Second Friday in Advent

Second Friday in Advent

Isaiah 48:17-19; Psalm 1; Matthew 11:16-19

There are so many ways to avoid transformation, to forestall the challenges of growth.  The pain is so vivid and present, the new life so nebulous.  It’s tempting to ignore the messages rather than open to the possibility of more.  When Jesus says we have to lose our life to save it, he’s taking aim at our reluctance to undergo pain in the service of abundant life.  

Here, Jesus names two of the ways we resist the invitation.  We might find the path too narrow, too burdensome; or we might, on the other hand, deny that any growth could look like fun.  What these two have in common is the denial of possibility.  

Why would we deny possibility?  Simply because walking into it involves effort.  Learning new ways to be, even ones that bring joy, is hard work.  Letting go of my identity, of the stories I tell myself about my limits or those of others, is scary.  Better to give up before I start.

There are other ways we dismiss possibility.  “If you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?”  “That may be alright for some folks, but not for us.”  “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”  All of these, and others, are strategies for avoiding the challenge of listening and following.

You might have some favorites of your own.

As Isaiah suggests, when we make choices we live with the consequences.  If we insist on not opening to transformation, our wish will be granted.  We will wither and blow away like chaff.  It’s not punishment; it’s simple consequence.

The good news is that God is persistent.  The door to new life is always open.  

Look inside that stable.  Look in the manger.  I dare you.  There you are, radiant and beloved.

Second Thursday in Advent

Second Thursday in Advent

Isaiah 41:13-20; Psalm 145:1-4,8-13; Matthew 11:7-15

Do not fear, you worm! 

Once again we see that all things are held together in God - anger and love, initiative and response, humility and glory.

Do not fear, you little glob of earth; God is holding your right hand.  With God's help you will overcome.  Even the natural world will open to you in response to your need.  The poor and needy will be satisfied.

When, God?  When?  So many people will die today for lack of safe drinking water.  3.4 million a year, actually.  Around the globe, 780 million people lack access to safe water.  

When?  I imagine God asking us, "When will you stop blocking my abundance?  When will you share with one another, and open to the poor and needy?  When will you stop making others needy to assuage your fears?  I made you stewards.  You tell me when."

Vaclav Havel once said, "Someone has to begin."  Someone has to start the change, reach out across divides, let go of their possessions or armaments or ideas to open what has been closed.  We can't be sure our initiatives will succeed, but we can be sure that opening beyond our fears is God's will for us.  We are not called to single-handed completion of the repair of the world, but we are called to begin.  Each day is a chance to begin again.

Where will you begin today?

Second Wednesday in Advent

Second Wednesday in Advent

Isaiah 40:25-31; Psalm 103:1-10; Matthew 11:28-30

Oh, I need to hear this today!  I need to hear that my strength will be renewed if I wait on God.  Or, as it actually says, that I will renew my strength.  Hmm.  That sounds different.  That sounds like my decision.  Who’s doing the renewing here?

I’m committed to doing yoga five mornings a week.  This weekend I was very busy and then very tired, so I missed two days in a row.  Then Monday came, and I had to do it.  I didn’t want to.  I wanted to stare out the window.  But I did it.  It wasn’t my best, strongest session, but I did it.  I asked God to give me the resolve to do it, and I did it.

Did I renew my strength, or did God renew me?

Does it matter?

Yes, I think it does.  I think I need both perspectives.

When I say God did it, I remember that I am not God, not sufficient unto myself.  I need to remember that.  I need to remember to ask for help.

But when I say I did it, I remember that I am an agent, not just a passive player.  I am a co-creator with God in my life.  God will not force me to do yoga, or pray, or write this blog, or do any of the things that nourish me and strengthen me for ministry.  God will not force me to read the paper or protest injustice or feed the hungry.  So I need to remember to give myself credit, and to hold myself accountable.  We care for and repair the world as stewards.  We aren't in charge, but we are essential.

Those who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength.  Those who watch, those who remember to look for signs of God’s presence, those who actively discern when to do yoga and when to sleep; they shall renew their strength.

What renewal do you need today?  What do you need to do to invite that renewal?  Ask God to help you choose it.

Second Tuesday in Advent

Second Tuesday in Advent

Year B: Amos 5:18-24; Psalm 50:7-15; Matthew 18:12-14

I’ve got a small case of whiplash here.  The Gospel reading sounds gentle and encouraging; if you’re a lost sheep, Jesus will go and find you.  (Of course, if you aren’t lost, you may be angry when Jesus goes off to find me.  That’s a different problem, another kind of lostness.)  

But this Gospel is paired with Micah’s warning about the day of the LORD, a day fraught with danger.  God warns the people that their liturgies and holy days will not save them unless and until the people live in justice and righteousness.  The day of the LORD is something to fear for those who do not repent and turn.

Perhaps the readings fit together after all.  Jesus may go and get that lost sheep, but he doesn’t say what that will be like for the sheep.  If you ever stayed out too late as a teenager, you know what I mean.  Your parents are relieved and rejoice that you made it home safely, but it’s likely they’ll show that relief by smacking you upside the head.  The sheep sees the shepherd and bleats with relief, but the shepherd picks up the sheep and says, “Just wait till we get home!”

