Aug 31 2019 Mark 14: 43-52

Have you come out with swords and clubs to arrest me as though I were a bandit. Day after day I was with you in the temple teaching, and you did not arrest me.

Judas has returned to the place where Jesus and his disciples are praying, accompanied by crowd with clubs and swords. This crowd is comprised of all the leaders of the time – political, religious, and social. They all come with clubs and swords. Think about that. It’s a startling image, and I can’t quite imagine who that would be in my world now. But it’s the leaders of world where Jesus lived. And they have had enough.

They’ve had more than enough. What would it be like to be so threatened that the political and religious leaders come armed? And Jesus rightly points out that he’s been peacefully preaching and teaching in their temples – he’s not a violent threat they need to meet with clubs. And yet they do.

Clearly, they perceived Jesus as such a threat that their response was warranted. They didn’t come to overreact, or intentionally over-arm. No, they genuinely thought they were meeting a real threat with the appropriate response – clubs and swords.

It seems that threats to ideology and core beliefs, even if they’re verbal threats, can be perceived as warranting a violent response. Jesus had demonstrated no violent tendencies, and yet the crowd’s response was violent. What Jesus was preaching and teaching was threatening to more than their bodies; he was threatening their concept of all they believed, all who they were.

And Jesus’ response was to incredulously remind them that he’d genuinely come in peace, taught in peace. Their imminent violence was unmatched. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how easy it is for us to respond to an affront by escalating the conflict by escalating my response. We respond with clubs and swords to the peaceful teacher, because we feel threatened. We respond with sarcasm or cold shoulders to perceived slights.

Conflict will always happen. People disagree. But today, I want to meet that disagreement without the escalated clubs and swords.

Aug 30 2019 Mark 14:27-42

Abba, Father, for you all things are possible; remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want.

Fully human, fully divine. Jesus is praying, fretting the night before he’s to be tried, tortured, and killed. He’s left his disciples a few paces behind, as he petitions God. Let this cup pass me by. Don’t make me do this. Fully human. Yet, not what I want but you want. Fully divine.  

I do like this petition of Jesus. God, make this stop. Take away the pain of the world, the pain in my family. There’s no shortage of things to petition God to remove. And there’s no reason not to do so. And so we pray and ask God to intercede on our behalf, to make our world better. God hears all those cries. God is with us as we cry. God was with Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, as he cried.

Crying out to God is frightening, and lonely. And comforting, and companionable, all at the same time. When I cry out, it’s generally because something is cruddy enough that I’m absolutely clear I cannot fix it myself. It’s hard to cry out because it admits a vulnerability and lack of control. And generally, when I cry out, I’m by myself. Even if it takes place in a place of corporate worship, it’s just me and God.

But that petitioning is oddly comforting and companionable too. By virtue of petitioning God, I inherently acknowledge that God is present. God is all powerful, and miracles can happen. And although I feel alone, God is present.

And so we pray. But to be a person of faith, I need to also add the phrase, ‘yet not what I want, but what you want’. I can and do pray for all sorts of interventions. Make this pain go away. Heal this. Calm that. And I need to have the firm faith that what should happen at the end of the day is not my desire, but God’s.

That’s not to say that if something isn’t healed, or fixed or immediately calmed, God wants sickness, brokenness or anxiety. Rather, God has a much wider lens than I could possibly have. I’m judging the elephant blindfolded by grabbing its tail, trunk or touching its side. I can’t possibly have the full picture. ]

This morning, I’m thinking about not my will but God’s, and how I can either catch a glimpse of the bigger picture or let go and trust that there is a bigger picture. Maybe it’s not mine to see or understand, but rather to just trust that it is. I’m grateful we have these glimpses into Jesus’ full humanity. If it is possible, take this pain from me. And I’m grateful that I mostly trust there’s a God who sees all, and is always present. Yet, not what I want, but what you want.

Aug 28 2019 Matthew 14: 1-12 – Commemoration of the Beheading of John the Baptist

Though Herod wanted to put him to death, he feared the crowd, because they regarded him as a prophet.

John the Baptist was a cousin of Jesus, who came before Jesus and pointed people towards Jesus. He had quite a ministry, baptizing and preaching, and calling people to repent. He is one of the great prophets, and a perfect example of what a prophet is, as opposed to what culture things they are.

Prophets aren’t fortune tellers, or soothsayers. They don’t see into the future, in the common sense. What they do is imagine and talk about the way God wants things to be; they describe a future full of God’s love and mercy for all. Of a future where we truly focus on Loving God. Loving your Neighbor. When they start talking about this future, it can sound as if they can see the future.

John got sideways with Herod, as Herod had married his brother’s wife, and John told him as much. In our world, this doesn’t sound like such a horrible crime, but it was then. It doesn’t matter what the offense was. What matters is that John had the chutzpah to talk about the way things should be, and point out to Herod that Herod’s actions were not in line with that. This is a good example of someone speaking truth to power.

Herod imprisoned him, and wanted to put him to death but was afraid. Ultimately he had John beheaded, at his wife’s command, and his daughter brought the head of John the Baptist to his wife. This head and platter part of the story should remind us all that these narratives took place in a time and place very very different from where we are now. None of that should diminish the value of the story, even when the details are hard to translate.

John the Baptist was beheaded because he continued to speak of the wrongs of his contemporaries, and portrayed a vision of God’s kingdom come. There are modern day prophets who continue to speak of God’s dram versus our human nightmare. And there are many ways to do this. Some people are great at protesting, marching, rallying, rabble-rousing. Some people are great organizers, inspirers, preachers, teachers.

I believe we all are called to be prophets, to speak of God’s dream, particularly in the face of this modern-day nightmare. People who are teachers and followers of Jesus, teach in a way that shows children God’s dream, even in secular settings. Doctors and other medical professionals do the same. Being a prophet is not a role reserved for the street-corner preachers, or community organizers. We are all called to speak and act God’s dream into this reality. 

This morning, I’m thinking about my particular strain of being a prophet. How can I use my gifts and strengths and passions to bring God’s kingdom come. Today, I want to find opportunities in my own way to be as clear and brave as John the Baptist, as he urged people towards a better way.

Aug 28 2019 Acts 27: 9-26

Men, you should have listened to me and not have set sail from Crete and thereby avoided this damage and loss;

Paul is on a ship on another journey to proclaim the good news of Jesus. During this adventure, he’s on a ship in stormy seas. At the beginning of his adventure, he tells his fellow travelers that the journey would be treacherous, with loss of property and loss of life. But they listen instead to the captain, and proceed. Sure enough, the weather is awful, and they are tossed all about. They throw over cargo, and eventually their food, trying to not sink.

When they’d reached the place where they’d given up all hope of being saved, Paul stands and tells them that according to an angel who’d visited him in the night, they will all survive, but the ship will not.

Except Paul starts his ‘you’ll all be saved’ speech by saying the equivalent of I told you so. And, initially his prediction was wrong; up until that point, no humans had been lost. And his fellow travelers chose to listen to the captain.

If I’d been on that boat, I probably wouldn’t have believed Paul either. Why would you, when the captain was contradicting him? And Paul’s warning sounded a little like the chicken crying, “the sky is falling”.

