a familiar and comforting melancholy to it if you are paying attention.  Scripture lessons in both the daily and Sunday lectionaries speak to the themes of Advent - the coming end of all things when Jesus will return as glorious judge and the promise an hope of that same judge as Savior.  It is somber because of the former and comforting due to the latter.  One of my favorite hymns of the season is O com, O come Emmanuel, itself in a Novemberish minor key - seasonally appropriate and appropriately comforting.

It is only in writing this that I am beginning to understand what is so comforting about Advent and trees in November.  To be sure it is the familiarity and the faithful reappearance each year.  But also it is the quietness of soul which, at least for me, it brings.  God is in the quiet greyness and that is of ultimate comfort.

How's your prayer life?

As a pastor I find myself in conversation with individuals and small groups of people frequently.  Some of those interactions are administrative, or informational (for me or the other persons involved) but most frequently they are about the intersection of people's lives and God.  One of the questions I used to ask all the time was something like, "How is your prayer or devotional life?"  The responses are varied.  Some, very legitimately, are in the midst of a deep spiritual season with God (St. Ignatius would call it a  season of consolation) and answer very enthusiastically.  Some, I suspect, push the boundaries of veracity and tell me what they think I want to hear - that it is a rich and meaningful experience.  Others still will frankly admit that it is lackluster or even non-existent (Ignatius's season of desolation.)

I have given up on that question, at least for the time being, in favor of what I think is a better one - "Where do you see God at work?"  I think it a better question for a number of reasons.  First it is not about a person's spiritual performance - or how good a Christian he or she is.  For much of my life I have made the assumption, with many others, that if my prayer and devotional life sucks either I am not trying hard enough or that there is some unconfessed sin in my life.  The problem is that prayer and worship can be dry because we are trying TOO hard - trying to whip ourselves into some spiritual state of blessedness, or connectedness.  Thinking that our effort can get us to God.  I think the Protestant Reformation had something to say about that, if I recall...

Unconfessed sin can indeed interrupt our prayer life with God.  But so can trying to find or discover some imagined offense that is keeping us from feeling the way we "used to" in devotion.  Many Protestants I know have made fun of the practice of some Roman Catholics who "make up sins" so they will have something to say to the priest at confession.  We might skip the middleman but we do something very much like it.  Self-examination is best approached with an attitude of humility - being open to hear what God has to say - but then relying on the Holy Spirit to convict us of sin.  Much of the time with ourselves and sadly with others we assume what is the Paraclete's job.

The second reason I think it is a good question is that it is not about me.  It is about God and His activity in the world.  Far to much of our Christian life has taken on a vague or sometimes blatant narcissism.  How am I doing spiritually?  What are my spiritual gifts?  How am I being fed?  How does this Scripture apply to me?

There is a scene in C.S. Lewis' The Great Divorce in which an angel interacts with one of the ghosts who has taken the bus trip from hell to the outskirts of heaven.  After hearing her (it is the ghost of a woman) loquacious concern about how she looks and what people might think, the angel interrupts her saying, "Friend, could you, if only for a moment, fix your attention on something not yourself?"  The value of the "where do you see God at work" question is that it does just that - fixes our attention on Someone not ourselves.

Third, the question makes an assumption that many of us have forgotten, if not intellectually certainly practically - that God is at work.  And that is the first and most important work and movement.

It is a better question but the responses remain varied.  For some, again in a season of consolation, will see and report the movement of God with joy and thankfulness.  But others may feel the pressure to have a good, nay indeed a spectacular answer.  We might feel the pressure to report conversions, healings, profound revelations.  And why?  Because it is what the asker wants to hear?  Maybe.  Because the failure to see God at work makes us unspiritual - like the emperor and his courtiers who insisted on seeing clothes that weren't there.  That's possible.  Or because we are afraid that God isn't actually at work and that would make our faith a sham.

I asked a friend this question yesterday.  He had a "good" answer that was authentic and real.  But he asked me the question in response - the great risk of probing into people's lives is that they may probe back.  I was tempted to give the "right" answer and make something up.  But I didn't.  I said two things - much less succinctly than I am about to do here - that I didn't really see much of God at work right now, and that I am looking for his work and movement around me.

My failure to see God at work does not leave me feeling like I am a spiritual dwarf, nor does it make me think that God is not at work.  Because he is.  The mystery for me (and it is, thankfully, mystery and beyond my full understanding) is learning to see the work and movement of God in different ways than I did before.  His silence is not his absence.  It all reminds me that the point is God and his supernatural activity in the world he created, not my subjective experience or perception of it.

Heroes

On a family road trip once I asked our children who their heroes were.  Being good Sunday School students they answered, "Jesus" - the safest answer to most Sunday School questions.  I pushed them beyond that and asked, "who, beside Jesus?"  There were a number of answers ranging from family friends to a favored babysitter.  I think it a good question to ask both children and adults.  I think that we need heroes.

Heroes are people we admire and respect, whom we would like to emulate.  I think that I have historically been a bit afraid of having heroes.  Perhaps it is because I have felt the pressure to "be my own person" or some narcissistic need to unique.  Perhaps also I have been hero-adverse because I think it is envy.

A few thoughts.  First, I am not my own person.  This is true both biblically and practically.  Biblically I am physically shaped by God (knit together in my mother's womb - Psalm 139).  My life, my personhood is also under his sovereignty.  I am not my own, I was bought with a price (I Corinthians 6).  Practically I am influenced by those around me - parents, teachers, coaches, friends.  I am who I am because of the others who have influenced and shaped, both positively and negatively.  The advantage of having conscious heroes is that I am making choices on whom I want to influence me.

Second,  I am unique but also like everyone else.  I have physical, intellectual and character traits that are in combination unique, but at the same time individually very much like mobs of other people.  My strengths and weaknesses I share with many others in the human race.  Temptation with which I struggle is as St. Paul says, "common to all men." (I Corinthians 10)  While there is a grandiose desire to be one of a kind, there is greater comfort in knowing that I am part of a large common family who laughs, hurts, hopes, sins and triumphs just like me.

