After six weeks of tarrying in the gospel of John, the lectionary suddenly drops us back into the gospel of Mark in the middle of a debate between Jesus and the Pharisees. Jesus and his disciples are eating, but not in the manner proscribed by their faith tradition. The religious leaders of his day, in shorthand, the Pharisees, ask him, ‘Why, Jesus, do your disciples not live according to the tradition (read “rules”) of the elders....?’ Thematically we move from a long meditation on the significance of the Bread of Life — Jesus — to an argument that revolves around purity and following the letter of the law to the point that it excludes people. Quite a shift, indeed!
+
One of the primary questions that this morning’s gospel reading poses is: What happens to us when we get too caught up in minute, legalistic interpretations of scripture or the law? This question is not limited to people of Jesus’ time — hardly so. We see such debates going on in the world-wide church, The Episcopal Church and Anglican Communion today, too, with those who tend toward a more literalistic approach to the bible lamenting the lack of discipline in the rest of the church.
While Jesus is not asking the Pharisees if they know what God hates, he is asking them where their hearts are: Are their hearts open to what God has to say and teach them, or are their hearts hardened? From what Jesus says, quoting directly from the prophet Isaiah, his answer is clear: ‘This people honours me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me; in vain do they worship me, teaching human precepts as doctrines.’ And then he accuses the Pharisees of abandoning the commandment of God and holding to human tradition.
What is the commandment of God? Simply, to love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. This commandment comes straight out of the Book of Deuteronomy (its name comes from the Latin, The Second Law, but in Hebrew, its name is derived from the first word of the book, debarim, ‘words’). Much later in the Gospel of Mark, Jesus will tell the community what the second commandment is: The second is this, ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these. Love of God, love of neighbour. These are the foundations of one’s life in God.
Jesus faces a group of people who uses a myriad of laws to keep people away from God rather than find ways to include them in the richness of God’s promise of mercy for humankind. And that is why Jesus’ ire is up.
Since purity laws are not part of our reality, perhaps it would be useful to explain some of what is going on here. The Pharisaic custom of purity laws created a system in which those who could observe the laws were part of the in-group and those who could not were part of the out-group. The purity code was basically a form of maintaining group boundaries. In this particular system, that which is dirty or impure was out of place in the system and that which was clean or pure was in place. The purity code not only determined what was polluted but also when one should pray and with whom one could associate and where one could go. But most important was a hierarchy of things clean and unclean.
Keeping purity laws was a near impossibility for peasant farmers who may not have had the required water for ritual baths, or for fishers who came in constant contact with dead fish, animals and the like. Equally at a disadvantage were those like Jesus and his disciples who travelled about.
Jesus consistently got himself into trouble with the Pharisees because he disregarded their boundaries. He did not observe their rules of worship or their rules about places or people. Jesus touched (and in some cases was touched by) those considered impure: women, the dead, tax collectors and sinners. His disregard for the Pharisees’ total system was not out of contentiousness but rather out of his understanding that rules can sometimes mask what lies in the heart.
What lies in the heart? Good things and bad things. Jesus recites in the gospel passage what is commonly known as a ‘vice list.’ These lists were used frequently in Greek philosophical teachings of the times and referred to acts against the community as well as acts against the individual.
By reminding us that it is not that which we consume that defiles us but what comes out of our hearts, Jesus basically calls the Pharisees to examine the real motivations behind their lists of purity laws. Do they follow them out of a genuine desire to follow God, to love God and neighbour alike, or do they follow these laws as a way to construct a fence around themselves so they will not have to deal with people different from them?
+
What James, in the Epistle we read this morning, was trying to say was the same: that religion and faith, have little to do with keeping the rules, and everything to do with how we respond to our weaker sister or brother. ‘Religion that is pure and undefiled [kosher] before God, the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world.’
The gospel asks us as well: What fences do we construct around us? How do we use purity laws, the bible, or other tests to determine who is in and who is out? How does the church today define who is in and who is out? Is that what the church should be about? Isn’t the church called to gather and leave the sorting to God? Shouldn’t the church be a place for all?
+
There is a raft of moral and ethical and pastoral questions that we deal with day by day that our traditions and laws do not give us room to respond in human and faithful ways. Laws and canons are made for people, not people for laws and canons. Even scripture used literally and rigidly can be oppressive of God’s people.
So we are constantly challenged to see the world and the human family with the eyes of Jesus who made choices from his heart, choices for mercy, justice and with a special option for the vulnerable and poor.
How urgent it is, then, for us to live and proclaim a faith in God, a following of Jesus that sets people free, that holds up love, mercy and justice, no matter how far outside the box we need to live.
