February 24, 2008
Exodus 17:1-7, John 4:5-42
Sermon by Torin Eikler
Lent 3
Whining is something that we all associate with childhood. Kids, it seems, are wise to the fact that a particular attitude, a particular tone of voice is exactly what they need to burrow through the will power and indifference of parents and sometimes get exactly what they want. And it starts so early. As I can assure you from personal experience, even children who cannot tell you what they want have a way of getting under your skin when they want ring the doorbell over and over or eat an unreasonable amount of raisins – or just throw them all over the floor. It’s true that the whole thing sometimes backfires and they get snapped at by an exasperated father instead of getting to watch the television show they cannot live without. But, hey, it’s worth a try, and it gets your attention in a way that very little else can.
I have never read this story from Exodus as a tale of whiney children trying to get something that they want from a parent though many people (especially parents) find to be quite appropriate. After all, the Israelites had a point. They needed water. Just imagine 400,000 men and women traveling across a desolate land where nobody farmed because there just wasn’t enough water to make it worthwhile. Now add thousands of livestock and another several hundred thousand children complaining about being thirsty, and I think you can probably find it in your hearts to forgive them. Even in this day and age, the same problem is driving legal and political wars in our own southwestern states.
For my part, I have always thought of the people as voicing quite reasonable concern about this lack of planning on the part of their leader - or perhaps on the part of their God. But, it cannot be denied that the text says the people quarreled with Moses about this issue. And however justified they may have been, it is clear that they were not using a reasoned, adult approach to the problem. At the least, they were complaining – and probably doing so in a manner designed to be just as piercing and annoying as a child’s whining. What is complaining, after all, but the adult version of whining about things that seem unfair or just don’t live up to our expectations. It seems that we never really outgrow our tendency to whine in one way or another despite the fact that it is less and less likely to change anything the older we get.
Two things, though, are interesting to me about this particular passage. First, this story does not take place immediately after the Israelites escaped Pharoah’s army at the Red Sea. They have already traveled for some time, and God has provided for them. When they were hungry, manna and quail appeared for them to eat. When they were thirsty and the only water around was brackish and undrinkable, God showed Moses a stick to throw into the lake, and the water became not just potable but sweet to the taste. At every turn, the needs of the people were met even though they were traveling through a land that could hardly sustain so many. So, it seems a little strange that at this point the Israelites should be complaining in such a childish way when this particular campsite did not seem to have a source of fresh water. After all, things in the wilderness were not always what they seemed , and perhaps they should simply have asked God to provide them with water since that was how they had received what they needed before.
And this is the second thing that strikes me as odd. The Israelites turn to Moses in stead of the God that brought them out of Egypt. It’s true that, Moses stood – first before Pharoah and then before the people – and spoke or acted to bring about each of the plagues or miracles that the Israelites had witnessed. Yet, at each turn Moses attributed the miracles to the hand of God working to save the people rather than some magical power of his own. And beyond that, the people were lead through the wilderness by a pillar of cloud or of fire that was neither created nor sustained through any action of their leaders. It seems that no one who traveled with that crowd could have denied that the divine presence was with them. And, with all that God had done for them, it seems strange the people still doubted, challenging Moses with the question, “Is the Lord among us or not?”
In the face of this hardness of heart – this lack of faith – Moses turned to God in exasperation, asking what he should do. As usual, God provided a solution when once the question is directed to the right person. “I will be standing on a rock a Horeb,” she said. “Take your staff and strike that rock in the presence of witnesses, and I will make water flow from its heart.” Moses followed the instructions, and when his staff struck the rock it broke open. But, the hearts of the people, hardened to stone by years lived according to the whims and desires of others, did not. Despite the seeds of faith that had been planted in their spirits by their deliverance – despite all that they had received and the wonders they had witnessed, they continued to question the power and faithfulness of God throughout all the years they wandered in the wilderness. I hope that I would respond differently in their place, but I suspect that I have taken the gifts of God for granted many times throughout my life as well.
Consider now another whose life was shaped by dependence on others and the customs of a society that relegated her to little more than slavery. The Samaritan woman who met Jesus at Jacob’s well was not the happiest of women. Living in a time and place where she could not expect to survive on their own, she had probably been married at a fairly young age, becoming the prize and the responsibility of one of the young men of her village. Perhaps she was well treated and cherished by that husband. Perhaps despite the Proverbial wisdom that good wives are like jewels her husband treated her poorly, eventually divorcing her. Perhaps she was unable to bear children before her husband died, and she was passed on to others in the family. Or, perhaps she had been unfaithful to her husband though I think that no others would have married her if she had been branded as an adulteress. For whatever reason, this woman had been married five times and was living in the household of a sixth man.
Living as I do in this time and this place – in this society, I have trouble getting my mind around a culture in which a woman must have a husband in order to survive. Some of you may remember a time when this was also the case in this country, and I know that some women still feel this is the case today. Yet, as hard as it is for me to comprehend the social structure of that time, it is even harder for me to imagine being passed from one spouse to another four times over. Whether she buried five husbands or was simply used, divorced and left to survive on her own, I’m sure she suffered in the process. I expect that the experience had slowly eroded whatever dreams she had when she was younger, and over the years, she had closed herself off, masking her true self and hardening her heart to hope and love as a kind of armor against the pain and disappointment that came along with them.
There had been no miracles in this woman’s life. No one had come and freed her from the duties and obligations that bound to a life shaped by others. She had not seen birds settle all around her or woken to a fresh blanket of bread when she was hungry. She had not tasted water made sweet where it had been bitter or seen a pillar of flame shining through the dark night of her soul, assuring her that she was chosen and beloved by God. Yet, one day just like any other, she went to the well for water and found a man exactly where she usually found no one.
Surprised, she greeted this strange man only to discover that he was a prophet. He knew all about the tragedy of her life, but he did not judge her to be sinful or cursed. Though she was a Samaritan and he was a Jew, he did not ignore her or treat her with disdain. And when he asked her for a drink, he was not angry when she did not immediately draw water from the well. Instead, he treated her as an equal. He looked past the mask she had put on – put on and grown into over the years – and saw her for who she was. He saw the pain and the need she hid and offered her a gift.
Still fearing to hope – yet with growing wonder – she ventured to mention the one prophesy said would bring freedom to the people. Jesus replied, “I am he, the one who is speaking to you.” And, at the gentle touch of his words, the stone of her heart broke open and living water flowed forth to refresh her spirit. And she hurried off in the heat of the day to tell everyone about the man who told her everything she had ever done – the man who truly knew her and loved her all the same.
How different these two stories are. One peopled with a chosen nation freed from generations under the whip of the Egyptians. One the solitary account of a woman who had been passed from household to household, powerless and without hope. One packed with divine intervention – from a surprising escape to the miraculous appearance of food and water. The other just a simple conversation between a man and a woman. Both tales of God coming to offer life and hope yet with very different endings.
Two weeks ago, I mentioned Psalm 51 and its prayer for a clean heart. That psalm goes on to ask God to restore the joy of her salvation and sustain a willing spirit within us. That’s a prayer that we all need to remember. Too often, as we move through life we close ourselves off. We refuse to risk the vulnerability of loving deeply so that we don’t feel the pain of broken relationships. We close our hearts to compassion so that we don’t despair at the suffering we see around us. We shut the eyes of our spirits to hopes and dreams to avoid disappointment. We harden our hearts in order to survive and the price of our self-protection is that our hold on the promise of God’s grace slips away little by little and the upwelling living water becomes no more than a trickle barely sustaining the deepest core of our hope instead of gushing forth, filling our being and overflowing – springing out through us to water the seeds of hope buried in others.
As you – as we all – wander through the wildernesses of our lives, my prayer is that we will be able to look beyond the little things and the big things that leave us feeling peevish and filled with a complaining spirit. Whenever we find ourselves in that state of mind and heart, I hope that we will recognize the presence of God among us. That feeling that presence surrounding and upholding us, we will seek the strange man sitting by the well – the Christ that we have come to know and love. And, that at his touch – that gentle prodding that we so earnestly long for – the stones that we would make of our hearts will break open anew so that the presence and love of God – the living water of faith – will flow freely once more. And then, cleansed and refined, filled with the joy of our salvation we will turn back to the world with a spirit willing to reach out and share the hope and the power of the promise that we have found in Christ. May it be so.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
The Big Question
February 17, 2008
Genesis 12:1-4a, John 3:1-17
Sermon by Carrie Eikler
Lent 2
Are you born again? If so, can you remember the time that you became “born again?”
During one of our Roots and Shoots classes this fall we talked specifically about baptism. At the end of the class Terry Green wanted to bring up an experience that he had many years ago. When Terry was living in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, he was doing some work in the home of an associate pastor of his church. They needed some painting done and some floor work. Terry stepped up to help out with the painting (I believe). Terry recalled that on the first day of work, the doorbell rang and on the stoop was the young man who had come to work on the flooring. Terry recalled that it wasn’t more than ten minutes into their time together, the young man “popped the question.” The question was not, “are you married?” or “what neighborhood do you live in?” or “are you a Bears fan, a Colts fan, or a Browns fan?”(the essential question for anyone living in northerneastern Indiana). None of these were the question. The question was…“Are you saved?” Are you born again?
