The book of Ruth is fascinating. It's not quoted by anyone else anywhere in the bible (as Job and even Jonah are), it's not used in any part of the liturgy and you won't find a reading of it on any of the 112 Sundays of the 2-year lectionary cycle. There are no great theological pronouncements. To the best of my knowledge Ruth is never used as a proof text in systematics. God's chosen people Israel are bit players, part of the unnamed chorus. It is an utterly unremarkable book but for one fact:
Ruth is the grandmother of David.
How does that happen? According to the story, Naomi is married to Elimelech. They have two sons and are members of the tribe of Ephram living in Bethlehem. When a famine strikes Israel the family leaves their ancestral home for the Gentile land of Moab. What the story assumes you know is this: it was a big deal for an Israelite to leave the Promised Land for a foreign country. After all, God had JUST brought them through the blood bath that was the entrance into the land God promised them almost a thousand years before. Each tribe was given land as part of the covenant, and that land was fiercely defended by the covenant's terms. No one was allowed to sell their land, trade it or even give it away. This is why the confiscation of land to satisfy debt was such a big justice issue later on; the prophets spoke against it all the time. The point is, it belonged to God not to them. The Land is everything at this point because there is no Temple. The Land is where God dwells, and to leave it is to abandon his favor and blessing. So, leaving Bethlehem, even during a famine, was to run toward disaster and not away from it.
Scene two. Naomi and Elimelech's sons find wives in Moab. Though the story makes no moral pronouncements about this fact, it's a BIG no-no. The Law specifically prohibits Israelite men from taking foreign wives for a number of reasons. Strike two. The narrative never explains why the family violates the Law and breaks with tradition in such a big way, but one might infer that they weren't all that "observant"...not terribly religious, you might say. They were "carnal" Israelites, to use a modern term. Over worldy or something.
Scene Three. Elimelech dies in Moab, leaving Naomi a widow. While tragic, it's not the end of the world because she has sons. When both of her sons die, then Naomi is in real trouble. She can't own land or property. Everything she has must be claimed by a male family member, but the only family she has now are her two daughters-in-law. Add to this injury the insult of the fact that all of this happens in a foreign land, which is precisely what the audience would have been thinking...that's what you get for breaking God's law. Of course they lost everything. They spit in God's face and lived with pagan foreigners. They got what was coming to them.
Scene Four. Naomi announces that she's packing up and leaving for home. She urges her daughters-in-law to go back to their families, which would have been their right. One of them does exactly this. The other is Ruth, and she does something utterly unexpected: she insists on staying with Naomi, and goes so far as binding herself to Naomi using clear covenant language (1:16, 17). To make a long-ish story short-ish, they go back to Bethlehem, Naomi matches Ruth up with Boaz, he "redeems" the family (I hope you're making the gospel connections here) and tragedy is turned to triumph when Ruth gives birth to Obed, the father of Jesse, who is the father of David. From the line of David would come the Messiah, Jesus Christ, about a thousand years later.
So, out of Law-breaking, untrusting, non-covenantal, irreligious behavior comes the story of the redemption of not only Naomi and Ruth, but of all of humanity. A non-Jew, a foreigner from a pagan land who presumably knew nothing of God, a person Israel would have viewed as utterly outside the promises of covenant, land and blessing, becomes the great-grandmother of God's beloved. Naomi knew nothing of Israel's history or their covenant; she knew nothing whatsoever of Egypt, Sinai, 40 years in the desert, the Law or the Tabernacle. She was just one of the masses of the excluded. Yet, here she is, right there in a book of the bible that bears her name, giving birth to the first in the messianic line. Not only was she a part of the story, she's a CRITICAL part of the story. By her persistent love and faithfulness to Naomi, millions upon millions upon millions would be saved.