Living faithfully is almost always about relationships, with God, with others, with self. Whenever these relationships of faith, trust and love are threatened by rules, the rules have to go. When they are threatened, we need to find other ways to live together, ways that ask us to colour outside of the lines.
+
My dream for Trinity is that when necessary to be faithful to Jesus’ call of mercy and love of neighbour, we may find ourselves colouring outside of the lines. I pray this means that this place may be a house of prayer for all people. My dream is that we live into the mission articulated in Isaiah 61: that we bring good news to the oppressed, bind up the brokenhearted, proclaim liberty to the captives from whatever sort captivity holds them, release to the prisoners, proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour, comfort all who mourn and give them the oil of gladness instead of mourning.
I pray that we see God in one another, and remember that judging what lies in people’s hearts is up to God, not us. I pray that this community can be a witness to God’s love extended to all. And I pray we will find ways to extend that message to others, especially to those who have not yet known God’s gracious love.
With God’s help we can begin to open our hearts to one another, not being afraid to be who we really are. Let us tear down the walls that divide us, and strengthen the bonds of trust. Let us return to the foundations of our life in God by loving God and our neighbour. If we can do that, we will no longer need all our fences and walls. And we can do that, trusting in God. So, let’s begin.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary
[15 August 2009]
Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary 2009
92nd anniversary of the birth of Oscar Romero
It seems as though every year around this time, I find myself looking up at the sky, wanting to see a shooting star. Of course it is the season of the Perseids, the annual meteor shower, that graces the second week of August. It just seems right to stand outside, looking heavenward, hoping to see a falling star.
Even though it is an annual celestial occurrence, scientifically noted, I love the coincidence that the meteor shower always happens the week of that we observe the feast of the Virgin Mary. After all, we celebrate the feast of the woman who was the God-bearer. It is almost impossible not to be partly transported to Christmas Eve, when we look heavenward to find the guiding star. It is almost impossible in the middle of summer not to think of Mary with her new-born child, and want to touch the hope that comes with that moment, found in a bright star.
My mind jumps to the heavens again. Whenever the weather is going to change, the Fairbanks Museum guys speak of a disturbance in the skies. The disturbance might be halfway across the country in Minnesota, but we know that eventually it will make its way to Vermont and do whatever it is going to do.
God’s asking Mary to be the God-bearer truly was a moment of Holy , heavenly Disturbance. Did Mary have any idea when she said YES to God just what sort of a disturbance was going to happen in her world? Did she have any idea really that the child she was going to bear would turn her world upside down? Did she understand how her life would be forever changed by that conversation with the angel?
Her words certainly speak of that upheaval. Even at the moment of saying YES to God, Mary proclaims outrageous words of reversals. And I still wonder, Did she really know what she was doing, what she was saying? Did she really want the world to be so changed? How did she do it? How did she trust?
+
Today also is what would have been Archbishop Oscar Romero’s 92nd birthday. I can see the decorations and signs that surely have been placed at his tomb in the cathedral crypt in San Salvador. Even though the powers that be gussied up his tomb in 2005 and tried to block it off from world-wide pilgrims, I am sure that the people have prevailed and have connected with their saint. (The tip of his mitre in the bronze relief that makes up his new tomb has already become burnished from people, including myself, touching it in attempts to connect with Romero.) Romero exemplifies what it means to say YES to God in the way Mary did, and how that YES leads to holy disturbances that create upheaval in the community, upheaval that leads to a more just society. Not all of us, however, will be martyred as was Romero for saying YES to God.
+
I sometimes struggle with complacency. I wrestle with how I do or don’t say YES to God with the same openness and honesty that scripture portrays Mary doing. I tend to gravitate away from Holy Disturbances.
So am I surprised when in today’s mail I receive a publication that has the following prayer? It is a four-fold Franciscan blessing and the only change I am going to make in it is to change the pronouns from ‘you’ to ‘us’ and ‘we.’ I think this prayer speaks to the example that Mary gave us of saying YES to that Holy Disturbance of God —an example that if we say we are followers of her son, we should live out in our daily life. I invite you to pray this with me silently as I read it aloud.
May God bless us with discomfort at easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships, so that we may live deep within our heart.
May God bless us with anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that we may work for justice, freedom and peace.
May God bless us with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war, so that we may reach out our hand to comfort them and to turn their pain into joy.
May God bless us with enough foolishness to believe that we can make a difference in this world, so that we can do what others claim cannot be done.
And I add to this prayer, May our lives be touched by a Holy Disturbance so that we, too, can say YES to God as our sister Mary did so long ago.