Have you ever been asked that question? Have you ever asked the question? It is my sense that most Christians feel strongly about this topic. They either feel strong in embracing this concept, or they feel strongly in their resistance to it. To me, it seems like you can’t be ambivalent about “being born again.” Some of you may have a clear moment where you can look and say that in that moment, you were born again. You would have your own words to describe it. Maybe it was like Paul who scripture says had the scales fall from his eyes. Maybe it was an emotional whirlwind where the Spirit of God left you breathless, full of tears—full of joy. Maybe it was in the desperate moments of your life where you gave over all your fears and anxieties and invited the love of God to fill the empty places of your life. Or maybe like Abram, you were invited by God into the unknown territories of this world—it was in your “born again moment” that you closed your eyes, fell into faith all the while hoping that God’s promises were enough to keep you afloat…and that first step made all the difference.
I remember my experience with the big question. When I was a junior or senior in high school the importance of being born again and the power of salvation was very much a part of my vocabulary. During this time, a new girl, Melissa had moved into town and we struck a friendship. Now there aren’t many people who moved into my little town. There weren’t many people who moved out, for that matter. I believe that 85% of my graduating class were the same kids I started kindergarten with.
So when someone moves into town, it is something worth noticing. Especially with Melissa. Melissa moved to Illinois from Alabama. So to begin with, her thick southern accent was enough to get us wondering about her. She became even more mysterious when we found out that she didn’t move here with her family, but had moved up here to live with her boyfriend’s family. Apparently they met that summer while he was visiting family down south. We all wondered what was the story behind this girl? Was she pregnant? Did she run away from home? Did her parent’s kick her out? Of course no one actually asked her, they just had fun speculating, assigning her with a history that was of our own making.
Nevertheless, we did become friends, and I’m sure that she told me the story, but I forgot what it was. After we graduated, I never saw her again. I’m sure she that she told me her plans for the future, but I forgot what they were. What I do remember, however, was one day Melissa and I snuck out of study hall and sat talking on the floor in the large handicap stall in the girls bathroom (the rebel that I was). I listened to her pour out the struggles she had with her family, her boyfriend, life “up here in the North.” She laid her heart bare to me, the only friend she had made since moving to our town. And I remember as clearly as I’m talking to you my first response. I asked her the Big Question. After all of that, I took a breath, and asked her, “Are you born again?”
I’m sure she told me an answer but I can’t remember what it was. But that day, that encounter, has bubbled up in me frequently over the years. I’ve always wondered, “why did I ask that?” Why didn’t I just let her say what she needed to say, without the qualification of if she was born again? Did I think that if she said no, I could convince her that being born again would solve all her problems? Or maybe I thought if she said yes, I could tell her that her problems could be given to Jesus (since she had a personal relationship with him, after all), and he would take care of them? But on the other hand, maybe my asking had nothing to do with her, but everything to do with me.
I probably wonder about my response because over time, I became one who felt strongly about the question “are you born again”… but more on the skeptical side. Jesus scholar, and born again Christian, Marcus Borg gives words to my own hesitancy. He says that the “being born again” status often assumes a narrow defintion and that “In some Christian circles, to be born again can mean accepting a certain set of beliefs, a particular conservative theology, often express in a question using a salvation formula such as ‘Do you believe in Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior?’ In charismatic churches, it means receiving the gifts of the Spirit, especially speaking in tongues….” He continues “[M]ost of us have known at least one person who was born again in a remarkably unattractive way. When being born again leads to a rigid kind of righteousness, judgmentalism, and sharp boundaries between an in-group and an out-group…” (The Heart of Christianity, San Francisco: Harper Collins, 2003).And yet for others, their sense of being born again is a personal issue, something that happened to them that they don’t necessarily want to force upon others, but a state that they wish to invite others into. So no wonder there are some among who hesitate when we are asked the Big Question, because it can mean very different things to different people. After all, if you understand yourself to be a Christian, it is difficult to answer “no” to the big question, just because you don’t like what it has come to imply.
Our New Testament scripture today is the classic text in which the born again language is introduced into the Christian vocabulary. The gospel of John is a rich collection of stories that highlight what was at the essence of Jesus’ teachings and ministry to the early Christian community, and John skillfully uses symbolism and metaphor to gaze into the heart of Christ’s teachings. It is obvious that to Jesus and to the New Testament at as whole the concept of being born again is important. But like us, it seems Nicodemus wasn’t too clear on the concept either.
Nicodemus is a Pharisee, the people in the Jesus stories we are suppose to “not like,” but generally end up sounding a lot more like ourselves that we might expect. Nicodemus says to Jesus, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God, for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” And Jesus seems to change the subject, or perhaps, he answers the question that is beneath question. He says, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”
Here it where it seems to get tricky for old Nicodemus. John loves to use double meanings, and here is an example: the Greek for “born from above” can also be translated “born again.” For the first Christian communities reading John’s gospel, they would know this double meaning and see what John is doing. Like when I spoke with the young people about “change for the world,” we know our language enough to hold both meanings at once. But Nicodemus is set up to question the literal meaning of “born again” – he says “How can anyone be born after growing old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” Now after giggling a bit at the outrageous image of this, I can just hear the mothers in the room bellowing, “Oh no you don’t, you being born once was just enough.” Jesus then goes on to say that this new birth is a birth from above, a birth of the Spirit. To be born again is to enter new life, a life centered in the Spirit of God.
What Nicodemus needs, what Jesus says we all need, is a spiritual rebirth, an internal rebirth, a personal transformation.
But how do we know if we are born again? Is it if we had an emotional experience, if we spoke in tongues, if we felt on fire for the Lord, if we felt at deep peace? I see Jesus saying, you can’t be absolutely certain about a specific time and place: Jesus tells Nicodemus “The wind blows where it chooses” The Spirit is often referred to as “wind” so here it says “The ‘spirit’ blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” The spirit is like a dancing wind, whose movements can’t be predicted, or characteristics prescribed, or presence qualified. To be born of this spirit is not about believing specific doctrines or reciting right beliefs. It’s something different…something more.
No matter how much we would like to think we have control over it, being born again is the work of the Spirit. Again, the words of Marcus Borg, “Whether it happens suddenly or gradually, we can’t make it happen, either by strong desire and determination or by learning and believing the right beliefs. But we can be intentional about being born again.”
It is with such intentionality that we see born-again experiences happening in the most unexpected places. Such as…a cabbage patch in Japan. I read an article this week about a group of men in Japan, in a town outside of Tokyo who were commemorating “Shout Your Love From the Middle of a Cabbage Patch" Day. This group of men positioned themselves in the middle of a cabbage patch and walking up and down the rows shouted “I love you!” and “Thank you!” to their wives. For some this was the first time they have ever said these words to their partners. Most of their spouses stood in the field, watching. Some were in tears. The event was held by an organization called “Devoted Husbands.” The goal of this group is to help improve Japan's troubled approach to marriage. In Japan, marriage is often regarded more as a status than as a relationship, but this group hopes that by teaching men to appreciate their wives and express their feelings, they can stop the skyrocketing divorce rate. “Devoted Husbands” hope they can help change attitudes like one man who said "If I said to my wife, 'I love you,' she would think I'm crazy." And he had been married 20 years. The article stated that “for many participants, shouting "I love you" in a cabbage patch was an important first step.” (Christian Science Monitor, February 13, 2008).
In a way, that might be an important first step for us. Just expressing our love. Sure, with your wives and husbands, and children, and friends, but maybe also, with God. Maybe with yourself. Maybe with those enemies you have. Maybe with those who you think don’t deserve your love. Jesus stresses that being born again is essential to the way of Christ because it is the entry into a different kind of life, a life that is lived for what Jesus identified as the Great Commandment: to love God with all your being and your neighbor as yourself. “Growth in love, growth in compassion, is the primary quality of life in the Spirit,” says Borg. “It is also the primary criterion for distinguishing a genuine born-again experience from one that only appears to be one.” When we are born again, we are born into deeper love and compassion. When we prayerfully invite Christ-like love and compassion in our lives, we are in the process of being born again, and again. It’s a journey. Like Abram, it requires answering a call that tells us to pack up our lives, and hit the road in the unknown territories of God’s mysterious terrain. But it doesn’t just stop with answering Yes. It is saying yes over and over again. It’s saying “God help me!” over and over again. It’s about saying “Help me love” over and over throughout our lives.
So when our brother Terry was asked the Big Question that day in Ft. Wayne, he was honest in his response. Are you saved? Are you born again? Terry replied, “I don’t know…I can’t put a certain date to it or a specific time. I guess I can say that I am continually in the process of Christian renewal. I don’t think it’s about specific date and time, but rather a question we struggle with until we die.” This young man seemed to know all about the right answer to that question, seemed to be confident in his faith and his born again status. But as Terry and he began to form a relationship, the young man began to confide in him with his problems, about money and his marriage, and it was clear that he didn’t have all the answers he needed to make his life perfect.
And isn’t that how it often goes? When we put aside all the right and wrong answers, the questions that ultimately serve to qualify who is in and who is out, in favor of forming a genuine and caring relationship with someone…then, it seems like we always get to the heart of each others pain, and joy. We get to know who people really are, rather than what we might assume about them. We uncover how God works in their lives, rather than what God did in one solitary moment. We might learn to sit on the floor with someone in a bathroom stall, or in each others homes, or even in a cabbage patch and tell them we love them, rather than telling them where they ought to be.
When we realize that being born again is a constant journey, rather than a single moment we recognize the tending, and nurturing, and constant need for faith it requires. Maybe if we try to live by a law of grace, rather than by some litmus test, we ourselves might learn to grow in love, compassion, and mercy. And each time we open ourselves to these gifts, we are born again…and again…and again.
Genesis 12:1-4a, John 3:1-17
Sermon by Carrie Eikler
Lent 2
Are you born again? If so, can you remember the time that you became “born again?”