Who do we not know yet? What critical role will they play? They'll come from places totally foreign to the culture of Christianity. They won't know the lingo or Christian history. They won't be familiar with canon or creed. They won't be able to recite any memory verses. The idea of loving an unseen God will seem mystical and maybe a little fruity. But they'll be critically important. Through them one or two, or dozens or hundreds or thousands will come to know Christ. Because of them families will be "redeemed", and the impact will be felt for generations afterward. They will never forget their lives before...just the opposite. They'll be used to the glory of God; his name will become greater because of them, and they'll be aware of all of it.
I can't wait to meet them.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
"We live by faith, not by sight."
- 2 Corinthians 5:7
"But the righteous shall live by his faith."
- Habakkuk 2:4
"These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised."
- Hebrews 11:39
I love the book of Hebrews...it's my favorite book in the bible, actually. The author was writing to what seems to be a primarily Jewish-Christian audience, possibly during or shortly after the horrific purging under Nero in the mid-60's AD, encouraging them not to give up, but to continue in obedience under the new covenant. Hebrews marries faith and obedience in a way that reveals their compatibility rather than highliting their differences. It exposes what I think is the nature of obedience: that it cannot take place until my will conflicts with God's, or my sight conflicts with His. Faith is the critical component to obedience.
After all, we're not really obeying until then are we? When my goals line up with God's, then my willingness to carry out his directions come about as the result of happy coincidence. I mean, it's nice and all, but it's not obedience. The great philosophers of ethics go so far as to say that the fact of obedience is actually undermined by an issuing authority we regard has having honor, or who is issuing an order with a goal that is clearly comprehensible (if not always fully in sight) with an end game we view as valuable. In that case we are really following a personality, or a set of precepts or a code of honor. We are following something that we already believe in. There is no application of the will, no sublimation of who I am and what I want involved in following that person or those commandments. I am in fact in the process of getting exactly what I want in that case.
Obedience involves death. Something about me must die in order to live by another's agenda. I must give up my agenda and believe in another's. This is, in fact precisely the meaning of the Greek phrase used in all of the gospels for "repent and believe in the Good News". One can never unintentionally obey. The opportunity presented to me in obedience is to subsume my rebellious will to God's. After all, I am not in the end a victim of notorious fate...that's not how the bible describes us at all. It's not even a remotely Christian thought. I am rebel entrenched behind fortified walls, and I must be made to come out and lay down my arms. This is obedience.
None of the men and women noted for their faith and obedience ever got what they wanted. They never saw the goal God had in mind. They had no "church", no scriptures, they had no home, they had no people in some cases. They had no way of knowing whether this God-entity was real or not. A reader could quite legitimately replace the word "faith" in Hebrews 11 with the word "obedience" and still have precisely the intended meaning. But obedience is not always loss, is it? It is never loss, really. In obedience we become more like Christ, which is to become more human and not less. To become more like him is to be happy because this is the only happiness He has intended for us.
Kierkegaard addresses the issue of faith and obedience well when he examines the story of Abraham and Isaac, and his conclusion is striking. We place great emphasis on the obedience involved in placing Isaac on the altar, but Abraham's obedience didn't stop there. Kierkegaard places greater importance in the obedience involved in taking Isaac back again.
- 2 Corinthians 5:7
"But the righteous shall live by his faith."
- Habakkuk 2:4
"These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised."
- Hebrews 11:39
I love the book of Hebrews...it's my favorite book in the bible, actually. The author was writing to what seems to be a primarily Jewish-Christian audience, possibly during or shortly after the horrific purging under Nero in the mid-60's AD, encouraging them not to give up, but to continue in obedience under the new covenant. Hebrews marries faith and obedience in a way that reveals their compatibility rather than highliting their differences. It exposes what I think is the nature of obedience: that it cannot take place until my will conflicts with God's, or my sight conflicts with His. Faith is the critical component to obedience.
After all, we're not really obeying until then are we? When my goals line up with God's, then my willingness to carry out his directions come about as the result of happy coincidence. I mean, it's nice and all, but it's not obedience. The great philosophers of ethics go so far as to say that the fact of obedience is actually undermined by an issuing authority we regard has having honor, or who is issuing an order with a goal that is clearly comprehensible (if not always fully in sight) with an end game we view as valuable. In that case we are really following a personality, or a set of precepts or a code of honor. We are following something that we already believe in. There is no application of the will, no sublimation of who I am and what I want involved in following that person or those commandments. I am in fact in the process of getting exactly what I want in that case.
