What follows is inspired by my sermon for the people of Word of Hope on Maundy Thursday 2016. The inspiration for this comes from John 13:35.
"By this everyone will know you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."
In my sermon tonight, I posed the people listening to ask themselves a question as they move throughout Good Friday tomorrow.
"If someone who didn't know God saw you, would they know that you were a disciple of Christ?"
And this, of course, got me thinking.
Would anyone who saw someone who professes to be a Christian, know through them the same radical and crazy love of a God who becomes flesh and blood and washes feet and dies?
And the answer, quite frankly, is probably not.
And I can already hear your righteous indignation. So I'm going to ask you to put that aside for just a minute and truly think about this.
Would anyone who didn't know God, look at your life and experience through you, the radical love of God?
Honestly.
I can say that most people who look at me probably wouldn't.
And it's not because I have tattoos. Or because I swear. Or because I've known to have a beer or two. Or because I'm gay.
But it's cause I'm materialist. I'm selfish. I'm often scared. I, too often, put people in categories of "us vs. them."
I'm white. I'm male. I'm cisgendered. I'm abled. I'm in that sweet spot of being neither too old nor too young.
And while all of those things do a good job of getting me ahead in the fallen world, they don't really help people experience the God of the oppressed through me.
And how many Christians do you know that fit into similar categories? And in their lives, do you see God's presence?
(Tangent - this is why a white Jesus isn't saving anyone. That's a post for another day though. Or just read James Cone, he says it better.)
And not just in our bodies, but also in how we act.
Do we talk to people who are homeless when we see them? Do we go out and feed the hungry? Do we work to support justice for all people? Do we give more than we spend?
Do we love others in a "let me wash your feet" kind of way?
Do we love others enough that we would, without using violence, be willing to die for them?
Do we love others enough to let go of the power we as the majority have held for two hundred years so that others can have a seat at the table?
Do we live in a way that says "I love you the way that Christ loves you. And I do this because I know Christ loves me like that too,"?
My gut. No.
Some might. But Christians as a whole? Not a chance.
So let's stop kidding ourselves. Let's stop calling ourselves Christians. Or Jesus freaks. Or followers of Christ. Or disciples.
Cause we're not.
I'm not say we can't be. But we aren't right now.
So let's confess our sin in the presence of God and of one another. Then let's humble ourselves enough to let Christ wash our feet. And then humble ourselves even more to start washing the feet of others.
And what do we do for Palm Sunday? We read the story of Jesus' triumphant entry into Jerusalem on a colt (or donkey, depending on the year) and follow that up with a one-two punch of the passion story.
Jesus is welcomed as the Messiah by the mob. And then less than a week later that mob is turning on him shouting for him to be crucified.
It's emotional whiplash, to say the least.
But, is it really surprisingly, given what we know about humanity?
The mob expects Jesus to be the Messiah - to be the military leader and conquerer who will teach them to violently overthrow the Romans. They probably expected him to come riding in on a mighty stallion.
So what does Jesus do? He rides on a colt (or donkey, or both) and completely messes with their head.
They roll out the red carpet for him. They praise him the way they would a returning conquerer.
And what does Jesus do?
He goes to the temple and teaches about justice. And God's kingdom. And the different ways that God wants all people to be in right relationships with one another and God. And most of all - to quote Bob Dylan - that "the times, they are a-changing."
And Jesus' message strikes fear in the hearts of those in power. Who then, in turn, incite fear into the mob - the very mob who just days earlier was shouting for joy and praising Jesus.
What's the consequence of irrational fear?
Violence.
Those in power and the mob now shout crucify. Kill the one who wants to bring justice and change to the world.
Kill Jesus. Kill our Messiah - the one who let us down and failed us.
Lynch him.
But...do it legally.
Let's set him up.
Let's bust him for false drug charges.
Let's beat him up in prison. Let's call him names. Let's degrade him and try to take away his humanity.
Let's whip up the jury into a frenzy during his trial.
Let's pressure the judge into giving him the worst possible sentence.
The let's hang Jesus up.
And watch the Messiah die.
Let's watch the Son of God die.
All because the message of salvation that Jesus brings us isn't one of violence. It's one of peace. It's not a message of war, but one of a day without death.
All because Jesus isn't about building walls and keeping people out, but building longer tables and letting people in.
And all of this got to me yesterday.
This message. This story. And our world.
I thought about how America is going crazy. How hundreds of thousands of people are pushing for more violence. For more war. For more fear. For bigger walls (quite literally).
And I thought about what the Messiah actually looks like.
She will be the one who simply refuses to get up out of her seat. The one who climbs the flagpole and removes a symbol of oppression.
She will be the one advocating for longer tables.