Amen.
Feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary 2009
92nd anniversary of the birth of Oscar Romero
It seems as though every year around this time, I find myself looking up at the sky, wanting to see a shooting star. Of course it is the season of the Perseids, the annual meteor shower, that graces the second week of August. It just seems right to stand outside, looking heavenward, hoping to see a falling star.
Even though it is an annual celestial occurrence, scientifically noted, I love the coincidence that the meteor shower always happens the week of that we observe the feast of the Virgin Mary. After all, we celebrate the feast of the woman who was the God-bearer. It is almost impossible not to be partly transported to Christmas Eve, when we look heavenward to find the guiding star. It is almost impossible in the middle of summer not to think of Mary with her new-born child, and want to touch the hope that comes with that moment, found in a bright star.
My mind jumps to the heavens again. Whenever the weather is going to change, the Fairbanks Museum guys speak of a disturbance in the skies. The disturbance might be halfway across the country in Minnesota, but we know that eventually it will make its way to Vermont and do whatever it is going to do.
God’s asking Mary to be the God-bearer truly was a moment of Holy , heavenly Disturbance. Did Mary have any idea when she said YES to God just what sort of a disturbance was going to happen in her world? Did she have any idea really that the child she was going to bear would turn her world upside down? Did she understand how her life would be forever changed by that conversation with the angel?
Her words certainly speak of that upheaval. Even at the moment of saying YES to God, Mary proclaims outrageous words of reversals. And I still wonder, Did she really know what she was doing, what she was saying? Did she really want the world to be so changed? How did she do it? How did she trust?
+
Today also is what would have been Archbishop Oscar Romero’s 92nd birthday. I can see the decorations and signs that surely have been placed at his tomb in the cathedral crypt in San Salvador. Even though the powers that be gussied up his tomb in 2005 and tried to block it off from world-wide pilgrims, I am sure that the people have prevailed and have connected with their saint. (The tip of his mitre in the bronze relief that makes up his new tomb has already become burnished from people, including myself, touching it in attempts to connect with Romero.) Romero exemplifies what it means to say YES to God in the way Mary did, and how that YES leads to holy disturbances that create upheaval in the community, upheaval that leads to a more just society. Not all of us, however, will be martyred as was Romero for saying YES to God.
+
I sometimes struggle with complacency. I wrestle with how I do or don’t say YES to God with the same openness and honesty that scripture portrays Mary doing. I tend to gravitate away from Holy Disturbances.
So am I surprised when in today’s mail I receive a publication that has the following prayer? It is a four-fold Franciscan blessing and the only change I am going to make in it is to change the pronouns from ‘you’ to ‘us’ and ‘we.’ I think this prayer speaks to the example that Mary gave us of saying YES to that Holy Disturbance of God —an example that if we say we are followers of her son, we should live out in our daily life. I invite you to pray this with me silently as I read it aloud.
May God bless us with discomfort at easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships, so that we may live deep within our heart.
May God bless us with anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that we may work for justice, freedom and peace.
May God bless us with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war, so that we may reach out our hand to comfort them and to turn their pain into joy.
May God bless us with enough foolishness to believe that we can make a difference in this world, so that we can do what others claim cannot be done.
And I add to this prayer, May our lives be touched by a Holy Disturbance so that we, too, can say YES to God as our sister Mary did so long ago.
Amen.
Proper 15B
One of the funniest Russell Baker columns in the New York Times I remember from years ago was his explaining the best book to take on summer vacation: Marcel Proust’s In Search of Times Past (A la recherche du temps perdu). Baker wrote this column well before the publication of the Harry Potter books, one consisting of 732 pages. Chosen because Proust’s writing goes on forever and would certainly last the reader a whole summer (it took me three months to get through half of it in French), his book is a monumental 3000 page opus, divided into seven or nine books (depending on who publishes them). The act of remembering the past begins when Proust dips a madeleine cookie (something like pound cake in the shape of a sea shell) into a cup of tea. Suddenly, he is transported to his childhood and his aunt’s house, doing the same thing. What is most remarkable about Proust’s writing is his capacity to take a single event — a three hour dinner for example — and create 60-70 pages about it. In one memorable description, one sentences goes on for some three pages. I can’t remember how many words it is — I counted them up once and it was something between 500 and 800 words, but then again, French has so many one and two-letter words.
