sermon by Torin Eikler followed by ritual of repentence and forgiveness
1 Peter 3:18-22 Mark 1:9-15
“Why do we do Lent?” … That was a question my friend was asked on the day before the season started – Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday, or just last Tuesday. She told us about the conversation that evening, and I realized that, as strange as it may seem, I have never even wondered why we have Lent. I have asked myself all kinds of questions about how we observe the season and why we do the things we do, but why have Lent at all … not a thought that has crossed my mind.
The main point made my friend’s conversation was very simple … and true – Lent is not Biblical. There is no mention of the early church observing Lent, and though it may seem obvious, it bears saying that neither the Jews nor any of their forbearers ever spend 40 days in preparation for Easter. There was plenty of prayer and fasting and repentance – sometimes even for 40 days at a time, but it was always directed in a different direction. No open tomb to celebrate in the end. No eggs to hide or find. No season of celebration for the grace that brings new life. Typically, they were in search of a return to righteousness and the blessings that go along with being the chosen people of God.
That’s no small thing. God provides abundance for all of us – for all the chosen people. But especially here in the United States – here in the middle class where most of us live, we have much more than we even realize. Education – free and required. Television and newspapers and the internet – connecting us to the world and letting us know so much of what is going on (too much perhaps). Fresh water at the turn of a knob. Exotic foods like tomatoes, oranges, mushrooms, and carrots even in the dead of winter. Clothing and technological gadgets bursting from the doors of hundreds of stores faster than we can keep up with.
We live in a world of wealth. Even when times are tough – like now – we are still surrounded by a glut of … stuff, and what’s amazing is that we can scarcely begin to conceive of our privilege.
Did you know, for example, that bring in just $35,000 per year puts you in the top 50% of earners in this country … the top 5% if you go global. And that leaves out the whole question of wealth and access to resources. The United States tops most of the lists for resource consumption; we are way ahead of everyone else in energy use per person. On top of that, the average American eats over 3,800 calories per day while a large portion of the world’s population is only gets around 900 – ¼ of that amount. (It’s actually a luxury to have to watch our weigh however much of a burden it seems to be.)
There are a lot of other statistics that I could throw out, but I won’t … partly because this isn’t a class on global inequality or economics, and partly because I don’t think it’s all that helpful to fill our heads with numbers that don’t connect to our lives. We all have roofs over your heads, enough food to eat, and safe water to drink. Most of us have a bedroom of your own (at least when children haven’t invaded it), and our difficult decisions have to do with whether to buy organic or how to lower our phone and cable bills or how much we can afford to give.
We are all incredibly blessed to have so much, and when we stop to think about it, we know that. Much of the time, though, we don’t stop to think. We see so much more around us, and we get caught up in the struggle to get some of it for ourselves. We spend our time working and saving and running from place to place, getting things, getting things done, and getting our kids and ourselves from one appointment to another. And we fall into bed at night, exhausted and thinking of everything that we didn’t get done. And high up on that list, though if you’re like me you hardly ever even notice it ... high up on that list, in tiny letters is, “Spend time with God.”
And that that is exactly the reason why we need to do Lent. We need a season of repentance – a season when we pay attention on “spending time with God.” We need to repent of our overzealous focus on us … on doing so much … on getting more. We need to clear out the abundance of “stuff” that gets in the way and take time … make time and space … for God.
One of my earliest memories of faith – I’m not talking about church or religion here, but faith – one of my earliest memories is of my mother fasting for Lent. This wasn’t giving up coffee or chocolate or some other habit. This was a real Lenten fast. The water and juice kind. The 40 day kind. And the reason it sticks with me is that one day as we were on the way to do the shopping, she pulled over the car, opened the door, and vomited which freaked my twelve-year-old self and my younger brothers out. Then she calmly closed the door, took a drink of water, and pulled back out onto the road.
She talked with us about it, of course. She had one son in hysterical tears and two others on the verge. So, she had to say something, but I don’t remember what it was. Ultimately, I think it was the way she went back to normal life that calmed us down. But, I also remember that she didn’t stop her fasting. I didn’t understand that. It was inconceivable to me that someone would do what she was doing on purpose. Years later, though, I can appreciate the conviction that was behind her fasting, and her example has taught me the value of clearing space in my life, from time to time, to reassess who and where I am and who and where I want to be.
And so, every year, Carrie and I talk about giving up something for Lent in addition to our traditional vices of chocolate and coffee …something like judgmentalism or mean-spirited comments or holding grudges and replacing it with a spiritual practice like forgiveness or prayer in the hope that our fast will revitalize our spiritual lives and reshape our daily living so that we come closer to the ideals that we believe in. But there are two ways to go approach that process. You can start from the abstract spiritual side and try to shape your life that way. Or, you can start by changing your lifestyle and let that shape your spiritual journey.
This year, we are inviting you to take the second path. For the next six weeks, we will be focusing on one specific and concrete area of our lives - food, media, waste, spending, and possessions - and working to wash away our habits of excess and make room for God to reshape us in preparation for receiving the blessing of new life in the resurrection of Christ.
As we begin the journey, I invite you to spend a few moments in silent meditation on what concrete things may be taking up the God-space in your lives and then join me in hymn #46 in the Sing the Journey song books as we begin our ritual of confession and forgiveness.
Hymn “O breath on me, O breath of God” STJ #46
Ritual of Confession
Will you pray with me…?
