Holy Innocents, Then and Now

Today the Church remembers the infants slaughtered by Herod, and the flight of the Holy Family to Egypt.  It's a grim reminder that the Gospel is not good news to tyrants.  The fear that lives at the heart of tyranny leads to mass destruction and the worst of lives, both for the victims and for the tyrants.  Jesus interrupts the message that domination is the mark of power, opening a door into the power of vulnerability and openness.  Then and now, power lies in following God and the path of love.  On this day, we see the very human cost of refusing this awareness and substituting our own fear for the rich life we are offered in Christ.

And, as we hear that awful story, we pray for the victims of tyranny today.  We pray for the children sacrificed to the greed and hatred of contemporary "rulers."  We pray for those who grow up in trash heaps, in detention centers, in refugee camps, in hellish "homes."  We pray for those who are separated from their parents by a border or a prison fence; we pray for those sacrificed to someone else's idea of sexual or gender purity; those who are targeted for "ethnic cleansing" or "re-education."

And we pray for the perpetrators of these crimes.  We pray for legislators and for those who enforce the laws they make.  We pray for those who vote for people who would lock up or execute those whose offense is poverty or racial difference.  We pray for ourselves, when we fail to protest.  I pray for myself, for my weak and comfortable heart.  I pray God to announce to the tyrant in me that God is with the poor, the powerless, the forgotten and rejected.  And I pray to respond, not as Herod did, killing the messenger to silence the message, but with courage and compassion.

Some of my Companions are doing this work.  Together we all struggle with how to respond in our own way.  Please pray with me, with us, that we all may be bearers of the good news.

Not My Jesus: A Heretical Rant

We have been reading Matthew's Gospel for months at Vespers, and this week we come to the end before the passion.  Each day we hear another parable of the coming judgment.  We've had the parable of the wicked tenants, the parable of the wedding banquet, the parable of the wicked slave, the parable of the bridesmaids.  Tonight is the parable of the talents (Mt 25:14-31).  Over and over, we hear that people will be thrown into the outer darkness, put to a miserable death, cut in pieces.

Last night was the last straw for me.  The foolish bridesmaids will be locked out of the kingdom.  They missed their only chance.  The bridegroom refuses to know them.

I'm sorry, this is not the God I know.  It's not the Jesus I follow.  The God I know pays the late laborers as much as the early ones; loves the lost; welcomes prodigals.  I believe that Jesus knew that God, and tried to teach the rest of us.  But Matthew missed that lesson.

Now, this is so important because for centuries Matthew was the primary Gospel, the one read in church on Sundays (which meant, for most people, the only one they knew).  His message is great for scaring people into behaving, which served the needs of an imperial Church, but it's not a message for lovers and seekers.  It is a message of hatred and fear cloaked as something else.

I know that's not all that's in Matthew's Gospel.  But there's a lot of it.  And it is toxic.  It deforms those who believe its message, and it perverts the public image of Christianity.  When religious bigots picket, threaten, condemn those they consider sinners, and do it in the name of Jesus, people who are hungry for the love of God decide that they won't find it among the followers of Jesus.

Among the Companions this is a live issue.  We run into this regularly, talking with people who can't believe in the God they were raised to believe in.  They wonder how we can be Christians, since we don't share the politics and ethics of those more visible types.  Maybe you encounter this too.

All I can do is say, That is not my God!  That is not my Jesus!  Matthew had an agenda (as did the other writers, don't get me wrong).  He saw through a glass darkly.  There are other messages in the Scripture, just as "canonical," that counter these threats.

Yes, there's a truth there: we can go to the outer darkness.  But we go there, God doesn't send us.  When we live with hate in our hearts, even (or especially) hatred masquerading as piety, we are in the outer darkness.  When we live in fear of God, we are locked out of the banquet.  But we cast ourselves out - God is waiting for us to find our way in.  God will welcome us.

So what if your oil is low and you're late?  We're so glad you got here!  Have a plate.  Let's dance.  A baby is being born.

Companions

Today our Companions online community will gather for a three-hour mini-retreat.  We have each been invited to choose a favorite annunciation/visitation passage, and to share a short meditation on it with the group.  Then we are each sharing what we need to say yes to, and what we need to say no to in order for the yes to be realized.  And then, how can the community support each of us in those yeses and nos?

As always, I'm moved by the power of community to help us each become more than we can ask or imagine.  I know that without my many communities of practice and ministry I'd be a lump on the couch.  I need all of them, all of you.  Thank God for you all.

I'm looking forward to hearing what my companions have to say.  It makes me curious about you all, too.  What's your favorite passage about the coming of Jesus as an infant?  Why?  And what yes, what no do you need to say this season and this coming year?  Who will support you in that?  Let me know.

Weary? Rest in Heaven

Today's Eucharistic readings (Isaiah 40:25-31; Matthew 11:28-30( are like a tonic, healing whatever is aching in me.  Together they invite me to be renewed.

Isaiah tells us that "those who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint."  Then Matthew presents Jesus' invitation: "Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."

These are delightful promises of rest and renewal.  But as I sit with them, I'm aware that neither of them promises an end to the work.  The burden may be light, but there's a yoke and a burden.  We may be renewed, but we will continue to go forward.  So this is not a promise of the end of growth, or movement, or progress.  It's a promise, I think, of another kind of growth.

I spend much of my life striving.  My spiritual director calls it "efforting."  I put my shoulder to the plow - and if there's no plow available, I will build one!  I have plowed through much of my life, until exhaustion hits and I have to stop and rest.  I've done a lot, but that's not really the point of life.  If I want to know God, I need to stop the striving.  I need to let God in.

