Do You Not Believe I am in the Father...

Burger King Christians.  Hmmm.  I've always thought of it in terms of Frank Sinatra's "I'll do it my way."  Can I have God my way?  No.  Do I try?  Yes.  Are churches built, at some level, around the idea that we manage God?  Yes.  Does God laugh?  I hope so.

There has been a radical shift in our culture of faith over the last fifty years.  I often think of it in terms of choice.  Whereas our culture once prized dedication, hard work, discipline, and submission to authority/family/God, we now prize our right to choice:  I don't have to spend my time in worship, prayer, God's Word, a faith community, or even with my family...I have other things to do.  We are an entitled culture riddled with too many choices in my opinion.  

I am liberated in my walk of faith by the realization that I don't have to have it my way.  I have let go of the details of ultimate concern.  I don't need hymns my way, church my way, or people to behave my way.  On a good day, I am merely focused on being a follower of The Way.  There is more of a sense of freedom in this earliest designation of Christians.  And, in such simplicity I find freedom in faith and belief.

Freedom springs from my heart rather than my head.  I am quite content to intellectualize relationships and even God.  But, when I let go, I can glimpse the promise of true hope as the eyes of my heart find enlightenment.  Such a conversion, a letting go, is not easy for this introvert geared toward thinking.  In more authentic moments I am reminded of this simplicity:  be still and know that I am God.   

While we often recoil at the idea of "cafeteria, pick and choose Christians" we all do it to some extent.  In order to define who we are, we hone our interpretation of our world and our community.  We define who we are as much as who we are not.  Does this mean God will bend to our will?  Certainly not.  Do we sometimes behave as if?  Yes, sadly.  Does the power of greatness lie within me?  No.  Does it lie in my letting go, my accepting what is, right here and right now?  Yes, so it seems.  For me, the hope to which God has called lies in simplicity rather than complexity.  When I can remember this heart revelation, life does seem to flow smoother, but not necessarily easier.

Who Do You Say that I AM?

I've heard this question read and preached many times.  Growing up, this question was like the litmus test of faith.  A good faithful pilgrim is expected to follow in Peter's footsteps:  "why, you are the Christ, the Son of the living God!"

We often develop a knee-jerk, very poised answer to this question which springs from our early exposure to religious education.  But, I think this is a question that we are meant to wrestle with, hone, define, and constantly answer and re-answer.  Perhaps my thoughts spring too much from my teaching of Christology.  Perhaps my thoughts are influenced by my kinship with my Jewish ancestors?  I find this question quite challenging when we forego prescribed answers given us by our tradition.

When I worked and studied at Catholic University, one of the more esteemed professors was John Meier who wrote a series entitled: A Marginal Jew.

The title alone was enough to stir controversy along with a very Jewish Jesus on the cover.  But, the books themselves were chock full of academic searching, digging, and footnoting the complexity of Jesus' identity then and now.  As had been discovered prior to the publishing of this book in biblical studies, there are distinctions that can be made between the identity of Jesus of Nazareth and the Christ of faith.

                                           

Thus, when I hear this question in our devotion this morning, I hear "who is Jesus of Nazareth to you?"  I find that question easier to answer than "who is the Christ of faith?"  The first question draws me into the biblical story and the profound revolutionary nature of a proclaimed kingdom of love and grace. The second question draws me to ecumenical councils, creeds, papal proclamations, religious debates, and a long history of folks trying to "figure out God."

So much of our modern religious theology is grounded in the primacy of belief or thinking:  I think therefore I am.  My experience, however, is often this: I think therefore I doubt.  Beyond what my mind can wrangle of history and biblical narrative there is still the question of who is Jesus to me?  And, while we often think we have to answer the question correctly, in front of others, I find it to be a deeply private question.  It is as hard to answer as "who is my child, who is my spouse to me?"  There are no adequate words, no air tight philosophies to explain.  And while I once found that maddening, I take comfort in this elusiveness these days.

I am glad that I am invited to answer this question and do not have to whittle it into stone.  I am glad that the answer changes as I engage scripture and seek more deeply.  I no longer feel it to be a litmus test of orthodoxy, but an invitation to relationship.  Just as we do with those we meet (or even allow into our circles on Facebook) we are asked to categorize:  am I friend to this person, acquaintance, colleague, partner, spouse, parent, or pastor?  These distinctions are often helpful in our finite relationships but I am not sure they apply here.  Can I let go of categorizing and defining to let Jesus be who he is to me?  

How much longer must I put up with you?

Gee, this really seems a tough comment from Jesus.  Tis nice to know that Jesus also felt great frustration, disappointment, and as if he were talking to people who refused to listen; not that I would know anything about that as a mother to an occasionally sassy seven year old!