Eternal and most merciful God, we are children of dust and unworthy of favors and goodness you shower upon us. We have not loved as you have loved us, nor have we lived as we ought, and our years are soon gone. God, have mercy upon us. Lift us above every past regret and present failure; reveal to us our true selves; and give us grace to accept your mercy and courage to live by your promise. Lamb of God, you take away the sin of the world; grant us your peace. We have no other hope save in you. AMEN.
Scripture - Joel 2:1-2, 12-17
Leader: Ashes are a symbol of repentance and purification. As a fire burns, it can separate what is valuable from what is valueless, just as an assayer’s fire can separate a base metal from one that is precious. In this same way, these ashes are pure. They are a symbol of the new space that is now present within us for a new life. Let us claim the new life Jesus offers us by praying to our God:
All: God of love and mercy,
we come to you in prayer, seeking to change our hearts and minds.
We confess the baggage of business, idols, and indulgence
that we so often drag along with us,
struggling under its weight as we attempt to follow Christ.
Cleanse us from our attachment to these old things.
Burn away their power in us and purify our hearts.
In place of old ways fill us with the new fire of your Holy Spirit.
Open up new opportunities for us to follow Jesus in loving you and our neighbors.
In Jesus’ name we ask these things. AMEN.
Leader: Friends, receive the good news of our faith, for in the name of Jesus, I announce that our sins are forgiven. The old has died. Behold, the new has come!
Leader: Those who wish, now come forward and receive the mark of these ashes as a sign of your forgiveness and new life.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Down Here
sermon by Carrie Eikler
2 Kings 2:1-12, Mark 9:2-9
When I was in college, I did a study-abroad semester in South India. After the semester was over, I tested my newly acquired independence, and probably tested a bit of my parents nerves, and chose to travel with another student for about two weeks in the northern part of the country. First take a train to Calcutta, and then up farther into the foothills of the Himalayas.
We had planned to hike from town to town (or “trek” as the real outdoorsy people called it) in the small state of Sikkim, a largely Tibetan Buddhist area, with steep green hillsides, misty valleys, and the breath-catching views of the distant Himalayan mountains. Now, I probably put too much faith in my youthful enthusiasm to think that all I need to do this trek was some hiking boots and my pack. Which is true. But I was not prepared for all that trekking involved, and the preparation I lacked: to face the exhaustion, the blisters, the rivers to ford, the...leeches.
After three days of trekking, it looked like a seemingly endless uphill climb was coming to an end, and we were going to spend a day or two in a little village at the top of the mountain to recuperate before heading onto the largely downhill return trip. I think I spent most of that time at the top soaking my feet and eating instant noodles…with a reverent nod to the Tibetan prayer flags that beckoned at the nearby temple. Those fifty yards to get to that place of prayer felt just… too much.
In that time of recovery, I was comforted that I was heading back “downhill.” Gravity would be my friend. Downhill is always easier. Right? Wrong.
All those muscles that were stressed on the upward climb screamed at me…every. muscle. fiber. My steps were more like shuffles and climbing over rocks on the way down takes so much more effort, and tedious footwork than climbing the other way. Who would have thought that going down would have been harder than going up?
Well, the child who climbs up a tree with such ease and enthusiasm, and then realizes how high he is…he knows.
The roofer who scales a tall ladder to do repairs three stories up…she knows.
The toddler who easily crawls up to the top of the stairs, and turns around, wondering what its body needs to do to get back down…oh yeah. That’s hard.
But it’s not just those physical heights, but the emotional ones that are hard to come down from.
For some, the post-holiday blues creep in shortly after New Year’s, when the boxes of lights and tinsel have been put away, and life as usual in the dark cold winter plods on.
Or when a college graduate, high on graduation festivities and the possibilities of a new life and adventures… recognizes that finding a job in this economy is a far cry from the exciting new life they had hoped for.
Or when the wedding is over and the hard work of sustaining a marriage begins.
Or when the eagerness of retirement freedom is replaced with a bewildering, “what do I do now?”
Those mountain top experiences are times when we are highly charged, when energy is flowing, when we are seeing new vistas, new futures, we maybe even encounter God in new amazing ways. But it doesn’t mean they are always happy moments
After someone dies, for example when the picture collages have all been made, or the slideshow of the person’s life has been displayed. When the funeral is over and all the out-of-town relatives have gone home. When all the business of “details” have all been deal with, the details that has somehow distracted the grieving from the entirety of their grief …and people think the worst of it for you is over…. We see that the worst of it is only beginning. Because now is the struggle of making a new life, down here, where life goes on…miles away from the mountaintop of busyness.
Whether the mountaintop is one of joy or sadness, a heightened point of emotion, we know that life down from the mountain is hard. And that fact is echoed in today’s scriptures, two mountaintop stories. Two stories about coming off the mountain.
In the first, Elisha walks with his teacher, the prophet Elijah, to the mountaintop which is their final walk together. It’s an emotional scene, Elisha reassuring his teacher saying “I won’t leave you,” only to have Elijah whisked away on chariots of fire.
As one commentator notes “Elisha has received the double share of Elijah’s spirit [which is what he asked for]. But all he can do is [tear] his clothes in grief; he has gone up with Elijah to the place of his ascension, but he must return […] alone.”
In our scripture from Mark, Jesus leads Peter, James and John up to a high mountain where he is transformed, or transfigured into blazing white light, while prophets and fathers of Israel’s past surround him…including Elijah. Peter is ready to just set up camp and stay here, make booths or tents for these dazzling creatures, but almost as quickly as it comes, it fades away. And the disciples and Jesus head back down the mountain. Oh, and again (remember from two weeks ago)…Jesus says “don’t tell anyone.” Really?!