Third, there is a difference between admiration and envy.  Envy, as I have written about before, is about emptiness, a craving of the characteristics or possessions of another.  It does not produce love but division and hatred.  Admiration, rather, impels me to be like that other - not that I resent his or her having those characteristics, but because I think them good and worth emulating.  Admiration encourages me to become more.  Envy does not.

I have heroes.  Some are authors I have read, among them Dorothy Sayers, C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien.  Some are people whom I have met and who have profoundly influenced my life.  These are people I have tried to emulate.   It is interesting to note that most whom I would name as heroes would be appalled at being called out and named as such.  They are people who are not inclined to have attention focused on them, but rather on Jesus.  That's one of the things I admire about them.  Humility. Something I would like to emulate.

Meeting the metaphor

Some twenty years ago now I was meeting with a couple who were interested in baptism for their two young children.  She was an Anglican and he was vaguely agnostic but with a Unitarian background.  I spent some time talking to them about the nature of a sacrament (an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace) and of baptism in particular as a cleansing from sin, a death and rising to new life and a grafting into the family of God in Jesus.  They listened attentively but asked very few questions.  At the end the husband said, and I can still quote, "Wow.  I've never heard that before with the God metaphor."  I thought to myself, "I really want to be there when this guy meets the Metaphor."

We have thoughts and ideas, concepts and images, and obviously even metaphors through which we envisage God.  For many of us we have good and sound theology that helps us understand and conceptualize God.  We necessarily emphasize sound theology because it is important.  But what is its purpose?  The metaphor or theology is not an end in itself.  What happens when we meet the metaphor or when our theology encounters the Theos.

This happens to one Martha of Bethany.  The story is told in John chapter 11.  I will refresh your memory.  Jesus is a good friend of this family - three siblings; Mary, Martha and Lazarus.  He hears that Lazarus is ill and, for the purpose of God's glory, takes his time making his way.  Sadly, by the time he arrives Lazarus has already gone to his greater reward.  Martha meets Jesus outside the village.  All the details of their conversation may not be recorded.  Perhaps there was a nice greeting, "lovely to see you, how was the trip."  But I somehow doubt it.  Martha has something to say which she says directly, indeed admonishingly, "Lord if you had been here my brother would not have died."

Jesus' response is simple, "Your brother will rise again."

And here Martha whips out her sound and comforting theology, "I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day."  A+ for getting it theologically correct.  But the last day is only partial comfort this day.

And then her theology meets the Theos.  "I AM the resurrection and the life."  This is not last day stuff.  The Resurrection is here, now.  And as we continue to read the story through chapter 11 we discover that Martha's brother does rise again.  This day, not the last day.

So often I am waiting for what will happen at the end.  I am slogging through this vale of tears in the hope of the last day.  I read John 11and am reminded that he who is the resurrection and the life is here this day, in me, poured out through the Holy Spirit as a guarantee.  The Life is today.  Theology meets the Theos now.  To be sure there is a consummation which will eclipse what we know now (we see now as in a mirror, dimly, then we shall see face to face.)  But the promise is that he is among us now as well.

Our metaphors, images, ideas and theology help us to see and understand.  But they are not the point or the end.  Jesus is.

A vow of silence

I said, "I will guard my ways,
that I may not sin with my tongue...
I will guard my mouth with a muzzle,
so long as the wicked are in my presence."
I held my peace to no avail,
my distress grew worse.
My heart burned within me.
As I mused, the fire burned; 
then I spoke with my tongue.
Psalm 39:1-3

After a multi-week silence (at least from a blogging perspective) it is ironic that I am struck today in Psalm 39 with the psalmists unconquerable urge to speak.  But I have known this very experience many times.  The vow, "I'm not going to say anything," firm and resolute, melts then evaporates in the pressing heat of my opinion or my sense of justice or simply my need to be heard.

I have known this vow of silence and subsequently burning need to say something when one my children exits the front door wearing something our household euphemistically calls "a bold use of color."  I have know it in study groups where I feel I am talking all the time and want to rectify that.  And in situations, perhaps more like the psalmist's, where the wicked, or at least wicked behavior, goads me.

As so often is the case, I am amazed that the ancient voice of the psalmist describes perfectly my very contemporary experience - resolution to hold my tongue overcome by my impulse to speak.  And from there I look at and listen to the rest of the psalm to see what it says to me.  And that, today, is also very interesting.

One might think that the application here is to self-control.  But I think not.  When the psalmist opens his mouth it is not to critique alarming clothing choices*, nor to add his wisdom to the conversation, nor to bring justice to the wicked.  It is to ask God to grant him humility:

Lord, let me know my end and the number of my days,
so that I may know how short my life is...
We walk about like a shadow,
in vain we are in turmoil.

And it is not exactly humility that we need?  The lowliness to acknowledge, however good, salient or true, not every situation requires my input. Humility to remember my own failings and "bold uses," to remember that the conversation can survive very nicely without my contribution and that I, too, am a sinner in need of correction.

Lord grant me humility, that I may be enabled to keep my vow of silence.


*A good friend once counseled me on this front: "If you can wash it off, take it off or cut it off, don't sweat it."

Melting mountains

A few weeks ago I was listening to an interview on NPR (National Public Radio, the CBC of the US for Canadians out there).  It was on a program called Fresh Air hosted by Terry Gross.  She was interviewing a woman, T.M. Luhrmann who had written a book called, "When God Talks Back."  The author, who does not identify as a Christian, had spent some time in a Vineyard church community to better understand the experience of Christians hearing from God.  I commend the interview if you can find it.  Ms. Luhrmann is both interesting and sympathetic to the notion of people actually hearing from God.

There was one thing in particular which she said that I found to be quite thought provoking.  I am paraphrasing, but she said something like "In the 1960s God became nice" or "friendly" or some such word.  She was describing perhaps a social and cultural phenomenon where God's wrath or judgment has been given less focus, while his love and acceptance has been emphasized.

I thought of this again this morning while reading the Psalms.  Contrasted with the nice or friendly God I read this:

A fire goes before him

and burns up his enemies o n every side.

His lightnings light up the world;

the earth sees it and is afraid.

The mountains melt like wax at the presence of the Lord

at the presence of the Lord of the whole earth.

Psalm 97:3-5

Feels a little less friendly.

