Sunday, January 29, 2017

political blessings.

Let’s get something straight about discipleship today.

There’s a cost to following Jesus. 
The gospel life declares that we will be last.
We will lose the preferred life. 
We will die into Christ.

And this is political because politics is defined as “the collective work of the people for the sake of common good”. Jesus did not come for ideas or rules or systems. He came for our breath and our heartbeats and our complicated relationships as creatures of God. He came because God's people have been enslaved time and again to earthly masters who do not do justice, love kindness, or walk humbly with God. He came to break our chains.

Discipleship is inconvenient and counter-intuitive at every turn. By design, it afflicts the Empire’s agenda, every self-serving urge, every tantalizing law disguised as the answer to justice or salvation or smug satisfaction.

I say YES to the separation of Church and State because Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection are not meant to sync with the Empire, our earthly compromises, our faliable forms of power. But this does not mean that faith is apolitical, that when the gospel calls attention to the disparity between our will and God's will we should turn the volume down because it's uncomfortable.

The gospel’s politics are made for agitation. The ministry of Jesus was enough to pit religious leaders and elders against his call for mercy and justice that is rooted in the scripture they know well:

Welcome the stranger.
Care for the widow.
Let the little children come.
See and feed the ones who overwhelm or inconvenience you.
Give up your seat at the table for the ones waiting outside.

These aren’t suggestions or fables. They are a lifestyle that breeds discomfort with the status quo and builds resistance to the Empire and its worldly excuses. It was enough to silence him with crucifixion. 

Jesus reminds us that we can only serve one Master. 
We and our ancestors have a recorded habit of choosing
our safety
our success
being right
being in control
being first
being comfortable every time.

For this hot mess, Jesus came.

Friends, if you feel torn apart by this political season, this test of patriotism, this paranoid shouting match between alt-right and reality, between left and right, between America and the world, it’s because you are, not just neighbor from neighbor, but within your own self.

You have ears for the Empire and ears for the gospel
            and it tears you apart.
You have an allegiance to saving yourself and redemption in Christ
            and it tears you apart.
You have faith in fear and faith in the one who says, “Do not fear”
            and it tears you apart.

So let’s get something straight about discipleship today.

There’s a cost. Our relationship between Empire and Heaven is messy and political and exhausting and it’s supposed to be. 

Do not be confused about the task at hand. The Empire will tempt you to believe that discipleship requires your piety, your perfection, your resolute strength all day long. But the gospel needs your vulnerability, your honesty, your weakness, your compassion, and your trust in the Holy Spirit to hold us together as the body of Christ as it has for thousands of years. Where to begin?

·      Acknowledge the many comforts the Empire gives you, always in exchange for your quiet compliance with the world.
·      Confess the ways you receive these gifts, convinced that you need them and deserve them and earned them, no matter how they pit you against the neighbor and stranger.
·      Craft a way to use these privileged gifts beyond yourself for the sake of the gospel, for the sake of the world turned upside down by Jesus, who wakes you up and tears you from chains, offering something more beautiful and courageous to do with your life.

There is nothing convenient or tranquil about the Beatitudes. It is a radical secret told to a few who gathered on the mountain, high above the Empire to hear the truth: God’s justice will not be trampled by fake news, fear mongering, noisy politicians, or the test of time. Christ has come to invert blessing and joy and power for the sake of those forgotten, refused, belittled, threatened, and destroyed by the powers of this world.

We cannot set this necessary and risky goodness apart from politics, the collective work of the people for the sake of common good, for the gospel does not bow at lines set by the Empire.  No, it has come and will come until we have been torn apart from everything that separates us from the love and justice of God.

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him.  Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:  "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.  "Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.  "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.  "Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.  "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.  "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.  "Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  "Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.  Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you. 

This is how fiercely we are loved. We have been saved and we are still being saved and we will forever be saved by news that is costly and death that is broken and work that agitates the cozy, sanitized illusions of our faith.

You see, the gospel is political because it is what the people need.
It is everything the Empire is unwilling to risk.