+
John’s Bread of Life discourse does pretty much the same thing on a smaller but much more important scale. This Sunday we hear the last installment of a forty-verse teaching on the significance of the bread that Jesus gives his followers. If there is a sense of déjà vu having heard this morning’s gospel, one is correct. But the teaching also progresses and this morning John’s Jesus gets to the heart of the matter: namely, to eat Christ’s flesh and drink his blood, one must also participate in the crucifixion. Indeed, verse 58 of this gospel passage is the crux of the entire teaching in chapter six: The one who eats this bread will live forever.
John’s Jesus goes far beyond the metaphorical interpretation of Passover bread and wine familiar to us from the last supper scenes in the other three gospels. Here, he speaks with shocking literalness of eating his flesh and drinking his blood. (The Greek term is to ‘munch’ on him.) To Christians familiar with the eucharistic rite, this language would have been dramatic; to outsiders it would be completely scandalous.
The place in which Jesus speaks furthers the dissonance between his teaching and those listening. He teaches in the synagogue in Capernium. Speaking words about eating his flesh and drinking his blood would have certainly offended those who lived their lives according to the teachings of Leviticus and Deuteronomy. Their way of living was based on maintaining a high level of purity. Eating anything that had shed blood was considered unclean. How could this Jewish teacher then invite people to break with the approved norms in such an offensive way?
No doubt about it — Jesus as we meet him in this gospel is demanding, almost aggressive. He takes on the crowds, and through them attacks their and our ignorance, listlessness and spiritual comfort. He challenges them and us to consider the connections among four things we might not necessarily bring together: Jesus’ passion, bread, life and God.
Once again Jesus says that he is the bread of life. But this time he insists on the sheer physical nature of this bread. It is his flesh — the flesh that will be crucified, the body that will be raised up on the cross. This bread, this flesh, he states, I will give for the world.
And then he talks about his blood that will be shed, the blood that flow from his pierced side. He speaks to us in life and death terms. Terms that shock us into awareness that the meal of which we partake week in and week out is something awesome, beyond our real understanding, but something so necessary to our well-being that its shocking nature sustains us. For the meal of which we partake is the only one that can bring us close to God. Jesus makes clear that those who eat his flesh and drink his blood will have eternal life, they will be raised up on the last day; those who eat his flesh and drink his blood abide in him, and he in them.
The idea of abiding in Christ and Christ abiding in us is what gives us life — not just now but always. John’s gospel is fond of the term ‘to abide’; it appears over and over again throughout the gospel. Knowing that through our receiving of the body and blood of Christ we are joined to him and he to us surely is something which sustains us.
+
I know that however it is possible, I will want to receive communion up until the very end, even on my deathbed. I will want to be connected with Christ in that intimate way for as long as it is possible, because I have known over the years how the eucharist has sustained me, even through the desert times. I have seen how the familiar eucharistic words — This is my body, this is my blood — reach and touch the dying, even those who are past the point of communication. Even if in great pain, the person seems to relax, having received communion whether it be by actually consuming the bread and wine or a receiving by a simple placing of a drop of Christ’s blood on their lips. There seems to be just that much more serenity in the person’s soul as she or he travels closer to God and eternal life. I pray that in that moment, the dying person knows that Christ dwells in his or her soul and that he or she dwells in Christ and that Christ has come very close.
A couple of years ago, I attended the funeral of the husband of a colleague. We clergy types were seated off to the side of the church and, as things ended up, I was next to the font. When it came time for communion, it was clear that we weren’t going to be able to get up to the altar rail so we passed the paten and then the chalice amongst ourselves. In our neck of the woods, that meant reaching over the font to the next person. Somehow it all made sense and wonderfully so: in the midst of death, there is life. And the life that sustains us is the bread of life and cup of salvation. And how do we get there? Through baptism, expressed through those living waters in which we die to the old to be born anew in Christ, baptism that will carry us to our dying day. My sister priest later commented on how powerful it was to receive communion, her hands outstretched, over the font. It really was.
+
What about us? Those of us gathered here this morning are perhaps not physically dying but perhaps there is a part of our lives or souls that is dying…dying to the old, dying to the unhealthy, dying to the familiar. How does partaking of the eucharist bring some life to those desert places in our hearts that are dying? How does partaking of the eucharist sustain the weary body? How does partaking of the eucharist remind us that Christ abides in us and we in Christ? How does partaking of the eucharist bring us hope?
Come, eat of Christ’s flesh and drink of his blood… for those who do so will live for ever for he will abide in us and we in him.
+
John’s Bread of Life discourse does pretty much the same thing on a smaller but much more important scale. This Sunday we hear the last installment of a forty-verse teaching on the significance of the bread that Jesus gives his followers. If there is a sense of déjà vu having heard this morning’s gospel, one is correct. But the teaching also progresses and this morning John’s Jesus gets to the heart of the matter: namely, to eat Christ’s flesh and drink his blood, one must also participate in the crucifixion. Indeed, verse 58 of this gospel passage is the crux of the entire teaching in chapter six: The one who eats this bread will live forever.