Now I quite understand the emphasis on this God of love.  St. John says in his first  epistle that God is love. (Not, as C.S. Lewis points out, Love is God, but I digress.)  The work of Jesus' sacrifice on the cross is the ultimate expression of a God who loves us and longs for us to be in relationship with him.  Too heavy an emphasis on the wrath of God and his judgment might indeed intimidate anyone from every wanting to approach him.

But we simply cannot erase the picture of God as the one in whose presence the mountains melt like wax.  The biblical witness of God includes his power and his holiness.  As we approach God it is critical to remember, as "friendly" as he is, he is totally other than us.  Jesus tells us we are his friends, but it is wise to remember the might, majesty and power of this particular friend.

Mountains melting like wax at his presence serves to underline the inestimable love he has for us.  I am wildly less substantial than a mountain. If the mountains melt, what chance is there for me? (Reminds me of Isaiah's "woe is me" in chapter 6 of that excellent book.)  And yet, because of his love for us in Jesus, we might be in his presence and not be undone.

There is a balanced road we walk between the terrifying, unapproachable God and God as our bro.  The one may well keep us from him; the other is just too familiar.  He is hidden in light inaccessible, as the hymn suggests AND he is our Father in heaven, as Jesus taught us to pray.

Moon-like

This morning I find myself disposed to a short survey of the moon, the one heavenly body which besides moving also changes, in classic literature.  Happens to everyone, I know.

In Dante's vision of heaven, the circle of the moon is reserved for the blessed who, while in this life, were inconstant in their vows.  In short, they were changeable like the moon.  The moon here is a symbol or picture of that which grows and fades, sometimes repeatedly.  As an aside, this picture of Dante's is a firm reminder to us that blessedness, or salvation - to use a more evangelically Protestant vocabulary - is dependent not on our moral perfection but on something else.  The blessed in heaven were in life like us, imperfect.

The moon's chageable nature is famously reflected also in the Bard's work.  Juliet beseeches Romeo in the play bearing their names:

O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
(Act II, scene ii)

Again this orb is invoked as a picture of mutability.

A third, less well-known example from an anonymous 14th century poet whom I encountered in The New Oxford Book of Christian Verse.

Moon-like is all other love
First crescent, then decreasing, gain
Flower that buds, and soon goes off
A day that fleets away in rain

All other love bravely starts out,
But ends with torture, and in tears;
No love can salve the torment out
But that the King of heaven bears.

When I read the first lines of this poem I assumed that is was about us loving other things more that we love Jesus - about our idolatries and how they are insubstantial and unenduring compared to our true love of God.  This is a typical modern or post-modern response - it's all about me.

But as one reads the whole poem (it is short, only seven stanzas), one realizes that the author's point is that other loves (mine) are being compared to God's love, not mine for him.  Here the author understands something that Dante did as well.  Something that we understand theologically or in theory, but sometimes lose in practice - that we are saved not by our commitment and constancy but by his.

I remember thinking and feeling in the early flush of conversion that this love and devotion to Jesus will never fade - that it will carry me through.  But, alas, moon-like is all other love.  I have good days and bad days.  Fervent ones and indifferent ones.  My loves wax and wane.  In the end this is a warning against an idolatry - the idolatry of self which thinks that my commitment, actions or fervor is sufficient.  None of them are.

It is good to be reminded by Dante and this medieval poet that I am saved not by my love for or commitment to him, but by his for and to me.  I am relieved, in fact.  For my loves change - run hot and cold.  His does not.  As our anonymous friend says:

For ever springing, ever new,
For ever the full orb it is
A thing not thinned, from which accrue
Always new sweets, new centuries.
(emphasis mine)

The good old days

Some years ago I noted a clever ad published by the Episcopal Church. It was featured in Print magazine's annual review of excellent design. The ad featured a Rubens' painting of Daniel in the lion's den with the comment, "Some people think stress is a 20th century invention.". I thought it clever but find myself at a loss to remember how it was to induce me to attend an Episcopal Church. But that is not my point.

The insightful part of the ad was its naming of the "my life is harder" attitude that infects us frequently. It is good to be reminded that there are others who have suffered before us and in addition to us. Sometimes rather spectacularly.

I was reminded of this reading Psalm 3 this week. Verse 2 goes like this:
"How many there are who say of me,
'There is no help for him in his God.'"

To hear some people talk, you would think that it has only been in the last generation in America, as liberalism and secularism has gained ascendancy that there has been scorn for people who put their trust in God. Imagine my surprise to discover that the psalmist encountered this doubt and scorn thousands of years ago. Like stress, perhaps this brand of derision is not a 20th century invention. Perhaps we don't have it harder than those who have gone before us.

There is little to be gained by whining about the age of doubt in which we live. It does not encourage our own faith - it gives us a sense of entitlement to the good old days when people were not ridiculed for their faith. Those days, it would seem from the wisdom of the psalmist, never existed. The entitlement we feel for them, especially as American Christians, just makes us angry and bitter. And angry and bitter are NOT attractive and winsome to those who don't believe. Making them poor evangelistic strategies.

Psalm 3:2 is a great reminder that the voice that mocks and belittles believers is not exclusively a post-enlightenment or modern phenomenon. But what is more remarkable is not the centuries-long persistence of that voice, but rather the persistence of faith in spite of it.

Differences

I like to ask questions.  I am particularly fond of thought-provoking questions.  So it gets me into trouble sometimes.  Case in point.  Some years ago I started attending a church and went to the Bible study group that was offered on Sunday morning before the service.  I cannot remember the exact text we were studying but it was from St. Paul and it was about Christ being in us.  There are many to choose from.  It is important to remember here that I was NEW to this church.  So my question was: "How is this different from what people say about God being in all of us?"  From the impassioned reaction that followed I realized three things.  First, that it was assumed I was espousing the view that God is in all of us; second that my view and I were desperately wicked; and third that no one actually knew how it was different.  One and two amused me.  Three disturbed me.

Despite being assumed a pagan in their midst, I still think it a good question to ask.  How IS it different when Christians say God, or Christ or the Holy Spirit is in us from when others say that God is within us or that all has the spark of the divine?  Because it is very different.

The articulation that all has the spark of the divine is perhaps best understood as a pantheist notion.  Pantheists are those who would state that all is divine or that all is God.  And a lovely idea it is.  Makes be feel very happy about everything.