Are we to take from this that we should not listen to smart, trained professionals, and rather listen to the person without any standing or any reason to be weighing in on this? I cannot imagine that’s the point. In this case, Paul is acting like a human being, who offers his 2 cents, unbidden, uneducated, and in this case, unheeded.

Paul demonstrates his human being-ness further when he stands amidst the pummeled ship and crew and says, I told you so. Really, Paul? Again, I must admit that I’d be likely to do the same thing – to crow about my right-ness, at all the wrong times.

Unlike Jesus, who we believe to be both fully human and fully divine, Paul is all human all the time. So are all the people he encounters, including his followers, his jailers, the captain of the ship, and those who free him. After reading about fully-divine Jesus, Paul’s story is too mundane, and far too human for my comfort. They say that when you find something unpleasant in another person, it’s often a reflection of something you find unpleasant in yourself. I’d rather Paul be more divine and above petty humanness; I’d rather I be more divine and above petty humanness.

This morning, I’m thinking about how hard it is to be a Jesus-follower, when I’m fully human, full of human pettiness, and a need to be right. And despite his fully-humanness, and his pesky nature, Paul did great things. It’s not that he wasn’t human; Paul was able to persist in his mission despite his flaws and the flaws of everyone around him. It’s much less pleasant to read about Paul, and harder to sort out what he did that was God-inspired versus ego-inspired. But that’s where we are now. Today, I hope to keep my eye on the God-inspired, rather than the ego-inspired.

Aug 27 2019 Mark 13: 28-37

Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come.
Jesus is telling his disciples that heaven and earth will pass away, but his words will not pass away. He likens that time to a man who leaves on a journey and leaves the slaves in charge. Keep awake, for you do not know when the master will return, at cock-crow, midnight or dawn – Keep Awake.

At the risk of showing that I don’t have very solid end-time theology or understanding, here’s what this means to me.

We pray in the Lord’s Prayer, ‘your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as in heaven’. To me, this is about the immediacy of God’s kingdom on earth, now. It’s not about a time in the distant future where we meet Jesus. Rather, it’s about the opportunities we are presented every day to meet Jesus here and now. As we pray in our Baptismal Covenant, seek and serve Christ in all people. That’s imminent, here and now. Christ is in all people. God’s reign can happen here and now. If we’re awake.

Our charge and challenge is to be awake and see it. We can see Jesus and serve Christ in every interaction, every conversation with family, co-workers, strangers. That takes vigilance, though. We need to be always on guard, always watching for the Christ in them. It’s so easy to wander through my days half asleep.

This morning, I’m thinking about how hard it is to keep awake throughout my days, to see and serve Christ in every encounter. If I truly believe that Christ is in all people, that to feed the hungry is to feed Christ himself, that to care for children is to care for God, then I must be vigilant – keep awake. My opportunity to meet Christ happens hundreds of times a day. And while it’s true that I don’t know when the time will come, I do genuinely believe it will happen at every encounter I have.

Aug 26 2019 Acts 26: 1-23

When we had all fallen to the ground, I heard a voice saying to me in the Hebrew language, "Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?

This morning, we read again about Saul’s conversion. How he’d been a persecutor of the followers of Jesus. In today’s telling, he reports that he even cast votes against them, when they were being condemned to death. He also reports that he pursued these Jesus-followers to other countries, just to persecute them. Earlier in the book of Acts, we hear that he held the coats of those who were stoning Stephen to death – Stephen the first appointed deacon. Saul is travelling and is blinded by a bright light. Many days later, the scales fall from his eyes, as he hears Jesus asking him why Saul is persecuting Jesus. He’s converted and changes his name to Paul.

In a short 28 chapters, the book of Acts covers approximately 30 years of the earliest church. During those short 28 chapters, Paul’s story is told three times, with the first time being the narrator telling of the event. The second two times are Paul telling others of his conversion story.

This morning, I’m thinking about the importance of our own personal narrative stories when it comes to our experiences of God, or our own ‘testimonies’. Personal testimony is a phrase used by many Christians to talk about their stories, but not used so frequently in my faith tradition. But whatever you call it, it’s important to tell our stories.

Presiding Bishop Michael Curry talks about the importance of evangelism, which is largely about telling our story, and listening to the story of another person. It’s through sharing our own personal stories, I believe that the Holy Spirit connects us with others.

So in the spirit of Paul repeatedly telling his, here’s mine.

I was at church, when a vibrant new diocesan leader was visiting and preaching. I had a ‘theophany’, or a visible manifestation of God. From the pulpit where the wonderful woman was preaching, I saw something that can only be described as a ‘whoosh’, come down the aisle towards me in the choir loft. As I looked around, no one else was looking at it.

A few weeks earlier, I’d scheduled lunch with my priest because I wanted to talk to him about my underwhelming spiritual life. I’d likened my relationship with God to an old married couple – rock solid, but kind of boring.

So I go have lunch with my priest, and he asks about my underwhelming spirituality. About that, I say.. And proceed to tell him about my whoosh. He responds that God has quite a sense of humor. I’d wanted him to explain it all to me, but alas, he said it was mine to figure out. Why then, why there, why me.

For the next few months, I’m looking all over for anything to give me a hint, about why. I couldn’t figure anything out. The same bishop who was preaching when this happened initially was coming back, and it was an opportunity to have my son confirmed upon her visit. Nothing else made sense, so I thought I’d reaffirm my baptismal vows at the same time my son was confirmed. Maybe she was the common thread. And besides, I could stand to reaffirm and recommit to those covenants I held dear, and do so at the same time my son was learning about them.

My son and I took the multi-week class, in preparation of confirmation and reaffirmation. The priest was talking about the various ways God calls us in the church. After describing the ministry of lay people, bishops and priests, he explained that if deacons had a motto, it would be that they comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. Hmm. I thought. I’m good at that. Hmm. Hmm. I don’t really remember the rest of the class, as I was feeling drawn to everything he’d said about deacons. A few weeks later, I told him I thought maybe, possibly, perhaps, I should pursue being a deacon. He turned, and exclaimed, Of course, I was wondering when you’d figure that out!

Seven years, much study, and wonderful experiences later, I was ordained a deacon.

I’ve never had a visceral experience of God like that before, nor since. But it sent me on this wonderful journey.  If have a story, tell it. And listen to the stories of others. It's an unbelievable blessing, to share those intimate, God-inspired moments.

Aug 25 2019 Psalm 112

The wicked will see it and be angry; they will gnash their teeth and pine away; the desires of the wicked will perish.

Psalm 112 is a regular listing of advice that could be tendered today – Be generous in lending, manage affairs with justice, give freely to the poor. The conclusion of this list of upstanding advice is that the wicked will see this good behavior and be angry, gnashing their teeth, and pining away.

How sad it is that when seeing good behavior in others, some people are angry. Why should it matter if someone else is just or generous? And yet, we get petty, when someone else benefits from such good behavior and we don’t!

When people whom I’ve judged to be unworthy are the recipients of good luck, or benevolent offers, it is sometimes hard to be happy for them. That sounds very petty in writing it, but it’s honest. It’s hard to remember that kindness and generosity are inherently good, and in fact, not owed to me, ever.