During one of our Roots and Shoots classes this fall we talked specifically about baptism. At the end of the class Terry Green wanted to bring up an experience that he had many years ago. When Terry was living in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, he was doing some work in the home of an associate pastor of his church. They needed some painting done and some floor work. Terry stepped up to help out with the painting (I believe). Terry recalled that on the first day of work, the doorbell rang and on the stoop was the young man who had come to work on the flooring. Terry recalled that it wasn’t more than ten minutes into their time together, the young man “popped the question.” The question was not, “are you married?” or “what neighborhood do you live in?” or “are you a Bears fan, a Colts fan, or a Browns fan?”(the essential question for anyone living in northerneastern Indiana). None of these were the question. The question was…“Are you saved?” Are you born again?
Have you ever been asked that question? Have you ever asked the question? It is my sense that most Christians feel strongly about this topic. They either feel strong in embracing this concept, or they feel strongly in their resistance to it. To me, it seems like you can’t be ambivalent about “being born again.” Some of you may have a clear moment where you can look and say that in that moment, you were born again. You would have your own words to describe it. Maybe it was like Paul who scripture says had the scales fall from his eyes. Maybe it was an emotional whirlwind where the Spirit of God left you breathless, full of tears—full of joy. Maybe it was in the desperate moments of your life where you gave over all your fears and anxieties and invited the love of God to fill the empty places of your life. Or maybe like Abram, you were invited by God into the unknown territories of this world—it was in your “born again moment” that you closed your eyes, fell into faith all the while hoping that God’s promises were enough to keep you afloat…and that first step made all the difference.
I remember my experience with the big question. When I was a junior or senior in high school the importance of being born again and the power of salvation was very much a part of my vocabulary. During this time, a new girl, Melissa had moved into town and we struck a friendship. Now there aren’t many people who moved into my little town. There weren’t many people who moved out, for that matter. I believe that 85% of my graduating class were the same kids I started kindergarten with.
So when someone moves into town, it is something worth noticing. Especially with Melissa. Melissa moved to Illinois from Alabama. So to begin with, her thick southern accent was enough to get us wondering about her. She became even more mysterious when we found out that she didn’t move here with her family, but had moved up here to live with her boyfriend’s family. Apparently they met that summer while he was visiting family down south. We all wondered what was the story behind this girl? Was she pregnant? Did she run away from home? Did her parent’s kick her out? Of course no one actually asked her, they just had fun speculating, assigning her with a history that was of our own making.
Nevertheless, we did become friends, and I’m sure that she told me the story, but I forgot what it was. After we graduated, I never saw her again. I’m sure she that she told me her plans for the future, but I forgot what they were. What I do remember, however, was one day Melissa and I snuck out of study hall and sat talking on the floor in the large handicap stall in the girls bathroom (the rebel that I was). I listened to her pour out the struggles she had with her family, her boyfriend, life “up here in the North.” She laid her heart bare to me, the only friend she had made since moving to our town. And I remember as clearly as I’m talking to you my first response. I asked her the Big Question. After all of that, I took a breath, and asked her, “Are you born again?”
I’m sure she told me an answer but I can’t remember what it was. But that day, that encounter, has bubbled up in me frequently over the years. I’ve always wondered, “why did I ask that?” Why didn’t I just let her say what she needed to say, without the qualification of if she was born again? Did I think that if she said no, I could convince her that being born again would solve all her problems? Or maybe I thought if she said yes, I could tell her that her problems could be given to Jesus (since she had a personal relationship with him, after all), and he would take care of them? But on the other hand, maybe my asking had nothing to do with her, but everything to do with me.
I probably wonder about my response because over time, I became one who felt strongly about the question “are you born again”… but more on the skeptical side. Jesus scholar, and born again Christian, Marcus Borg gives words to my own hesitancy. He says that the “being born again” status often assumes a narrow defintion and that “In some Christian circles, to be born again can mean accepting a certain set of beliefs, a particular conservative theology, often express in a question using a salvation formula such as ‘Do you believe in Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior?’ In charismatic churches, it means receiving the gifts of the Spirit, especially speaking in tongues….” He continues “[M]ost of us have known at least one person who was born again in a remarkably unattractive way. When being born again leads to a rigid kind of righteousness, judgmentalism, and sharp boundaries between an in-group and an out-group…” (The Heart of Christianity, San Francisco: Harper Collins, 2003).And yet for others, their sense of being born again is a personal issue, something that happened to them that they don’t necessarily want to force upon others, but a state that they wish to invite others into. So no wonder there are some among who hesitate when we are asked the Big Question, because it can mean very different things to different people. After all, if you understand yourself to be a Christian, it is difficult to answer “no” to the big question, just because you don’t like what it has come to imply.
Our New Testament scripture today is the classic text in which the born again language is introduced into the Christian vocabulary. The gospel of John is a rich collection of stories that highlight what was at the essence of Jesus’ teachings and ministry to the early Christian community, and John skillfully uses symbolism and metaphor to gaze into the heart of Christ’s teachings. It is obvious that to Jesus and to the New Testament at as whole the concept of being born again is important. But like us, it seems Nicodemus wasn’t too clear on the concept either.
Nicodemus is a Pharisee, the people in the Jesus stories we are suppose to “not like,” but generally end up sounding a lot more like ourselves that we might expect. Nicodemus says to Jesus, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God, for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” And Jesus seems to change the subject, or perhaps, he answers the question that is beneath question. He says, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.”
Here it where it seems to get tricky for old Nicodemus. John loves to use double meanings, and here is an example: the Greek for “born from above” can also be translated “born again.” For the first Christian communities reading John’s gospel, they would know this double meaning and see what John is doing. Like when I spoke with the young people about “change for the world,” we know our language enough to hold both meanings at once. But Nicodemus is set up to question the literal meaning of “born again” – he says “How can anyone be born after growing old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” Now after giggling a bit at the outrageous image of this, I can just hear the mothers in the room bellowing, “Oh no you don’t, you being born once was just enough.” Jesus then goes on to say that this new birth is a birth from above, a birth of the Spirit. To be born again is to enter new life, a life centered in the Spirit of God.
What Nicodemus needs, what Jesus says we all need, is a spiritual rebirth, an internal rebirth, a personal transformation.
But how do we know if we are born again? Is it if we had an emotional experience, if we spoke in tongues, if we felt on fire for the Lord, if we felt at deep peace? I see Jesus saying, you can’t be absolutely certain about a specific time and place: Jesus tells Nicodemus “The wind blows where it chooses” The Spirit is often referred to as “wind” so here it says “The ‘spirit’ blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” The spirit is like a dancing wind, whose movements can’t be predicted, or characteristics prescribed, or presence qualified. To be born of this spirit is not about believing specific doctrines or reciting right beliefs. It’s something different…something more.
No matter how much we would like to think we have control over it, being born again is the work of the Spirit. Again, the words of Marcus Borg, “Whether it happens suddenly or gradually, we can’t make it happen, either by strong desire and determination or by learning and believing the right beliefs. But we can be intentional about being born again.”
It is with such intentionality that we see born-again experiences happening in the most unexpected places. Such as…a cabbage patch in Japan. I read an article this week about a group of men in Japan, in a town outside of Tokyo who were commemorating “Shout Your Love From the Middle of a Cabbage Patch" Day. This group of men positioned themselves in the middle of a cabbage patch and walking up and down the rows shouted “I love you!” and “Thank you!” to their wives. For some this was the first time they have ever said these words to their partners. Most of their spouses stood in the field, watching. Some were in tears. The event was held by an organization called “Devoted Husbands.” The goal of this group is to help improve Japan's troubled approach to marriage. In Japan, marriage is often regarded more as a status than as a relationship, but this group hopes that by teaching men to appreciate their wives and express their feelings, they can stop the skyrocketing divorce rate. “Devoted Husbands” hope they can help change attitudes like one man who said "If I said to my wife, 'I love you,' she would think I'm crazy." And he had been married 20 years. The article stated that “for many participants, shouting "I love you" in a cabbage patch was an important first step.” (Christian Science Monitor, February 13, 2008).
In a way, that might be an important first step for us. Just expressing our love. Sure, with your wives and husbands, and children, and friends, but maybe also, with God. Maybe with yourself. Maybe with those enemies you have. Maybe with those who you think don’t deserve your love. Jesus stresses that being born again is essential to the way of Christ because it is the entry into a different kind of life, a life that is lived for what Jesus identified as the Great Commandment: to love God with all your being and your neighbor as yourself. “Growth in love, growth in compassion, is the primary quality of life in the Spirit,” says Borg. “It is also the primary criterion for distinguishing a genuine born-again experience from one that only appears to be one.” When we are born again, we are born into deeper love and compassion. When we prayerfully invite Christ-like love and compassion in our lives, we are in the process of being born again, and again. It’s a journey. Like Abram, it requires answering a call that tells us to pack up our lives, and hit the road in the unknown territories of God’s mysterious terrain. But it doesn’t just stop with answering Yes. It is saying yes over and over again. It’s saying “God help me!” over and over again. It’s about saying “Help me love” over and over throughout our lives.
So when our brother Terry was asked the Big Question that day in Ft. Wayne, he was honest in his response. Are you saved? Are you born again? Terry replied, “I don’t know…I can’t put a certain date to it or a specific time. I guess I can say that I am continually in the process of Christian renewal. I don’t think it’s about specific date and time, but rather a question we struggle with until we die.” This young man seemed to know all about the right answer to that question, seemed to be confident in his faith and his born again status. But as Terry and he began to form a relationship, the young man began to confide in him with his problems, about money and his marriage, and it was clear that he didn’t have all the answers he needed to make his life perfect.