The mountains get our attention. I remember traveling on summer vacations a couple times out West to visit family in Colorado. The plains of Kansas and eastern Colorado just seemed to go on forever, but at one point my brother and I would begin straining our eyes to get a glimpse of those first crests of the Rockies on the horizons. A promise that the monotony of the plains would give way to peaks of beauty and excitement.
The Same is true in the Bible. Just think of all the mountain top experiences: Noah’s ark finds its first dry ground on a mountain. Moses receives the commandments on Mt. Sinai. Jacob wrestled with an angel (a.k.a “God”) on a mountain. Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount…well, I mean, it’s in the name. The start of the drama of Jesus’ arrest begins with his prayer at the Mt. of Olives and ends on the hill of Golgotha, the hill of skulls, crucified high on a cross.
God moves with power on mountains. Real and metaphorical meoutnations. In the emotionally-high points of our lives, it is easy to see that something amazing is happening. We respond to the moments of adrenaline-pumping encounters, leaving us clear about our selves, connected with God and nature and others and the world around us. We stand on the mountain top looking out above all the obscurity and smog and noise of the world. And then it happens…
We realize we can’t stay there. Yes, we have seen Elijah whisked away and it was amazing. We saw Jesus transfigured and we’re changed forever. Just let us make dwellings here and live with this. But even Elisha had to continue on with his life, but without his teacher. Jesus went back down the mountain and the disciples had to figure how how to continue their work, now that they’ve seen what they’ve seen. And so must we…Because this is where real life happens, down the mountain.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not a killjoy who believes we are destined for a life of mundane monotony. That real life is the life of the grindstone, the rat race, the cog in the wheel boredom, just waiting for the next high—physical, emotional, or spiritual. In fact, I feel quite the opposite and it’s these mountaintop stories that help me see that. Because the people go on to do the work they are called to do.
Because while the Jesus in the gospel is the Jesus of the mountain more often than not, he’s the Jesus of down here. He’s the sacred in everyday life. Rather than retreating from the needs of the world, he embraced them. He cured those who were unclean and diseased rather than avoiding them. He forgave those who had sinned rather than condemning them.
It can seem all rather messy—not the lovely experience of the mountain. But as one writer reflected, “When we meet others in solidarity at the places of disjuncture and fracture in their lives and our own, we find God waiting for us.”
God. Here. Always has been. Walking with us. Down here.
Alice Walker is a novelist whose most popular book is The Color Purple. But she also wrote short stories and in one of these stories called The Welcome Table, Walker writes about an old woman who was banned from church because she disrupts others from their ardent prayers—their “time with God”—and she has her own transfiguring experience with Jesus. Not on any mountaintop or in an ecstatic vision, but in a slow, long walk.
“All he said when he got up close to her was ‘Follow me,’ and she bounded down to his side with all the bob and speed of one so old…They walked along in deep silence for a long time. Finally she started telling him about how many years she had cooked for them, cleaned for them, nursed them…She told him indignantly about how they had grabbed her when she was singing in her head and not looking, and how they had tossed her out of his church…A old heifer like me, she said, straightening up next to Jesus, breathing hard. But he smiled down at her and she felt better instantly and time just seemed to fly by. When they passed her house, forlorn and sagging, weatherbeaten and patched, by the side of the road, she did not even notice it, she was so happy to be out walking along the highway with Jesus.
“She broke the silence once more to tell Jesus how glad she was the he had come…and how she never expected to see him down here in person. Jesus gave her one of his beautiful smiles and they walked on. She did not know where they were going; someplace wonderful, she suspected. The ground was like clouds under their feet and she felt she could walk forever without becoming the least bit tired. She even began to sing out loud some of the old spirituals she loved, but she didn’t want to annoy Jesus, who looked so thoughtful, so she quieted down. They walked on, looking straight over the treetops into the sky, and the smiles that played over her dry wind-cracked face were first clean ripples across a stagnant pond. On they walked without stopping.”
And on we walk, without stopping. I don’t know who among you are on a mountain top right now. Who is on your way down. Who is in the deepest valley. Or who is just going along as usual, neither high nor low. Just there. Being. That hard place.
This week, take a day and write down what you do. Not just the significant things. But write down the insignificant things, the rhythms of our lives down here. These are things that present themselves to us everyday, acts of love and devotion to ourselves and others that are ripe with divine potential.
Everyday we have the chance to meet God. It might not be with chariots of fire or in blinding brightness. But if we believe in a God of the Incarnation, we believe that God is within all places that we step into with faith. When we care for a child. When we laugh with a friend or chop an onion or, as the 17th century monk St. Lawrence discovered, witness God moving through the pots and pans of our kitchen. When we stand up and shout out for the mountains…the real mountains. When we do our work with intention and attention. When we stop to notice life around us. When we go to bed in the darkness and look back on the day—just a regular day—nothing worth noting really. But everything—everything worth celebrating.
When we do this, we break the silence once more to tell Jesus how glad we are that he had come, and how we never expected to him down here in person. And on we will walk, without stopping.
2 Kings 2:1-12, Mark 9:2-9
When I was in college, I did a study-abroad semester in South India. After the semester was over, I tested my newly acquired independence, and probably tested a bit of my parents nerves, and chose to travel with another student for about two weeks in the northern part of the country. First take a train to Calcutta, and then up farther into the foothills of the Himalayas.