There is hope for me, though. I’m reminded of a call I got a call from a dear family friend. They were calling to tell me they were extending incredible generosity to another of my family members. They were afraid I was going to be upset, because I was not going to receive the same benevolent offer. Their reasoning was perfectly reasonable, and the action was incredibly kind. Momentarily, I contemplated being put off by the generosity of someone, and then realized that made no sense. I was able to be deeply grateful for their generosity, and for the good fortune of my family member.

I can’t say that I always can be trusted with similar good responses, but I am capable of them. And all I need to do is think of this psalm, and the absurdity of thinking that good will should cause anger.

This morning, I’m thinking about ways to be gracious and grateful for the kindness and goodness and generosity of others, even if it’s not directed to me. I never want to be caught pining or angry about good things in this world.

Aug 24 2019 Genesis 28: 10-17

And he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven, and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it. 

This is the story of Jacob’s wacky dream. In his dream with the cosmic escalator, God stands next to him and assures Jacob that God will always be with him, and keep him until God has accomplished what he promised.

Dreams are wacky, aren’t they? I’ve had dreams that put together things I hadn’t been able to solve while waking. I’ve had dreams that absolutely seemed like divine presence, like the time I was reminded that I wouldn’t have been asked to perform a magical marionette show in front of thousands of people, even though that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. The punchline of that dream was that God wouldn’t ask more of me than I can do, and if I think it’s too big of a request, I’ve probably got the question wrong. That dream came at the time when I was moving my feeble father across the country after my mom’s death. A challenging time, indeed. I absolutely believe God speaks to us in dreams, either directly or not.

And then I’ve had dreams that just make no sense. Singing dinosaurs. Very scary situations, that when I wake up, I wonder why I was afraid at all. I don’t know how much of dreams are God-inspired, experience-inspired, or living out fears from my day. But when I’m having a dream, things seem real. My heart can race. I cry in dreams, and can wake up with the residual effects of strong emotions that come from dreams.

This effect, the fact that dreams are so real when we’re sleeping was used to describe schizophrenia to me recently. The brain of someone with that disease is not entirely different than mine. The biggest difference is that I have the priceless luxury of awakening from that dream state. My brain conjures wonderful, or frightening, or wacky stories. While I’m dreaming, it is absolutely real. And then, eventually I wake up. When wakefulness is complete, I leave the dream world behind. I leave the racing heart, the idea that I can fly or that I’m being chased, I leave all of that behind. Maybe I’ll rejoin the fantasy when I next sleep, or maybe it’s gone forever. But I awaken, and leave it behind.

For people experiencing schizophrenia, they do not have that veil, that separates awake and asleep. Their brain goes through the same fantastic conjuring as mine. It’s as real to them, as my dreams are to me. But they are not sleeping, so they cannot awaken. It’s humbling to think that the brain function is the same; my brain conjures the same kinds of images as someone with schizophrenia. The only difference is that I wake up.

This morning, I’m thinking about dreams like Jacob’s, and about how grateful I am that I sleep and dream, and then can awaken and leave the dreams behind. I pray that God can peek in to that constant dream-state and speak to folks with schizophrenia, as God speaks to me in my dreams.

Aug 23 2019 Psalm 143

When my spirit languishes within me, you know my path.

This could be a frightening passage. This comes in Psalm full of loneliness and fear. ‘I look to my right hand and find no one who knows me. ‘ I have no where to flee.’ ‘Save me from those pursue me’ ‘Bring me out of the prison.’ In the midst of all of this trouble, the writer admits that his spirit languishes. Of course it does! We all have had those days where my spirit languishes.

And in the midst of all this languishing, and trouble, God knows my path. Sometimes that feels not so helpful; in the midst of all of these trials, God knows. While I believe this is true, sometimes it’s hard to care about God knowing. After all, I need an action-God, not a watching-God. Or at least sometimes it feels like that.

But if I stop and think about it, ultimately, it is fantastic that God knows my path, even in the turmoil. Last night I went to a much-needed ladies night out and went to a concert. As we were leaving with the massive herds, I was a little frightened of getting separated; there is no way I could have found our car. There were others in the parking area who definitely had lost their car, and possibly their friends, wandering around alone. That is precisely what I was fearing, as I clutched the coat sleeve of my friend.

Even if my friend and I couldn’t find the car, there was something deeply comforting in knowing I wasn’t alone. That’s the point, right? Of God knowing my path? Regardless of what path I take, how lost I get, what prisons I feel I’m in, God knows and is right there. I am not alone. Ever.

Add this to the fact that God is merciful, and that’s a good all-knowing companion to have. Regardless of my day or trials, God knows my path. I am in God’s sight. Always.

This morning, I’m thinking about those times when I feel alone, or pursued, or when my soul is languishing. I’m thinking about God, who knows all of that. All of the time. I am not alone. God knows, and God can help in big and little ways to steer my steps from the pits. God knows and God can help in big and little ways to revive my languishing spirit. Always.

Aug 22 2019 Mark 12: 28-34

You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength. The second is this, "You shall love your neighbor as yourself.

Love God. Love your neighbor. That’s all. As Jesus explains in this morning’s reading from Mark, there is no commandment greater than these. It seems to me that many religions and the people that follow them have lost sight of this. How much easer faith and evangelism would be if we kept returning to this?

It seems to me society is hungry for goodness. And hope. And a power bigger than the current worldly power struggles. Than leaders who claim to be anointed. All of that is irrelevant if we focus on loving God. Who cares what worldly leaders say? Who cares about darkness here and now? Or even about insidious illness in our world? In the end, love God. God is bigger than all of that, brighter than that, truer than that. Yes, cruddy things happen here and now. Stupid people say stupid things, and horrible diseases ravage loved ones. And all the while, a loving, all-merciful God is with us. Love God. God’s bigger than all of that.

It also seems to me that society is hungry to be shown compassion by others, and to show compassion to others. People want to love and be loved. They want to see that their fellow humankind, can in fact be human-kind. People want to love and care for others. Maybe we struggle with loving all of our fellow human-kind, but we want to care. We want to love. We want to serve. When we do that, even when we struggle with loving the unlovable, we are living into God’s second commandment. Love your neighbor. God is bigger than all of the petty human-unkindness. We are each called to Love our Neighbor.

If I could do that, just keep these two commandments in front of mind and actually live like that, I wonder what my world would look like?

This morning, I’m thinking about how simple this Christianity thing is. Love God. Love your Neighbor. Easy to remember, definitely not easy to do consistently. But today, I want to start by remembering it all day, and make at least a few decisions as if this was all that mattered. Love God. Love your Neighbor. Because in the end, that’s all that really matters.

Aug 21 2019 Acts 23: 23-35

This man was seized by the Jews and was about to be killed by them, but when I had learned that he was a Roman citizen, I came with the guard and rescued him.
Paul is being tarried about, imprisoned, rescued, moved, imprisoned. His wanderings are hard to follow, as is his captivity and release. Today, we read that he’s being transported from prison to Caesarea, an area in modern-day Israel, but a stone’s throw from Lebanon and Syria, but was governed by Felix, the Roman governor of Judea.

Paul’s being transported there because his captives found out he was a Roman citizen, not a local citizen. Because the Roman Empire was the occupying force, it made sense for them to treat one of their own citizens with more respect than the local occupied Jews.