And isn’t that how it often goes? When we put aside all the right and wrong answers, the questions that ultimately serve to qualify who is in and who is out, in favor of forming a genuine and caring relationship with someone…then, it seems like we always get to the heart of each others pain, and joy. We get to know who people really are, rather than what we might assume about them. We uncover how God works in their lives, rather than what God did in one solitary moment. We might learn to sit on the floor with someone in a bathroom stall, or in each others homes, or even in a cabbage patch and tell them we love them, rather than telling them where they ought to be.
When we realize that being born again is a constant journey, rather than a single moment we recognize the tending, and nurturing, and constant need for faith it requires. Maybe if we try to live by a law of grace, rather than by some litmus test, we ourselves might learn to grow in love, compassion, and mercy. And each time we open ourselves to these gifts, we are born again…and again…and again.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Prepare Yourself
February 10, 2008
Matthew 4:1-11, Romans 5:12-19
Sermon by Torin Eikler
Lent 1
It’s hard to believe that Lent is here already. It has only been a month or so since we finished celebrating the birth of the baby Jesus with all the joyful trappings that go along with the season. Now, we are headed into the time of repentance that heralds the death of the man that baby became. A difficult transition to be sure… Of course, we are also preparing to celebrate the resurrection, but for the next six weeks give or take, we will be walking with Jesus and the disciples down paths that grow darker and darker with only the promise of that new hope to lighten our hearts and guide our faithful steps.
Traditionally, a part of this journey has been the Lenten fast that echoes Jesus’ forty days of fasting in the wilderness. During this time, some people choose to give up food entirely though the number who honor the tradition so literally is small. Most of us don’t have the strength, dedication, or constitution to take up that challenge. Instead we choose among the many habits and vices that fill our lives and give one of them up. Some favorites are eating chocolate, soda, or snack foods, reading frivolous novels, or watching movies or television - dramas or (dare I say it) sports events.
Some use this season, as Carrie noted in the most recent newsletter, to support and renew a new year’s resolution - to give up drinking or smoking or to lose weight or to reach some other particularly difficult goal. I would be curious to see which of us has committed to giving up something for Lent and what those things are. But, perhaps such commitments should remain private or be shared only with those we trust to be gentle with us.
Recently, we have been revisiting The Vicar of Dibley - one of our favorite British television series - with Dave and Cindy. In one of the episodes, the small village of Dibley is preparing for Lent, and the town council decides to set an example. They each agree to give up something and pledge to hold each other accountable by paying in one pound to a community fund each time they break their vow. And, rather than choosing their own “fast,” the council decides together what each person will give up which is an interesting twist. (What do you suppose we would be called upon to give up if those who knew us best decided for us…?)
So, one particularly snobbish and arrogant member of the council gives up mean-spirited criticism. Another gives up dithering, promising to get to the point rather than mumbling a whole lot of meaningless words along the way. Another gives up his pedantic quibbling over details. Similarly, the others give up chocolate, swearing, cooking with disgusting combinations, and lascivious thoughts.
As you can imagine, this leads to all sorts of humorous situations as the group struggles to hold to their various promises while at the same time trying to catch the others when they slip up. In the end, as they gathered on Easter afternoon having been mostly successful, they all celebrate the end of Lent by returning to their various habits with gusto.
While this episode pokes fun at religious practices and the strength of the habits that tend to rule our lives, it also reveals something about the way we approach the Lenten Fast. For the most part, we treat this tradition as a temporary exercise in purity. We find some piece of our lives that we feel is at least unbecoming of a Christian and may even be sinful. Then, we commit to abstain from that behavior for six and a half weeks as a symbol of repentance. Yet, we typically return to life as usual once Easter has passed.
We laugh at the villagers of Dibley in their struggles and the way they embrace the release from their vows. But if we brush away the dust of the exaggeration in their characters, we find ourselves. Perhaps that’s why we laugh. And perhaps we need to laugh in order to avoid a sense of inadequacy. Perhaps it helps us avoid asking whether or not we should give these things up permanently.
But, this is not a sermon on holy living. We all know that our lives are filled with habits – be they sinful, unhealthy, or merely annoying and unhelpful. Those that are deeply sinful and bring brokenness and pain into the world should be resisted. And, of course, it is always good to step away from the patterns that shape our lives in order to find a better perspective to judge the power they have over us. But thankfully, our imperfections are covered, as Paul assures us, by the grace of the second Adam. And, so we strive for holy living. Yet when we inevitable fall short, we are forgiven through the grace of Christ if we can just bring ourselves to ask.
No, what I find interesting is that we have come to view Lent as simply a season of giving things up. To be sure, we understand that this is a time of repentance and that is at the heart of our symbolic self-denial. And, even though we know we will probably return to our habits, we hope that we will have greater awareness and more self-control. But Lent and the Lenten fast are not about repentance and denial in and of themselves. They are about preparation.
The first spring after Carrie and I moved to Richmond for seminary, we had a long discussion about the nature of Lent. It started when I joked about giving up NOT eating tons of chocolate. While it was a joke, Carrie understood that I was expressing a deeper frustration with the Lenten Fast – one that I did not really understand myself. (What would we do without people who care enough to listen so deeply?) So, we began to talk about Lent and what the purpose of giving something up really is.
As we talked, we realized that when Jesus went into the wilderness after his baptism, he was not sitting in the sack-cloth and ashes of repentance. He was fasting in prayer and preparation for the ministry he was about to begin. He was getting ready to resist the temptations of great power and to deal with all the frustrations of trying to reach out to people who would not understand.
Since this is our example for the Lenten Fast, we thought we should do more than just giving something up. That is only part of the process of preparation. So, we decided to add something to our lives as well as giving something up – replacing a destructive habit with a spiritual discipline or a healthier practice. That year, I gave up coffee and added a prayer for a clean heart and a renewed spirit. Each time I smelled the aroma across the room and felt the desire to hold that warm cup and taste the rich flavor, I was reminded to offer up that prayer from the 51st Psalm. This year, I have given up reading fantasy and science fiction. Instead, I plan to curl up with a good book of theology or a collection of poetry or to spend extra time in meditation and prayer.
I am under no illusions that I will not return to fantasy novels in the end just as I returned to drinking coffee. I really do enjoy them, and I am often surprised at the theological, social, and political commentary I find imbedded within them. I only hope that in the mean time I will have prepared myself to continue with the ministry I have been given in a way that is more in touch with God’s will. And, once Easter comes and my Lenten fast in ended, I hope that I will have found - and will continue to find - as much passion and delight in my work as I will undoubtedly find when I return to the world of imagination wrapped up in the pages of a good fantasy.
And even as I have been thinking about these things again this year, I have been struck by another of Paul’s images – the body of Christ. The church is the body of Christ. That’s us – all of us together are the body of Christ. And, just Paul as says that no part of the body can be healthy and function without the rest of the body. So, too, none of us can stand alone in the ministry of our discipleship. We must work together if we are to serve our God and our world.
If that is true, as I believe it is, then our work as a body – our ministry to the world – is something we must prepare for together. We have done some of this work already. We have looked at our dreams together, and we have discovered some of the things we have been called to do as a part of the larger body of Christ: offering an open and welcoming space for all to come to God, sharing the message of God’s peace more openly, and outreach to the children and students in our community … among other things.
Knowing these things are our ministry as a congregation, what are we doing to prepare for that work? What if we were to think of this congregation and its ministry as we think of ourselves and our ministry? Are there things that we as a community of faith could give up for Lent? Are there unfortunate habits that we have? Are there patterns of behavior that bring division and pain rather than nurturing wholeness and love? How do we choose to follow our own will instead of the will of our God?
Taking it the next step, what could this community add to its life that would help bring us closer to the will of God? How can we prepare to continue the ministry that we have been given?
Should we commit to gathering for a Lenten prayer service on Fridays? Should we read scriptures that inform our peace stance? Should we stand together in a regular vigil?
Do we need to assess our space to see what is welcoming and what is not? What about developing a welcoming group committed to speaking with visitors when they come or sitting near them to help them feel comfortable with the unwritten traditions we have during worship?
How can we get ready to reach out to university students or learn about the issues that face children in broken or breaking families?
I don’t know what you have decided to give up for Lent or even if you have given anything up at all. I don’t know what our congregation would choose to give up if we sat down and talked about it. But, I encourage you – during this time when we join Christ in the wilderness, move beyond a simply symbolic fast and find some way that you can begin to prepare yourself for the return. Consider how you will honor the passion and suffering of Christ. Reflect on how you will prepare your heart to receive anew the gift of grace and salvation that we will celebrate when Easter comes. And think about how you will get ready – how we as a community will get ready – to embrace the will of God more fully and follow the leading of the Spirit as we continue to do the work of Christ as servants to all.
Matthew 4:1-11, Romans 5:12-19
Sermon by Torin Eikler
Lent 1
It’s hard to believe that Lent is here already. It has only been a month or so since we finished celebrating the birth of the baby Jesus with all the joyful trappings that go along with the season. Now, we are headed into the time of repentance that heralds the death of the man that baby became. A difficult transition to be sure… Of course, we are also preparing to celebrate the resurrection, but for the next six weeks give or take, we will be walking with Jesus and the disciples down paths that grow darker and darker with only the promise of that new hope to lighten our hearts and guide our faithful steps.