The problem is that it is ludicrous and does not deal with the facts.  Look around.  Not everything is divine.  The current violence in Syria falls short, for example.  I find it hard to think of the physical and sexual abuse of children as issuing from that divine "spark."  Even my own petty and cherished resentments are clearly sub-divine.  I'm just saying.

The Christian perspective articulated perhaps best by St. Paul in his epistles talks about the Spirit being within us (very good news) but at war with something else within us, the sinful nature, or as he calls it, the flesh.

"For those who live according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those who live according to the Spirit set their minds on the things of the Spirit.  For to set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace."  Romans 8:5-6

And here is the difference:  The pantheist is saying that everything is God.  That means that I am god, as is the tree I see out my window.  The Christian saying quite the opposite.  The Christian is saying the God is totally Other than us or the creation.  The pantheist perspective, taken to its logical extreme might induce me to build a little shrine to myself in the front yard for folks to come and worship.  I expect a small bronze statue of me would draw mobs of people to worship...

In saying everything is God we cheapen and devalue Him.  The universe is not one big divine soup.  He is Other than us.  Holy, exalted, in light inaccessible.  And yet He that is Other has chosen to come and live in us, lifting us from our sinful and patently sub-divine nature, and making us new men and women.

The "divine spark" theory just tries to make me feel good about myself and my world.  The God of Jesus Christ, in his descent into me makes me new.  That is difference that makes a difference.

Consequences

Much of my tender youth was spent in front of a television watching intellectually stimulating broadcasts such as Gilligan's Island and the usual Saturday morning animated fare.  One of the other gems of my childhood was Truth or Consequences, a game show hosted by a raven-haired Bob Barker.  I have no recollection of how the game was actually played, but know that if you did something wrong there were negative consequences (hence the name).  Mr. Barker's game show career continued after Truth or Consequences with The Price is Right differing from the earlier show in that Mr. Barker eventually succumbed to the ravages of time becoming white-haired and, due no doubt to his advanced years, required the assistance of beautiful young women.

I am trying to imagine the market demand today for a game show in which those not telling the truth receive negative consequences.  I expect it would be low.  Perhaps why Bob moved on from the relative moral clarity of Truth or Consequence to the consumerist free-for-all of The Price is Right.  Consequences are just not popular.  I don't really want there to be any negative consequences to my choices and actions.

I was having a conversation with someone a few months ago who had decided to back out of a commitment.  There were people who were disappointed in him for this decision which caused the man a significant amount of distress.  He didn't want to do what he had committed to, but he also didn't want anyone to be upset or angry with him.  But you can't have it both ways.  One of the consequences of backing out of a commitment, is that someone might be angry.  Which do you want to avoid the most, the original commitment or the displeasure of others?  Pick one.

I dislike consequences perhaps especially when the they might involve the displeasure of others.  And that is because I live with a odd confusion which is perhaps peculiarly modern.  When the solidity of a relationship is measured by the relative feelings of the people concerned rather than something deeper - some commitment, either declared or implicit - the consequences of someone's anger or displeasure are decimating.  We are very poor at understanding the realities of commitment and covenant that transcend the ups and downs of our emotional responses in relationships.  We think simply that is someone is angry with us or displeased, then there relationship is over, or at least very seriously damaged.  And while this is sometimes true, based on the gravity of the offense and subsequent displeasure, it is not always so.

Case in point - the people of Israel seeking to enter the promised land.  You can read this in Numbers 13 and 14.  Twelve spies were sent out to check out the land for 40 days.  They came back and reported that it was magnificent - flowing with milk and hone - but also that its peoples were magnificently large and brawny.  Ten of the 12 thought that God's whole idea was a poor one and that they ought to have stayed in Egypt.  This attitude was shared by much of the population.

And here is the deal.  God was displeased by their lack of faith.  And there were consequences.  He decreed that the generation who had seen the miracles of the Exodus but were intimidated by a number of muscle-bound Canaanite goons would not find rest in the promised land.  Forty years they were to wander.  They experienced the consequences of displeasing God. He threatens to destroy them and to fulfill his promise through Moses, but in one of the great examples of intercession in the Old Testament, Moses reminds God of His Name and honor among the nations and the Egyptians.

In the end the consequences remain.  Forty years of wandering in the desert.  But does the relationship with God end?  No.  Does He cease to care for and provide for the Israelites?  No.  The commitment and covenant that God has made with his people prevails.  It does not mean that there are no negative consequences to their actions.  But the commitment, the relationship remains.  It is not determined by ire or wrath but by covenant and commitment.

I think that another way of expressing this modern confusion is that we do not understand the difference between what we do and who we are.  My children will, from time to time, do things that displease me.  Those are the things they do.  Not who they are.  Even when I am displeased, I still love them.  The emotion they may feel from me is anger but that does not eradicate the relationship.  I am related to them as persons not to their actions.  Actions can mar relationship.  But where relationship is based on a bond deeper than transient emotion or approval, there is opportunity for repentance and forgiveness not only to heal, but to actually strengthen the bond.

Getting over it

Not long after my mother-in-law, Rickie by name, died, my family and I took a trip to Disney World, a trip on which she had planned to join us. That's important fact #1 for this story. Important fact #2 is that my wife, a ceramicist (fancy word for "potter"), was in the process of making an urn for the burial of her ashes. The implications of "in the process" is that Rickie's cremated remains were being stored in our house until the completion of the urn. At work one day I was telling a friend about the planned trip and how Rickie had planned to come. I said somewhat casually, "But, come to think of it, we could put her under the front seat and she still could come." My friend was horrified and responded, "Well, YOU seem to be over it."

Notwithstanding the black sense of humor I seem to have inherited from my family, this little anecdote makes me think about what it means to be "over" something, especially grief and loss. Having experienced a fair amount of the grief and loss thing I have learned a couple of lessons.

First, making light of loss is not necessarily a sign of having gotten over it. One of the ways in which we deal with the uncomforatble feelings of grief and loss is by alleviating the tension with humor. I remember when my grandfather died, one of my uncles who drove some of the grandchildren to the internment made a number of (very bad) death jokes on the way in the car. The levity is a way of dodging the uncomfortable feelings of grief. It has a part to play in the process but it cannot go on forever. Avoiding the real sadness over a long period has repercussions.