So take the secret down the mountain, friends.
Tell the world what it means to be torn apart for the sake of God's love and justice.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017


"Anointed on Wednesdays"

We mix lavender with a jar from the top shelf
in the old kitchen cupboard,
cooking oil made holy and wonderful with strong scent.
Sometimes we laugh into this ordinary mystery
while the bowl is passed around.
We say the words
moving our fingers over the temples of strangers and friends –
up and down, side to side.
Sure, it is just oil.
But the minutes are sacred since
we stand so close together,
seeing each other with truth and courage
speaking the ancient recipe for relief and belonging:
You are a beloved child of God.
If you are standing near Linda
you hold the bowl for her, too;
if you are with Johnny
you offer your eyes and gently guide his hand to another.
There is no rush.
We are not more or better anointed when this is accomplished easily
so we move the gift about with openness and wonder.
Her eyelashes flutter because it is good news.
He holds your gaze because he needs it.
Then you pass the bowl with anticipation
for your turn
because after all these years
there is a rush to this claim on your life.
When you notice its shine in the mirror that night

you are glad to be chosen beyond yourself.

Saturday, December 24, 2016

squished together.

Portions of a Christmas Eve sermon.

Friends in Christ, God has come. Christ is with us. Grace and peace to you from the God who shows up tonight whether we’re ready or not, because God is all in and we are fiercely loved beyond our wildest dreams. Amen.

The Christmas story begins by pinpointing this moment among secular, political superstars: Emperor Augustus and Governor Quirinius. Lest we wander into tonight as a fairy tale or myth, Luke reminds us that God became flesh in the midst of an Empire – in the midst of borders and policy and wars and oppression and pomp. His birthdate is marked by current events and a Roman calendar, much like ours.

And then the tale takes a sharp turn toward the Plain Janes and Joe Blows:
  • A pregnant teenager awkwardly timing her contractions, who just months ago was one prophetic dream away from being scorned or stoned right out of history
  • A dutiful patriarch heading home to be counted, prepare for judgment and gossip from fourth cousins about his pregnant fiancĂ©
  • And shepherds, the hired help working the night shift for the sake of other peoples’ sheep, smelly and grazing along the edge of Bethlehem where they are so easily forgotten and unseen.
 Travelers and Tenants. They don’t have much power to wield in the world, but this message of a savior’s birth draws them together to witness, to adore, to participate in something brand new and much bigger than their ordinary, individual lives.

The angel appeared to the ones we’d least expect, barely named and on the fringe, so small to be tangled up in a tale with Augustus and Quirinius.  Even so, they are the ones noticed and claimed by the announcement each time: Do not be afraid. This is happening. God is all in. Salvation is here and you get to be part of it. Come and adore him.

It’s a beautiful thought, these ordinary people – Mary, Joseph, and the shepherds – they are drawn to the manger through fear, angels, dreams, and wonder. It sounds like an invitation show up with all kinds of people you didn’t think would be invited – to be started by your own inclusion and then startled again that travelers and tenants of every kind are there too.
Christ is born! This is for me! Oh, wow. And for him. And her. And even them?

And yet our depiction of the nativity can seem like a quiet haunt apart from the census and crowds, one barn in the shadows of town.

Our family has a small wooden nativity scene that is treated as a very interactive toy in our living room. Last week I found the three magi lined up neatly near one sheep, a shepherd, and a headless Mary.

Yikes. I imagined that Mary had, quite literally lost her mind at 39 weeks pregnant and these visitors had showed up too early, unwelcome. Jesus hadn’t been born yet and Joseph was missing in action, probably at a CVS buying Tums, ice cream, and diapers.

Over the course of the next week, Mary’s head was reglued and we found Joseph under the couch. Tonight baby Jesus joins them in the manger. But still too set apart from the rest of the world.

I guess I've been haunted by the minimalism of this birth announcement: its isolation and rejection. Mary gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room in the inn.

Completely turned away? This would have been impossible for Joseph, a son of David. Naming the particular patriarchs in his ancestral line would have required even distant relatives to provide hospitality, to find them a place, to welcome them home.

The word used here for inn appears only one other time in Luke’s gospel, when Jesus and the disciples share the Last Supper in the upper room of a private home. This sent me seeking more information about ancient Israeli architecture. What did houses look like, anyway? 

It didn't take me long to learn that most Israeli homes in that region were three stories.
  1. The first level was a common living space with a dirt or straw floor. This space had an adjoining stable and, on chilly nights, the animals were brought in to keep warm.
  2. The second level was a more personal sleeping and eating space for the family and guests, a warm place that was likely already booked solid with visitors for the census.
  3. The third floor was open air and might have been used for laundry and work, but too exposed for sleeping.

Perhaps verse 7 tells us that there was no place for them in the upper room, where privacy and comforts were available. Instead, Mary and Joseph bedded down among the animals in from the chill, welcomed into the most chaotic, messy, vulnerable, and public part of the family’s home.