John’s Jesus goes far beyond the metaphorical interpretation of Passover bread and wine familiar to us from the last supper scenes in the other three gospels. Here, he speaks with shocking literalness of eating his flesh and drinking his blood. (The Greek term is to ‘munch’ on him.) To Christians familiar with the eucharistic rite, this language would have been dramatic; to outsiders it would be completely scandalous.
The place in which Jesus speaks furthers the dissonance between his teaching and those listening. He teaches in the synagogue in Capernium. Speaking words about eating his flesh and drinking his blood would have certainly offended those who lived their lives according to the teachings of Leviticus and Deuteronomy. Their way of living was based on maintaining a high level of purity. Eating anything that had shed blood was considered unclean. How could this Jewish teacher then invite people to break with the approved norms in such an offensive way?
No doubt about it — Jesus as we meet him in this gospel is demanding, almost aggressive. He takes on the crowds, and through them attacks their and our ignorance, listlessness and spiritual comfort. He challenges them and us to consider the connections among four things we might not necessarily bring together: Jesus’ passion, bread, life and God.
Once again Jesus says that he is the bread of life. But this time he insists on the sheer physical nature of this bread. It is his flesh — the flesh that will be crucified, the body that will be raised up on the cross. This bread, this flesh, he states, I will give for the world.
And then he talks about his blood that will be shed, the blood that flow from his pierced side. He speaks to us in life and death terms. Terms that shock us into awareness that the meal of which we partake week in and week out is something awesome, beyond our real understanding, but something so necessary to our well-being that its shocking nature sustains us. For the meal of which we partake is the only one that can bring us close to God. Jesus makes clear that those who eat his flesh and drink his blood will have eternal life, they will be raised up on the last day; those who eat his flesh and drink his blood abide in him, and he in them.
The idea of abiding in Christ and Christ abiding in us is what gives us life — not just now but always. John’s gospel is fond of the term ‘to abide’; it appears over and over again throughout the gospel. Knowing that through our receiving of the body and blood of Christ we are joined to him and he to us surely is something which sustains us.
+
I know that however it is possible, I will want to receive communion up until the very end, even on my deathbed. I will want to be connected with Christ in that intimate way for as long as it is possible, because I have known over the years how the eucharist has sustained me, even through the desert times. I have seen how the familiar eucharistic words — This is my body, this is my blood — reach and touch the dying, even those who are past the point of communication. Even if in great pain, the person seems to relax, having received communion whether it be by actually consuming the bread and wine or a receiving by a simple placing of a drop of Christ’s blood on their lips. There seems to be just that much more serenity in the person’s soul as she or he travels closer to God and eternal life. I pray that in that moment, the dying person knows that Christ dwells in his or her soul and that he or she dwells in Christ and that Christ has come very close.
A couple of years ago, I attended the funeral of the husband of a colleague. We clergy types were seated off to the side of the church and, as things ended up, I was next to the font. When it came time for communion, it was clear that we weren’t going to be able to get up to the altar rail so we passed the paten and then the chalice amongst ourselves. In our neck of the woods, that meant reaching over the font to the next person. Somehow it all made sense and wonderfully so: in the midst of death, there is life. And the life that sustains us is the bread of life and cup of salvation. And how do we get there? Through baptism, expressed through those living waters in which we die to the old to be born anew in Christ, baptism that will carry us to our dying day. My sister priest later commented on how powerful it was to receive communion, her hands outstretched, over the font. It really was.
+
What about us? Those of us gathered here this morning are perhaps not physically dying but perhaps there is a part of our lives or souls that is dying…dying to the old, dying to the unhealthy, dying to the familiar. How does partaking of the eucharist bring some life to those desert places in our hearts that are dying? How does partaking of the eucharist sustain the weary body? How does partaking of the eucharist remind us that Christ abides in us and we in Christ? How does partaking of the eucharist bring us hope?
Come, eat of Christ’s flesh and drink of his blood… for those who do so will live for ever for he will abide in us and we in him.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Proper 13B
The readings over the next couple of weeks make us deal with the nitty-gritty, nuts and bolts aspects of living our lives as followers of Jesus and God. They are not easy readings, some of them; they confront us and don’t leave us room to back away.
Last week after church, someone said to me: I was waiting for one thing in your sermon. I asked what it was. The answer: I was waiting for you to make the connection between the story of David and Uriah with the gospel reading about the feeding of the multitude. My answer: I wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole.