Traditionally, a part of this journey has been the Lenten fast that echoes Jesus’ forty days of fasting in the wilderness. During this time, some people choose to give up food entirely though the number who honor the tradition so literally is small. Most of us don’t have the strength, dedication, or constitution to take up that challenge. Instead we choose among the many habits and vices that fill our lives and give one of them up. Some favorites are eating chocolate, soda, or snack foods, reading frivolous novels, or watching movies or television - dramas or (dare I say it) sports events.
Some use this season, as Carrie noted in the most recent newsletter, to support and renew a new year’s resolution - to give up drinking or smoking or to lose weight or to reach some other particularly difficult goal. I would be curious to see which of us has committed to giving up something for Lent and what those things are. But, perhaps such commitments should remain private or be shared only with those we trust to be gentle with us.
Recently, we have been revisiting The Vicar of Dibley - one of our favorite British television series - with Dave and Cindy. In one of the episodes, the small village of Dibley is preparing for Lent, and the town council decides to set an example. They each agree to give up something and pledge to hold each other accountable by paying in one pound to a community fund each time they break their vow. And, rather than choosing their own “fast,” the council decides together what each person will give up which is an interesting twist. (What do you suppose we would be called upon to give up if those who knew us best decided for us…?)
So, one particularly snobbish and arrogant member of the council gives up mean-spirited criticism. Another gives up dithering, promising to get to the point rather than mumbling a whole lot of meaningless words along the way. Another gives up his pedantic quibbling over details. Similarly, the others give up chocolate, swearing, cooking with disgusting combinations, and lascivious thoughts.
As you can imagine, this leads to all sorts of humorous situations as the group struggles to hold to their various promises while at the same time trying to catch the others when they slip up. In the end, as they gathered on Easter afternoon having been mostly successful, they all celebrate the end of Lent by returning to their various habits with gusto.
While this episode pokes fun at religious practices and the strength of the habits that tend to rule our lives, it also reveals something about the way we approach the Lenten Fast. For the most part, we treat this tradition as a temporary exercise in purity. We find some piece of our lives that we feel is at least unbecoming of a Christian and may even be sinful. Then, we commit to abstain from that behavior for six and a half weeks as a symbol of repentance. Yet, we typically return to life as usual once Easter has passed.
We laugh at the villagers of Dibley in their struggles and the way they embrace the release from their vows. But if we brush away the dust of the exaggeration in their characters, we find ourselves. Perhaps that’s why we laugh. And perhaps we need to laugh in order to avoid a sense of inadequacy. Perhaps it helps us avoid asking whether or not we should give these things up permanently.
But, this is not a sermon on holy living. We all know that our lives are filled with habits – be they sinful, unhealthy, or merely annoying and unhelpful. Those that are deeply sinful and bring brokenness and pain into the world should be resisted. And, of course, it is always good to step away from the patterns that shape our lives in order to find a better perspective to judge the power they have over us. But thankfully, our imperfections are covered, as Paul assures us, by the grace of the second Adam. And, so we strive for holy living. Yet when we inevitable fall short, we are forgiven through the grace of Christ if we can just bring ourselves to ask.
No, what I find interesting is that we have come to view Lent as simply a season of giving things up. To be sure, we understand that this is a time of repentance and that is at the heart of our symbolic self-denial. And, even though we know we will probably return to our habits, we hope that we will have greater awareness and more self-control. But Lent and the Lenten fast are not about repentance and denial in and of themselves. They are about preparation.
The first spring after Carrie and I moved to Richmond for seminary, we had a long discussion about the nature of Lent. It started when I joked about giving up NOT eating tons of chocolate. While it was a joke, Carrie understood that I was expressing a deeper frustration with the Lenten Fast – one that I did not really understand myself. (What would we do without people who care enough to listen so deeply?) So, we began to talk about Lent and what the purpose of giving something up really is.
As we talked, we realized that when Jesus went into the wilderness after his baptism, he was not sitting in the sack-cloth and ashes of repentance. He was fasting in prayer and preparation for the ministry he was about to begin. He was getting ready to resist the temptations of great power and to deal with all the frustrations of trying to reach out to people who would not understand.
Since this is our example for the Lenten Fast, we thought we should do more than just giving something up. That is only part of the process of preparation. So, we decided to add something to our lives as well as giving something up – replacing a destructive habit with a spiritual discipline or a healthier practice. That year, I gave up coffee and added a prayer for a clean heart and a renewed spirit. Each time I smelled the aroma across the room and felt the desire to hold that warm cup and taste the rich flavor, I was reminded to offer up that prayer from the 51st Psalm. This year, I have given up reading fantasy and science fiction. Instead, I plan to curl up with a good book of theology or a collection of poetry or to spend extra time in meditation and prayer.
I am under no illusions that I will not return to fantasy novels in the end just as I returned to drinking coffee. I really do enjoy them, and I am often surprised at the theological, social, and political commentary I find imbedded within them. I only hope that in the mean time I will have prepared myself to continue with the ministry I have been given in a way that is more in touch with God’s will. And, once Easter comes and my Lenten fast in ended, I hope that I will have found - and will continue to find - as much passion and delight in my work as I will undoubtedly find when I return to the world of imagination wrapped up in the pages of a good fantasy.
And even as I have been thinking about these things again this year, I have been struck by another of Paul’s images – the body of Christ. The church is the body of Christ. That’s us – all of us together are the body of Christ. And, just Paul as says that no part of the body can be healthy and function without the rest of the body. So, too, none of us can stand alone in the ministry of our discipleship. We must work together if we are to serve our God and our world.
If that is true, as I believe it is, then our work as a body – our ministry to the world – is something we must prepare for together. We have done some of this work already. We have looked at our dreams together, and we have discovered some of the things we have been called to do as a part of the larger body of Christ: offering an open and welcoming space for all to come to God, sharing the message of God’s peace more openly, and outreach to the children and students in our community … among other things.
Knowing these things are our ministry as a congregation, what are we doing to prepare for that work? What if we were to think of this congregation and its ministry as we think of ourselves and our ministry? Are there things that we as a community of faith could give up for Lent? Are there unfortunate habits that we have? Are there patterns of behavior that bring division and pain rather than nurturing wholeness and love? How do we choose to follow our own will instead of the will of our God?
Taking it the next step, what could this community add to its life that would help bring us closer to the will of God? How can we prepare to continue the ministry that we have been given?
Should we commit to gathering for a Lenten prayer service on Fridays? Should we read scriptures that inform our peace stance? Should we stand together in a regular vigil?
Do we need to assess our space to see what is welcoming and what is not? What about developing a welcoming group committed to speaking with visitors when they come or sitting near them to help them feel comfortable with the unwritten traditions we have during worship?
How can we get ready to reach out to university students or learn about the issues that face children in broken or breaking families?
I don’t know what you have decided to give up for Lent or even if you have given anything up at all. I don’t know what our congregation would choose to give up if we sat down and talked about it. But, I encourage you – during this time when we join Christ in the wilderness, move beyond a simply symbolic fast and find some way that you can begin to prepare yourself for the return. Consider how you will honor the passion and suffering of Christ. Reflect on how you will prepare your heart to receive anew the gift of grace and salvation that we will celebrate when Easter comes. And think about how you will get ready – how we as a community will get ready – to embrace the will of God more fully and follow the leading of the Spirit as we continue to do the work of Christ as servants to all.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Down the Mountain
3 February 2008
Matthew 17:1-9 Matthew 5:1-12
Sermon by Carrie Eikler
Transfiguration Sunday
Some years ago during the Muslim holiday of Idd, a woman named Mrs. Mutahi who lived in the poorer part of Nairobi, the capital of Kenya, had some friends over for a lunch party. When her guests left, she got busy clearing dishes and throwing the trash in the common trash can outside. Later that night, she found a group of boys hanging around the bin, picking clean the chicken bones she had thrown away earlier. She invited the boys into the small house and gave them the leftovers from the lunch. Having no homes to return to, the boys spent the night on Mrs. Mutahi’s floor. For the next few evenings, the boys kept returning in increasing numbers until the house proved to be too small for them. Even after Mrs Mutahi’s daughter offered to take the boys bread for lunch at a public park in the city, in order to relieve the cramped home, the boys kept turning up at the house in the evenings. Over time the group of children grew, and it now included girls. Finally Mrs Mutahi proposed to her “family” of street urchins that they should all move to the foot of the Ngong hills outside of Nairobi, where she and her husband owned a small plot of land. There they constructed a much bigger house than their tiny city home. Mr and Mrs Mutahi became the parents of twenty homeless boys and girls.
When I read this story, I must admit that one of my first thoughts was: “That’s crazy.” I would have likely cut off the goodwill after the first dinner with all those little boys. I would like to think that my compassion would invite them in, but I don’t know if my mercy would invite them back, let alone allow them to sleep on my floor…let alone welcome them back with more children…let alone build a bigger house at the base of some hills to care for twenty children. It’s not that I don’t admire her compassion and mercy, it’s just…well, let’s face it…isn’t it just a short term solution to a larger problem? It is really not a reasonable response when you consider the magnitude of the problem of poverty and homelessness. Yes, a rather good-hearted, but unreasonable, reaction. A bigger house at the foot of the hills doesn’t seem like a realistic solution.