She will be the one offering a day of no more death. No more war. Justice for all people.
She will be the one who gets beat up. She will be the one who gets strung up. She will be the one who gets shot.
And how many of us will miss her?
How many of us will be so afraid that we follow the false Messiah?
How many of us will be open our eyes and look to places where God shows up time after time - the oppressed, the poor, those who are beaten down and enslaved by the system - and look for our Messiah there?
My hope is that we will find her. And that we will pay attention to her.
And that she will change our lives the same way the empty tomb changed everything.
I was having a conversation with a dear friend this morning about baseball.
And I was trying to share with her my love for the Pittsburgh Pirates. And she was like, "they are so bad, why would I ever want to root for them?"
And my response? "I love them, precisely because they are so bad. And because they get no love from anywhere but Pittsburgh folks anywhere else in the country."
(Note: This is a story that is loosely based on one line of a text message, many of the details have been changed to preserve my integrity and to prove my point)
And I started to think about how I was perhaps primed from a young age to be on board with social justice issues.
Growing up, my dad was a big fan of the Minnesota Twins, who are the running joke as being one of the worst teams in MLB. And then we moved to West Virginia and I myself became a Pittsburgh Pirates fan. The team, who also has become a running joke among baseball fans.
Neither of these teams has had much luck over the past...oh 20 years or so. They've had some good runs, but what happens - especially with the Pirates is that their star players get traded off by mid-season, and then things fall apart after the All-Star game.
In all this, though, my love for the Pirates has not changed. In fact, I think I love them even more because they are consistently the MLB underdog. They will never be as successful or as popular as the Yankees or the Red Sox (or the White Sox). It's just not going to happen.
But I love them. And I want them to do well and to succeed. And to not be mined out for their best players in such a way that keeps them at the bottom of MLB.
I want them to get respect.
Which is really, what social justice is, at it's heart. It is loving the groups in our society, not because of what they've accomplished - but because they deserve respect and an actual chance to do well and succeed.
Social justice isn't about bringing the top down to the bottom.
It's about bringing the bottom to the top.
It's about giving everyone a chance to play 9 innings, with their best players.
It's about playing by rules that benefit both teams.
Sadly, we live in a world where the rules benefit only one team.
So let's change the rules. Let's make the game actually fair. Let's start treating the other team with dignity and respect.
I mean that's what sportsmanship is all about, isn't it? Being a good sport means crying out that the rules or calls are hurting the other team.
Same with social justice. Being an agent of social justice is, at it's heart, means crying out that the rules are hurting the other team.
Of course, in all this, I am also reminded that God's kingdom isn't necessarily like major league baseball. It's better than that.
It's more like how the kids in The Sandlot play ball. Especially when they're by themselves. There isn't a winner, there isn't a loser.
It's just about playing the game.
God tells us to be childlike, because children - before adults get in the way - don't care about winning and losing. They just want to play the game and have fun.
Let's learn to play together. Let's learn to let go of needing to win - especially us white men - and let's learn to treat all of the other players on the field with the same dignity and respect we (again, as white men) have gotten for our lives.
What follows are some cursory thoughts, it's certainly not an end all, be all conversation, but rather a lengthened version of Jared's morning coffee musings. A lot comes from what I preached on Sunday and a lot also comes from the following Ted Talk, which I've found to be really interesting and perhaps helpful.
I think the church could stand to learn a little bit about death and resurrection from the LGBTQ community.
And by that, I mean the church should spend some time coming out.
I cannot speak for the whole community, but I can speak about what coming out was like for me. And coming out felt an awful lot like death and resurrection.
When I came out, I had to let a lot of things I previously thought or wanted to believe about myself to death. When I came out, I also got to have a lot of myself resurrected and restored into a new creation.
And while this is a long and interesting story, which I would be happy to share at a later time, I will skip to my main point, which is that the church should spend some time coming out, itself.
And by that, I mean the church needs to let go some ideas of what and who it is, let some ideas about itself die, so that God can resurrect the Body of Christ. You know, that business that God has been in for 2000 years or so.
The church has been telling all sorts of nasty lies about itself, and none of them are really helping the Body of Christ live and thrive.
Lies that include:
We are a church that belongs in authority.
We are a church that has all the answers.
We are the owners of the exclusive path to salvation.
We are the church of the 1950s (ok, so maybe this one belongs to my denomination more than most.)
The list can go on and on.
But the point is, these lies need to go. We need to stop clinging so tightly to them that we choke out any points for us to grow and be transformed into who God is calling us to be.
We need to come out, to stop trying to be those things, and start being who and whose we are, rooted in scripture, tradition, reason, and experience.
We need to stop being something we're not and start being who we have always been created to be.