As a resident in modern-day US, it’s hard to fathom what it would be like to be living in an occupied country. And what does that even mean? That there are troops monitoring or governing? That there are foreigners who’ve come in and replaced the local polity?

A quick look uncovers that the US has sent troops, or planes or military command staff in to 57 places in the past 50 years. Some are in our own country, like sending troops in for civil unrest, or suppressing indigenous protests, some have been bombings in nearly all continents, like Cambodia, Lebanon, and Libya, and Yugoslavia. We are the occupying force. To be precise, it’s not technically an occupation, unless a territory is placed under the authority of a hostile military. But maintaining a large military presence, and dropping our bombs is definitely something.

Still, I remain largely unscathed. Our overseas and domestic military antics rarely affect me. In Paul’s time, it was commonplace. His residence as a Roman citizen saved him in today’s reading; because he was Roman, the Roman occupying force did not want to let him get killed on their watch. He had the right passport or birthright to be spared by the authorities.

This morning, I’m thinking about how ridiculous national origin is, when it comes to the kingdom of God. Do we really think God cares if someone is from Afghanistan or Iran or Mexico? Aren’t we all children of God? Why should where anyone is born affect how I treat them?

While I take pride in believing I’m above petty discrimination based on nationality, I am a part of a tax-paying electorate that absolutely discriminates based on nationality. What’s my personal responsibility to right those wrongs? Where to even start?

I repent of the evil I have done, and the evil done on my behalf. Lord have mercy.

Aug 20 2019 Mark 11:27 – 12:12

When they realized that he had told this parable against them, they wanted to arrest him, but they feared the crowd. So they left him and went away.

Jesus has just told a group of religious leaders a parable about the winemaker. The winemaker prepares the vineyard, and puts in the winepress. Once the harvest was ready, the man sends a slave to get his share, and the tenants kill the slave. The owner sends another, who’s also killed. Finally he sends his son, thinking his son will be safe. Alas, his son is killed also. So what does the owner do? He returns to the vineyard, throws out the current tenants and gives the vineyard to others. That’s when the audience hearing Jesus’ story realizes it’s a story about them and want to arrest him.

It says they wanted to arrest him, but feared the crowds, so they left. There’s a lot of this, towards the end of Jesus’ life. They almost arrest him. They almost throw him off a cliff. They almost end it all. Instead they walk away.

Meanwhile their anger mounts. Every little insult, every untimely miracle, and overturned table, their conviction that Jesus must go increases. They’ve got a narrative and a story in their head, and everything Jesus does proves them right.

That’s a familiar thing for me. We get narratives or stories and then the world conspires to prove them right. We see the mounting ‘evidence’, proving our point. In my experience, when I get in one of those ruts, I can absolutely see the evidence, proving my truth. But in hindsight, I overlook a whole lot of the story that would disprove it. The inconvenient parts of reality get waved away, while little bits are cobbled together to prove me right.

Eventually, the religious and political leaders of Jesus’ time had enough evidence that they tried him, tortured him, and killed him. Luckily, I don’t have sufficient power over anyone else, that this would be the unfortunate outcome of my constructed truth. But when I do it, it’s just as damaging, and it paints an equally lopsided and misrepresentative truth. To be clear, every ‘fact’ I use in my argument is accurate, and when my brain brilliantly strings them together in an argument, it’s a pretty good one, because every piece is true. But what’s missing are all the inconvenient parts.

For Jesus, the religious leaders could have seen more of Jesus’ healing, consistent with the faith they loved. The political leaders could have figured out that Jesus wasn’t there to unseat political leaders of the earth. There’s room for both. But they couldn’t see this, because their theory about the threat of Jesus was already proven by their cobbled together facts.

This morning I’m thinking about the ‘truths’ in my life, and the conclusions I’ve drawn about those around me, based on my convenient editing of the facts. I want to pause when I jump to those conclusions and try to see the other possibilities. If I look for them, for the truths that disprove my truth, I’ll likely find them. I do not want to be responsible for my version of what the religious and political leaders of Jesus’ time did.

Aug 19 2019 Mark 11: 12-26

Whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.

Words matter. Today’s reading from the Gospel is one of those sections that is hard to figure, for me at least. Jesus has made the fig tree wither overnight because it didn’t have any fruit on it when he chanced by – never mind that it was not the season for figs. So in response, Jesus says to the tree, “May no one ever eat fruit from you again!” The next day, he and the disciples walk by and see the withered tree, and his disciples are astonished. Jesus says to his disciples that if they say to the mountain, “jump into the sea”, it will if they have no doubt in their hearts but rather believe, it will happen. He concludes with saying that whatever they ask in prayer, believe you have received it, and it will be happen.

With apologies for the repeat theme, with a sick loved one who has a life-long illness, I struggle with this – just have enough faith, and it will be done. As a result, these sections where it seems like that’s what Jesus is saying warrant special attention. Either this translation is right, and I just don’t believe enough, or something’s not right with my understanding.

My morning prayer practices uses the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible. If I look at this sentence even with this one translation, there is wiggle room. There are three separate actions. Ask in prayer. Believe it’s done. It will be done. Does the answered prayer come at the point of the genuine ask? Or does the answered prayer come only after demonstration of the belief?

Maybe this is splitting hairs, but here’s an example of the difference. A nurse is coming by the apartment today to administer some medicine for my loved one. I am absolutely, whole-heartedly praying for a calm and peaceful morning. I absolutely, whole-heartedly believe God can make that so. Does my prayer and my belief guarantee that the morning will be objectively calmer and more peaceful? Is there such a thing as the objective truth of a situation, or because we’re human, are all situations inherently subjective? Does my prayer and belief guarantee that the morning will be subjectively more peaceful and calm?

The belief Jesus is calling for maybe has more to do with a belief that prayer will change me. In this case, I absolutely, whole-heartedly know that if I pray for a calm and peaceful morning, it will be, because I absolutely, whole-heartedly know that I can be way more calm and peaceful with an intention to be so, and from invoking God to be there with me. Whole heartedly.

I don’t know about mountains jumping into the water, or for miracle cures of currently incurable illnesses. Maybe that’s a lack of faith, or maybe that’s praying within the constraints of the world as I know it now. I do pray that advances will be made in the treatment and prevention and curing of this illness, and I wholeheartedly believe they’re occurring.

It is splitting hairs. Maybe it is like contemplating how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. But it remains a challenge to have this gnawing sense that, like what’s professed by prosperity gospel proponents, serious illness and untimely death are the result of a lack faith. That just sounds punitive and stupid. But if not careful, you can absolutely get there from this translation of the Scripture.

This morning, I’m thinking about how words really really matter. Where we put commas, how we translate languages, what we allege about other people’s faith. For example, if you look at the translation of this same section from The Message, it reads, “That’s why I urge you to pray for absolutely everything, ranging from small to large. Include everything as you embrace this God-life, and you’ll get God’s everything”.

Today, I will pray and believe. And be careful with my words.