We had planned to hike from town to town (or “trek” as the real outdoorsy people called it) in the small state of Sikkim, a largely Tibetan Buddhist area, with steep green hillsides, misty valleys, and the breath-catching views of the distant Himalayan mountains. Now, I probably put too much faith in my youthful enthusiasm to think that all I need to do this trek was some hiking boots and my pack. Which is true. But I was not prepared for all that trekking involved, and the preparation I lacked: to face the exhaustion, the blisters, the rivers to ford, the...leeches.
After three days of trekking, it looked like a seemingly endless uphill climb was coming to an end, and we were going to spend a day or two in a little village at the top of the mountain to recuperate before heading onto the largely downhill return trip. I think I spent most of that time at the top soaking my feet and eating instant noodles…with a reverent nod to the Tibetan prayer flags that beckoned at the nearby temple. Those fifty yards to get to that place of prayer felt just… too much.
In that time of recovery, I was comforted that I was heading back “downhill.” Gravity would be my friend. Downhill is always easier. Right? Wrong.
All those muscles that were stressed on the upward climb screamed at me…every. muscle. fiber. My steps were more like shuffles and climbing over rocks on the way down takes so much more effort, and tedious footwork than climbing the other way. Who would have thought that going down would have been harder than going up?
Well, the child who climbs up a tree with such ease and enthusiasm, and then realizes how high he is…he knows.
The roofer who scales a tall ladder to do repairs three stories up…she knows.
The toddler who easily crawls up to the top of the stairs, and turns around, wondering what its body needs to do to get back down…oh yeah. That’s hard.
But it’s not just those physical heights, but the emotional ones that are hard to come down from.
For some, the post-holiday blues creep in shortly after New Year’s, when the boxes of lights and tinsel have been put away, and life as usual in the dark cold winter plods on.
Or when a college graduate, high on graduation festivities and the possibilities of a new life and adventures… recognizes that finding a job in this economy is a far cry from the exciting new life they had hoped for.
Or when the wedding is over and the hard work of sustaining a marriage begins.
Or when the eagerness of retirement freedom is replaced with a bewildering, “what do I do now?”
Those mountain top experiences are times when we are highly charged, when energy is flowing, when we are seeing new vistas, new futures, we maybe even encounter God in new amazing ways. But it doesn’t mean they are always happy moments
After someone dies, for example when the picture collages have all been made, or the slideshow of the person’s life has been displayed. When the funeral is over and all the out-of-town relatives have gone home. When all the business of “details” have all been deal with, the details that has somehow distracted the grieving from the entirety of their grief …and people think the worst of it for you is over…. We see that the worst of it is only beginning. Because now is the struggle of making a new life, down here, where life goes on…miles away from the mountaintop of busyness.
Whether the mountaintop is one of joy or sadness, a heightened point of emotion, we know that life down from the mountain is hard. And that fact is echoed in today’s scriptures, two mountaintop stories. Two stories about coming off the mountain.
In the first, Elisha walks with his teacher, the prophet Elijah, to the mountaintop which is their final walk together. It’s an emotional scene, Elisha reassuring his teacher saying “I won’t leave you,” only to have Elijah whisked away on chariots of fire.
As one commentator notes “Elisha has received the double share of Elijah’s spirit [which is what he asked for]. But all he can do is [tear] his clothes in grief; he has gone up with Elijah to the place of his ascension, but he must return […] alone.”
In our scripture from Mark, Jesus leads Peter, James and John up to a high mountain where he is transformed, or transfigured into blazing white light, while prophets and fathers of Israel’s past surround him…including Elijah. Peter is ready to just set up camp and stay here, make booths or tents for these dazzling creatures, but almost as quickly as it comes, it fades away. And the disciples and Jesus head back down the mountain. Oh, and again (remember from two weeks ago)…Jesus says “don’t tell anyone.” Really?!
The mountains get our attention. I remember traveling on summer vacations a couple times out West to visit family in Colorado. The plains of Kansas and eastern Colorado just seemed to go on forever, but at one point my brother and I would begin straining our eyes to get a glimpse of those first crests of the Rockies on the horizons. A promise that the monotony of the plains would give way to peaks of beauty and excitement.
The Same is true in the Bible. Just think of all the mountain top experiences: Noah’s ark finds its first dry ground on a mountain. Moses receives the commandments on Mt. Sinai. Jacob wrestled with an angel (a.k.a “God”) on a mountain. Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount…well, I mean, it’s in the name. The start of the drama of Jesus’ arrest begins with his prayer at the Mt. of Olives and ends on the hill of Golgotha, the hill of skulls, crucified high on a cross.
God moves with power on mountains. Real and metaphorical meoutnations. In the emotionally-high points of our lives, it is easy to see that something amazing is happening. We respond to the moments of adrenaline-pumping encounters, leaving us clear about our selves, connected with God and nature and others and the world around us. We stand on the mountain top looking out above all the obscurity and smog and noise of the world. And then it happens…
We realize we can’t stay there. Yes, we have seen Elijah whisked away and it was amazing. We saw Jesus transfigured and we’re changed forever. Just let us make dwellings here and live with this. But even Elisha had to continue on with his life, but without his teacher. Jesus went back down the mountain and the disciples had to figure how how to continue their work, now that they’ve seen what they’ve seen. And so must we…Because this is where real life happens, down the mountain.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not a killjoy who believes we are destined for a life of mundane monotony. That real life is the life of the grindstone, the rat race, the cog in the wheel boredom, just waiting for the next high—physical, emotional, or spiritual. In fact, I feel quite the opposite and it’s these mountaintop stories that help me see that. Because the people go on to do the work they are called to do.