And maybe, just maybe, when we start doing that, we'll find that we no longer are in a struggle to survive but find ourselves thriving.
That's probably enough rambling for a Tuesday morning. I'm sure this conversation is one that can be held again and again and again.
Cause coming out is a process that you have to do over and over again. Because who we are changes over time as we grow and transform.
So, maybe, just maybe, we should stop being afraid of it and learn to love it?
I know I have learned to love coming out. Why can't the church?
Just so we get this out on the table, “Jesus is weird.” I think we’ve all been thinking it over the past few weeks, that Jesus would talk on and on about something as simple as bread, and bread from heaven, and then we get to this week’s text where Jesus doesn’t just talk about bread, but he then talks about eating his flesh and drinking his blood? I’m sure those who were listening to him thought the exact same thing, “Jesus is weird.”
So much bread...
And this isn’t even the weirdest thing Jesus has ever said and done. I mean, it’s up there, but Jesus has at least a few more things that make us scratch our heads that he’s done. He’s washed the feet of his disciples, he’s encouraged little children to be a part of the “adult class,” he’s eaten with sinners and prostitutes, he’s talked to Samaritans, he’s talked to Samaritan women, he’s called a woman a dog, he’s healed a Roman soldier’s servant, the list goes on and on. Oh, and he’s was crucified, died, and was raised from the dead. Yep, Jesus is weird.
Now, weird isn’t a bad thing. You can ask my brother, who “I think” knows it’s a compliment when I say that he’s weird. And I’ve seen bumper stickers that say “Keep ‘Local Town Here’ Weird.” Weird isn’t bad, it’s just...well, it’s just weird. It’s something you have to think about. It’s something you have to wrestle with, it’s the twist of the ordinary that you don’t expect, which makes us think. And it’s that last piece, that “it makes us think” piece, is why some people don’t like things that are weird. They want things to be black and white, with no shades of gray. They want things to be cut and dry, with easy answers that they don’t have to spend all night wrestling with or chewing on.
Except Jesus has never really given us easy answers or black and white solutions. When Jesus is asked questions, he answers with more questions or he answers with paradoxes or parables. Jesus doesn’t offer up one-time fixes, instead Jesus wants people to think and believe on their own. Jesus wants people to wrestle with him, wants people to engage, to stay up all night gnawing on the answers the way my dog might gnaw on a bone.
And so, knowing this, are we really surprised that Jesus’ answer to “please sir, can we have some more?” turns into a lecture that culminates with Jesus talking about eating and drinking flesh and blood? Jesus wants us to chew on this reply for a bit. Jesus wants us to wrestle with it - to gnaw on it.
Of course, many will tell you that this text has an easy answer, that Jesus is talking about Holy Communion, this meal where we gather together and eat bread and drink wine that has become the body and blood of Christ. But I’m not sure that’s really an easy answer either. I mean, the Eucharist is kind of weird too. It really is, I know this, because whenever I have to try and explain it to someone who hasn’t grown up in the church it usually goes something like… “So you eat the body and blood of your God?”
“Yes, but it’s also bread and wine.”
“How is this not cannibalism?” “Well, because it’s bread and wine, not actually human flesh and blood.”
“Uh-huh, so how does it become the body and blood of God?”
“Well, you see...there’s a prayer, and then God shows up, and it just happens.”
“...right…”
"Is it wine or is it blood? Come on!?"
I mean, even the church, who’s had 2000 years to figure it out has divided about 4 times on this issue and you get answers from all over the place, like that after the Eucharistic prayer it’s no longer bread and wine it is the body and blood to it’s just a symbol or memorial meal. It’s not actually body and blood. And then you have the Lutherans who say, well…it’s still bread and wine, but it’s also Christ’s body and blood, and it just sort of happens. We’ll call it holy mystery and it’ll be good.
Holy mystery, by the way, is just theology speak for paradox. Or to put it another way, “yes, we know it’s weird, but we believe it anyway.” We believe that God shows up in this weirdness and God is made known through this weirdness.
And God always has been made known through this weirdness. God isn’t just some spiritual deity up in heaven. God isn’t some puppet master pulling strings. God isn’t a clockmaker that wound up the world and let it go. Instead, God has become intimately involved with all creation. In Genesis, God molds the earth, walks among it. Then God becomes flesh, becomes a baby. God combines spiritual and physical. God descends and fills us with the Holy Spirit. God is three and one. God desires humanity to be partners in creation. God desires humanity to be partners in conversation. God is willing to go to great lengths to bring us back to God. And God has done them too! God is just full of weird things that humans would not have just made up on their own - they’re too weird for us. They make us think and believe things that don’t make rational or logical sense, and in spite of that - or because of it, God is revealed in them.