Obedience involves death. Something about me must die in order to live by another's agenda. I must give up my agenda and believe in another's. This is, in fact precisely the meaning of the Greek phrase used in all of the gospels for "repent and believe in the Good News". One can never unintentionally obey. The opportunity presented to me in obedience is to subsume my rebellious will to God's. After all, I am not in the end a victim of notorious fate...that's not how the bible describes us at all. It's not even a remotely Christian thought. I am rebel entrenched behind fortified walls, and I must be made to come out and lay down my arms. This is obedience.
None of the men and women noted for their faith and obedience ever got what they wanted. They never saw the goal God had in mind. They had no "church", no scriptures, they had no home, they had no people in some cases. They had no way of knowing whether this God-entity was real or not. A reader could quite legitimately replace the word "faith" in Hebrews 11 with the word "obedience" and still have precisely the intended meaning. But obedience is not always loss, is it? It is never loss, really. In obedience we become more like Christ, which is to become more human and not less. To become more like him is to be happy because this is the only happiness He has intended for us.
Kierkegaard addresses the issue of faith and obedience well when he examines the story of Abraham and Isaac, and his conclusion is striking. We place great emphasis on the obedience involved in placing Isaac on the altar, but Abraham's obedience didn't stop there. Kierkegaard places greater importance in the obedience involved in taking Isaac back again.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
The Unbusy Pastor, 27 October 2009
So, I've been preparing for the message this Sunday in Augusta. I'm speaking on the 8th commandment in Exodus 20:15, "you will never steal". As I was reading the Greek and thinking through the implications of the vocabulary, grammar and context, I started thinking about the way Jesus reinterprets Exodus 20 in Matthew 5:21.
I mean, the message in Exodus 20 is pretty clear, especially on the last six. They're written using a Greek construct called the imperatival future tense, which is basically just a verb in the future tense with a negating particle in front of it. It's solemn legal language, which really isn't very interesting considering the context. God is emarking on the formation of covenant with Israel, so the legal tenor isn't surprising. It's the difference between, "don't steal" and "you will never steal", which implies that there are consequences for breaking the rule. It's real, real simple. Don't take stuff that doesn't belong to you. Don't take paper clips home from the office. Whatever. It's bad and we all get it, right?
Jesus takes the Law head on in this section of Matthew. He quotes the Law in Rabbinic tradition, which would have been followed by a detailed explanation and elaboration, or that’s what his audience was expecting. Instead, he ups the ante. Like the parables, the twist at the end is what grabs the listener’s attention. He says in essence, “so, you’ve learned that you shouldn’t kill anyone. That’s great. You haven’t killed anyone all day long. I’m sure that God is jumping for joy”. I mean, it’s great that you don’t sleep with other women. Really, it is. But in what ways are you unfaithful to your wife? He strongly implies that though we know the law and obey the letter of it, there is another standard. What other standard could there be? There is only his standard because he doesn’t replace the law; he fulfills it. He says that they can only obey the Law by following him. He takes simple, legalistic rule-following and exposes the lack of love underlying it. He splits open the sinner, pulls out the hopelessness of our condition and lays it in front of us. Nobody gets to walk away from Jesus feeling like they have it nailed. We suck and we know it.
It's easy to fall into a trap here, and it's a trap most of us are vulnerable to in our culture. It’s easy to think that Jesus is just arbitrarily raising the bar, like we are crushed under the weight of an angry deity who will never be pleased no matter what we do. That’s not true, though it may have been true of our earthly fathers…the point isn’t that it’s not good enough for God, it’s that it’s not good enough for us. It’s not that he expects more of us, it’s that He has more for us than that. God wants his *best* for us. We're taught by our culture to connect love with achievement, but that has no place in our relationship with God. We are loved because we are His. We are loved because that is what He has for us; it is His best for us. There is no achievement, only undeserved merit, favor and grace. Justification is *totally* relational, and though there is some synergy in terms of our acceptance of his favor, the rest of the deal is utterly one-sided. We are all Abraham, sleeping through his half of the convenant-making ceremony.