Because while the Jesus in the gospel is the Jesus of the mountain more often than not, he’s the Jesus of down here. He’s the sacred in everyday life. Rather than retreating from the needs of the world, he embraced them. He cured those who were unclean and diseased rather than avoiding them. He forgave those who had sinned rather than condemning them.
It can seem all rather messy—not the lovely experience of the mountain. But as one writer reflected, “When we meet others in solidarity at the places of disjuncture and fracture in their lives and our own, we find God waiting for us.”
God. Here. Always has been. Walking with us. Down here.
Alice Walker is a novelist whose most popular book is The Color Purple. But she also wrote short stories and in one of these stories called The Welcome Table, Walker writes about an old woman who was banned from church because she disrupts others from their ardent prayers—their “time with God”—and she has her own transfiguring experience with Jesus. Not on any mountaintop or in an ecstatic vision, but in a slow, long walk.
“All he said when he got up close to her was ‘Follow me,’ and she bounded down to his side with all the bob and speed of one so old…They walked along in deep silence for a long time. Finally she started telling him about how many years she had cooked for them, cleaned for them, nursed them…She told him indignantly about how they had grabbed her when she was singing in her head and not looking, and how they had tossed her out of his church…A old heifer like me, she said, straightening up next to Jesus, breathing hard. But he smiled down at her and she felt better instantly and time just seemed to fly by. When they passed her house, forlorn and sagging, weatherbeaten and patched, by the side of the road, she did not even notice it, she was so happy to be out walking along the highway with Jesus.
“She broke the silence once more to tell Jesus how glad she was the he had come…and how she never expected to see him down here in person. Jesus gave her one of his beautiful smiles and they walked on. She did not know where they were going; someplace wonderful, she suspected. The ground was like clouds under their feet and she felt she could walk forever without becoming the least bit tired. She even began to sing out loud some of the old spirituals she loved, but she didn’t want to annoy Jesus, who looked so thoughtful, so she quieted down. They walked on, looking straight over the treetops into the sky, and the smiles that played over her dry wind-cracked face were first clean ripples across a stagnant pond. On they walked without stopping.”
And on we walk, without stopping. I don’t know who among you are on a mountain top right now. Who is on your way down. Who is in the deepest valley. Or who is just going along as usual, neither high nor low. Just there. Being. That hard place.
This week, take a day and write down what you do. Not just the significant things. But write down the insignificant things, the rhythms of our lives down here. These are things that present themselves to us everyday, acts of love and devotion to ourselves and others that are ripe with divine potential.
Everyday we have the chance to meet God. It might not be with chariots of fire or in blinding brightness. But if we believe in a God of the Incarnation, we believe that God is within all places that we step into with faith. When we care for a child. When we laugh with a friend or chop an onion or, as the 17th century monk St. Lawrence discovered, witness God moving through the pots and pans of our kitchen. When we stand up and shout out for the mountains…the real mountains. When we do our work with intention and attention. When we stop to notice life around us. When we go to bed in the darkness and look back on the day—just a regular day—nothing worth noting really. But everything—everything worth celebrating.
When we do this, we break the silence once more to tell Jesus how glad we are that he had come, and how we never expected to him down here in person. And on we will walk, without stopping.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Cracks
sermon by Carrie Eikler
Mark 1:29-39
I’ve been a bit of a klutz recently. Actually, I’m generally klutzy, but usually I’m a klutz of no consequence: tripping over a rug, dropping my car keys in the dark abyss between the seats, having food fall off my fork into my lap. A bit embarrassing, but nothing too big. I mean, I’ve never misplaced my child…so that’s saying something.
But recently I’ve been a klutz with things that have had sentimental value. Last week I carelessly leaned a beloved fragile tea tray on the counter to dry in a way that wasn’t stable, I guess because... when I closed the cabinet beneath it, it caused some minute disruption (to my perception) but was apparently a magnitude 7 on the Richter scale for kitchen ware and it came tumbling down. Crash and crack.
And then again, in the kitchen this week, I was pulling down a plate for lunch and, distracted by Alistair’s excitement over the macaroni and cheese we were going to have, I accidently hit a small purple bowl we got in Japan and watched it in slow motion(I'm sure you know what I mean by this slow motion sequence), fall off the shelf,
bounce off the counter (at this point it is still in one piece),
towards the floor, bounce (it’s still in one piece),
bounce again and…crash and crack.
I have a box here of many of the other sentimental things we (probably I) have broken.
the teapot we got on our honeymoon in Dublin.
the cup a potter friend gave us our first year of marriage in Washington DC.
Two of the four other small bowls we bought in Japan, even before this most recent accident...all broken
A mug from my first ever contribution to a public radio station.
a bowl from France that had Sebastian’s name on it.
We keep these broken things and they just end up collecting dust in the corner, or getting in the way on top of the stove. I don’t know why we keep them. We’ve tried gluing them and it doesn’t really work. They’ve still got the cracks in them and really shouldn’t be used for anything practical. Maybe I’m keeping them because even though I don’t think they work the way they should, they remind me of something. The honeymoon, the trip, the person...
“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” says singer/songwriter Leonard Cohen.