And so, we’re back to this weird text. This text that doesn’t provide easy answers. This text that makes us scratch our heads and wonder what on earth Jesus is talking about. This text that people have been gnawing on for thousands of years. And perhaps we just need to throw our hands up and say, “Jesus is weird. God is weird. And that’s good. We need weird.” Amen.
My first sermon on internship was on Hebrews 12:1.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely,and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us,(NRSV)
And in this sermon, I talked about how much I hated running. That I could think of few things worse than having to run for any distance or length of time.
And even though I've made some changes in my life that appear to be "healthier" than what I was doing before, and even though one of those changes has been to start a Couch To 5K program, I still am not a huge fan of running.
I even bought sweet running shoes. Courtesy of Nike
Now, let me clarify. I love the feeling I get after I finish running, and there's a sense of accomplishment that accompanies beating my personal records (thank you iPhone for keeping track of those for me). And I've started to look forward to the run as a way for me to hit that feeling of accomplishment.
But as for the run itself?
It's painful, sometimes.
I find that I spend most of my time running making sure that I'm breathing and that I don't run into anybody else that's on the track at the local YMCA while I'm panting around in circles. Or else I'm mentally counting down the seconds (it always feels like more than it should) until the nice lady from my phone is going to tell me that it's time for me to begin running.
So maybe I'm still not there with the "runner's high" that I'm told will come as I run more and more. For me, the actual run is less exciting for its own sake and more of a discipline. It's the means to a goal - that is, weight loss and the sense of accomplishment. And yet, day by day, this is slowly changing. Each run becomes easier than the last. Who knows? Maybe in a few weeks I'll actually be able to think about something besides my breathing when I run. How I feel about running is also how I feel about spiritual practices. I'm not the biggest fan. I find them to be painful at times. And like someone trying yoga for the first time (which I also plan on doing - crazy), I spend more of my time and energy focusing on the fact that I need to focus than I do on paying attention to God's presence in these times. And I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not alone here. Sure, we have a culture full of "spiritual but not religious" people, but if we honestly assessed their spirituality, I think we would find that it's really just finding ways to create that "warm, fuzzy feeling" within themselves. Because true spirituality is painful. It's scary. And that's because God is scary. How often does the voice of God have to say, "be not afraid" whenever God needs to speak to someone? Hint: It's a lot. And so, to develop and cultivate a practice that opens ourselves up to the fullness and majesty of God is absolutely terrifying. God is so much more than ourselves, that to open up to God is the equivalent of a brain freeze and a mind-splitting migraine at the same time.
The kind of painfulness that I feel about halfway through my run when my shins scream, "We quit!"
It might be life-giving at the end of the process. But not during it.
We just aren't able to fully comprehend or handle the majesty and power of God. Our brains can't contain all that God knows. Our hearts burst with amount of love and grace that God is trying to pour through us.
And more often than not, when we open ourselves up to God, we find that God is calling us to go somewhere we aren't going. To try something new. To make a change. And we all know how we feel about change deep down.
Kind of like when I started running, and then realized I had to do all sorts of other strength based exercises too. And had to make a change in my diet - apparently McDonald's all the time doesn't make for healthy running. Who knew?
So, often, instead of running to spirituality, we run from true spirituality.
Instead of exercising our heart's capacity to love and our mind's capacity to understand, we keep those muscles from being used. We allow them to decay - instead focusing in on ourselves. Basically the opposite of spirituality.
But perhaps, when we lay aside our burdens of sin -t hose personal and cultural demons that keep us from developing a relationship with God, we can truly begin to run. And maybe we can start enjoying the process of running for its own sake.
We can develop truly spiritual practices that open ourselves up to the Creator of the Universe, and become an outlet for the transformative grace that God continually gives.
And maybe, just maybe, like I may someday discover the joy of running for its own sake, we might develop truly spiritual practices that deepen our religious rituals and lives.
This sermon was delivered to the people of the Lutheran Church of the Nativity on Sunday January 19, 2014. The text for the sermon comes from John 2:13-25.
There once was a cat that would find its way into a synagogue on Saturday morning and meow loudly, distracting those in attendance from worshipping. So one Saturday morning, the eldest rabbi began to tie the cat to a tree outside before worship, so as not to distract the worshippers. Eventually this rabbi passed, and his sucessor began to tie the cat to the tree. Eventually the cat died, and so the rabbi found another cat to tie to the tree. Many generations passed, with cats being replaced as they died until eventually the tree died. The eldest rabbi planted another tree so that the cat could still be tied to the tree before worship on Saturday morning. Eventually people began to write books about the significance of tying a cat to the tree before worship.