But today I am.
Since June we have been hearing from the Books of Samuel and the story of Samuel and then David. It would be far easier to ignore parts of it — such as what we have heard the past couple of weeks — but sometimes we have to enter into the tough places to be authentic.
Such is this morning’s narrative of David and Natan. The story of David and Bat-Sheva is considered the turning point in the Second Book of Samuel and it certainly is one of the greatest, if not most problematic, biblical tales. It is problematic because God seems supportive of a polygamous society (God gives David Saul’s harem) and now threatens to give David’s harem to another man. We have to deal not only with a distant social order but also with a strange deity.
Beyond that disconnect, tradition has always had a difficult time reconciling the important symbolic figure of David with the base way he appears in this story. Yet Second Samuel considers this story as the root of much that is to follow. Since part of our Anglican understanding of scripture is to look at everything without whitewashing it, we must also consider this story.
I won’t rehearse David’s adulterous raping of Bat-Sheva, but perhaps to clarify the reading we have just heard, you should remember that David has ordered Uriyya to be killed, since he would not sleep with his wife, Bat-Sheva. Uriyya, being a good Jewish warrior, knew that to do so before battle would make him unclean, and so he refused, thereby demolishing David’s alibi that Bat-Sheva was made pregnant by her husband and not by him.
Our reading starts with her learning of his death and David calling for her to come live with him. Life to seems to go on. But enter Natan — in Hebrew, ‘gift from God.’ He knows what David has done—the sin waged against Uriyya, Bat-Sheva, God and himself, David.
He doesn’t directly indict David; instead, he tells him a story. Since it’s a parable, David lets down his guard and doesn’t realise that the story is about him. He becomes outraged and calls for maximum punishment, death, for the man who killed his neighbour’s beloved sheep. Only then does Natan reveal to David that the story is about him.
David’s response is genuine, ‘I have sinned against the Lord.’ It is perhaps the first admission of weakness for this man who is God’s chosen, God’s favourite, God’s anointed. His words echo those of Psalm 51, a psalm of repentence, which we always say on Ash Wednesday.
Despite David’s calling for death for the slayer of the sheep, Natan — now the relayer of God’s gift — will assure David of God’s mercy and that God will not put him to death for his gross misdeed but God will put away his sin. The question is whether David can accept God’s generosity and learn from having received that forgiveness to extend it to others.
How does David react to this forgiveness of his grave sin? David, is not able to receive God’s gift of forgiveness, he can’t open his heart to it, despite having a messenger from God telling him of this gift. It will take him a long, long time to accept God’s gracious forgiveness.
+
Martin Smith, formerly of SSJE, wrote in his classic book on reconciliation, ‘God’s forgiveness is not the reward for having changed one’s life, but the source and condition of that change. Persons forgiven by God can be expected to show by their behavior the new life they enjoy.’ [I loaned the book to someone four years ago, never got it back but it is his 1980s book, Reconciliation, Cowley Press, Cambridge MA.]
+
Jesus never promised that this life of Christian discipleship would be easy. I think extending and receiving forgiveness might be one of the most difficult but life-giving tasks of a disciple.
Radical forgiveness, mirrors God’s absolute love for us. Forgiveness in God’s way means we respect one another. One example comes from Archbishop Desmond Tutu (who is slated to receive a Presidential Medal of Honor) who explains that in Ubuntu theology (that of his homeland), the word ubuntu speaks about the essence of being human: my humanity is caught up in your humanity because a person is a person through other persons. 'Ntu' means human being. In Ubuntu thinking, one sets great store by communal peace and harmony. Anything that subverts this harmony is injurious, not just to the community but to all of us, and therefore forgiveness is an absolute necessity for continued human existence.
‘Forgiveness is not pretending that things are other than they are,’ explains Tutu. ‘Forgiveness is the willingness to face up to the awfulness of what would require forgiving but foregoing the right to retaliate.’ Forgiveness ‘wanting to give others a chance for a new beginning.’
The question is: are our souls so hardened that not even a kind and compassionate God who forgives endlessly can touch us? And, are our souls so hardened that we cannot extend that same forgiveness to others?
What unites us all is God’s vast, unceasing mercy, a mercy so great that it forgives where no human being would ever be able to forgive. With that knowledge, we can take tentative steps toward forgiveness — against God, our neighbour and ourselves. I always add in that last word, ‘ourselves,’ because we just as easily hurt ourselves as we do others. We need to acknowledge that sin as well.