When we love Him and ask Him to change us, then he pursues that goal tirelessly, no matter what it costs us or what it costs him. The result can be painful, but to ask for anything else is to ask for less love, not more. You are the masterwork that He will take endless trouble over, though from time to time you may wish that you were a thumbnail sketch.
Stealing is bad though. I don't recommend it. I'm just sayin'.
I mean, the message in Exodus 20 is pretty clear, especially on the last six. They're written using a Greek construct called the imperatival future tense, which is basically just a verb in the future tense with a negating particle in front of it. It's solemn legal language, which really isn't very interesting considering the context. God is emarking on the formation of covenant with Israel, so the legal tenor isn't surprising. It's the difference between, "don't steal" and "you will never steal", which implies that there are consequences for breaking the rule. It's real, real simple. Don't take stuff that doesn't belong to you. Don't take paper clips home from the office. Whatever. It's bad and we all get it, right?
Jesus takes the Law head on in this section of Matthew. He quotes the Law in Rabbinic tradition, which would have been followed by a detailed explanation and elaboration, or that’s what his audience was expecting. Instead, he ups the ante. Like the parables, the twist at the end is what grabs the listener’s attention. He says in essence, “so, you’ve learned that you shouldn’t kill anyone. That’s great. You haven’t killed anyone all day long. I’m sure that God is jumping for joy”. I mean, it’s great that you don’t sleep with other women. Really, it is. But in what ways are you unfaithful to your wife? He strongly implies that though we know the law and obey the letter of it, there is another standard. What other standard could there be? There is only his standard because he doesn’t replace the law; he fulfills it. He says that they can only obey the Law by following him. He takes simple, legalistic rule-following and exposes the lack of love underlying it. He splits open the sinner, pulls out the hopelessness of our condition and lays it in front of us. Nobody gets to walk away from Jesus feeling like they have it nailed. We suck and we know it.
It's easy to fall into a trap here, and it's a trap most of us are vulnerable to in our culture. It’s easy to think that Jesus is just arbitrarily raising the bar, like we are crushed under the weight of an angry deity who will never be pleased no matter what we do. That’s not true, though it may have been true of our earthly fathers…the point isn’t that it’s not good enough for God, it’s that it’s not good enough for us. It’s not that he expects more of us, it’s that He has more for us than that. God wants his *best* for us. We're taught by our culture to connect love with achievement, but that has no place in our relationship with God. We are loved because we are His. We are loved because that is what He has for us; it is His best for us. There is no achievement, only undeserved merit, favor and grace. Justification is *totally* relational, and though there is some synergy in terms of our acceptance of his favor, the rest of the deal is utterly one-sided. We are all Abraham, sleeping through his half of the convenant-making ceremony.
When we love Him and ask Him to change us, then he pursues that goal tirelessly, no matter what it costs us or what it costs him. The result can be painful, but to ask for anything else is to ask for less love, not more. You are the masterwork that He will take endless trouble over, though from time to time you may wish that you were a thumbnail sketch.
Stealing is bad though. I don't recommend it. I'm just sayin'.
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Unbusy Pastor, 22 October 2009
I always used to wonder what my pastor did all day. I remember his office, left past the secretary's L-shaped desk, down a short, narrow hallway, behind an an likewise narrow door (which was always open). To the right as one entered was Pastor Lloyd Powers' broad hardwood desk where he would sit with his back to a window facing a street with a name I can't recall. I remember the books; so many books in dark shelves, floor-to-ceiling all along the three other walls. I used to wonder if he'd read all of those books. Maybe that's what he did all day. Or maybe he sat behind that desk in the black suit with the white clerical collar, praying for us (specifically, me) all day long. What else would he do? It couldn't be his Sunday sermon. All he did was read the bible and talk about it, which seemed like a perfectly obvious thing to do. Even as a 10-year-old I was sure I could do it. The liturgy alternated in a two-week cycle with communion, and never changed otherwise aside from the High Holy Days. I can still recite most of it by heart to this day. No preparation needed there.