It’s a little absurd isn’t it? This practical act, tying the cat to the tree as a way of keeping worshipers from being distracted, soon becomes a ritual in and of itself. To the point that books are written about how important this small act is for this worship community.
And yet, how frequently do our practical acts become ritualized. Brushing our teeth when we wake up and when we get ready for bed are done so that we can keep our teeth cavity free - and to make our dentists happy, but this act soon becomes part of our morning and pre-bed rituals.
Or, here at Nativity, we have Children’s word time. This started as a way to make visiting parents with small children feel welcome. They didn’t have to worry about their child making noises or distracting those around them during the sermon. And now it’s become a part of our Sunday morning ritual. And, if the preacher were to forget to invite the children to leave, it would throw off the Sunday morning groove. It doesn’t take much for a practical act to become ritualized.
So when we get to the temple in our Gospel text this morning, we need to remember that the scene we find ourselves in has it’s roots in small practical acts that have become a part of the worship experience.
The temple was divided into many parts, there was the innermost Holy of Holys where God dwelt, then outside of that was the place where the priests would stand and offer up the sacrifices of the men who presented them stood below. Beyond the men, stood the women and children, who weren’t permitted to stand with the men. And past the women and children was the outer portico, where the Gentiles were invited to come in and experience God. And it’s in this outer portico, or porch that we find Jesus in the text this morning.
Even though this outer portico was where the Gentiles were supposed to worship, it was also the only place that men, women, priests, children, and outsiders could all gather together. And so, as people began to come from further and further away, bringing with them foreign currencies and maybe not unblemished animals, it made sense to allow Gentiles to exchange denarii for shekels so people could pay the temple tax, and for locals to sell unblemished animals so that people could offer up pure and holy sacrifices. This becomes more and more common until Jesus enters and sees this absurd circus that has become commonplace.
And Jesus flips out when we sees this circus. I can imagine Jesus walking through the outer porch taking in the moneychangers exchanging coins, and the men haggeling over the price of a particular bull, and the doves cooped up in cages around this sacred space - this place that has been intended so that outsiders might be able to worship God. As Jesus passes through, his rage builds until finally he can’t take it anymore. He snaps, grabs a bunch of cords, and starts shaking things up. He kicks out all the animals and these people who are preventing the Gentiles from being able to worship.
His act tells us that these rituals are no longer practical. God doesn’t need animal sacrifices at the temple anymore because God dwells in the body of Jesus Christ. God dwells among the people, not in a heaven light years away or in a stone temple, but in flesh and blood among the living. These rituals are keeping the Gentiles out, and are no longer helping the Jews experience God wholly.
Jesus’ anger at these ritualized sacrifices isn’t exactly new. We have heard the prophets say similar things just a few months ago. Amos says, “I hate, I despise your solemn assemblies and your sacrifices.” God has already told the chosen people that what is important are our interactions with one another, not stuffy rituals to “get on God’s good side.”
So Jesus flips out, tangibly reminding those who can see him that God doesn’t care about temple taxes or animal sacrifices. God wants women and men to be invited to experience God in the flesh and blood. Not through priests, but through the Incarnated Word made flesh.
Seeing Jesus flip tables in the temple makes me wonder if he wouldn’t do the same thing if he were to come into our sanctuary. Would Jesus be angry that our understanding of worship was to come in on Sunday mornings and sing hymns from a hundred years ago and recite words to a creed that were written almost 2000 years ago? Would Jesus come in, and flip our tables, telling us that there is more to worship than just these rituals that we have been reciting for most of our lives? Would Jesus say, “Where are you worshipping in the world? Where are you worshipping at the Welcome Table? Or at ABCCM? Or at the pub? Or in the movie theater? Where is your living sacrifice? Your spiritual worship? Where are you inviting people that are different from you to experience God in their lives? In the places that God has given them to be sacred? Why aren’t you there?”
Elie Wiesel tells a story about how ritual is lost in favor of true spiritual worship.
When the great rabbi Israel Bal Shem Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews, it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished and the misfortune averted.Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Maggid of Mezeritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: “Master of the Universe, listen! I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer.” Again the miracle would be accomplished.Still later, Moshe-Leib of Sassov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forrest and say, “I do not know the prayer, but I know the place and this must be sufficient.” It was sufficient and the miracle was accomplished.Then it fell to Israel of Rizhin to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: “I am unable to light the fire and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is tell the story, and this must be sufficient.” And it was.
Isn’t it enough to tell the story of God’s love and grace on the cross?
Can we hold on to our rituals as long as they help us tell the story of God’s love and grace? Of course we can. And we should. It’s why we continue to baptize, to share in Eucharist, and to share in the words that have shaped what it means to be a Christian for almost 2000 years.