God may be a Potter, but Jesus... he sure knew how to show us the cracks that life can cause. The cracks caused by the bad decisions you’ve made. The cracks caused by the abuse others have put you through. The cracks caused by a life of struggle without reward, a life of loving without love returned. The cracks caused by disrespect either dished out or taken. The cracks caused by disease, or addiction, or failure. Or just sheer bad luck.
No matter how polished people look on the outside, I bet if you look closely, you’ll see…we’ve all got cracks somewhere.
We seem to have talked a lot about demons recently. Last month Charity invited us to have tea with our demons and Torin continued the examination of each of our demons that look less like horned little devils and more like real life struggles.
The book of Mark really likes talking about demons apparently because here we are again, a story about demons and sick people. People with a whole lot of broken places in their lives.
Jesus had just finished healing Simon’s mother-in-law--a tidy little story about healing, actually. He goes, takes her hand, lifts her up, and she’s healed. And then she gets right to work. No slow and painful convalescing. No kissing the feet of the man who healed her. Just goes on, business as usual. We don’t even know that if she saw Jesus in her house, if she would know it was he who healed her. Nice. Tidy. Smooth. To the point.
And then comes the sunset, when the new day starts in the Jewish tradition. And what a different day of healing it is. The floodgates open. No longer a tidy little scene of a tidy little miracle. This is like opening day of a free clinic at the beginning of flu season. Not to mention it wasn’t just people who were sick, but also people who were possessed. People who had… demons.
And here’s the perplexing part (I mean, we’re used to demons by now, so that’s not so perplexing). Jesus wouldn’t let the demons speak, it says. Why won’t he let them speak? Will they shout profanities? Will it begin a cosmic warfare between the spirits of the dark and the power of the Son of God almighty? Will they infect other people?
No.
He doesn’t let them speak, it says…because they know him.
Perplexing. Four times in Mark Jesus commands those he healed not to tell anyone. And we really don’t know why. He (or even the author of Mark) never says “Don’t tell anyone because I don’t want to get in trouble.” or “Don’t tell anyone because they must come to me on their own faith in order to be healed” or “Don’t tell anyone because I could really use a coffee break.”
We don’t know. And we don’t know how it is that demons knew him, when it took those following him years to even start grasping who it is they were following.
Some people who are really into the nature of evil spirits may say that Satan was involved and it was Satan who of course knew the power of God through Jesus’ work. Maybe. But there seems to be more than that to me.
But before going further...while we’ve been talking about demons this past month, I’ve been thinking not only about what our contemporary demons are, but also, who would have been considered sick, in need of healing, “possessed by demons” in Jesus’ time, that today, we would be ashamed to say was demonic.
In the book of Deuteronomy (Deu. 28:22-28),for example, it was predicted that mental illness was a punishment for the worship of idols. People who were punished for such sins might be punished with the demons...of madness. The medical and psychological fields have shed vast amounts of light on the area of mental illness. According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, mental illness is simply medical conditions that disrupt a person's thinking, feeling, mood, ability to relate to others and daily functioning.
Many of the mental illnesses we know about today-- schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, and more—were likely believed to be caused by demons in the culture of Jesus. We know that it is shameful that people would ever treat individuals with these conditions as demonic.
...Of course we have the benefit of 2,000 years of human experience to give us perhaps a more humane perspective, but, if we’re honest…
mental illness is not something most of reach out to embrace.
People with mental illness are not ones we quickly feel comfortable around.
We don’t really try to form relationships with people with intellectual disabilities and physical disabilities.
In that way, people with mental illness and other physical and developmental disabilities, disrupt our thinking, our feeling, our mood and ability to relate to them, and maybe ourselves. They tell us things we don’t see. They speak of the world in ways we might not understand.
And because of that, I’m sure…they see God in places we would never expect.
When a man named Jean Vanier began living with two men who had mental handicaps after his life as a British naval officer, and after he became trained as a philosopher, he probably didn’t know that he was beginning a counter cultural international movement. But he was...
He started a community called L’Arche (or French for “the ark”)…I know you’ve heard me speak about L’Arche before. There are over 120 L’Arche communities today, where core members with a variety of disabilities, live with the assistants who support and love them. They live together, work together, and worship together. They teach and learn from one another.
One person said of Jean Vanier that “he finds gifts where others see tragedy.” These tragedies we see--the demons that those around Jesus saw--are gifts in Jean Vanier’s eyes, and in the eyes of those at L’Arche. And it these gifts-- these people we might easily label worthless in a practical sense, and who make us uncomfortable—one gift of these people is that they see what we don’t see. They see a reality that we have masked with our own quest for power, and purpose, and functionality.
Vanier was speaking to a university group once and said in his soft, thoughtful voice: “I don't know whether around here you have some normal people, but I find them a very strange group. I remember…one of the characteristics of normal people is that they have problems. They have family problems, they have financial problems, they have professional problems, problems with politics, problems with church, problems all over the place. And I remember one very normal guy came to see me and he was telling me about all his problems. And there was a knock on the door, and entered Jean Claude. Jean Claude has Down Syndrome and I didn't even say, "Come in”…[when he] came in, and he shook my hand and laughed and he shook the hand of Mr. Normal and laughed and he walked out laughing. And Mr. Normal turned to me and he said, "Isn't it sad, [people] like that."
"He couldn't see that Jean Claude [had happiness]. It's a blindness, and it's an inner blindness which is the most difficult to heal. “
Those who see what we don’t, who know things beyond this material realm tht we don’tknow... We easily label them demonic. Or worthless. Or unaware of boundaries. Or simply sad. Or maybe, broken.