Part of forgiving lies in these six simple words: ‘Deal with it and move on.’ There are different ways of looking at forgiveness. Sometimes it’s forgiving, then living into the feeling, rather than waiting to be ready to do it. And sometimes forgiving entails a more careful, methodical approach. Whichever way we approach forgiveness, it must be a mainstay of our Christian journey.
On thing people in a twelve-step program do is write up a list of their resentments. It’s part of the fourth step of making a searching and fearless moral inventory of oneself — like the steps one takes before making a confession. Periodically doing this step can be useful for us too if seeking forgiveness and letting go is what we need in our life. You start off in the first column with the who. Then in the second, you write the what, what the person did to you. Some can go way back. Next, you look at what aspect of your life is being affected — self-esteem, pocketbook, ambitions, personal relationships, where you were hurt or threatened. Then you write about their part in it — this is where you need to spend the most time because it always involves you.
Then you go back to the list and acknowledge that those who have harmed you are also weak or have behaved inappropriately or have their own issues. As the Big Book says, ‘We avoid retaliation or argument,’ since we don’t treat sick people that way. ‘We ask Gd to show us how to treat them with tolerance, pity, and patience. We pray that Gd will do for them all the things we want Gd to do for us.’ These steps are essential for recovery or, in our terms, forgiveness, or these resentments will continue to dominate us.
But there is more:
We then list next to each name our role in what happened. We look for our own mistakes. Where have we been selfish, dishonest, self-seeking or frightened? Where were we to blame? We do not take the other person’s inventory but our own.
Sometimes when it’s in blue and white on paper and ink, you realise that some resentments aren’t that important any more. Once you narrow it down the list to the ones that still have emotional power over you, then you pray your way out of them because that’s the only thing you can do. Sometimes forgiveness doesn’t come from within but from without, from God. It may come from your subconsciousness but it can just as much come from God. Offering up these discords through prayer is a helpful step for moving on.
These steps are very helpful, not only in identifying issues but moving beyond them. And that’s what we all want. Healing.
+
Regardless of where you are — a David not able to accept God’s forgiveness or a Natan calling someone else to forgiveness — remember that God has loved you from before the beginning. That knowledge can carry you through a lot. As proof of that love, God has given us the Eucharist. So come, be fed, and rejoice in God’s abundant mercy spread out before you.
Last week after church, someone said to me: I was waiting for one thing in your sermon. I asked what it was. The answer: I was waiting for you to make the connection between the story of David and Uriah with the gospel reading about the feeding of the multitude. My answer: I wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole.
But today I am.
Since June we have been hearing from the Books of Samuel and the story of Samuel and then David. It would be far easier to ignore parts of it — such as what we have heard the past couple of weeks — but sometimes we have to enter into the tough places to be authentic.
Such is this morning’s narrative of David and Natan. The story of David and Bat-Sheva is considered the turning point in the Second Book of Samuel and it certainly is one of the greatest, if not most problematic, biblical tales. It is problematic because God seems supportive of a polygamous society (God gives David Saul’s harem) and now threatens to give David’s harem to another man. We have to deal not only with a distant social order but also with a strange deity.
Beyond that disconnect, tradition has always had a difficult time reconciling the important symbolic figure of David with the base way he appears in this story. Yet Second Samuel considers this story as the root of much that is to follow. Since part of our Anglican understanding of scripture is to look at everything without whitewashing it, we must also consider this story.
I won’t rehearse David’s adulterous raping of Bat-Sheva, but perhaps to clarify the reading we have just heard, you should remember that David has ordered Uriyya to be killed, since he would not sleep with his wife, Bat-Sheva. Uriyya, being a good Jewish warrior, knew that to do so before battle would make him unclean, and so he refused, thereby demolishing David’s alibi that Bat-Sheva was made pregnant by her husband and not by him.
Our reading starts with her learning of his death and David calling for her to come live with him. Life to seems to go on. But enter Natan — in Hebrew, ‘gift from God.’ He knows what David has done—the sin waged against Uriyya, Bat-Sheva, God and himself, David.
He doesn’t directly indict David; instead, he tells him a story. Since it’s a parable, David lets down his guard and doesn’t realise that the story is about him. He becomes outraged and calls for maximum punishment, death, for the man who killed his neighbour’s beloved sheep. Only then does Natan reveal to David that the story is about him.
David’s response is genuine, ‘I have sinned against the Lord.’ It is perhaps the first admission of weakness for this man who is God’s chosen, God’s favourite, God’s anointed. His words echo those of Psalm 51, a psalm of repentence, which we always say on Ash Wednesday.