From this 30-year distance, I know something different: Lloyd Powers a pastor of the ordinary. He was a priest of the utterly commonplace.
He was a gentle, loving servant who saw divinity in the menial, who taught me as much about God through casual interaction as he did in the Easter homily. His familiar presence in the lives of the 200 or so congregants of St. Mark's Lutheran church brought the presence of the Lord into birth and death, marriage and divorce, piano recitals, back yard cookouts, Easter egg hunts and birthday parties. He was there the day I was confirmed. He was there when I ripped the back pocket off my new corduroy pants during an attempt to escape a secret crush (who will remain nameless). He was there when each of my parents died. He was there nearly every Sunday over the course of 20 years; the Sundays he wasn't are memorable specifically for his absence. He counseled me after I was released from rehab the first time. His figure is in the center of, and head-and-shoulders above, the pictures of dozens of classes of confirmands. He looked the same to me in 1980 as he did in in the black and white photos from 1965.
What did he do all day? He loved God in every ordinary way imaginable, and he did it on purpose. In so doing he released to God almost every freedom, even what he would wear each day. He took seriously the injunction to love the Lord with all of his heart, soul, mind and strength, understanding that no part is insignificant and beyond redemption, and by extension, no person is insignificant or beyond redemption. I think that he had long abandoned the act of making distinctions between the sacred and the profane. He understood the the Sacred has already chosen us, and that each one of our choices speaks of our recognition of this fact and a worship born of love, or a stale-hearted rejection of it that leads to interior death by exhaustion.
The Truth is this: everything matters. Everything. There is purpose in it all, and I don't mean some lock-step predetermination that renders freedom meaningless. We are not crushed under the weight of God without heart. I mean the loving interaction of two wills that results in meaningful, joyous liberty. I mean that there is opportunity to adore God intensely in each workaday activity. Every average interactions carry the potential for miraculous love. The banal bears heavy on the eternal. Inside of suffering there is the capacity for sanctification.
As the bush in Exodus 4 burns without being consumed, so burns the sacred from within the commonplace.
From this 30-year distance, I know something different: Lloyd Powers a pastor of the ordinary. He was a priest of the utterly commonplace.
He was a gentle, loving servant who saw divinity in the menial, who taught me as much about God through casual interaction as he did in the Easter homily. His familiar presence in the lives of the 200 or so congregants of St. Mark's Lutheran church brought the presence of the Lord into birth and death, marriage and divorce, piano recitals, back yard cookouts, Easter egg hunts and birthday parties. He was there the day I was confirmed. He was there when I ripped the back pocket off my new corduroy pants during an attempt to escape a secret crush (who will remain nameless). He was there when each of my parents died. He was there nearly every Sunday over the course of 20 years; the Sundays he wasn't are memorable specifically for his absence. He counseled me after I was released from rehab the first time. His figure is in the center of, and head-and-shoulders above, the pictures of dozens of classes of confirmands. He looked the same to me in 1980 as he did in in the black and white photos from 1965.
What did he do all day? He loved God in every ordinary way imaginable, and he did it on purpose. In so doing he released to God almost every freedom, even what he would wear each day. He took seriously the injunction to love the Lord with all of his heart, soul, mind and strength, understanding that no part is insignificant and beyond redemption, and by extension, no person is insignificant or beyond redemption. I think that he had long abandoned the act of making distinctions between the sacred and the profane. He understood the the Sacred has already chosen us, and that each one of our choices speaks of our recognition of this fact and a worship born of love, or a stale-hearted rejection of it that leads to interior death by exhaustion.