But then, that’s something we all share. All of us, broken in some way.
And why is it... that those who seem the most broken in most of the Jesus stories are the ones who see him? Who get it? Who let that Light in through the cracks…and send back out the openness to receive?
I have mentioned in the past Henri Nouwen, a priest and professor who left his academic life at Harvard to become a chaplain at a L’Arche community called Daybreak, in Canada. Nouwen wrote about his experience at Daybreak and about his relationship with one man in particular in his book Adam: God’s Beloved.
"I want to tell you Adam's story,” writes Nouwen. “After a month of working with Adam, something started to happen to me that had never happened before. This severely handicapped young man, whom outsiders sometimes describe with very hurtful words, started to become my dearest companion. As I carried him into his bath and made waves to let the water run fast around him and told him all sorts of stories, I knew that two friends were communicating far beyond the realm of thought.
"Before this, I had come to believe that what makes us human is our mind. But Adam keeps showing me that what makes us human is our heart, the center of our being where God has hidden trust, hope, and love. Whoever sees in Adam merely a burden to society misses the sacred mystery that Adam is fully capable of receiving and giving love. He is fully human—not half human, not nearly human, but fully, completely human because he is all heart. The longer I stay with Adam, the more clearly I see him as a gentle teacher, teaching me what no book or professor ever could.”
Why Jesus asked them not to share their knowledge of him, we don’t know. We struggle to wraps our minds around this healer, this Jesus, this son of God. And maybe that’s a reason why he didn’t want the demons to speak...
Because our minds will never understand. It’s our hearts, illuminated by the cracks in our lives, that will teach us.
“There’s a crack in everything. That’ s how the light gets in.” Amen, and amen.
Mark 1:29-39
I’ve been a bit of a klutz recently. Actually, I’m generally klutzy, but usually I’m a klutz of no consequence: tripping over a rug, dropping my car keys in the dark abyss between the seats, having food fall off my fork into my lap. A bit embarrassing, but nothing too big. I mean, I’ve never misplaced my child…so that’s saying something.
But recently I’ve been a klutz with things that have had sentimental value. Last week I carelessly leaned a beloved fragile tea tray on the counter to dry in a way that wasn’t stable, I guess because... when I closed the cabinet beneath it, it caused some minute disruption (to my perception) but was apparently a magnitude 7 on the Richter scale for kitchen ware and it came tumbling down. Crash and crack.
And then again, in the kitchen this week, I was pulling down a plate for lunch and, distracted by Alistair’s excitement over the macaroni and cheese we were going to have, I accidently hit a small purple bowl we got in Japan and watched it in slow motion(I'm sure you know what I mean by this slow motion sequence), fall off the shelf,
bounce off the counter (at this point it is still in one piece),
towards the floor, bounce (it’s still in one piece),
bounce again and…crash and crack.
I have a box here of many of the other sentimental things we (probably I) have broken.
the teapot we got on our honeymoon in Dublin.
the cup a potter friend gave us our first year of marriage in Washington DC.
Two of the four other small bowls we bought in Japan, even before this most recent accident...all broken
A mug from my first ever contribution to a public radio station.
a bowl from France that had Sebastian’s name on it.
We keep these broken things and they just end up collecting dust in the corner, or getting in the way on top of the stove. I don’t know why we keep them. We’ve tried gluing them and it doesn’t really work. They’ve still got the cracks in them and really shouldn’t be used for anything practical. Maybe I’m keeping them because even though I don’t think they work the way they should, they remind me of something. The honeymoon, the trip, the person...
“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” says singer/songwriter Leonard Cohen.
God may be a Potter, but Jesus... he sure knew how to show us the cracks that life can cause. The cracks caused by the bad decisions you’ve made. The cracks caused by the abuse others have put you through. The cracks caused by a life of struggle without reward, a life of loving without love returned. The cracks caused by disrespect either dished out or taken. The cracks caused by disease, or addiction, or failure. Or just sheer bad luck.
No matter how polished people look on the outside, I bet if you look closely, you’ll see…we’ve all got cracks somewhere.
We seem to have talked a lot about demons recently. Last month Charity invited us to have tea with our demons and Torin continued the examination of each of our demons that look less like horned little devils and more like real life struggles.
The book of Mark really likes talking about demons apparently because here we are again, a story about demons and sick people. People with a whole lot of broken places in their lives.
Jesus had just finished healing Simon’s mother-in-law--a tidy little story about healing, actually. He goes, takes her hand, lifts her up, and she’s healed. And then she gets right to work. No slow and painful convalescing. No kissing the feet of the man who healed her. Just goes on, business as usual. We don’t even know that if she saw Jesus in her house, if she would know it was he who healed her. Nice. Tidy. Smooth. To the point.
And then comes the sunset, when the new day starts in the Jewish tradition. And what a different day of healing it is. The floodgates open. No longer a tidy little scene of a tidy little miracle. This is like opening day of a free clinic at the beginning of flu season. Not to mention it wasn’t just people who were sick, but also people who were possessed. People who had… demons.
And here’s the perplexing part (I mean, we’re used to demons by now, so that’s not so perplexing). Jesus wouldn’t let the demons speak, it says. Why won’t he let them speak? Will they shout profanities? Will it begin a cosmic warfare between the spirits of the dark and the power of the Son of God almighty? Will they infect other people?
No.
He doesn’t let them speak, it says…because they know him.