But, can we let go of rituals that keep us from seeing God in the presence of those outside of our church building? That’s harder. It’s harder to see where God is present in a conversation at a pub that can never be repeated and is beautiful and spiritual because of it’s one singular moment. It’s harder to see where God is present in the ramblings of a homeless man standing on the street corner, how by offering to feed this man, we feed God. It’s harder to see where God is present in someone whose life looks so different from ours, whose faith seems so strange and foreign. But then, if it was easy, it wouldn’t be called a sacrifice would it? Amen.
I recently finished Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist. His book is an amazing glimpse into the culture of pre and post 9/11 America, and America's reactions to the attacks on the Twin Towers in the global arena.
The book's plot itself is the story of a young man from Pakistan who finds himself in America before and after the attacks on September 11, and chronicles how his life is transformed by American reactions.
The other part of the book chronicles his relationship with a woman who is depressed following the loss of her boyfriend, and how she slowly loses her grip on the present as she chases after the past.
Both storylines are interesting because they provide non-Western insights into the thoughts and ideas that pervade much of American culture - how to deal with mental illness and our understanding of fundamentalism.
Starting with the easier of the topics first - mental illness. There's a line from the book that comes after Changez (the main character) finds out that his girlfriend has checked herself into a mental institution:
...hers was an illness of the spirit, and I had been raised in an environment too thoroughly permeated with a tradition of shared rituals of mysticism to accept that conditions of the spirit could not be influenced by the care, affection, and desire of others. (140-141)
What strikes me about this sentence is the idea about "shared rituals of mysticism" and how they can and should relate to conditions of the spirit. That rituals have power, and mysticism provides connection to something greater than oneself seem to be important components about how humans work that we've lost in the West.
We are so focused on our individualism and belief that we can solve our own problems (producerism) have so permeated our culture, that instead of becoming independent and interdependent, helping one another and being able to live in real relationships with one another we have become isolated. Our focus inward prevents us from being shaped by the real people we come across in our daily lives.
Instead, our lives are shaped by books we read, the leaders of political parties we'll never meet, and the storybook plots of many movies. We use these people and ideas to build walls that isolate us and prevent us from actually being transformed by other living breathing humans we meet.
And, these walls also isolate us and prevent us from being transformed by the mystical - by God.
The key to "shared rituals of mysticism" is that these rituals destroy the walls that we have built around us. These rituals allow God to break into what is happening in our lives and transform the story that we are writing behind the walls - opening us up to something new.
And because these rituals are shared, other people come in with God through these walls. They burst in to remind us that regardless of what we want to believe, we are not alone, that we are not isolated. And that they are capable and want to care for us, and want us to be transformed.
Typically, however, instead of allowing God burst through the walls during the "shared rituals of mysticism" we reinforce the walls by participating in the "individual rituals of secularism."
For Changez in the book, these rituals are the fundamentals of capitalism - to make sure that the profit is greater than the cost. For much of the book, these rituals create walls that protect him from the pain of true connection and true pain and true love. Much like our own rituals create the same barriers in our lives, regardless of what we pursue.
The fundamentals of capitalism that Changez pursues brought to my attention just how pervasive and easy fundamentalism actually is. Typically, we think of religious fundamentalism, and how "crazy" their rhetoric sounds to our "refined sensibilities," yet it's deeper than that.
I think that humans have an innate desire for things to be simple and understandable. And we will pursue simple answers because we think that they must be the most correct. Occam's Razor (when presented with multiple solutions, the simplest one is correct) is the principle by which we live most of our lives. We will avoid complicating things unless we absolutely have to, which means that we will seldom question the status quo because that makes things messy.
It's why we've allowed slavery for many years. It's why we allowed women to be kept from having an equal voice for so long. It's why racism still permeates much of our culture, even though we would never admit it. It's why LGBT rights have to be fought for. Changing these things required questioning the status quo. It requires complications. It requires tearing down the walls that we have built to keep others out.
And ironically, many of these belief stem out of a "religious fundamentalism" to some degree. Some unquestioning belief that these are the way things should be. And whether it's the God of Abraham or Jesus Christ or money, we tend to keep things simple. We want our God to keep things neat and orderly.
Which is more than a bit ironic because God doesn't exactly do neat and orderly. God invites us time and time again to "get our hands dirty" to make a mess of things, so that we might truly understand one another and God more clearly. Anytime we become devoted to one particular idea or fundamental, we build another wall to keep ourselves isolated and protected.
We need "shared rituals of mysticism" to help us overcome and get through these walls. We need to allow God to break into our lives and transform our stories. We need other people to be just as vulnerable as we are, so that we might find healing in each other. And maybe, we need to start participating in "shared rituals of mysticism" with those of different faiths and backgrounds, to keep us from becoming fundamentalists to whatever idea seems to be good at the time.