Aug 18 2019 2 Samuel 17: 1-23

Ahithophel said to Absalom, "Let me choose twelve thousand men, and I will set out and pursue David tonight”

We continue in the Old Testament with the loong story of David’s ascent. He’s beheaded people, killed Goliath, loved Jonathan, pursued Bathsheba who was married,  had Bathsheba’s husband killed, pursued others, been pursued. Honestly, it’s hard to keep up. They’re all fighting, pursuing, killing, and being pursued. And in the middle of all of what seems to me as tribal warfare, stands King David. Knowing that David ends up being one of Scripture’s heroes, I can at least keep track of David, but it’s hard to remember who’s on what side.There is no world in which he appears the clear white knight, a force of good in a world of evil. And yet his lineage matters. He writes the psalms. He’s honored throughout the ages.

Digressing a bit, my husband and I are starting to watch the mini-series, about “the Family”, the Washington DC based self-professed Christian organization that stands along the side of the rich and powerful political leaders, pushing their agenda. According to the show, this is the group responsible for the National Prayer Breakfast, an annual affair for 50 years, and attended by all past presidents. It’s a covert and exclusive affair, not something you’d generally consider Christian values.

In the second episode, the show explores all of the connections the organization has with rich and powerful Christian politicians who’ve fallen. Badly. One of their members was a man who served 12 months in prison for his role in Watergate, and they welcomed him in after his prison time. Even internally, they were charged with welcoming someone in who went against everything they stood for. And yet, they welcomed him back. Another man and potential presidential candidate had a lengthy extramarital And yet the Family protects and supports these men. The TV show portrays this as a good ol’ boy cover-up, hypocritical at best, dangerous at worst. Their defense? They are chosen by God to be Jesus Followers, and they are to love and support each other. After all, they claim, look at David. Yes, look at David indeed.

As a person who’s actually been charged with being “too nonjudgmental”, I must admit that I lean towards the side of the Family, in their treatment of the fallen. Aren’t we to love and welcome and forgive all? Even the extramarital affair guy, and the Watergate guy? This doesn’t sound like me to cover-up. It sounds like loving the prisoner and the sinner. Aren’t we all the sinner?

And yet, I struggle with this concept of welcoming all. This weekend, there was another clash between conservative right-wing protesters and off the chart liberal counter-protesters. Leading up to that, there were speeches and rallies aimed to explaining that there is no place for hate and racism in our world. Take your racists messages somewhere else. You’re not welcome here.

After working along side the Human Rights Commission in Eugene, there is a long-standing conflict between defending free speech and harboring hate speech. If I am all-welcoming, do I welcome the Proud Boys? If I am all loving, do I welcome the Watergate guy? If I am all forgiving, do I forgive David?

It looks to me like the answer is yes. All means all. Welcome all. Love all. Forgive all. God will sort it all out, and doesn’t need me to decide on God’s behalf. I can’t possibly get it right, as I don’t have the view, understanding or love God does.  To be clear, I am not condoning murder, affairs, hate speech, ugly behavior. It is not what we are called to do or who we are called to be. 

This morning, I’m thinking about David, the Proud Boys, and the Family. I’m thinking about where that line is between love and hate, forgiveness and blind-eye, between acceptance and cover up. I think I get to make up my own mind on all of that. I think each of us is called to. And in the end, I still believe I am called to love all, welcome all, forgive all, listen to all, however ugly, fallen, hateful, violent they are. I will not behave like them, and I will stand between them and anyone they hurt or offend. But I do believe I’m called to love. I’ll leave the sorting to God.

Aug 17 2019 Mark 11: 1-11

Hosanna!

When you pray the daily office, you systematically make your way through all Scripture, little bits at a time. Every day, there’s a part from the Old Testament, New Testament, Psalms and Gospels. Given the length of each of these, it takes much longer to read through the Old Testament, than it does the Gospels. Because there are four Gospels that account Jesus’ life and death, parts of the story come up surprisingly frequently, in the daily jaunt through the Gospels. Like today’s reading, when I come across something very familiar, it’s easy blithely read it, as if I already know this. And while I’ve heard or read the story many times, I’ve never read it on a Saturday morning in August 2019, with my life circumstances as they are. That’s why we repeatedly read things; the words and lessons are as relevant to me when I was in high school with an entirely different life narrative, as they are today. My reflection today is steeped in today, informed by yesterday, and will frame my outlook moving forward. And so, I read about Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem on the colt. Again. For the first time.

Jesus is riding into Jerusalem, where he must have an idea of the trials he’ll endure. As he’s riding in on a borrowed colt, people throw leafy branches on his path. We use palms, in our annual commemoration of this event, hence Palm Sunday. The people ahead of him were shouting ‘Hosanna!’.

I’ve seen church banners with Hosanna written in big loopy cursive. There are joyous songs of great praise with Hosanna strewn about. In this setting, it would be appropriate to shout Hosanna from the rooftops when all was right with the world. When we understand Hosanna like that, Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem is a little confusing. He’s heading off to his trial, torture and death. And the people are cheering wildly! When I was little, Palm Sunday was a joyous celebration, shouts of Hosanna, and making dozens of palm crosses. Woo hoo! Probably not until adulthood did I realize something didn’t fit in my younger understanding.

But here’s the thing. Originally, Hosanna was likely a cry of desperation, a cry for God to deliver them. The people lining the streets at Jesus’ entry were not so much cheering, as they were imploring, desperate for God’s saving grace.

On the worst day when all was wrong with the world, that’s when you go to the roof top and cry Hosanna. Not because all is well, but because it’s not. Instead of the crowds at Jesus’ entry looking like something from Miracle on 34th street gleefully shouting Hosanna, I picture it like something more akin to a crowd scene in Les Miserables.

Reading this story in August in 2019, the gloomy cries of Hosanna resonate. God save us! Aren’t we all, always in need of saving from something? It’s from that place of desperation that we call to Jesus. Now, just like the people lining the streets, Jesus’ saving may not come in the form or at the time the Hosanna-criers imagined. But it comes.

This morning, I’m thinking about crafting a Hosanna banner that reflects what the word originally meant, because many days, that’s the banner I need to be waving. Not the chipper, sanitized version.

Aug 16 2019 Mark 10: 46-52

Then Jesus said to him, 'What do you want me to do for you?'

Jesus has come upon a blind beggar, one of the lowest classes of people Jesus would have encountered. The man first recognizes that Jesus is walking by, and calls out to him, only to be told to quiet down by those around. This silencing could have been because the others were embarrassed by this low-life beggar, or because they wanted to keep Jesus to themselves. In either case, the action of the crowds is rotten.

But the blind beggar is not dissuaded. He cries out even louder. Finally, Jesus comes near, and asks him what he wants. This strikes me as a very interesting statement. Even I, a mere mortal, could take a good guess about what the man wants. He wants his troubles alleviated. I’m guessing God-incarnate either knew or could have known. This is the same Jesus who frequently knew what was in the hearts and minds of friends and foes alike. 

Why did Jesus ask the man what he wanted? Was it genuinely to find out, because Jesus didn’t know? Or for some other reason? I’m guessing it’s for another reason.

Maybe Jesus was only going to give the man what he asked for, so if the man asked for some food, that’s all he’d get. But believing in a God of mercy and abundance, I cannot believe the man’s healing was dependent on his saying the right magic words. I mean, what would Jesus have done, if he’d asked for a few coins? Given him the coins and walked on by, leaving him still blind and begging tomorrow?

More than this being a quiz about using the right words to access God’s healing, this question of Jesus is intended to make the man think, and ask. Maybe Jesus wanted to pose the question to the man, so the man was forced to name what he needs. The man says he wants to see again. And Jesus obliges.