Come to think of it, what is it about hills and mountains that produce such absurdity? Today we hear two stories from the gospel of Matthew. They both feature Jesus taking some arrangement of his disciples up on a mountain…almost as if he is removing them from the clatter below, where the complexities and distractions of the “real world” so they might hear more clearly…see more rightly…the wise words of Jesus. The first scripture we read tells of the disciples Peter, James, and John witnessing the transfiguration of Jesus. This is the day we call Transfiguration Sunday and marks the upcoming Lenten season which begins on Wednesday. To the disciples, Jesus appeared to be transfigured—he is physically transformed. He took on a divine appearance which rocked the disciples to the ground. You can imagine even in their fright how excited they were. Finally! The voice of God confirmed our suspicions and answered our questions. This is the son of God! The messiah! And as they are practically tripping over each other to be the first one down the mountain to tell everyone, Jesus takes the wind out of their sails—“by the way, guys, don’t tell anybody about this…not yet.” Are you kidding? As far as public relations goes, this could be just the boost these guys need to convince the people, to stick it to the authorities, to get the knees knocking of all the puppet politicians from Jerusalem to Rome. It doesn’t seem like withholding this vital piece of information is the best thing for the new Jesus movement. In no way, is this a rational request.
But then the disciples may have expected such absurdity because even when he wasn’t being transformed by a dazzling light, he said some pretty absurd things. In fact, the entire Sermon on the Mount has been viewed as idealistic romanticism to many, and the Beatitudes is simply the hour d’eourvs to a sumptuous meal of illogical ethics. On this mountain Jesus pronounces that those who are blessed are not those who think they are blessed, but those who feel they are cursed: cursed with poverty, cursed with a bleeding heart, cursed with feeling like the responsibility to give an alternative to violence rests on their shoulders, cursed with loss, cursed for being pigeon-holed, cursed with a willingness to offer a second chance. Our contemporary, capitalistic Christian ethic scowls at this—we think, no we are blessed with riches! We are blessed with opportunity! We are blessed with life, liberty, and the pursuit of all the happiness we can buy! We are blessed when we can make decisions of who is worthy and who is not! We are blessed when we have the power to protect ourselves from those who are cursed! We are blessed when we can have what we want, and protect ourselves from what we don’t want! What an absurd notion to think that happiness, or blessedness, could be found in these things Jesus is talking about. And in all honesty, we can imagine that it all sounds and looks good up on the mountain, where we are amazed and transfixed on incredible sights and inspiring words. But then, we all must come down from the mountain. We return to life where the absurdity isn’t inspiring, the absurdity seems…well…absurd, illogical, unrealistic.
I think each of us has had a “mountain top experience” whether or not it was on a real, physical mountain or not. We’ve each had to face the world that remains waiting for us with all its pain, and injustice, spiritual sickness, and physical decay. Jesus seems so far up there, back up the mountain, beyond the clouds. I remember very clearly a mountain top experience, perhaps one of my first. And coincidently, it actually did happen on a mountain. I was 19 years old, a sophomore in college. I was on a January term study seminar in Viet Nam, and my first time in the “two-thirds” world. I had no idea what to expect. The sights, the smells, the sounds at times inspired me, at times revolted me, at times humbled me. We were visiting a Buddhist Temple tucked inside a cave at the top of a mountain, where a large statue of a Lady Buddha stood somberly yet compassionately, resembling in many respects the Virgin Mary. I found myself full of peace as I sat in the presence of such a holy place. And then it was time to return down the mountain. We had been in the country for about a week and a half and I had started getting used to the bands of small children who would gather around us asking for money or trinkets. To be honest, it was getting slightly irritating. The word no rolled off our lips like water from an overflowing cup. No no no nono.
Finally we returned to the bottom of the mountain and headed to our bus, our warm spiritually-alive and mindful state seeping away by the pressure of the small demanding children. One small girl was steadfast in her urging towards my friend, Jackie, asking for “just a little bit of money.” Perhaps to her breaking point, my friend—my very liberal-minded, good-hearted, justice-seeking, good Brethren girl—said with as much kindness as she could muster “I’m sorry. I need to use my money to buy my dinner tonight.” Perfectly reasonable assertion, I thought. The little girl, whose only stood so tall as our stomachs, responded in broken English: “Well, could you give me a little your money and then not each so much tonight?” We were dumbfounded at such a simple request. We talked a lot about that event in the days to come. We tried to analyze its implications, we tried to rationalize our reactions. We tried to make ourselves feel better by remembering what our tour guides had told us—not to give them money because many times they just take it to thugs, and the children see none of it. Even if we gave her money, she would be begging tomorrow. What went left unsaid, but what we knew we all were feeling, was that a small Buddhist girl could show us the potency of Christ’s message. She had a power over our hearts and our consciences that no amount of money could secure. She proved to me that the amazing feeling on the mountain, if it doesn’t transform us in all its brilliance at the time, becomes an unrealistic fantasy when we come down. And that is where it is all put to the test.
In light of the world’s problems, of poverty and war, in light of our personal problems, of depression, strained relationships, financial insecurity, life down from the mountain makes Jesus’ actions and words seem quite absurd and irrational. Are we expected to take in twenty homeless orphans? Give money for thousands of begging children? Seek out persecution and sadness? Maybe so, maybe not. But I don’t think we can find the answer to these questions if we keep looking through the lens of what is rational, what is reasonable, what is realistic, what is logical. What gives us the best return on our investment. But Christ doesn’t necessarily call us to a life of logical living. Christ calls us to a life of transformational living.
Do we seek transformational living, or do we attempt to get by with what makes sense, with what has been test and tried and proved to work? Do we dare to dance with what may seem absurd to the world in order to test the possibility of creative change? Can we hear Christ say, don’t tell people about me, but act towards people so they see you know me?
Or do we think that our spiritual lives are to be put on the shelf until we can have that perfect mountain top experience that bears no resemblance to reality on the ground, or can we say that a spirit transformed can lead to a world transformed?
Maybe our eyes need to be burned by the blinding light of the transfiguration, or our ears to tingle with words of the beatitudes. But if we are looking for the words of the beatitudes to make sense, while striving to maintain reasoned discretion that will notify us when things get a little “too weird,” it won’t likely happen. Our perceptions of the world and ourselves are too ingrained, too much woven into the fabric of moving through this world. What Jesus says and does is so often chalked up to being some unattainable ethic that doesn’t—that can’t—make sense with our human foibles and follies, in the modern world where what we see isn’t necessarily what we get. Where acts of compassion lead to good people being taken advantage of. Where our ardent strivings for a meaningful and full spiritual life gets blinded by personal pain, and unforgiving demands, or…toddlers who don’t want to sleep through the night, leaving parents to exhausted to smile in the morning.
In her book Mysticism and Resistance, the late German theologian Dorthee Solle writes that in order to perceive the world as transformed beings, we must acquire new senses. Looking through the lens that we have always looked through to view world is inadequate. Rather, “It is an exercise in seeing how God sees, the perception of what is little and unimportant;” says Soelle “it is listening to the cry of God’s children who are in slavery in Egypt. God calls upon the soul to give away its own ears and eyes and to let itself be given those of God. Only they who hear with other ears can speak with the mouth of God. God sees what elsewhere is rendered invisible and is of no relevance. Who other than God sees the poor and hears their cry? to use ‘God’s senses’ does not mean simply turning inward but becoming free for a different way of living life: See what God sees! Hear what God hears! Laugh where God laughs! Cry where God cries!” (Soelle, Dorothee. The Silent Cry, Minneapolis: Fotress Press, 2001.)
Brilliant, beautiful thought! I just wish she told us where we could go to purchase these new senses… Maybe it’s about allowing our rational, logical minds to play with the possibility that somewhere in Jesus’ absurd teachings, there is a place where we each can begin a different way of living life, of seeing what is possible.
While Peter wants to make personal tents for Moses and Elijah and Jesus on the mountain, Jesus says lets go down and make a bigger house, with more rooms, where we and twenty children can make a new family. When the crowds wonder what Jesus could possibly mean by saying that in their desperation they are blessed, Jesus says let’s go down—there’s a little girl who can teach you better than I can, listen to her to understand me. When we are stymied at thinking what possible good a bunch of meek, hurt, persecuted, peace-seeking, mourning, and poor can do in this world, Jesus says “well, how do you think I did it?” If we are at least open to the possibility of trading in our old way of seeing things for new senses, we might recognize that what to the world seems absurd, may be the only thing that can save us.
As we approach Lent we turn inward to examine our spiritual state with God and with one another. Often people think about ways to “give something up” as an act of repentance. But perhaps, as we come down the mountain to walk the road with Jesus to the cross, walk with the women to the empty tomb, perhaps instead of giving something up in repentance, we might explore the ways we can more fully live into the absurdity of Christ’s message, relinquishing bit by bit the chains of our perceptions that enslave us not so we can touch the world in a logical manner, but be part of the world in a transformational manner. See what God sees. Hear what God hears. Laugh where God laughs. Cry where God cries. Make new senses for yourself, come down the mountain, and be blessed.
Matthew 17:1-9 Matthew 5:1-12
Sermon by Carrie Eikler
Transfiguration Sunday
Some years ago during the Muslim holiday of Idd, a woman named Mrs. Mutahi who lived in the poorer part of Nairobi, the capital of Kenya, had some friends over for a lunch party. When her guests left, she got busy clearing dishes and throwing the trash in the common trash can outside. Later that night, she found a group of boys hanging around the bin, picking clean the chicken bones she had thrown away earlier. She invited the boys into the small house and gave them the leftovers from the lunch. Having no homes to return to, the boys spent the night on Mrs. Mutahi’s floor. For the next few evenings, the boys kept returning in increasing numbers until the house proved to be too small for them. Even after Mrs Mutahi’s daughter offered to take the boys bread for lunch at a public park in the city, in order to relieve the cramped home, the boys kept turning up at the house in the evenings. Over time the group of children grew, and it now included girls. Finally Mrs Mutahi proposed to her “family” of street urchins that they should all move to the foot of the Ngong hills outside of Nairobi, where she and her husband owned a small plot of land. There they constructed a much bigger house than their tiny city home. Mr and Mrs Mutahi became the parents of twenty homeless boys and girls.