The Truth is this: everything matters. Everything. There is purpose in it all, and I don't mean some lock-step predetermination that renders freedom meaningless. We are not crushed under the weight of God without heart. I mean the loving interaction of two wills that results in meaningful, joyous liberty. I mean that there is opportunity to adore God intensely in each workaday activity. Every average interactions carry the potential for miraculous love. The banal bears heavy on the eternal. Inside of suffering there is the capacity for sanctification.
As the bush in Exodus 4 burns without being consumed, so burns the sacred from within the commonplace.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Unbusy Pastor, 19 October 2009
Philippians 2:7
...αλλα εαυτον εκενωσεν μορφην δουλου λαβων
εν ομοιωματι ανθρωπων γενομενος
και σχηματι ευρεθεις ως ανθρωπος
...but he emptied himself, taking the form of a servant
being made in human likeness
and being found in appearance as a man
...εταπεινωσεν εαυτον
γενομενος υπηκοος μεχρι θανατου
θανατου δε σταυρου
...he humbled himself
becoming obedient unto death
Even death on a cross.
...αλλα εαυτον εκενωσεν μορφην δουλου λαβων
εν ομοιωματι ανθρωπων γενομενος
και σχηματι ευρεθεις ως ανθρωπος
...but he emptied himself, taking the form of a servant
being made in human likeness
and being found in appearance as a man
Obedience is emptiness,
letting go of what I am every moment.
It is the art of empty hands and a loose grip,
divested privilege and a new name.
letting go of what I am every moment.
It is the art of empty hands and a loose grip,
divested privilege and a new name.
...εταπεινωσεν εαυτον
γενομενος υπηκοος μεχρι θανατου
θανατου δε σταυρου
...he humbled himself
becoming obedient unto death
Even death on a cross.
Obedience is death,
Willing and aware, with eyes wide open.
It is dependence and intention,
Love aware of the probable cost.
Willing and aware, with eyes wide open.
It is dependence and intention,
Love aware of the probable cost.
...διο και ο θεος αυτον υπερυψωσεν
και εχαρισατο αυτω το ονομα
το υπερ παν ονομα
ινα εν τω ονοματι ιησου παν γονυ καμψη επουρανιων
και επιγειων και καταχθονιων
και πασα γλωσσα εξομολογησηται
οτι κυριος ιησους χριστος εις δοξαν θεου πατρος
....because of this God has raised him to the highest place
and gave him the name
that is above every other name
So that at the name of Jesus every knee will bow in the heavens,
on the earth and in the underworld
and every tongue will acknowledge
that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.
και εχαρισατο αυτω το ονομα
το υπερ παν ονομα
ινα εν τω ονοματι ιησου παν γονυ καμψη επουρανιων
και επιγειων και καταχθονιων
και πασα γλωσσα εξομολογησηται
οτι κυριος ιησους χριστος εις δοξαν θεου πατρος
....because of this God has raised him to the highest place
and gave him the name
that is above every other name
So that at the name of Jesus every knee will bow in the heavens,
on the earth and in the underworld
and every tongue will acknowledge
that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.
Obedience is life
The dawn waiting in repose.
It is an engagement and expectation
Love raised to life among us.
The dawn waiting in repose.
It is an engagement and expectation
Love raised to life among us.
Friday, October 16, 2009
The Unbusy Pastor, 16 October 2009
So, let's say you want to go see Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park. You know, there's supposed to be a huge mega-volcano underneath most of Yellowstone that will wipe out humankind in a mega-eruption at some point, but I digress.
You run into a close friend there and ask her where Old Faithful is. She directs you to a path and tells you to keep walking until you find it. She's not sure of the distance, but you'll definitely know it when you see it.
It's a pretty broad path, nice and level and the scenery is beautiful. The trees sway in the wind, the birds chirp, squirrels jump from branch to branch...it's pretty great. As you go on the path narrows, goes up hill and winds along a cliff face. You've never been a big fan of heights. Your feet hurt a little bit. You realize that this may require some endurance, and you're not in the same shape you used to be. Man, the birds are a little irritating. Where is this thing anyway? It's a geyser. It should be pretty obvious. You heard people talking about it at the head of the trail, but you wonder if you missed a turn somewhere. Was it this windy when you started out?