This morning I’m thinking about how I’m like the blind beggar. I could easily be dissuaded from asking Jesus for what I need. I could be dissuaded from persisting when discouraged. If I’m not thoughtful, I could easily ask for the wrong thing, or less than what I need. I need a few coins, versus I need to be healed.

Today, I want to hear Jesus asking me, What do you want me to do for you? I want to clearly hear the question, and with thought, offer my clear and persistent response. God, let me see again.

Aug 15 2019 John 2: 1-12 Commemoration of Mary

His mother said to the servants, 'Do whatever he tells you.'

Jesus has just performed his first public miracle. The set up makes me cringe a little, with the sheer humanness.. Mary tells Jesus that there’s no more wine. We’ve all done this, right? In an indirect way asked someone for something else. Mary didn’t actually ask Jesus to do anything. Maybe she wasn’t asking, just announcing to him. But the way the story goes on, it seems like it was a way for her to ask Jesus to do something about that problem. Jesus’ response is to say to her that the wine, or absence of it, is of no concern to her. I take this to be along the lines of ‘mind your own business’. This is a very typical human interaction between parent and child, or perhaps any two people. Someone offers a suggestion (directly or indirectly) about how someone else should behave or what they should do. And the advisee rebuffs the suggestion. This happens again to Mary elsewhere in the scripture, as she goes to visit him, and in response to being told she’s outside the door, Jesus says ‘who is my mother?’

But two things happen after this that don’t always happen to me. First, even after she hears, “woman, what concern is that to me?”, Mary simply points back to Jesus, telling the servants to do whatever he commands. Regardless of Jesus’ human nature, Mary continues to point to Jesus’ divine nature. The second thing that happens is that Jesus does make it his business. He performs the water-to-wine miracle. Although hers was a passive ask, and verbally rebuffed by Jesus, Mary is integrally involved and present for his first public miracle. And she continues to point to him.

This morning, I’m thinking about how inherently human Mary was, how she treated Jesus in a way we all have treated others we love. She made requests with Jesus via indirect statements. Check. She prompted him in public to perform. Check. She was rebuffed by him on several occasions. And still she continues to say Yes to God’s request to be Jesus’ mother.

Yes, she carried him and gave birth to him. But she also was his mother and present during his first public miracle. She was his mother when he got lost in the temple. She was his mother during his Passion, and execution. She was his mother at the cross.

I don’t mean to suggest that motherhood is the only relationship that can cause relatable-ness. But I can say that as a mother, her behavior and consistent love and redirecting to Jesus is a marvel to me. I suspect Mary can serve as a model to fathers, aunts, Godparents, loved ones in general. And today, for me, I’m struck by her motherhood.

As a mother, I’ve been rebuffed by my kids. I’ve seen them suffer. And I remain their mother. I will always be in their corner. And when it comes to my children, my actions, my focus, is or should be them.

That’s Mary’s gift, and why commemorating her feels fully appropriate. Yes, I model my life on Jesus. He was fully human, so he is a perfectly valid model of how God expects me to behave. But Jesus didn’t have physical children. Jesus didn’t have to watch Jesus suffer. Jesus wasn’t rebuffed by a child. But Mary experienced all this. Sometimes in life we are to be like Jesus, the star of the show. And sometimes we are called to act like Mary, the supporting actor. Mary doesn’t outshine Jesus. I don’t marvel or commemorate her because she’s God. But she is a fantastic icon for how to walk through this life, supporting and loving others. Letting them continue to have center stage, while you support from the wings.

Today, I give thanks for Mary’s unwavering love and support of Jesus, her trust in God’s will, and her constant ability to point all eyes to Jesus, from the wings.

Aug 14 2019 Mark 10: 17-31

Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?'

Jesus has just met the rich man, who’s wondering what he needs to do to enter eternal life. And so he asks. Jesus recounts the commandments – no murder, adultery, covet – the Top Ten. The man answers that yes, he’s done that, so he wants to confirm his admittance into eternal life. Ah, if it were so easy!

To this, Jesus responds that he has one thing left to do. Sell all his belongings and give his money to the poor. This idea of selling everything and giving it to the poor makes the man shocked and grieved. We don’t really know whether he did as he was requested, although there’s reason to believe he didn’t. Regardless, he left Jesus, shocked and grieving.

The disciples see all this, and are ‘perplexed’ (another great word that should be brought back into common use.. I spend a lot of time feeling perplexed!) Jesus response to their concerns is that for mortals, there’s nothing we can do to be saved, but for God, nothing is impossible. I’m not sure that cleared things up; I’m still perplexed. He continues, the first shall be last and the last shall be first. Hmm.

There’s a lot to think about in all of this. Wealth. Priorities. Salvation. Service. Poverty. Maybe I’m being simplistic, or maybe I’m just too perplexed to figure anything else out, but I think what Jesus says to the man is brilliant, and actually quite simple. Love God. Love your neighbor.

The man has been following The Law since he was little. He’s been following the prescribed rules, and if that’s all it takes, he’s good as gold. But with his direction to sell his belongings, Jesus is focusing all that rule-following down to its essence. Love God. You’ve asked me what you need to do. As God-incarnate, Jesus tells him. If the man loved God fully, he’d aim to do what God-incarnate suggested.

And what Jesus suggested is the ultimate of loving your neighbor. Take your riches, divest of them, and help your poor neighbor. Love your neighbor. This morning, I’m again thinking about how Jesus repeatedly tries to teach us this simple lesson. Simple but not easy. Love God. Love your Neighbor.

Obviously it’s not easy. I’m not always sure what God’s asking of me. Or if my understanding of what God’s asking is really God, or some self-delusional, self-aggrandizing understanding.

And it’s really not easy to always love my neighbor. Sometimes it’s hard to love my neighbor on the street, in rehab, behind bars, the 1%, Antifa, the Proud Boys. And it’s really really hard to love my neighbor who lives in my house and really sick. Jesus struck that man at what Jesus knew might be the one thing that was interfering with the man truly loving God and loving his neighbor – his wealth. Maybe that’s what God puts in our way to overcome -the one thing that’s interfering with us truly loving God and loving our neighbor. For me, right now, it’s my most intimate neighbors. Love your neighbor.

Today, I’m going to think about what it means to me to truly Love God and Love my Neighbor. And all those places where I feel it doesn’t really count, I don’t really have to fully love. That’s where I’m called. Sell your belongings. Love your neighbor.

Aug 13 2019 Romans 14: 7-12 Commemoration of Jeremy Taylor

We do not live to ourselves, and we do not die to ourselves.
Jeremy Taylor was a priest and bishop in England. He wrote two books that were well revered and others found them of great benefit, The Rule and Exercises of Holy Living, and the Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying. I am intrigued by the titles, as my nature tends to appreciate structure, rules and exercises.

He also wrote prayers, which have been in various versions of our Book of Common Prayer. One I really appreciate reads, “O God, whose days are without end, and whose mercies cannot be numbered: Make us deeply aware of the shortness and uncertainty of human life…”

There is something oddly comforting in thinking about that shortness and uncertainty of life. It gives me permission to let go of the struggling and striving in this world. It makes little sense to hold on to any grudge, or hurt, or judgment, given the uncertainty of this life. We do not live to ourselves. At the end of this life we know, we aren’t the subject of this life any more. Maybe we shouldn’t be the subject of this life as we know it now.