When I read this story, I must admit that one of my first thoughts was: “That’s crazy.” I would have likely cut off the goodwill after the first dinner with all those little boys. I would like to think that my compassion would invite them in, but I don’t know if my mercy would invite them back, let alone allow them to sleep on my floor…let alone welcome them back with more children…let alone build a bigger house at the base of some hills to care for twenty children. It’s not that I don’t admire her compassion and mercy, it’s just…well, let’s face it…isn’t it just a short term solution to a larger problem? It is really not a reasonable response when you consider the magnitude of the problem of poverty and homelessness. Yes, a rather good-hearted, but unreasonable, reaction. A bigger house at the foot of the hills doesn’t seem like a realistic solution.
Come to think of it, what is it about hills and mountains that produce such absurdity? Today we hear two stories from the gospel of Matthew. They both feature Jesus taking some arrangement of his disciples up on a mountain…almost as if he is removing them from the clatter below, where the complexities and distractions of the “real world” so they might hear more clearly…see more rightly…the wise words of Jesus. The first scripture we read tells of the disciples Peter, James, and John witnessing the transfiguration of Jesus. This is the day we call Transfiguration Sunday and marks the upcoming Lenten season which begins on Wednesday. To the disciples, Jesus appeared to be transfigured—he is physically transformed. He took on a divine appearance which rocked the disciples to the ground. You can imagine even in their fright how excited they were. Finally! The voice of God confirmed our suspicions and answered our questions. This is the son of God! The messiah! And as they are practically tripping over each other to be the first one down the mountain to tell everyone, Jesus takes the wind out of their sails—“by the way, guys, don’t tell anybody about this…not yet.” Are you kidding? As far as public relations goes, this could be just the boost these guys need to convince the people, to stick it to the authorities, to get the knees knocking of all the puppet politicians from Jerusalem to Rome. It doesn’t seem like withholding this vital piece of information is the best thing for the new Jesus movement. In no way, is this a rational request.
But then the disciples may have expected such absurdity because even when he wasn’t being transformed by a dazzling light, he said some pretty absurd things. In fact, the entire Sermon on the Mount has been viewed as idealistic romanticism to many, and the Beatitudes is simply the hour d’eourvs to a sumptuous meal of illogical ethics. On this mountain Jesus pronounces that those who are blessed are not those who think they are blessed, but those who feel they are cursed: cursed with poverty, cursed with a bleeding heart, cursed with feeling like the responsibility to give an alternative to violence rests on their shoulders, cursed with loss, cursed for being pigeon-holed, cursed with a willingness to offer a second chance. Our contemporary, capitalistic Christian ethic scowls at this—we think, no we are blessed with riches! We are blessed with opportunity! We are blessed with life, liberty, and the pursuit of all the happiness we can buy! We are blessed when we can make decisions of who is worthy and who is not! We are blessed when we have the power to protect ourselves from those who are cursed! We are blessed when we can have what we want, and protect ourselves from what we don’t want! What an absurd notion to think that happiness, or blessedness, could be found in these things Jesus is talking about. And in all honesty, we can imagine that it all sounds and looks good up on the mountain, where we are amazed and transfixed on incredible sights and inspiring words. But then, we all must come down from the mountain. We return to life where the absurdity isn’t inspiring, the absurdity seems…well…absurd, illogical, unrealistic.
I think each of us has had a “mountain top experience” whether or not it was on a real, physical mountain or not. We’ve each had to face the world that remains waiting for us with all its pain, and injustice, spiritual sickness, and physical decay. Jesus seems so far up there, back up the mountain, beyond the clouds. I remember very clearly a mountain top experience, perhaps one of my first. And coincidently, it actually did happen on a mountain. I was 19 years old, a sophomore in college. I was on a January term study seminar in Viet Nam, and my first time in the “two-thirds” world. I had no idea what to expect. The sights, the smells, the sounds at times inspired me, at times revolted me, at times humbled me. We were visiting a Buddhist Temple tucked inside a cave at the top of a mountain, where a large statue of a Lady Buddha stood somberly yet compassionately, resembling in many respects the Virgin Mary. I found myself full of peace as I sat in the presence of such a holy place. And then it was time to return down the mountain. We had been in the country for about a week and a half and I had started getting used to the bands of small children who would gather around us asking for money or trinkets. To be honest, it was getting slightly irritating. The word no rolled off our lips like water from an overflowing cup. No no no nono.
Finally we returned to the bottom of the mountain and headed to our bus, our warm spiritually-alive and mindful state seeping away by the pressure of the small demanding children. One small girl was steadfast in her urging towards my friend, Jackie, asking for “just a little bit of money.” Perhaps to her breaking point, my friend—my very liberal-minded, good-hearted, justice-seeking, good Brethren girl—said with as much kindness as she could muster “I’m sorry. I need to use my money to buy my dinner tonight.” Perfectly reasonable assertion, I thought. The little girl, whose only stood so tall as our stomachs, responded in broken English: “Well, could you give me a little your money and then not each so much tonight?” We were dumbfounded at such a simple request. We talked a lot about that event in the days to come. We tried to analyze its implications, we tried to rationalize our reactions. We tried to make ourselves feel better by remembering what our tour guides had told us—not to give them money because many times they just take it to thugs, and the children see none of it. Even if we gave her money, she would be begging tomorrow. What went left unsaid, but what we knew we all were feeling, was that a small Buddhist girl could show us the potency of Christ’s message. She had a power over our hearts and our consciences that no amount of money could secure. She proved to me that the amazing feeling on the mountain, if it doesn’t transform us in all its brilliance at the time, becomes an unrealistic fantasy when we come down. And that is where it is all put to the test.
In light of the world’s problems, of poverty and war, in light of our personal problems, of depression, strained relationships, financial insecurity, life down from the mountain makes Jesus’ actions and words seem quite absurd and irrational. Are we expected to take in twenty homeless orphans? Give money for thousands of begging children? Seek out persecution and sadness? Maybe so, maybe not. But I don’t think we can find the answer to these questions if we keep looking through the lens of what is rational, what is reasonable, what is realistic, what is logical. What gives us the best return on our investment. But Christ doesn’t necessarily call us to a life of logical living. Christ calls us to a life of transformational living.
Do we seek transformational living, or do we attempt to get by with what makes sense, with what has been test and tried and proved to work? Do we dare to dance with what may seem absurd to the world in order to test the possibility of creative change? Can we hear Christ say, don’t tell people about me, but act towards people so they see you know me?
Or do we think that our spiritual lives are to be put on the shelf until we can have that perfect mountain top experience that bears no resemblance to reality on the ground, or can we say that a spirit transformed can lead to a world transformed?
Maybe our eyes need to be burned by the blinding light of the transfiguration, or our ears to tingle with words of the beatitudes. But if we are looking for the words of the beatitudes to make sense, while striving to maintain reasoned discretion that will notify us when things get a little “too weird,” it won’t likely happen. Our perceptions of the world and ourselves are too ingrained, too much woven into the fabric of moving through this world. What Jesus says and does is so often chalked up to being some unattainable ethic that doesn’t—that can’t—make sense with our human foibles and follies, in the modern world where what we see isn’t necessarily what we get. Where acts of compassion lead to good people being taken advantage of. Where our ardent strivings for a meaningful and full spiritual life gets blinded by personal pain, and unforgiving demands, or…toddlers who don’t want to sleep through the night, leaving parents to exhausted to smile in the morning.
In her book Mysticism and Resistance, the late German theologian Dorthee Solle writes that in order to perceive the world as transformed beings, we must acquire new senses. Looking through the lens that we have always looked through to view world is inadequate. Rather, “It is an exercise in seeing how God sees, the perception of what is little and unimportant;” says Soelle “it is listening to the cry of God’s children who are in slavery in Egypt. God calls upon the soul to give away its own ears and eyes and to let itself be given those of God. Only they who hear with other ears can speak with the mouth of God. God sees what elsewhere is rendered invisible and is of no relevance. Who other than God sees the poor and hears their cry? to use ‘God’s senses’ does not mean simply turning inward but becoming free for a different way of living life: See what God sees! Hear what God hears! Laugh where God laughs! Cry where God cries!” (Soelle, Dorothee. The Silent Cry, Minneapolis: Fotress Press, 2001.)
Brilliant, beautiful thought! I just wish she told us where we could go to purchase these new senses… Maybe it’s about allowing our rational, logical minds to play with the possibility that somewhere in Jesus’ absurd teachings, there is a place where we each can begin a different way of living life, of seeing what is possible.
While Peter wants to make personal tents for Moses and Elijah and Jesus on the mountain, Jesus says lets go down and make a bigger house, with more rooms, where we and twenty children can make a new family. When the crowds wonder what Jesus could possibly mean by saying that in their desperation they are blessed, Jesus says let’s go down—there’s a little girl who can teach you better than I can, listen to her to understand me. When we are stymied at thinking what possible good a bunch of meek, hurt, persecuted, peace-seeking, mourning, and poor can do in this world, Jesus says “well, how do you think I did it?” If we are at least open to the possibility of trading in our old way of seeing things for new senses, we might recognize that what to the world seems absurd, may be the only thing that can save us.