This piece tells a story. It is shouting at us to see this man waiting for his lover by the club door. We don't know why he's waiting. We don't know who he is. And yet, in this waiting man we are able to see more than just the man. We see his love. We see his grief over the absence of his lover. We see parts of ourselves in this work that we can relate to.
This picture tells a story of the human condition. In this man we see our neighbors, our friends, our family.
In this man we see ourselves.
We are drawn to portraits like this one because in the subject of the portrait we can see a glimpse of ourselves. In their portraits we see their humanity.
And in their humanity, we see art.
There is precedent for looking at humanity as an art.
"So God created humankind in God's image, in the image of God, God created them; male and female God created them." (Genesis 1:27)
The image of God.
Images. Icons. Photographs. Portraits. People.
All of humanity is created in the image of God.
Do we stop to take the time to seek this image of God in our neighbor? Do we only see the image of God in icons, or photographs, or portraits? Do we listen to what God says outside of scripture?
We look people who surround us, at the theater, at the coffee shop, at the bar, at work, on the side of the road, but do we see them?
Do we stop to talk to them? Do we see their faces? Do we listen to stories?
Do we find the image of God in them?
Or do we need someone to take their picture like Brandon from Humans of New York? Someone who is willing to stop, look at these women and men who get passed by day after day, listen to their stories, and then take their picture? Someone who shouts that we might stop, look, and listen ourselves?
"I'm homeless, and I'm an alcoholic. But I have a dream."
"What's that?"
"I wanna go fishing."
"It's kinda weird having a child of my own, because I'm seeing all the things that my father missed."
Stop. Look. Listen.
It doesn't seem that hard, but we miss these opportunities all the time.
We make excuses. We tell ourselves we don't have time to stop. We tell ourselves that we have already seen our neighbor. We tell ourselves that we can't talk to the stranger. We say we're doing it to protect ourselves or our families.
We tell ourselves anything to avoid someone who is different from us.
How many different encounters of God are we missing when we do this though?
I've already talked about the "cacophony of voices" that Scripture uses to help us understand bits and pieces of God. But what about the beautiful collage of images that God has created in each and every people that we encounter each and every day?
In this guy?
Or these children?
Or this woman?
All of these people, and many more reflect God in their appearance, in their actions, and in their lives. They all have families, friends, hopes, dreams, fears, joys, griefs, trials, tribulations, and celebrations - stories that are important and powerful. They live complex and complicated lives that mirror our very own. They walk the same journey that you and I will walk every day.
But we get so caught up in our journeys that we simply walk past them, even though we're all walking through life together. We miss out on hearing and being a part of their stories, that are just as delightful, terrifying, or heartbreaking as our own.
"If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing."
When we don't stop, we walk past God.
When we don't look, we miss seeing God's face.
When we don't listen, we deafen ourselves to God's story.
Let's stop making excuses.
Let's stop looking at people as objects that are either in our way or are a means to an end.
Let's start looking at people as subjects worthy of the same care, attention, and devotion that any artist puts into their work.
Let's start looking at people with the same awe and reverence we give to works of art such as the Mona Lisa or the Sistine Chapel. Let's start appreciating the living art that God creates and places in our lives every day.
This sermon was delivered to the people of The Lutheran Church of the Nativity on Sunday, November 10, 2013. The text that the sermon is based on is Amos 1:1-2; 5:14-15, 21-24.
What is justice?
Merriam-Webster defines justice as: the maintenance or administration of what is just especially by the impartial adjustment of conflicting claims or the assignment of merited rewards or punishments.
That seems a little lackluster for our text from Amos. I mean, Amos’ words are full of what we might call “poetic justice.” It’s language that is rich in imagery and meaning. It’s full of passion and energy. Merriam-Webster doesn’t seem to be doing the text much justice.
So then, where can we turn? What about the justice that we see in movies and television shows? Is justice something akin to what Robin Hood and Batman do? Where people get their “just deserts” for lying, cheating, or stealing their way to wealth and prosperity. Is God’s justice like that of a vigilante, who makes sure people get what’s coming to them, especially when the law fails?
A Batman-esque God seems to work. Thinking of Batman Gotham City with it’s great disparity between the 1 percenters and the rest of the population is very similar to the Israel that Amos is speaking to in this mighty proclamation. For both Batman and Amos, we see how the rich and wealthy are crying out because of the “filth and poverty” that surround them. The wealthy in both cases seem to miss the fact that their misuse of power and money has caused the great disparity in both landscapes. And both Batman and Amos work to bring about a justice that is comforting for those who have been oppressed, but is anything but comforting to those who have been oppressing the lower classes.