I’m reminded of a game we used to play as a family. We used to have a word game where you had to come up with words starting with each letter of the alphabet to describe a random category. Fruits. Colors. Feelings. Whoever had the most number of blanks filled in, won that round. I remember when the category was Containers, being startled at the clarity of one of my kids’ answers. For B, most of us put box. One of my kids put body. That was a great discussion! My child was saying that the body was just a container for who they were. When the body was gone, they’d still be themselves. What clarity and wisdom from a junior high kid!

Life is uncertain and short. We are only vessels, containing our very essence. God is forever, and incomprehensibly merciful.

This morning I’m thinking about how uncertain and short my life is. As opposed to that feeling daunting or scary, I’m marveling at how freeing it is to live now as if now is fleeting, because it is.

Aug 12 2019 Mark 9: 42-50

If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off; it is better for you to enter life maimed than to have two hands and to go to hell, to the unquenchable fire.

In a few weeks, I have the great honor to preach once again. Since working for the church in my paying day-job, I haven’t had a regular Sunday non-paying deacon job. And while that life balance is good for my soul, I must admit to that I miss regularly serving as a deacon - serving at the table, proclaiming the Gospel, and occasionally preaching.

It may sound odd, after nearly a year of daily writing, but I don’t love writing. And I didn’t love preparing sermons. But what I have come to know is that I love the process of reading, reflecting, and musing about Scripture, whether it’s in the form of Morning Prayer or preparing sermons. So I’m grateful when I get to preach, as it’s a longer form of my morning musing. I get to linger with text longer, and write longer. And like it or not, there’s a captive audience who will hear what I say. That part is a little daunting!

In any case, in musing over the scriptures for the day I preach, I came across a commentary where someone was talking about the fire, frequently referenced by Jesus and Paul. The fire that burns forever. Or as Jesus says this morning, the unquenchable fire.

The commentator was saying that while we frequently go to fire being an instrument of torture, it’s also and maybe more fittingly, an instrument of refinement. Fire removes impurities from all sorts of things.

If we think of fire as a tool for refining, this section from Jesus, and my concept of hell is different. No less frightening than a fiery tortuous place. Maybe actually more frightening.

What Jesus is saying here, I think is that while we’re on this earth, while we’re trying to make “thy kingdom come”, we should be doing the refining ourselves. If there’s a part of my being that is not helpful, not forwarding God’s love, I should prune it off, or pluck it out. I should do this for a couple reasons. First, as Paul has said, I do things I do not want to do, or don’t do things I genuinely mean to do. If after an inventory of my soul, there are parts of me that are keeping me from doing what I want, what I believe to be right, I should willingly rid myself of them.

In my world now, I have a sense that I am owed some decency and decorum in my home. That sense makes me less loving and kind than I intend to be. I need to ruthlessly cut that part out of my being. Who cares about decorum? Love God. Love your neighbor. I cannot do that, when worried about what I think should happen in my home.

The second reason I should prune or excise the bad bits now, is that it’s going happen eventually anyway. I don’t know what happens when I’m done with this earth, but if God’s kingdom includes a place where there are no tears, or sighing, than those icky bits of me and everyone around me will be removed anyway. And, I believe, they’re removed like impurities are removed from metal – in the refiner’s fire. 

This morning, I’m thinking about the fiery description hell, of that place where our lives are rid of all impurities in that fire. I’m wondering if that is just a stopping-off place. Once we are refined, all those feet that cause us to stumble are lopped off, do we remain as God had originally intended? Able to love God. And Love neighbor?

If that’s even remotely possible, of course I should do some pruning now. Of course I should pluck things out or lop them off if they cause me or anyone around me to stumble. It’s going to happen anyway when all my icky bits are refined away. Why not try to become that person that God’s intended me to be now?

Today, I pray to see those parts of my being that cause another to stumble. I want to name them, and work to get rid of them. It’s better to try myself, than to wait for that fire than is never quenched.

Aug 11 2019 Romans 15:1-13

We who are strong ought to put up with the failings of the weak, and not to please ourselves. Each of us must please our neighbor for the good purpose of building up the neighbor.

Ouch. This is both timely and poignant. After spending a very long Saturday at a wonderful work meeting, I came home to a very testy sick loved one. She grumped and groused at me, for the full 5 minutes I’d seen her since the preceding day. Between the long work day, and her, the whole family was testy with each other.

In that circumstance the them, I could or should have been the strong one. I could or should have been the one aiming to please for the good purpose of building up the neighbor. But geez, really?

By the end of brief time with my family, I ended up outside on the balcony, reading a book, pouting. In hind sight, it was a stupid evening, and I probably had the largest part to play in making it unpleasant for all.

So what to do differently? Maybe it really is as simple as Paul purports. We who are strong should put up with the failings of the weak. We should aim to please our neighbor.

What is it about being in the heat of the exchange that makes this so difficult to do? Was I genuinely goaded by someone who can’t govern their thoughts and words? Did I really think I could discuss my way out of it or that there was any reason behind the testiness?

Up until this point in my life, I might find some challenge with Paul’s advice. Put up with the failings of the weak. In the midst of controversy of a general nature, it’s always hard, but possible to cede for the benefit of eventual harmony. It is admirable to aim to please your neighbor for the sake of building the neighbor. And it’s important to try to do that. Arguing or winning is not as important as understanding and strengthening.

And I’d love to offer the caveat that now I’m not in normal times. I’ve heard from others that I’ve already done too much, conceded too much. It’s tempting to say that Paul certainly wasn’t talking about MY world; the weak ones in my world are exceedingly challenging, and in fact not at all neighborly.

But isn’t that what Jesus asks us to do? To be loving and kind and peaceable precisely when it’s most needed? In my head I thoroughly believe that there is no circumstance when Paul’s counsel isn’t appropriate; I am always called to put up with the failings of the weak. Always called to please my neighbor. I’m not exempted because it’s harder or meaner, or more permanent.

This morning, I’m thinking about how pesky Jesus’ commands to love can be, especially when feeling that this circumstance is beyond that call. I’m thinking about how Jesus calls us right to the edge of what we think we can’t do, who we can’t love, when we can’t be kind. And then beckons us on, walking with us right at that moment.

Today, I hope to remember that I am the strong one. That I can put up with the failings of the weak. That I can please my neighbor. That in loving the unlovable, I’m loving Christ himself.

Aug 10 2019 Mark 9:30-41

Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.

Jesus is again trying to explain the new way of thinking and being to his disciples, who he finds arguing among themselves about who’s the best. He picks up a child and offers this explanation. A little later in these short 11 verses, he explains to them that they shouldn’t stop others who are casting out demons but not following Jesus, explaining “whoever is not against us is for us”.

This section about Jesus taking up the child was selected as the reading for a liturgy my parish priest pulled together when we welcomed our daughter into our home, initially as a foster child. She’d come from another foster family, where the placement hadn’t worked out, but they loved her too. She was an undersized 4 year old at the time, and sat like a gangly kid on my husband’s hip.