Despite David’s calling for death for the slayer of the sheep, Natan — now the relayer of God’s gift — will assure David of God’s mercy and that God will not put him to death for his gross misdeed but God will put away his sin. The question is whether David can accept God’s generosity and learn from having received that forgiveness to extend it to others.
How does David react to this forgiveness of his grave sin? David, is not able to receive God’s gift of forgiveness, he can’t open his heart to it, despite having a messenger from God telling him of this gift. It will take him a long, long time to accept God’s gracious forgiveness.
+
Martin Smith, formerly of SSJE, wrote in his classic book on reconciliation, ‘God’s forgiveness is not the reward for having changed one’s life, but the source and condition of that change. Persons forgiven by God can be expected to show by their behavior the new life they enjoy.’ [I loaned the book to someone four years ago, never got it back but it is his 1980s book, Reconciliation, Cowley Press, Cambridge MA.]
+
Jesus never promised that this life of Christian discipleship would be easy. I think extending and receiving forgiveness might be one of the most difficult but life-giving tasks of a disciple.
Radical forgiveness, mirrors God’s absolute love for us. Forgiveness in God’s way means we respect one another. One example comes from Archbishop Desmond Tutu (who is slated to receive a Presidential Medal of Honor) who explains that in Ubuntu theology (that of his homeland), the word ubuntu speaks about the essence of being human: my humanity is caught up in your humanity because a person is a person through other persons. 'Ntu' means human being. In Ubuntu thinking, one sets great store by communal peace and harmony. Anything that subverts this harmony is injurious, not just to the community but to all of us, and therefore forgiveness is an absolute necessity for continued human existence.
‘Forgiveness is not pretending that things are other than they are,’ explains Tutu. ‘Forgiveness is the willingness to face up to the awfulness of what would require forgiving but foregoing the right to retaliate.’ Forgiveness ‘wanting to give others a chance for a new beginning.’
The question is: are our souls so hardened that not even a kind and compassionate God who forgives endlessly can touch us? And, are our souls so hardened that we cannot extend that same forgiveness to others?
What unites us all is God’s vast, unceasing mercy, a mercy so great that it forgives where no human being would ever be able to forgive. With that knowledge, we can take tentative steps toward forgiveness — against God, our neighbour and ourselves. I always add in that last word, ‘ourselves,’ because we just as easily hurt ourselves as we do others. We need to acknowledge that sin as well.
Part of forgiving lies in these six simple words: ‘Deal with it and move on.’ There are different ways of looking at forgiveness. Sometimes it’s forgiving, then living into the feeling, rather than waiting to be ready to do it. And sometimes forgiving entails a more careful, methodical approach. Whichever way we approach forgiveness, it must be a mainstay of our Christian journey.
On thing people in a twelve-step program do is write up a list of their resentments. It’s part of the fourth step of making a searching and fearless moral inventory of oneself — like the steps one takes before making a confession. Periodically doing this step can be useful for us too if seeking forgiveness and letting go is what we need in our life. You start off in the first column with the who. Then in the second, you write the what, what the person did to you. Some can go way back. Next, you look at what aspect of your life is being affected — self-esteem, pocketbook, ambitions, personal relationships, where you were hurt or threatened. Then you write about their part in it — this is where you need to spend the most time because it always involves you.
Then you go back to the list and acknowledge that those who have harmed you are also weak or have behaved inappropriately or have their own issues. As the Big Book says, ‘We avoid retaliation or argument,’ since we don’t treat sick people that way. ‘We ask Gd to show us how to treat them with tolerance, pity, and patience. We pray that Gd will do for them all the things we want Gd to do for us.’ These steps are essential for recovery or, in our terms, forgiveness, or these resentments will continue to dominate us.
But there is more:
We then list next to each name our role in what happened. We look for our own mistakes. Where have we been selfish, dishonest, self-seeking or frightened? Where were we to blame? We do not take the other person’s inventory but our own.
Sometimes when it’s in blue and white on paper and ink, you realise that some resentments aren’t that important any more. Once you narrow it down the list to the ones that still have emotional power over you, then you pray your way out of them because that’s the only thing you can do. Sometimes forgiveness doesn’t come from within but from without, from God. It may come from your subconsciousness but it can just as much come from God. Offering up these discords through prayer is a helpful step for moving on.
These steps are very helpful, not only in identifying issues but moving beyond them. And that’s what we all want. Healing.
+
Regardless of where you are — a David not able to accept God’s forgiveness or a Natan calling someone else to forgiveness — remember that God has loved you from before the beginning. That knowledge can carry you through a lot. As proof of that love, God has given us the Eucharist. So come, be fed, and rejoice in God’s abundant mercy spread out before you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)