As we approach Lent we turn inward to examine our spiritual state with God and with one another. Often people think about ways to “give something up” as an act of repentance. But perhaps, as we come down the mountain to walk the road with Jesus to the cross, walk with the women to the empty tomb, perhaps instead of giving something up in repentance, we might explore the ways we can more fully live into the absurdity of Christ’s message, relinquishing bit by bit the chains of our perceptions that enslave us not so we can touch the world in a logical manner, but be part of the world in a transformational manner. See what God sees. Hear what God hears. Laugh where God laughs. Cry where God cries. Make new senses for yourself, come down the mountain, and be blessed.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Pastor's Bookshelf
Your Money or Your Life:
Transforming Your Relationship with Money
and Achieving Financial Independance
by Joe Dominguez and Vicki Robin
Wiles Hill Witness (January-March edition)
Normally, I would not present a review on a book that have not yet finished. Nor would I usually recommend a book about financial independence in a church newsletter. However, as Carrie and I have begun to read this “how to” guide, we have been surprised to realize that it is not only a helpful tool for getting a hold on our finances, it also offers an inspiring new perspective on the nature of money and the power it holds over our lives. As we are heading into the season of Lent and beginning to turn our thoughts to the ways in which our lives are divided from the ways of God, it seems appropriate to offer this book as a tool in our struggle to free ourselves from service to Mammon.
Your Money or Your Life is not a new book. It has been in print for nearly twenty years, and the authors have been sharing the wisdom it holds for much longer among friends and in seminars. On one level, it offers an on-going nine-step process that will help anyone develop an intentional path to financial independence. Yet, unlike the many strategies that pander to our cultural habits of immediate gratification, this process aims at developing sustainable plans that work toward long-term goals and are particular to each individual or family’s particular circumstances.
Beginning with an honest assessment of new-worth and expenses and following a clearly outlined path through an exploration of values and goals around money to an ultimate plan for financial management, the authors offer an understandable and easy to follow step-by-step process leading to financial independence in the traditional sense.
More significant, though, is the philosophy and insight that are at the core of this unique book. At its roots, the process outlined here is based in a paradigm shift that allows us to think about money in an entirely different manner than we have been taught by our society. Rather than addressing itself to our fears about making ends meet or our hopes of finding ways to develop huge reservoirs of wealth, the authors challenge the root assumptions by which we tend to operate (more is better, money is power or freedom or security, and money can buy happiness).
Most of us will readily acknowledge that none of these statements is actually true. Yet, for some reason, we often find that we are living according to one or more of these false axioms. The true gift of Your Money or Your Life is that as we work through its nine steps, we are gently led to find and embrace a new perspective on money that allows us to define the place it will have in our lives. Showing us the habits of unrestrained capitalism by which we live and our addiction to consumption, this book offers us the freedom to understand and use money as a tool in the service of the greater goals of our lives. At its core, this book addresses the challenge of serving only one Lord and, with its refreshing perspective and concrete nine steps, provides an accessible and inviting path for achieving this greatest of all commandments.
Torin
Note: if this review has sparked your interest or resonated with long-held beliefs that you struggle to bring fully into your life, we invite you join the Simple Living Study Circle that will be gathering soon. Talk to Pastor Carrie for more details.
Transforming Your Relationship with Money
and Achieving Financial Independance
by Joe Dominguez and Vicki Robin
Wiles Hill Witness (January-March edition)
Normally, I would not present a review on a book that have not yet finished. Nor would I usually recommend a book about financial independence in a church newsletter. However, as Carrie and I have begun to read this “how to” guide, we have been surprised to realize that it is not only a helpful tool for getting a hold on our finances, it also offers an inspiring new perspective on the nature of money and the power it holds over our lives. As we are heading into the season of Lent and beginning to turn our thoughts to the ways in which our lives are divided from the ways of God, it seems appropriate to offer this book as a tool in our struggle to free ourselves from service to Mammon.
Your Money or Your Life is not a new book. It has been in print for nearly twenty years, and the authors have been sharing the wisdom it holds for much longer among friends and in seminars. On one level, it offers an on-going nine-step process that will help anyone develop an intentional path to financial independence. Yet, unlike the many strategies that pander to our cultural habits of immediate gratification, this process aims at developing sustainable plans that work toward long-term goals and are particular to each individual or family’s particular circumstances.
Beginning with an honest assessment of new-worth and expenses and following a clearly outlined path through an exploration of values and goals around money to an ultimate plan for financial management, the authors offer an understandable and easy to follow step-by-step process leading to financial independence in the traditional sense.
More significant, though, is the philosophy and insight that are at the core of this unique book. At its roots, the process outlined here is based in a paradigm shift that allows us to think about money in an entirely different manner than we have been taught by our society. Rather than addressing itself to our fears about making ends meet or our hopes of finding ways to develop huge reservoirs of wealth, the authors challenge the root assumptions by which we tend to operate (more is better, money is power or freedom or security, and money can buy happiness).
Most of us will readily acknowledge that none of these statements is actually true. Yet, for some reason, we often find that we are living according to one or more of these false axioms. The true gift of Your Money or Your Life is that as we work through its nine steps, we are gently led to find and embrace a new perspective on money that allows us to define the place it will have in our lives. Showing us the habits of unrestrained capitalism by which we live and our addiction to consumption, this book offers us the freedom to understand and use money as a tool in the service of the greater goals of our lives. At its core, this book addresses the challenge of serving only one Lord and, with its refreshing perspective and concrete nine steps, provides an accessible and inviting path for achieving this greatest of all commandments.
Torin
Note: if this review has sparked your interest or resonated with long-held beliefs that you struggle to bring fully into your life, we invite you join the Simple Living Study Circle that will be gathering soon. Talk to Pastor Carrie for more details.
New Years Resolutions – Lenten Repentance
Pastoral Letter from Carrie
Wiles Hill Witness
January-March edition
I always find it strange when the season of Lent follows so closely on the heels of Christmastime. Lent begins quite early this year with Ash Wednesday on February 6 (yes, even before Valentine’s Day!). The last time the seasons came so closely together Torin and I were in a Disciples of Christ church during our ministry formation. I found the quick transition jolting: down with the winter evergreen on one Sunday and up with the purple of Lenten altar clothes the next. Like forcing a tulip in a hothouse, it felt like the season that is “suppose” to be in spring was being pushed on us a little too early—in the “bleak midwinter” comes the reflective responsibilities of accompanying Christ to the cross.
But maybe there is a benefit to the early arrival. Around the beginning of February I find my New Year’s resolutions that I so “resolutely” made begin to wane a little. I find it an opportune time, then, to think about what I’m going to “give up” for Lent. If my eating habits that I was going to improve fall by the wayside, I can use Lent as a tonic, and give up chocolate. If I was going to be “slower to anger” and “quicker to love,” but find myself falling into irritability, I can use Lent to give up a responsibility that gives me anxiety. Yes, Lent can be the redeemer of all New Years resolutions gone bad.
But if I’m honest with myself, I know that a “new beginning” isn’t what I need to help me change what needs to be tended. Lent isn’t simply a pick me up, like an artificial stimulus to a groaning economy. Lent is a time of reflection and repentance, of “looking” and “turning.” It’s a time to throw open the doors and windows of our hearts and sweep clean the corners and cobwebs of our soul. Resolutions look at what we want to be and creates plans to get us there. Repentance means acknowledging what we are, and asks God to transform us in spite of ourselves. Resolutions bring guilt. Repentance brings hope.
As we enter into the season of Lent, may we stand as we are, and invite God to transform us—without guilt and shame of how we fail, but with faith and confidence in the power to be renewed.
Carrie
Wiles Hill Witness
January-March edition
I always find it strange when the season of Lent follows so closely on the heels of Christmastime. Lent begins quite early this year with Ash Wednesday on February 6 (yes, even before Valentine’s Day!). The last time the seasons came so closely together Torin and I were in a Disciples of Christ church during our ministry formation. I found the quick transition jolting: down with the winter evergreen on one Sunday and up with the purple of Lenten altar clothes the next. Like forcing a tulip in a hothouse, it felt like the season that is “suppose” to be in spring was being pushed on us a little too early—in the “bleak midwinter” comes the reflective responsibilities of accompanying Christ to the cross.
But maybe there is a benefit to the early arrival. Around the beginning of February I find my New Year’s resolutions that I so “resolutely” made begin to wane a little. I find it an opportune time, then, to think about what I’m going to “give up” for Lent. If my eating habits that I was going to improve fall by the wayside, I can use Lent as a tonic, and give up chocolate. If I was going to be “slower to anger” and “quicker to love,” but find myself falling into irritability, I can use Lent to give up a responsibility that gives me anxiety. Yes, Lent can be the redeemer of all New Years resolutions gone bad.
But if I’m honest with myself, I know that a “new beginning” isn’t what I need to help me change what needs to be tended. Lent isn’t simply a pick me up, like an artificial stimulus to a groaning economy. Lent is a time of reflection and repentance, of “looking” and “turning.” It’s a time to throw open the doors and windows of our hearts and sweep clean the corners and cobwebs of our soul. Resolutions look at what we want to be and creates plans to get us there. Repentance means acknowledging what we are, and asks God to transform us in spite of ourselves. Resolutions bring guilt. Repentance brings hope.
As we enter into the season of Lent, may we stand as we are, and invite God to transform us—without guilt and shame of how we fail, but with faith and confidence in the power to be renewed.
Carrie
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