Lenten Reflection 2/25

 

Today we begin reading Romans.  It's one of my favorite of Paul's letters - there are some of the most comforting words I've ever read in this letter, and also some of the most challenging.  Got to say one thing for Paul: he's not lukewarm.  As he opens the letter, he defines very clearly what it means to be a Christian.  1. We've been given the gift of new life, and 2. we've been called to an urgent task of sharing this new life with others.  He says to his readers, "You are who you are through this (1. gift) and (2. call) of Jesus Christ!"  What defines us as Christians is what we've been given by God and by what we are called to do through that gift.

In another letter (to the Galatians), Paul famously says that "it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me."  When Paul says that we are granted new life through Christ, he doesn't mean that Jesus' life just enhances our own - he means that it completely replaces it.  We ourselves, our egos and desires and wills, must die - be crucified - so that Christ's new life can enter into us and take us over.  Paul says we need to let go of ourselves completely and allow Christ to live in and through us.  This is both a fearful and wonderful thing - to fully let go and let God.  But if you've ever experienced a taste of it, you know how liberating it is.

Many have felt this awesome love and liberation from God and then tried to vigorously promote it to others.  But I don't think Paul means that we need to shove our experience of God down other peoples' throats.  If we have found ourselves awakened to the liberation of God, others will be attracted to us, and we are then called to find ways to share the strangely good news of God's liberation with others who are struggling.  Paul says this is an urgent task - to reach out to others in this broken world and assure them that they don't have to struggle under the burden of self, but can lay their burdens down and have a whole new life in this way of Jesus.  Paul described this in another way in a different letter: As Christians, we become Christ's ambassadors.

I was really struck by the words "Urgent Task" in the reading today, because as I've been praying the news in these days of Lent, I've come up against a lot of urgency.  Take, for example, the meteorologists that have decided to give winter storms provocative names and seem to relish predicting horrendous disasters.  "Go out and get your milk and eggs and rev up those generators right now - you're going to be trapped under a snowdrift for weeks!"

And this morning, once the news about the Oscars had been reported, the main story was that the sequester is looming.  This is the last week to avoid it and it's looking likely that we won't.  If this is the case, by the end of March there will be spending cuts across the board that may cause disruptions in many services and the loss of a number of jobs.  Government agencies are already making their layoff plans.

The whole sequester proposal was meant to create a huge sense of urgency - it was thought that no one in congress would be able to abide such random cuts and would therefore be forced to work together across the aisle to create a better solution together.  But it seems that political rancor and drawing lines in sand are more important to politicians than true cooperation on this issue.  It is speculated that politicians, while unwilling to make concessions yet, might actually be hoping that the effects of the sequester will be so awful that no one will be able to blame them for finally "having to" cooperate.  But this morning one commentator said that the worst thing that could happen is that nothing happens - that the cuts take place and there's no real outcry.  Sure, a lot of services and jobs will be lost, but if people don't get up in arms about it, then politicians won't need to do anything differently in the future.  And of course, the people who will suffer most will be those who already rely on public funding.  The poor just get poorer.

The potent combination of partisan politics and public apathy are not good news for our nation.  And I think our leaders are missing what the real urgent task here is.  I know we're not all Christians in this country, but I think the idea of allowing something greater than yourself to take the place of your own ego is a common ideal.  In the realm of politics, this has traditionally been called "working for the common good."  I believe that our leaders need to be ambassadors - not for their own interests - but for the common good.  If the common good were really our most urgent task, our leaders would have to get beyond their own personal or partisan needs for power, influence and getting re-elected to offer true selfless service as the "public servants" they are elected to be.

Today's readings: Jer. 1:11-19; Rom. 1:1-15; John 4:27-42
Elsa is reading The Message translation this year.

Lenten Reflection 2/13

Our mortality is front and center on Ash Wednesday - the first day of the season of Lent.  As the creaky, dry ashes are rubbed into your forehead, the priest says, "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."  This afternoon, about 75 people came to "Ashes to Go" in front of Starbucks.  After Louise and I said a little prayer, applied the ashes and said the words about dust, people would look up, smile, and say thank you.  Thank you?  I just told you that you're going to die and you say thank you?