Second, loss is not just the death of someone we know and love. There is grief and sadness when we lose a job, or move to a new town. There is loss when something we hoped for and dreamed about turns out to be impossible.

Third, there is no statute of limitations on grief and loss. There is a pressure, sometimes subtle, sometimes not, to be done with it and move on with life. Our friends, at times, are anxious for us to be "over it" and back to normal. Sometimes that is a pressure we put on ourselves because we think that we should be done by now.

But the sadness creeps up on us unexpectedly. Things that remind us of any loss bring the breath-taking sharpness back as we are still in the process. Just this morning I put on a Veggie Tales video for a small mob of children who happen to be at my house. My kids are WAY past the Veggie Tales stage by now and the theme song, a familiar strain of a time that, for me, is now gone, brought tears to my eyes. Do I regret that my children have grown up and become adults? Absolutely not. But this small reminder of what is gone touched the well of sadness from larger losses. And those small tears were a gift to me.

I don't know when we should be "over it". Even when we are, we are not unchanged, and there is a new normal. The most recent "big" loss in our family happened last summer when my sister-in-law died. And now, nearly a year later, my wife and I are planning an extended leave from work this summer because we aren't over it yet. And until we take the time to come face to face with it, instead of making light or busying ourselves with frenetic activity, we will never get over it.

Buddy Greene, known (apparently) for his praise harmonica - a little known musical genre - sings a song whose chorus is pertinent here:
Where the pieces of our lives go unattended
Then scars from broken hearts go unmended
And the feelings we've forgotten overtake us like a flood
That's how it always is with flesh and blood
That how it has to be with flesh and blood

Revisiting Maslow

Abraham Maslow proposed that human being have a hierarchy of needs.  The most basic and fundamental are their physiological needs - food, water, air and the like.  Coming out of this thinking is the notion that it is useless to try to address the higher needs such as love and belonging if the lower or basic needs are not met.  Makes sense.  People will care little about achievement (an esteem need according to Maslow) if they haven't eaten in 4 days or are constantly threatened by a band of marauders. An interesting manifestation of this theory can be seen on the reality program The Colony.  There a group of survivors fend for their basic needs.  Once those are met, some other needs come into play.

It's not that I think myself an adequate judge of Maslow's theory, or that I have studied it sufficiently to say I entirely understand it, but I sometimes wonder if we really understand what our greatest need is.

Take, for example, Jesus' interaction with a paralyzed man in Matthew 9.  In this text, a group of friends bring a man who could not walk to Jesus expecting or at least hoping Jesus would heal him.  Jesus responds this way:

And when he saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, "Take heart, my son, your sins are forgiven."  (Matthew 9:2)

A remarkable thing to say to this man.  An offensive thing, apparently, given the reaction of the scribes and Pharisees.  We, too, might find it offensive, but probably for a different reason.

The scribes and Pharisees were offended because Jesus was claiming to have the authority to forgive sins - something only God can do.  So, if we work it out logically, Jesus is claiming to be equal to God and that is blasphemous (unless, of course, it is true.)  What is also remarkable is that I am not bothered by Jesus' claim to be equal to God (because I think it true) but as a Maslowite, I am bothered by Jesus' insensitivity to the man's plight as a paralytic.  The has has a MAJOR practical problem.  He can't walk, can't work and provide for himself or a family.  He is therefore at the margins of his society.  And Jesus forgives his sins.  Not only does this gloss over his obvious pedal locomotion challenge, but it adds the insinuation that the man has a moral problem on top.  No pastoral sensitivity points to Jesus on this one.

In the end, what is alarming is that we, post-modern Maslowites, are farther away from Jesus than the scribes and Pharisees!  What Jesus and the religious leaders of his day have in common is the conviction that, despite the man's physical issues, his greatest problem is sin and his greatest need is forgiveness from it.  They are on the same page with that.  They only differ on who has the authority to dispatch the sin.  We are farther away.  We are not convinced that his need for forgiveness is the most basic one.  The alarming part is that Jesus said "unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."  We seem to be on the wrong end of this spectrum.  It's never good when the Pharisees are closer to Jesus than me.

As a paralytic, the man has a social, vocational and physical problem.  He is separated, in part, from his society,  (Only in part, because he clearly has good friends.)  As a sinner, however, he is separated from God.  This latter has greater long-term ramifications.

There is more gospel in this story - Jesus heals the man's legs before he is done.  He deals with all of the man's needs.  (Maslow, I think, would approve.)  But Jesus is not confused as to what the man's greatest need is.

Waiting

A few weeks ago my son ordered a new set of bindings for his snowboard (an odd time of the year, I realize, but he will be good to go as soon as the snow flies.)  Well, to be perfectly frank, I ordered them on my account at the online store so all the shipping communication came to me.  There was a daily request on the status of the shipment - has it shipped?  where is it now? when will it arrive?  Due to the wonders of information technology all of these questions were readily answerable.  "It is in Chelmsford, MA."  Wherever that is.  Oh wait, that information is readily available as well. (It is just southwest of Lowell, making it northwest of Boston.)  We are relieved.

My son lived in a period of extreme anticipation, knowing that something he desired was on the way, but unsure of exactly when it would arrive.  And here, between the Ascension and the feast of Pentecost, the disciples found themselves in the same circumstances, if you take the snowboarding out of it and ratchet up the cosmic significance a few thousand notches.  And as I remember that time, Jesus command that they wait until they were clothed with power, his word that he would send the promise of the Father, as I wait, I am wondering about the work of the Holy Spirit.

He, the Holy Spirit, seems to create controversy in the ranks of the faithful.  I remember someone saying to me many years ago, in semi-allergic reaction to the peculiar (both meanings of "peculiar" intended here) manifestation of charismatic revival in his midst, "I liked it better when we called him the Holy Ghost and he didn't do anything."  Ah, the good old days.