This easy yoke is the yoke of patient trust, of gentleness.  It's the yoke of living in the present even while doing work that carries us forward.  It's the "burden" of following where God calls, at God's pace - a much lighter burden than those we often put on ourselves and one another.  This yoke, this burden, is sustainable.  We can be renewed even as we continue.

In the convent of St. John Baptist in New Jersey there's an illuminated calligraphy that says "In Coelo Quies" - Rest in Heaven.  Now, you can take that to mean we should work our tails off and rest after we die, but I always thought it meant I should rest in God's world while doing the work here.  At least, that's what I took as its wisdom.  I think that's what Isaiah and Matthew are getting at.

Today, rest in heaven.  Ask God to lead you.  Let Jesus use you, gently and humbly.  Give thanks for the love that reaches to renew us.

Prepare the Way

Today is the first of two Sundays of Advent devoted to John the Baptist.  I find myself really frustrated this year by the absence of Mary.  Two weeks of John, every year, and no week that is specifically devoted to Mary.  Yes, it's important to include Joseph, and I'm glad we're doing that, but out of twelve Sundays over three years, Mary appears in only two of them.  John in six.  Our theme is preparing the way, getting ready for God to come in our midst.  I think Mary has a place in that.  Oh well.

So: how do we prepare the way?  Yesterday we had a retreat around the theme of "making space for grace."  At one point I was describing how we can clean our spiritual house, we can name our liabilities or defects and ask God to remove them, but in the end God may have another agenda.  We may find ourselves with the same shortcomings that bother us, while God has removed or transformed something that wasn't on our list!  Our job is to make space for grace, not to engage in self-improvement.

A participant looked at me and said she was just floored by this.  God may not remove the things I want removed?  After I've looked at myself and named this stuff, I have to leave open the possibility that God isn't bothered by what bothers me?  It is mind-blowing.

So today I think about John's call to prepare the way of the Lord.  Make "his" paths straight.  Don't get confused; it's not your own way you're preparing, it's not your own path you're grooming.  You do your part, but in the end it's the Holy One walking this road.  S/he walks it in you, as you, and as all of creation.  But S/he's not the "you" that does the preparing; that ego-self can only go so far.  That's important to remember.

Prepare the way.  Sit and listen.  Respond to what you hear.  Let yourself be led, and let yourself be surprised.  God be with you.

Simple, But Not Easy

Today's Eucharistic Gospel reading is Matthew 7:21-27.  Here he compares those who "hear these words and do them" to a wise man building his house on rock.  Those who hear but don't do them are headed for destruction.  So my first question was, "What words is he talking about?"

This passage is the ending to the Sermon on the Mount.  Jesus has been teaching for three chapters about how to live, how to pray, what to value.  Many of the teachings are inspiring and uplifting: "Do to others as you would have them do to you"; "Don't worry about tomorrow"; the Lord's Prayer.  But many are disturbing and challenging, to the point where we have decided as churches and as cultures to ignore them: no divorce except for adultery, no adultery for that matter, fasting, not retaliating or harboring anger, loving our enemies.  Matthew doesn't separate some of these out and make them optional.  All of these, according to Matthew, are Jesus' "words."

So: are you ready for Advent?  Are you ready to meet God again, in the flesh?
Are you ready to meet God in the annoying neighbor, the bully, the political opponent, the unwashed homeless person, the panhandler?
Are you ready to meet God as the one who wants to forgive you for your failures, who forgives you your anger, your annoyingness, your rudeness or disdain?  Are you ready to start again?

I could avoid all this by explaining how some of these prescriptions were shaped by Jesus' society, a society radically different from ours.  I could say that some of these just aren't realistic.  And they aren't.  They fly directly in the face of my primitive survival instinct, my "realistic" fears and desires. But I do believe that Jesus said them and meant them.  So I'm in a hard place.

I can do my best to build my house on rock, but I'm pretty sure I've got too much sand in it for it to stand really firm.  My only hope is to do my best and trust in God's mercy to show me how to do better.  Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Worthy?

I'm inspired to write a bit more during Advent.  Because of technical difficulties with Blogger I may not post everything I write, but I'm grateful for the desire to reflect.

Today the reading for daily Eucharist is Matthew 8:5-13.  The centurion tells Jesus not to bother coming to his house to heal his servant; he trusts that he can heal him wherever he is.  It's an interesting choice to begin Advent.  Why did the framers of the lectionary choose this?  I don't know, really.  But I have the freedom to discover meaning for myself, so I'm pondering.

What strikes me is the centurion's phrase, "I am not worthy to have you come under my roof."  This is used in the Roman Catholic Mass just before receiving communion.   For some it is humbling, an acknowledgement of grace; for others, it lands as humiliating and punishing.  And I wonder, what is it doing here, in Advent?

I think for me the point today is that worthiness is not the point.  Jesus does not heal the servant because the centurion is worthy, or because the servant is worthy.  He does not heal the servant because the centurion expresses his unworthiness.  We may think he heals him because of his great faith, and I think that's Matthew's point.  But for me, today, I hear that Jesus comes because we need him, and because he loves.

Jesus is coming into a world torn by evil, shredded by sin, yet a world full of desire for the good.  Jesus doesn't come because we're worthy, and he won't stay away because we aren't.  If that were so, he would never have been born, for the world has always been what it is.  No, Jesus came because we need him, and because he loves.  He is coming again for the same reason.

So today, perhaps you might begin Advent by asking Jesus for whatever healing you need.  It doesn't have to be dire; it may be as simple as annoyance with a neighbor.  It could be those feelings of unworthiness that paralyze people and keep them from sharing their gifts.  It could be anything.  What in you needs healing?

Blessed Advent to you!