With my whole faith community and family, we welcomed her into both. Her previous foster family was there too, and there were ample tears from everyone. She looked so little, and had an air of both defiance and vulnerability, a look she can pull off to this day.

On that day, I was absorbed in the idea that I was welcoming a child into my midst, and that there was something inherently good about that. Upon reflection, I’m struck that inviting a child into your home is a lot like inviting Jesus into your home. It’s not predictible. It’s not always easy. In fact, sometimes it would be a lot easier if Jesus left me alone.

I’m also thinking about the idea of welcome. I know that in some circumstances, a welcome is rescinded. I know of people who’ve welcomed Jesus into their lives, only to change their mind, and uninvited him. In my faith tradition, we believe that the bonds of baptism are indissoluble, cannot be broken. There’s nothing that will break the bond between a person and Jesus, at least from Jesus’ perspective. I guess that means that regardless of the intent of the person to walk away, Jesus remains. He’s the guest who’s welcomed once, and will never leave. To me, that’s oddly comforting. I have loved ones who’ve taken that path, been baptized, loved God, now see no point. But God is still present in them, and Jesus’ love still surrounds them. That’s nice. So welcoming Jesus, I believe is forever, regardless of whether we know it. As Carl Jung is attributed as saying, “Bidden or unbidden, God is present”.

And with children, I’ve heard of people disowning children, effectively unwelcoming them. I cannot imagine. My adopted daughter, sitting on my hip at 4, formerly abandoned by her birth family, is my sick loved one. To suggest that it would be easier sometimes if she weren’t in my home is an understatement. But I cannot imagine unwelcoming her, any more than I can imagine unwelcoming God. 

This morning, I’m thinking about how difficult it is to welcome God into our lives. How disruptive. How permanent. And ultimately, how comforting.

Aug 9 2019 Mark 9:14-29

‘I believe; help my unbelief!'
Here we have another healing story. Jesus has been approached by the father of boy who’s had a spirit that dashes him to the ground, and makes him convulse and foam at the mouth. The man has asked the disciples to heal the boy, but they apparently were unable, so the man finds Jesus. He begs Jesus to help his son, saying, “If you are able to do anything, have pity on us and help us”.

Jesus is angered by the man’s wavering faith, with the conditional ‘if you are able’. Jesus repeats, seemingly incredulously, “If you are able?!” He adds that all things can be done for the one who believes.

With my sick loved one, I continue to struggle with the stories of Jesus that seem to imply that if I just had faith, all illness will be made well. So for a while, as that head-on lesson is illusive for me, I will skirt around the healing stories with the other parts I can digest.

Today, I am struck by the father’s response to Jesus’ comments – all things can be done for the one who believes. The man simply says, “I believe; help my unbelief”. From a place of unknowing and uncertainty, he appeals to Jesus to shore up his belief.


It’s one thing to talk about belief, about appealing to God when what’s at stake is the fringe of your life, or academic statements of faith – like various lines from the Nicene Creed. But this man is appealing to Jesus to heal his child, after Jesus’ own disciples were unable to do so. One last-ditch effort. And out of desperation, the man claims to believe. More than that, he appeals to Jesus to help his unbelief, effectively acknowledging a gap between his two statements. I believe. I have unbelief.

Clearly the man doesn’t entirely believe, or he wouldn’t have offered the second part of his confession – help my unbelief. So what are we to take from these contradictory and actually mutually exclusive phrases?

This morning, I’m thinking about my unbelief. I don’t doubt God’s love, mercy and power. So why are these healing stories challenging? Is that where my unbelief comes in? What do these stories illustrate about my human profession of faith, I believe; help my unbelief?

I’ve always felt comfortable with personal statements of faith. I believe. And clearly there’s some part of me that is full of the unbelief, expressed to Jesus by the worried parent in the story. I’m actually less comfortable with a profession of my unbelief; it feels vulnerable, unknown, unfixable. It’s easier to staunchly commit to faith.

Today, I will think about my unbelief. Where it shows up, and how my blithe statements of belief can cover all of the uncertainty that really exists. I can explore these areas without fear, because I genuinely do believe God is good, loving and merciful. Lord, help my unbelief.

Aug 8 2019 Mark 9:2-13

Rabbi, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah

Here we have Mark’s telling of the Transfiguration, where Jesus goes up the mountain and is alit by the presence of God. This is just the chronological reading of Mark, where earlier this month it was the feast of the Transfiguration. When praying Morning Prayer, we repeat portions of scripture to commemorate specific days and again in the routine reading through of the books of the Bible. Right now, I’m only practicing Morning Prayer; if I added Evening Prayer to my daily practice, there’d be even more Scripture read, and more opportunities to reflect on the same words.

But when the same Scripture is paired with differing readings, or commemorating different events or people in the church, you see something different each time. I’m coming to enjoy these repeat performances, because they’re so rich there’s always something else to think about.

Today, I’m struck by the response to Jesus’ transfiguration by his companions, Peter, James and John. Jesus is not only lit up whiter than anything, but along with him, the companions see Elijah and Moses. At this time, Peter, James and John were devout Jews, with a long tradition and much honor due Elijah and Moses. While Jesus was rising in prominence as far as they were concerned, I’m not sure whether Jesus or these other characters were the main attraction to Peter, James and John.

In any case, they respond with this oafish response that they’ll build three houses, one for Moses, one for Elijah and one for Jesus. In hindsight, knowing the rest of Jesus’ story it’s absurd to think that Jesus, Moses and Elijah would need houses, there on top of the mountain.

And yet, these guys did what they knew how to do. They knew how to build a house.

Maybe they were trying to be hospitable. No fault in that.

Maybe they were trying to hold on to these three sights, by giving them a permanent home. Maybe Moses & Elijah and Jesus would just stay put in the little enclave they’d built. No fault in that.

Maybe they were just awestruck and didn’t know what else to do, so they did what they know. No fault in that.

I haven’t done the biblical studies to understand why Elijah and Moses were there, but I can imagine they were connections with their faith tradition that tied Jesus to their world. I don’t know why Jesus was lit up. I don’t know why, in response to the house-building comments, God boomed from the cloud that Jesus was God’s son, God’s beloved. Listen to him.

But I do know that as mere mortals, I do not fault Peter, James and John. I know that I would likely do something as absurd. Maybe offer them coffee. We do what we know, whether it’s from a place of terror, uncertainty or awe. We only can rely on the skills and tools we possess.

In my current world, I’m dealing with a whole new set of prompts, comments and circumstances, due to the actions of my sick loved one. I respond with what I know, in ways I’ve responded, and with rationale that has served me in the past. It’s a new world, though. And those ways aren’t working. As it turns out, the apparition of Moses doesn’t need a house. But my offer is made from a place of solid, well intentioned, history.

This morning, I’m thinking about how hard it is for us to respond to challenging, unexpected or frightening experiences in any way other than our practiced responses. I’m wondering how to reach beyond the offer for coffee, to the intent behind the action; my intent may be hospitality, just as Peter’s, but coffee? 

Today, I want to keep questioning the thinking behind my reactions, and make sure their intent speaks louder than the Pavlovian response. Build a house. Make dinner. I want to focus on the best way in the current situation to act on those deeper sentiments – love, care, hospitality, security. Or maybe not act on them but somehow assure that others know my intent.