There are two perspectives that I can discern, each with strengths and weaknesses, on the work of the Holy Spirit.  And they sometimes seem to be mutually exclusive. The first is overtly charismatic - focuses on the charisms or gifts of the Holy Spirit.  Here the work of the Holy Spirit is seen as the power of God in miracles and wonders.  This is the Pentecostal (biblical event, not Christian denomination) perspective.  The Holy Spirit comes in flames and wind, in power.  This is also an Old Testament perspective.  the Holy  Spirit, or Spirit of the Lord would come upon individuals and they would prophesy.  It happened also to David when he was anointed by Samuel as king over Israel.  "And the Spirit of the Lord rushed upon David from that day forward." (I Samuel 16:13)   We see this work in the scriptures on the day of Pentecost and throughout the mission of the church in Acts as well as in Paul's letters.

And here is the strength of this understanding - God is present and powerful.  Good to remember, as we tend to relegate him to the role of distant judge or vaguely benevolent grandfather.  The weakness, however, is in the discounting of the sublter workings of the Holy Spirit - the glossing over of the less spectacular.  And, sadly, a disdain for those who don't "have it."

The other perspective is that the Holy Spirit is the one who leads us into all truth.  To be sure, he is that.  Jesus describes him as such. (John 16:13) And that he is the sanctifier of the faithful.  Again, no argument here.  He is the one who produces growth, change and holiness in us.  He is the one who convicts us of sin (a great reminder to those among us who feel this is our calling and pursue it with devastating zeal.)  He is the Comforter.  His work is to produce fruit in us - character and virtue: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, faithfulness and self-control. (Galatians 5:22)

The strength of this perspective is that it acknowledges his work with is less spectacular, although no less important.  It acknowledges the quiet yet inexorable faithfulness of God to make us into who he intends us to be.  The weakness, however, is that it is safe, predictable and, if I play my cards right, ignorable.  It can easily domesticate God for us.  And, as Mr. Beaver and the day of Pentecost remind us, he is not a tame lion.  With it also comes a distrust of the exuberant charismatics who are "nice enough, but a little wacky."

Biblically, the work of the Holy Spirit is clearly both.  And as I wait this Ascensiontide, I wait for the supernatural presence of God who miraculous and spectacularly heals me and who, less spectacularly, teaches, sanctifies and comforts me.

HRH

I have been recommending, indeed advocating, that people take a moment to watch the Queen's (that would be Elizabeth II for those wondering which queen) Christmas message in 2011. The suggestion has been met with polite acquiescence, the "I'll humor him" look, as well as the rolling of eyes. My most recent plea included the thought, "It's seven minutes of your life." Clearly less than we waste hearing about cats and weight loss on facebook daily. It is hard to be a monarchist in a republican country...

My advocacy of the Queen's message this past year in particular has everything to do with its solidly and unapologetically Christian message (appropriate on CHRISTmas, I think.) This, of course is a digression. It is not every day that I am thinking about HRH. But I am today because today is essentially coronation day.

Today is the fortieth day after Easter, the day we remember the Ascension of Jesus to heaven. It is a major feast of the church but often slips by unnoticed because we either don't take notice of the feasts of the church (shame because feast is fun) or because it doesn't fall on our usual worship day.

All of the appointed lessons for Ascension talk about the sovereignty of God and the reign of Christ. "He ascended into heaven and sits on the right hand of God the Father." says the creed. This is an ascension to a throne (sits being the give-away word here). Ascension is the Father's acknowledgement of the reign and rule of Jesus the Christ. It is his coronation day.

As coronation day it comes some time after his battle and victory. The battle was the cross; the victory, the resurrection. And some time after comes the coronation. Forty days in this case. In the Return of the King, the last volume of Tolkien's trilogy, Aragorn who becomes king fights his battles (one outside the his gates and one outside the gates of the enemy) and is victorious. After all this he returns to Minas Tirith and is crowned King. The coronation is the acknowledgement of his reign and rule, which is his both by right of birth and by the merits of his victory.

Aragorn is but a figure of Christ Jesus, whose rule and reign on this day we remember.

The psalm appointed for this morning says:
For God is King of all the earth;
sing praises with all your skill. (Psalm 47:7)

The writer to the Hebrews also reminds us today:
You made him for a little while lower than the angels;
you have crowned him with glory and honor,
putting everything in subjection under his feet.

Now in putting everything in subjection to him, he left nothing outside his control. At present, we do not yet see everything in subjection to him. But we see him who for a little while was made lower than the angels, namely Jesus, crowned with glory and honor because of the suffering of death, to that by the grace of God he might taste death for everyone. (Hebrews 2:7-9)

The writer here underlines one of the common struggles of believing in the reign of Jesus, trusting in the truth of his ascension to the right hand of God - we do not yet see everything in subjection to him. (Yet is the give-away word this time). His reign, though real, is still being worked out in the world, and frankly in me. But that does not make it any less real. Another favorite book comes to mind as I think about the working out of reign. Caspian, king of Narnia, in the Voyage of the Dawn Treader, relates to Edmund and Lucy what has happened since they had left Narnia, just after Caspian's victory. He tells them he still had to deal with some "troublesome giants on the frontier." Rule and reign is worked out over time, but that does not make it any less rule and reign, nor any less complete.

Charles Wesley, in acknowledging this day and his King wrote this:
Hail the day tha sees him rise
To his throne above the skies
Christ, the Lamb for sinners given,
Enters now the highest heaven!

And for those who have seven minutes of their life to invest, here's the link to the Queen's message:
Queen Elizabeth II Christmas Message 2011

The Beautiful

Being of rural Nova Scotian Scots Presbyterian (heavy on the Scots, a little lighter on the Presbyterian) extraction, I was exposed to a very frugal, utilitarian, waste-not-want-not mindset. This is perhaps why my grandmother insisted that the moldy cheese was perfectly fine (cheddar, not stilton which is meant to be moldy.). In her defense, no one became ill from ingesting the stuff. It is perhaps also why my father never threw anything out. Contra Jesus' suggestion, he just built larger barns to hold the goods, including the horse-drawn sleigh that was notably missing the horse.

All that to say usefulness and practicality were the measures by which an object's value was measured. Beauty was a secondary or even tertiary concern. A thing need not be beautiful. It needed to be inexpensive and useful. That it was beautiful was not considered necessary. We were not art collectors (although Dad collected almost everything but.)