Then you come to a deep, wide chasm spanned by a rope bridge. Your friend didn't tell you anything about this. This can't be right. There's no Old Faithful in sight. You turn around and head back to the head of the trail to find out where you went wrong.
Your friend is still there. You're pretty irritated at this point, so you tell her about your experience. You ask if she's sure Old Faithful is that way. She's sure. She asks you why you didn't keep going. She asks if you trust her. Your response is, "Of course I do."
But you didn't. When the time came to rely on her direction in the face of what seemed to be controverting evidence, you turned around. When the immediate sensual payoff was over, and all you to rely on was a friend who'd been where you're going, you turned around. When you were confronted with the necessity to continue in the face of notable inconvenience and difficulty, you turned around. When confronted full-face by the idea that you did not know where you were going and were not up to the task, which was nothing more than a description of what was true from the start, you gave up.
In other words, you made a profession of trust, but you did not engage in the activity of trusting. After all, we can only trust when we given an opportunity by lack of evidence (seemingly), by imposition of inconvenience or when confronted by our weaknesses; all else is happy coincidence. It takes no trust at all to head down a path where the results are certain from the outset. If you can see the tip of the geyser from the trail head you don't need your friend's directions. When you don't know where you're going or how to get there...that's when you need a friend who's been there, but you must act based on no more concrete assurance, no more convincing evidence than that.
In fact, there is no other evidence. We have the reality of God and his assurance that he loves us. That's all. All else is accretion, illusion and insecurity. There is no use asking God for what he has not. He can love us only with himself, because he has nothing else to give. If we do not love him with our wills, we can never love him at all.
Every suffering is an opportunity to love him with our will. Every blind corner is another chance to move beyond simple profession of faith, and to be faithful. The narrow, uphill path is only evidence that we've moved beyond the trail head, nothing more. It supposed to be that way. Every rope bridge is a time meet God with a thankful heart because he's made a way across the chasm.
You run into a close friend there and ask her where Old Faithful is. She directs you to a path and tells you to keep walking until you find it. She's not sure of the distance, but you'll definitely know it when you see it.
It's a pretty broad path, nice and level and the scenery is beautiful. The trees sway in the wind, the birds chirp, squirrels jump from branch to branch...it's pretty great. As you go on the path narrows, goes up hill and winds along a cliff face. You've never been a big fan of heights. Your feet hurt a little bit. You realize that this may require some endurance, and you're not in the same shape you used to be. Man, the birds are a little irritating. Where is this thing anyway? It's a geyser. It should be pretty obvious. You heard people talking about it at the head of the trail, but you wonder if you missed a turn somewhere. Was it this windy when you started out?
Then you come to a deep, wide chasm spanned by a rope bridge. Your friend didn't tell you anything about this. This can't be right. There's no Old Faithful in sight. You turn around and head back to the head of the trail to find out where you went wrong.
Your friend is still there. You're pretty irritated at this point, so you tell her about your experience. You ask if she's sure Old Faithful is that way. She's sure. She asks you why you didn't keep going. She asks if you trust her. Your response is, "Of course I do."
But you didn't. When the time came to rely on her direction in the face of what seemed to be controverting evidence, you turned around. When the immediate sensual payoff was over, and all you to rely on was a friend who'd been where you're going, you turned around. When you were confronted with the necessity to continue in the face of notable inconvenience and difficulty, you turned around. When confronted full-face by the idea that you did not know where you were going and were not up to the task, which was nothing more than a description of what was true from the start, you gave up.
In other words, you made a profession of trust, but you did not engage in the activity of trusting. After all, we can only trust when we given an opportunity by lack of evidence (seemingly), by imposition of inconvenience or when confronted by our weaknesses; all else is happy coincidence. It takes no trust at all to head down a path where the results are certain from the outset. If you can see the tip of the geyser from the trail head you don't need your friend's directions. When you don't know where you're going or how to get there...that's when you need a friend who's been there, but you must act based on no more concrete assurance, no more convincing evidence than that.