And this view of justice really speaks to us in our society today. Remember the “Occupy Wall Street” and “I am the 99%” from a few years back? We see in our very own country a wealth disparity that happens, typically at the expense of the middle and lower classes. People in these lower classes that have been neglected by society turn to violence, drugs, and crime as a way of making ends meet because it looks like all other doors have been shut by them. Voices cry out for justice all over the country - those who have money are discouraged by the violence and crimes of those who don’t have money. And those who don’t have money cry out for a little more equality in the status quo.
This is exactly why heroes like Batman, Robin Hood, and others who “rob from the rich and give to the poor” are so popular. We all want justice and we see it in Batman and Robin Hood.
And yet, even this heroic view of justice seems to fall a little flat when we try to understand God’s justice. God’s justice is filled with mercy and grace. I’m not sure the last time I saw Batman be merciful to a bad guy.
So, then what is God’s justice?
This “feels” like an important question. We see the prophets in particular focus in on living justice. Amos and Micah in particular focus on the fact that God doesn’t desire people to gather together and worship in a particular setting or by saying a few “right words.” God doesn’t desire sacrifices. God isn’t even looking for good singers or beautiful music. God desires justice.
And if God desires justice, shouldn’t we know what that means? Shouldn’t we have an idea what it is God is asking of us? We don’t want to let God down?
As I’ve been wrestling with this over the past week, trying to pin down an answer to what it means to live God’s justice I realize that it’s not as simple as coming up with a step-by-step guide to living a godly life. I can’t live out a justice rooted in mercy and grace if I write it down into some sort of moral code or law, because as soon as I think I’ve got it phrased just right, I will immediately run in to some situation that breaks every idea of justice that I’ve just codified.
Try as I might, I will never be able to pin down exactly how to make justice roll down like waters. I cannot describe how righteousness will flow like an ever-flowing stream. I can only dream and imagine.
I can dream like Amos dreamed, of a day when the lines between the wealthy and the impoverished will be blurred. Of a day when there will be no way to distinguish between those who had money and those who have never had money. There will be no way to distinguish between the 1% and the 99%. Amos dreamed of a day when no person would go without. Of a day when God’s justice will come rushing down over the world, wiping away all of the walls that the wealthy have built to keep the poor out.
I can dream like Susan B. Anthony dreamed, of a day when the lines between male and female will be blurred. Dreams of a day when we no longer look at a person’s gender to make decisions about their strengths and abilities. Anthony dreamed of a day when no person would be turned away because of their gender. Of a day when God’s justice will come rushing down over the world, wiping away the walls that men build to keep women out.
I can dream like Martin Luther King Jr. dreamed, of a day when the lines between black and white will be blurred. Dreams of a day when there will be no way to distinguish between the two races. Dreams of a day when there is no distinguishing where someone came from. King dreamed of a day when no person would be excluded based on the color of their skin. Of a day when God’s justice will come rushing down over the world, wiping away all of the walls that whites built to keep those who are of a different race out.
I dream the dream that women and men have been dreaming for thousands of years. I dream of a day when we no longer say, “me vs. you” I dream of a day when we no longer exclude someone based on how much money they have, how they look, or who they love. I dream of a day when no one is turned away because they are “different” or “weird.” I dream of a day when God’s justice will come rushing down over the world, wiping away all of the walls that we build to keep the “others” out.
I dream the dream Jesus dreamed when he said, “Out of the believer’s heart shall flow rivers of living water.” Or, to say it better. “I dream of a day when those who carry my name do their part to tear down the walls that we have built around me and you, so that no matter who they are looking at, they see a brother or sister in the family of God. That those who truly worship me, come to the holy table, are swept up by the waters of justice, grace, and mercy, and flow into the world, creating new rivers and streams and waterfalls wherever they go, that all the world might experience the gift of new life found in the removal of these walls.”
Maybe we can define justice after all. Maybe justice is being able to welcome our sisters and brothers in Christ all over the world back into the family. Isn’t that what God wants? God wants us to all be able to look at one another and no longer see rich or poor, male or female, white or black, straight or gay, Christian or Muslim, but rather to welcome the person we see standing there as a child of God. To embrace their differences so that our differences might be embraced. To embrace their flaws so that our flaws might be embraced by them. To embrace and be embraced so that we might all find God’s healing and righteousness.
I love Amos’ dream, Susan B. Anthony’s dream, Martin Luther King Jr.’s dream, the dream of all of us who are dreaming God’s dream. This dream of justice that overflows with compassion. This dream that tears down walls in the name of God’s love for all people. This dream of righteousness and relationships that allow all men and women, you and me, to become an “us” that lives in to the grace-filled life we experience in the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