The Presbyterian-rooted church I went to as a child was UNADORNED. Pale blue walls were accented by exactly nothing except perhaps the standard-issue burgundy church carpet down the aisles. In my adolescent years there was a great debate about the addition of a (very) plain cross. One would have thought this a Rococo addition by the controversy. (By the way the Rococoans won.)

In my anemic rebellion against the Scots Presbyterian roots, beyond becoming Anglican, I have utterly rejected the notion that beauty is unnecessary. Beauty, be it visual, musical, literary or natural, is needed. Without beauty the soul withers. Beauty enlarges us. I remember driving from the Laurentians back to Montreal one day. As I rounded a curve in the road my vision (and soul) were filled with an impartation of Beauty in the trees and mountains before me. It overwhelmed me to the point of tears. It was the moment, the light, the trees and the rocks together in visual symphony. I was, for a time, larger more gracious, more human as I took it in.

Shriveled souls starved for beauty make for a shriveled and mean existence. The Beautiful changes us. St. Paul, without using the word beauty, exhorts us to the practice of dwelling on the good, the true and the beautiful:

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
-Philippians 4:8 (NIV)

The True

I am hesitant to broach the subject of the True.  It is so divisive and I am frankly irritated by sloppy intellectual use of concepts of truth as well as angry and uncharitable ones.  I will first vent my irritation.

I wish we could stop thinking in categories of something being “true for me” and not for you.  This is the sloppy use of the concept.  If you think of what “true” actually means, the idea becomes nonsensical.  When building something, in making it “true” we bring it into an exact shape or alignment.  Either the structure is true or it is not.  It cannot be true for me and not for you.  But, the objection comes, that has to do with actual verifiable things that can be measured.  It is different when it comes to philosophical things or religious belief.  While I agree that there may be differing perspectives, the word “true” is not protean in its meaning.  Either Jesus rose from the dead or he did not.  It is either true or it is not.  It cannot be true for me and false for you.  (And don’t bring Schrodinger’s cat into the conversation.  While from a probability perspective the cat is both dead and alive, in fact he is one or the other.) Far better to use our words more carefully and say things like, “that does not make sense to me,” or “I don’t believe that.”  Here we are being honest and are not cheapening the meaning of the word True.

Irritation number 2 – The use of Truth as a bludgeon to hit people with.  This, sadly, is often the particular vice of Christians.  We cheerfully ignore St. Paul’s exhortation to speak the truth in love.  Truth and love together are powerful.  Like salt.  Sodium and chlorine, separately, each is toxic.  Together they preserve and bring flavor out of foods.  Truth without love is toxic (as is love without truth – sentimentality – a sweeter poison, but poison nonetheless).  I have heard the truth from people who have had an axe to grind with me.  It is easily dismissed.  I have also heard truth from those whose actions have clearly shown they love me.  Those words are hard to ignore.

My father had a profound respect for the truth and instilled in me the importance of telling the truth regardless of the consequences.  And I think that it includes telling the truth to others and to ourselves.  This latter is at least as difficult, for as Jeremiah reminds us, the heart is deceitful above all things.

But here I am making it sound like the truth is always bad news.  Of course it is not.  While the truth may be hard from time to time, the truth also affirms, blesses and encourages.  And Jesus says that the truth will set us free. 

Like the Good, the True in its glorious objective reality, is a thing to be loved.  It is reality as it is, the universe, both physical and moral, as God made it.  And as I recall, He thought it very good - thus worthy of our love.

The Good

I saw a bumper sticker the other day which said: "Humankind: Be Both."  Pithy.  Provocative.  And somehow unsatisfying.  Kindness, while a positive thing from which we all might benefit, remains only a facet or shadow of the greater thing which is the Good.  Opting always for kindness means that we will sometimes miss the Good.  Making excuses for a substance-addicted family member may be a kind thing, preserving that family member from some short-term discomfort or humiliation, but it is not a good thing.  In psychological parlance, it enables the addiction.  Kind, but not Good.  This may seem like an extreme example.  Here's a less extreme one.  Consistently driving your kid to school because he or she has missed the bus.  Very kind.  If it is an occasional occurrence.  In this case it might even be seen as good.  But where the missing is habitual all we are doing is teaching our teen that if they sleep in, someone will fix it for them.  They will be in for a rude awakening some day.  So in that case, it is neither kind nor good.

But what about the Good - this which is larger than simple kindness?  To be sure we often do that which is good, but when we do not, why?  Why do we fail to do the Good?  I can think of two reasons, there are undoubtedly more.  First, we do not do the good because we reject it for some other thing which is positive but less.  Kindness is one example.  But there are others.  We will often sacrifice the Good for the useful or utilitarian.  We do that which makes the most useful sense, or economic sense, or, to follow Freud, that which makes the most pleasure sense.  Again, usefulness, sound economics and pleasure are all positive things, but they are often morally less than the Good.

The second reason we do not do the Good is because we claim we can't know it.  There are so many shades of grey in life and situations.  How are we to know the Good?  Some thoughts on this from two characters, one fictional and one real.  In The Lord of the Rings, the riders of Rohan ask Aragorn how, in these complicated times, men might know good from ill.  Aragorn responds, "As he has ever judged...good and ill have not changed since yesteryear; nor are they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among Men."*  Aragorn puts it baldly in front of us.  The Good is knowable and has always been.  I feel this when I opt for the lesser things, usefulness or pleasure.  The Good is before me and I choose other.  It's not that I don't know.

St. Paul, while he does not mention moral good in this text, says something very similar in the first chapter of Romans:
"For what can be know about God [including his Goodness] is plain to them, because God has shown it to them.  For his invisible attributes, namely his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made." 
(Romans 1:19-20 ESV - comment in brackets mine)

What is at least as interesting as why we don't do the Good, is why we do.  Even here I think there are good reasons and bad.  For all of us, if we learn right from wrong as children, we learn to do the Good to avoid punishment and to gain reward.  This is right and proper for the punishment and the rewards are part of the teaching, the shaping of our souls.   But this, like a scale played during piano practice, or conjugations done when learning a language,  is a drill to shape and form something in us - conscience or understanding of the Good.  If as adults we are continuing to do the Good for fear of punishment, we have missed something.  We have not yet come to love.  St. John says this:
"There is no fear in love, for perfect love casts out all fear.  For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love."
(I John 4:18 ESV)

More on love in a minute.