Old churches were intentionally built with cemeteries right outside their windows to remind the people in the pews of their own deaths every Sunday.  Early monastics would keep all their worldly possessions in their coffins as a reminder of their mortality, and early missionaries would often use their own coffins as their traveling trunks - sometimes even sleeping in them once they arrived at their destination!  There is a certain freedom in living like you're dying - like you've got nothing to lose.  And for the Christian, there is freedom in dying in Christ, for only when we die with him can we be raised into new life.  It's letting go of our own lives to gain them.

I met an Anglican priest from Uganda this morning.  He noted that Ash Wednesday is the one day of the year that you get to visit your own funeral.  And I got to wondering, if I were at my own funeral, what would I like to hear people saying about me?  What kind of love would I hope I'd left behind?  Ash Wednesday is like a wake up call to get moving on making my life into the kind of life that results in the kind of funeral I hope someday to have.  It's also a reminder that I'm already dead in Christ and can therefore trust God in stepping into a whole new life - a whole new me that is more fully in God.

It takes just a small correction of the wheel for a ship's destination to be completely different.  What little corrections can you make in the way you live, love and act in this world to change the outcome of your whole life?  If you can think of even just a little thing you can let go of that will free you from the burden of self, or if you can think of even just a little new practice you can adopt that will mold you more into who you are being called to be - today's the day to start trying these things on.  Lent is a season of practicing being new. 

New Life

So, this morning in my sermon I talked about how Jesus had said to his disciples before his crucifixion that in a little while they would not see him anymore, but then in another little while they would see him again.  They didn't know what he meant, so he went on, telling them that they would soon come into a time of suffering, but that it wouldn't always be that way - it would be like a mother who knows her difficult hour has come and must endure great travail, but then afterward, no longer even remembers her anguish when the joy of a new life arrives.  He said, "You will have sorrow now, but I will see you again and your hearts will rejoice and no one will take that joy from you."

As I was preaching those words, I was thinking about my nephew and his wife up in Massachusetts, whose baby was due on Thursday.  I hadn't heard any news yet, and I was wondering if things had moved into the travail stage yet - and was hoping that maybe they'd already come into the joy part.  After the service this morning I received word - little Eric arrived yesterday - strong and well and everyone is doing fine.  New Life!

It's a new life for his mother, no longer having to carry the baby inside her 24/7, but now needing to carry him in her arms and feed him every hour or two 24/7.  It's a whole new life for his big sister who will have to adjust from being the only one to being the older one.  It's a new life for my nephew, now having both a daughter and a son to love, care for and play with.  And it's certainly a new life for Eric.  I wish I could remember what it felt like to take my first breath and meet my life on earth for the first time!  I'm sure it was quite a shock in some ways.  But at the same time, arriving into my mother's arms for the first time must have been a wonderful moment.

Like all human lives, I know already that Eric's life will have its share of anguish and travail.  And although we are offered new life every day, that doesn't mean our lives won't include both sorrows and joys.  As my new little great nephew's family moves into their new life together today, my prayer for them is this: Trust God in everything, and stay as close to God as you can every moment.  You never know what a day will bring, but whatever it brings, trusting and relying on God brings a joy that no one will be able to take from you.

Blessings upon you, little Eric.

Tenacity

The other day I was casually looking out the office window at some large bunches of daffodils popping up by the wall of the preschool. Marion noticed me and said, "You're looking at the daffodils, eh? They come up through the pavement every year." I took a closer look and saw that the daffodils were not just coming up by the edge of the parking lot as I had assumed, but were, indeed, coming up through the pavement itself.

Marion continued, "They were planted there on some grass by the building but when they paved the parking lot, they paved right up to the foundation and the flowers got paved right under. But the next spring they came up right through the pavement anyway."

Kind of amazed that daffodils had the ability to come up through thick cement, I asked, "How long ago were they paved under?"

"Oh, I don't know," Marion said. "Must be thirty years ago or more."

As I marvelled at the tenacity and longevity of these tough bulbs, (notice that these 30+ year old pavement-defying daffodils are not even a bit spindly) I immediately saw a parallel with Grace Church itself. No matter what has been paved under here in the last few decades, something beautiful continues to tenaciously bloom right through the layers of concrete. The Spirit is still undeniably alive and strong among us despite any of our past losses or conflicts, and I often notice it blooming with great beauty in the most unlikely places around here.

After hearing this story from Marion, I figured I really hadn't needed to preach an Easter sermon this year. I could have just led everyone outside to look at these daffodils, which despite being completely buried in their tomb of concrete, rose up in new life, and continue to do so year after year. Their courageous, sunny faces seem to be crying out, "Nothing is impossible with God!"