Jesus, sometimes I’m so lost I don’t even know what to do.  In the darkness, I light candles and burn incense like smoke signals.  I sing songs to help you find me.  I know it’s not what you’re longing for, but it’s all I know sometimes.  Please, come and save me.  I don’t mind you yelling at me.  Send your prophets, help me repent.  Just don’t leave me out here alone.

Second Monday in Advent

Second Monday in Advent

Isaiah 35:1-10; Psalm 85:8-13; Luke 5:17-26

Where do I start with this story?  Some friends bring a friend to Jesus to be healed of his paralysis.  Jesus offers him healing, but not of the sort that any of them were expecting.  He heals his soul, forgiving his sins.  He does it because of the faith of the group of friends, who carried their friend in and found a way to get him to Jesus. Jesus later heals the man’s paralysis, but for Jesus that is secondary.  He’s trying to prove the harder point, that he can forgive sins.  Everyone who sees the healing is amazed and talks of it, saying “‘We have seen strange things today.”

Which strange things were they talking about?  Was the crowd filled with awe at the healing of body they witnessed, or at the forgiveness they heard?  Were they amazed that one person dared to forgive the sins of another?

Jesus asks, “Which is easier, to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven you,’ or to say, ‘Stand up and walk’?”  Good question.  For some of us, forgiveness seems as remote as the removal of paralysis.  In fact, forgiveness is the removal of paralysis.  it removes the load that holds us immobile, frozen in our scripts and parts.  It restores us to relationships.

I imagine this man, surrounded by a community of friends, paralyzed by his sins and regrets.  His friends have to carry him, to get him to Jesus, to help him find release.  Their faith gives them the strength to hang in with him until he can get on his feet again.

I’ve had friends like that.  How about you?  

I’d like to be a friend like that.  How about you?

At the risk of repeating myself: Forgive, and be forgiven!  We have miracles to witness!

Second Sunday in Advent

Second Sunday in Advent

Isaiah 40:1-11; Psalm 85:1-2,8-13; 2 Peter 3:8-15a; Mark 1:1-8

Today we hear of John the Baptist’s message of preparation.  John told everyone that he was not the main event, but the opening act.  Nonetheless, people streamed to him to be baptized and forgiven.  Did they even hear him telling them about the one who is to come?

And what, exactly, were they seeking in coming?  What do we seek when we confess our sins?  What exactly does forgiveness do for us?

We’ve been so conditioned to think of our relation to God in terms of life after death that it may be hard to see this as John’s contemporaries did.  But if we reflect on what happens when we forgive and are forgiven, we can see why they came.

Forgiveness means a new start.  It’s that simple.  It doesn’t mean the past didn't happen.  It doesn't mean my past actions didn't matter, didn't affect me or others.  It means that the past is no longer running my life.  I’m free again to choose, to create a new future.  I’m free to follow.

This is the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ.

Jesus called a lot of people who did not follow.  Perhaps some of them were weighted down with the burdens of the past, burdens they would not lay down.  Perhaps some of them had quarreled with a disciple, and wouldn’t travel with that person.  Perhaps some of them had been disappointed by false Messiahs, and could no longer trust themselves to discern the truth of Jesus.  

Others were just daunted by the gaping abyss of freedom.  Like the Jews in Babylon who received Isaiah’s call, some turned away and chose to remain in exile.  They didn’t want to go through the wilderness.  Perhaps they hadn’t forgiven God for letting them be conquered.  

To all of those, and to us, John calls out: come, start afresh!  Yes, it will be hard work.  No, we don’t know what the future looks like, what the day of the Lord will bring.  But come!  Forgive, and be forgiven!  We have miracles to witness!  Come to the waters!

First Saturday in Advent

First Saturday in Advent

Isaiah 30:19-21,23-26; Psalm 147:1-12; Matthew 9:35-10:1,5-8

When I read this Gospel passage, I'm so grateful for the Canaanite woman (Mt 15:21-28)!  I hear Jesus at the beginning of his ministry telling the disciples not to talk to Gentiles or Samaritans, and I cringe.  I want to cry, "Jesus, I'm over here!  Don't ignore me!" But he's not ready.

This is one of the hard truths of the Incarnation.  Jesus became human - fully human.  Not just God in a suit, omniscient and omnipotent and invulnerable.  Jesus became human, not just embodied.  That means he appeared as a specific person in a specific time.  He grew up with specific beliefs and opinions and prejudices, like all humans.  And he had to grow in understanding, like all humans.

Some people need to defend Jesus against his humanity.  When we see places where he reflects the values and assumptions of his culture, especially values we don’t share, it’s tempting to believe that really he didn’t mean it - he was just testing others.  Or, we might insist that if he said it, it’s true and commanded for all time, for after all, he is the Son of God.

Those defenses deny the Incarnation.  If Jesus had a body like mine but not a mind and soul like mine, how does the Incarnation save me?  If he didn’t really suffer limitation all the way down, how does he redeem my limitations?

Jesus humbled himself and shared in our human condition.  He sent out the disciples on a mission that continues today, but it only continues because he learned to expand its scope.  By the end of the Gospel he will tell them to make all nations disciples.  His ability to hear another, to change his mind, is part of the divine spark in him and in us.

As you prepare for the Feast of the Incarnation this year, ask yourself whether you are prepared to let Jesus be fully human as well as fully divine.  As you reflect, remember: only that which Jesus took on has been redeemed.  Don’t, in your rush to protect Jesus, leave yourself (and the rest of us) out in the cold.