The other reason we do the good I take from a nursery rhyme.
Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner,
Eating a Christmas pie;
He put in his thumb,
And pulled out a plum,
And said 'What a good boy am I!

We sometimes do the Good in order to congratulate ourselves, "What a good boy and I!"  Or possibly so that others will congratulate us.  This ultimately is a variation on the punishment theme, just its opposite side.  We do good things because we want people to think good of us, to approve of us and appreciate us.  The problem with this, and the fear of punishment goodness, is that the Good can easily get warped in pour minds to mean "whatever the other wants."  Here we are easily prey to manipulation, sometimes dong what is not good in order to obtain the approval of, or avoid the wrath of those whose opinion we value.  It's how we get involved in gangs and why we get engaged in cliques in our school, workplace or neighborhood.

But there is another reason for doing the Good and it is what the childhood punishment and reward system is meant to grow in us.  And that is the love of the Good.  There is a big difference between doing what is Good because we are afraid that if we don't God is going to get us, and doing it because we love it.  I remember distinctly the day this realization came to me - that God was not asking me to do the Good but rather to love it.  And the doing then flows much more easily out of the loving.

The Good, together with the True and the Beautiful, are things we are made to love. And in loving them we become more truly human.  And something quite a bit more than kind.

*J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

Location Location Location

Here's a familiar one:  "I am the way, the truth and the life.  No one comes to the Father but by me."  This selection from John's Gospel was part of the lectionary reading and it got me thinking about the most common understanding of the point of the text - or at least the one I encounter most frequently.  The verse is usually taken to be a vindication of our beliefs as Christians.  As Christians we claim Jesus as the unique Savior.  And Jesus says if there is going to be any saving done, it's going to be by him - Dominical support of the our claim that Jesus is the Savior.  "Païens ont tort et Chrétiens ont droit."* to quote La Chanson de Roland. 

I want to be clear that I take this to be true - that Jesus is THE Savior. And in this matter I am with the author of La Chanson.  However, I am not convinced that when Jesus first said this that he was intending to affirm or vindicate his disciples' beliefs.  I don't think he was trying to tell them that they "ont droit."  The reason I suspect this is all about location - the location in the biblical text where the comment comes - reading it in its context.

What is happening is that Jesus is preparing the disciples for the fact that he is going to go away to prepare a place for them.  He assures them they know the way to where he is going.  Thomas assures Jesus that they do not: "We do not even know where you are going, much less the way."

Jesus response, "I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father but by me, " is not intended to assure Thomas that he is right.  It is actually a gentle correction.  He is mistaken and has misunderstood something.  He is wrong.  

Thomas is looking for the information, the plan, the road map.  And aren't we all.  He wants to know the formula for spiritual success - to know both where Jesus is going and how to get there.  I have often thought it would be awesome if Jesus provided me with a detailed flight plan.  I have yet to receive one.  Thomas, like me, wants the right knowledge, the correct technique and find assurance in that knowledge.

But there is no map and there is no technique.  There is only (and the use of the word "only" here is nearly blasphemous) - there is only a Person.  To know him is to know the way.  He is it.  "No one comes to the Father but my me" is not necessarily a validation of my theology but an invitation for me (and all) to know Him who is the Way, the Truth and the Life.

The advantage to a map or technique is that I can follow it.  Emphasis on I.  No surprises and guaranteed success if we follow and execute.  Sounds perfect.  But it is not the option given - although we often try to make it thus creating rules and rolling out techniques for spiritual success. 

The option given is a Person - relationship with One to whom we must learn to listen and obey.  Harder then rules and maps but more like Love and Life (two other things that He also is.) 

*Pagans are wrong and Christians are right.

Moving On

One of the many things I appreciate about The Lord of the Rings is its ample epilogue.  Generally in books and movies there is little that follows the major climax.  A few minor details may get tied up but it is not substantive in any way.  In Tolkien's opus, there are crownings, weddings, another voyage, a parting of friends (at least twice), a minor conflict and an ensuing battle.  What I appreciate is that we are not forced to immediately move on after Sauron is defeated.

Moving on seems to be a significant imperative for us.  When one thing is completed the next thing is immediately before us.  There is no gracious time to ponder, reflect, appreciate or even learn from the thing completed.  We must move on.  We have miles to go before we sleep, as Robert Frost suggested.  Mustn't dwell on the past.  And we all know that a rolling stone gathers no moss, so let's keep rolling.  In the act of writing this I suddenly wonder what is so bad about moss.

I notice this impetus to move on especially at Christmas.  Coming from a Christian tradition that follows with some care the liturgical calendar, I know that Christmas STARTS on December 25 and then lasts for 12 days (hence the song in which the curious Lords-a-leaping are figured).  But on December 25th we have moved on.  It's over.  On to the next thing which will include post-Christmas sales, New Year's resolutions and all that lies ahead.  Could we not rest in the moment, for just a few days?

This has occurred to me because we have just passed Easter (it was on Sunday) and I had moved on.  We're done with Holy Week, Good Friday and the Feast of the Resurrection.  What's next?  As I was reading the lessons appointed in the lectionary this week, I found myself vaguely annoyed that we were going over the Passover in Exodus, rereading resurrection accounts in the Gospels, and meandering through I Corinthians 15.  Wasn't that last week?  I thought to myself.  Isn't it time to move on?

I come back to Tolkien as I think on this.  His multi-chapter epilogue does us the service of not immediately moving on.  All that follows the climactic victory at the gates of Mordor and in the heart of Mount Doom is a working out of the implications of that victory.  All of the events that follow the climax are results of same climax.  Life, in all of its joys and also struggles, blossoms forth.  The climax and victory allow for all of these other things to happen.  It is moving on, in a way, but a moving on that is deeply rooted in and thankful for the event that permits it.

And thus it is with Easter.  Christmas is 12 days.  Easter is 7 weeks.  On Monday and Tuesday I was annoyed because the lectionary hadn't moved on.  Today I had a change of heart.  I am thankful that these themes and stories are again before me.  The Easter event, Jesus' resurrection from the dead, bears some continued reflection.  I am moving on, but deeply rooted in and thankful for the event that permits me.