In fact, there is no other evidence. We have the reality of God and his assurance that he loves us. That's all. All else is accretion, illusion and insecurity. There is no use asking God for what he has not. He can love us only with himself, because he has nothing else to give. If we do not love him with our wills, we can never love him at all.
Every suffering is an opportunity to love him with our will. Every blind corner is another chance to move beyond simple profession of faith, and to be faithful. The narrow, uphill path is only evidence that we've moved beyond the trail head, nothing more. It supposed to be that way. Every rope bridge is a time meet God with a thankful heart because he's made a way across the chasm.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
14 October, 2009
I have a confession to make.
I never think about my motives before starting a spiritual discipline.
If I hear from God and am guided to begin something I trust that he will giv me every grace that I need to engage it. In this I find that I am much less self-centered than I was three years ago, and this reduction is due largely to the methodical practice of the disciplines.
So, is this a case of chicken and egg? No, absolutely not.
I started with all of my self-centeredness fully intact...because I had to start somewhere. What if I'd waited to start until I was no longer self-centered? I'd never have started the very disciplines that were the medium by which God gave me the very thing I was waiting for!
As in most things, the goal is progress, not perfection. The goal is relationship, not consummation. To quote the bible, we live by faith not by sight. To quote the liturgy, we trust in God's graces to keep our hearts and minds in true faith through Christ Jesus.
Amen.
I never think about my motives before starting a spiritual discipline.
If I hear from God and am guided to begin something I trust that he will giv me every grace that I need to engage it. In this I find that I am much less self-centered than I was three years ago, and this reduction is due largely to the methodical practice of the disciplines.
So, is this a case of chicken and egg? No, absolutely not.
I started with all of my self-centeredness fully intact...because I had to start somewhere. What if I'd waited to start until I was no longer self-centered? I'd never have started the very disciplines that were the medium by which God gave me the very thing I was waiting for!
As in most things, the goal is progress, not perfection. The goal is relationship, not consummation. To quote the bible, we live by faith not by sight. To quote the liturgy, we trust in God's graces to keep our hearts and minds in true faith through Christ Jesus.
Amen.
13 October, 2009
After nearly six years on the job I'm just now realizing something: being a pastor is not a safe vocation. It is toxic, slowly introducing spiritual poisons over time that have to be drained before they reach critical levels and result in real spiritual and mental sickness. This is why pastors die spiritually and then quit. We are constantly exposed to spiritual attack, and to the worst in people. It's kind of like being a doctor...no one needs a doctor until he or she is sick, right? People don't really need their pastor until they *need* him or her, and by then they are usually *very* sick...much sicker than they really have to be. At that point people tend to expect and ask for the miraculous, which is not in itself a bad thing. It gets bad when they expect their pastor to deliver it though. After all, this is what they pay us for, right? We water hoses connected to the divine fire hydrant of power. That's not how God usually works, of course. This is not to say that He doesn't deliver the miraculous (God, that is); it's that He usually does that over time and through processes so that He gets what He wants: real, permanent, deep change. People generally have no patience for that. Christianity has become a brand choice in many ways. If Pepsi doesn't deliver, it's on to Coke.
This is not a safe job. It's not even a white-collar job. It's thoroughly blue-collar. Pastors quit because they lose hope and become cynical, which is an easy thing to do. That's the default mode, as a matter of fact. One has to apply effort and expend energy to move away from that, which is what spiritual disciplines are all about.
Hazardous duty pay for pastors? Anyone?
This is not a safe job. It's not even a white-collar job. It's thoroughly blue-collar. Pastors quit because they lose hope and become cynical, which is an easy thing to do. That's the default mode, as a matter of fact. One has to apply effort and expend energy to move away from that, which is what spiritual disciplines are all about.
Hazardous duty pay for pastors? Anyone?
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