Perplexing. Four times in Mark Jesus commands those he healed not to tell anyone. And we really don’t know why. He (or even the author of Mark) never says “Don’t tell anyone because I don’t want to get in trouble.” or “Don’t tell anyone because they must come to me on their own faith in order to be healed” or “Don’t tell anyone because I could really use a coffee break.”
We don’t know. And we don’t know how it is that demons knew him, when it took those following him years to even start grasping who it is they were following.
Some people who are really into the nature of evil spirits may say that Satan was involved and it was Satan who of course knew the power of God through Jesus’ work. Maybe. But there seems to be more than that to me.
But before going further...while we’ve been talking about demons this past month, I’ve been thinking not only about what our contemporary demons are, but also, who would have been considered sick, in need of healing, “possessed by demons” in Jesus’ time, that today, we would be ashamed to say was demonic.
In the book of Deuteronomy (Deu. 28:22-28),for example, it was predicted that mental illness was a punishment for the worship of idols. People who were punished for such sins might be punished with the demons...of madness. The medical and psychological fields have shed vast amounts of light on the area of mental illness. According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, mental illness is simply medical conditions that disrupt a person's thinking, feeling, mood, ability to relate to others and daily functioning.
Many of the mental illnesses we know about today-- schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, and more—were likely believed to be caused by demons in the culture of Jesus. We know that it is shameful that people would ever treat individuals with these conditions as demonic.
...Of course we have the benefit of 2,000 years of human experience to give us perhaps a more humane perspective, but, if we’re honest…
mental illness is not something most of reach out to embrace.
People with mental illness are not ones we quickly feel comfortable around.
We don’t really try to form relationships with people with intellectual disabilities and physical disabilities.
In that way, people with mental illness and other physical and developmental disabilities, disrupt our thinking, our feeling, our mood and ability to relate to them, and maybe ourselves. They tell us things we don’t see. They speak of the world in ways we might not understand.
And because of that, I’m sure…they see God in places we would never expect.
When a man named Jean Vanier began living with two men who had mental handicaps after his life as a British naval officer, and after he became trained as a philosopher, he probably didn’t know that he was beginning a counter cultural international movement. But he was...
He started a community called L’Arche (or French for “the ark”)…I know you’ve heard me speak about L’Arche before. There are over 120 L’Arche communities today, where core members with a variety of disabilities, live with the assistants who support and love them. They live together, work together, and worship together. They teach and learn from one another.
One person said of Jean Vanier that “he finds gifts where others see tragedy.” These tragedies we see--the demons that those around Jesus saw--are gifts in Jean Vanier’s eyes, and in the eyes of those at L’Arche. And it these gifts-- these people we might easily label worthless in a practical sense, and who make us uncomfortable—one gift of these people is that they see what we don’t see. They see a reality that we have masked with our own quest for power, and purpose, and functionality.
Vanier was speaking to a university group once and said in his soft, thoughtful voice: “I don't know whether around here you have some normal people, but I find them a very strange group. I remember…one of the characteristics of normal people is that they have problems. They have family problems, they have financial problems, they have professional problems, problems with politics, problems with church, problems all over the place. And I remember one very normal guy came to see me and he was telling me about all his problems. And there was a knock on the door, and entered Jean Claude. Jean Claude has Down Syndrome and I didn't even say, "Come in”…[when he] came in, and he shook my hand and laughed and he shook the hand of Mr. Normal and laughed and he walked out laughing. And Mr. Normal turned to me and he said, "Isn't it sad, [people] like that."
"He couldn't see that Jean Claude [had happiness]. It's a blindness, and it's an inner blindness which is the most difficult to heal. “
Those who see what we don’t, who know things beyond this material realm tht we don’tknow... We easily label them demonic. Or worthless. Or unaware of boundaries. Or simply sad. Or maybe, broken.
But then, that’s something we all share. All of us, broken in some way.
And why is it... that those who seem the most broken in most of the Jesus stories are the ones who see him? Who get it? Who let that Light in through the cracks…and send back out the openness to receive?
I have mentioned in the past Henri Nouwen, a priest and professor who left his academic life at Harvard to become a chaplain at a L’Arche community called Daybreak, in Canada. Nouwen wrote about his experience at Daybreak and about his relationship with one man in particular in his book Adam: God’s Beloved.
"I want to tell you Adam's story,” writes Nouwen. “After a month of working with Adam, something started to happen to me that had never happened before. This severely handicapped young man, whom outsiders sometimes describe with very hurtful words, started to become my dearest companion. As I carried him into his bath and made waves to let the water run fast around him and told him all sorts of stories, I knew that two friends were communicating far beyond the realm of thought.
"Before this, I had come to believe that what makes us human is our mind. But Adam keeps showing me that what makes us human is our heart, the center of our being where God has hidden trust, hope, and love. Whoever sees in Adam merely a burden to society misses the sacred mystery that Adam is fully capable of receiving and giving love. He is fully human—not half human, not nearly human, but fully, completely human because he is all heart. The longer I stay with Adam, the more clearly I see him as a gentle teacher, teaching me what no book or professor ever could.”
Why Jesus asked them not to share their knowledge of him, we don’t know. We struggle to wraps our minds around this healer, this Jesus, this son of God. And maybe that’s a reason why he didn’t want the demons to speak...
Because our minds will never understand. It’s our hearts, illuminated by the cracks in our lives, that will teach us.
“There’s a crack in everything. That’ s how the light gets in.” Amen, and amen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)