I’ll admit that I’m falling for this translation tonight because I want to believe that
  • Jesus is born into our tiny foyers that never fit all the shoes and coats
  • Mary and Joseph were navigating a situation in which the futon wouldn't pull out because the manger was in the way
  • curious relatives listened to labor pains from upstairs, simultaneously excited and irritated about one more baby coming to be counted by the census
I want to believe that Jesus was born into these thin and sacred spaces
  • between public and private
  • between hospitality and good intentions,
  • between landowners and the animals who graze the land
I want to believe that Jesus has come into our hinge moments
  • the cracks in our souls
  • between lonely tears and the warm embrace of a friend’s consolation
  • into elections that trigger every emotion
  • at dinner tables filled with family tension and conversational landmines
I want to believe that there was at least one introvert in the house that night who wandered up to the third story to get some air, who saw the star brightly shining above and thought, 

“It’s beautiful.  It’s shining just for me and yet it is surely for each of them downstairs, too. The ones tucked away and the ones up late gossiping. The ones snoring softly and the ones hogging the bathroom. The ones I was so excited to see and the ones who fill me with fear, loathing, and trepidation. It shines for all of them, whether they see it or not.” 

A light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it.

I think I will add two stories to my little wooden nativity set. For the Christmas story is not a fable set in the seclusion of a peaceful barn. No, it is a story that squishes us together with hospitality that says, We’ll make room. We'll find you something.

It invites us to be together under one roof with a whole cast of characters, for better or worse, reimaging family and relationships and home through the Christ child, who says,

“This is the Kingdom of God. The Empire will continue to count you as tokens and numbers, but in here you are family, however distant. You belong, you are welcome. What you see is what you get. It’s a mess, but here are some swaddling clothes and don’t mind the animals.”

This Christmas, hear the invitation to come inside where it is warm enough. We offer what we have to give because we belong to each other for the sake of the good. And, in the chaos and vulnerability between what is public and private, we are met by the Son of God who sees our true selves and decides

Yes. Yes! This is the perfect place to be born.  

Thursday, December 1, 2016


Chapter 23: A Retelling
Jesus denounces the "Good Christians"

Then Jesus said to the crowds and the disciples, “The church goers - those inside the structure and comforts of the institution - they know scripture and tradition well, so do whatever they teach you and follow it, but do not do as they do, for they do not practice what they preach.

They bury themselves in presentation and good order, which heaps expectations on those who do not already subscribe to the checklists of their own pious creation. They put on their Sunday best and greet you with simple pleasantries, “How are you? Good! Great!”, avoiding your jagged edges and damaged parts. These are precisely the pieces of you that need the body of Christ, but these things are messy, inconvenient, and distract from their sensibility and success at discipleship.

They will speak about their 
as accomplishments earned and gold stars on the road to salvation, flattered that others have noticed their noble efforts. They love their pastors and priests, their teachers and mentors, who have abandoned the call to justice for administrative details and sanitized the gospel so it can compliment the Empire’s more imminent demands.

The Good Christians have forgotten to resist what is evil, providing so much pleasant nature and certainty while they stray from humility and mercy, preferring pomp and circumstance, devotional books in the bathroom, or the green pastures of platitudes.

But woe to you, insiders! You have wasted what is risked through the incarnation, preferring a valley of dry bones to dance on, never wondering about the oppression of those bones in the first place. You have glamorized the agony of the cross by still seeking salvation yourselves. You have ignored the resurrection with your comfort zones and your denial of suffering and death.

You fear God left when the the temple was destroyed by Babylon, that you were abandoned and empty. But you are void whenever you claim my body while simultaneously protecting yourselves from transformation. Woe to you when you push my kingdom away preferring the Empire; fruit from the tree that cannot satisfy; your own tower of mortality crumbling. Woe to you when you hear my woe as a threat to all you treasure, for they are pure freedom and you are missing it.

All that you hold dear and claim to be mine will be vacant until you see me coming and say, “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.”

Sometimes I read a biblical passage and I'm quick to deflect its conviction onto others, refusing to accept its deep knowledge of me. I retold Matthew 23 because I cannot deny my status as a hypocritical insider: I robe up. I teach. I protect tradition. I avoid the fact that, daily, discipleship asks me to lose my life. In reengaging this chapter, I was finally able to hear both the threat and the freedom.

Perhaps you, too, are living on the inside and holding fast to everything penultimate. What is Jesus asking you to put down for the sake of truth, justice, and the body of Christ?