At the base of Jesus' frustration I see the desire to unleash empowerment, to startle folks out of mediocrity.  How often do we settle with "getting by" or doing only what is necessary?  How often do we desire to lower the bar so we can step over it instead of lifting it?  Where have I settled for mediocrity in my personal and communal faith life?

Does our faith call us to greatness?  Can we indeed heal and move mountains?  What holds us back from even engaging the thought?  As many have pointed out, we often live in a mindset of scarcity.  We live as if we don't have enough which causes us to live in fear and shame.  We see this in the disciples time and again and Jesus constantly shakes them out of this mentality:  how many loaves do you have?

Jesus says that even faith the size of a mustard seed, the smallest of seeds, can move mountains.  How often do I behave as if my mustard seed is not good enough, not big enough, not shaped like everyone else's?  How often do I wish to have more?  How often do I fail to realize that faith is not something I can make happen, but something given to me in the contours of life?  How do I fail to realize my empowerment, fail to accomplish something because I am convinced that I can't?

I have learned many spiritual lessons in striving to be an active person, specifically in running.  I am not a natural born runner.  I could not run or jog a mile in high school.  I am knock-kneed and awkward.  But, I find freedom in moving, liberation in connecting with nature.  This has been an empowering challenge for me and I need challenges.  If I can train, work hard, and run 26.2 miles (albeit slowly) what can I do in my faith life or in my faith community that is of marathon proportions?  How might I share that sense of accomplishment and liberation with others, emotionally, spiritually, or theologically?

At the end of the day, I do believe it all boils down to love.  If I can step outside of myself long enough to listen, to accept, and to honor what is in another person, a mustard seed of love is planted, nourished, and it grows.  It may never conform to my expectations, it may fly away, it may be given away, or it may whither without care.  But, it is given, in the moment, freely, and that is true empowerment in my corner of the world. How might I live in this sense of simple abundance more constantly, more faithfully?  This is part of my balance challenge for Lent.  I pray to hone this simple truth and to be content with the empowerment that springs from this place.

Why do you see the speck in your neighbor's eye?

Why is the first word in this question.  It is tempting to skip along and think about my neighbor's behavior and how it draws my attention.  But, that would evade the question.  WHY do I see the speck?  Because it is easier to look over there than to look in the mirror.  Because as long as I am focused on what you are doing wrong/right/differently then I don't have to be focused on what I am doing.  Because looking at your speck makes me feel superior.  Because as long as I am focused on your speck I can look past my own log.

Sadly, we've made this sort of vision the norm in most of our churches.  Somehow by entering a faith community, I suppose myself to be of a higher standard, a more superior place than "them."  I can watch others, broken, sinful, and struggling and somehow judge myself less critically.  Or, I can look at others and wonder why I am not like them, not as sure and certain, good or whole as they are.  Under such circumstances we turn the faith community into theater:  a theater of actors who in reality are fools.

So many people who find a faith community daunting, sick, hostile, or unnecessary are those who have been held hostage by bad theology or the judgement of others. Sometimes so-called good people of faith are best  at holding hostages and even torturing them. Sadly, it happens every day.  When we are vulnerable, unsure, or wearied by the log in our own eye, we project our anger and frustration on others.  We scapegoat those who are different or those who do not conform to our assimilated culture.  

One of the top reasons that young people have no use for the church is because it is viewed as a holding chamber for critical, intolerant, and often downright mean people.  If our fig tree is not blossoming, it will be cut down.  Jesus said, "make the tree good and its fruit good" (Matthew 12:33) "for grapes are not borne by thorns nor figs by thistles."

What if we stopped focusing on our neighbor's speck and focused on getting over our own log?  What would life be like if we lived into our own way of perfection?  What would happen if I gave everyone I met the benefit of the doubt?  What if I stopped acting as if the world revolved around me and stopped putting that log in the middle of all my relationships?  Do I use my log as a barrier of protection?  Have I grown so accustomed to my log that I cannot fathom the vulnerability and freedom of removing it?  Have I built my own special fort there with a "members only" sign on the door?

What is clouding my vision or blocking my path?  Most of the time the answer is me: my fear, my doubts, my insecurities, and my frustrations.  How are these questions transforming me?  They are challenging me to find the courage to seek that which may be on the others side of that log.  The questions are gradually giving me the tools to clear the path, enjoy the walk, and seek a different horizon.  How about you?

Did you know that I MUST be in my Father's house?

Having a child who you cannot find is not a good feeling.  Most parents have had the momentary terror and remember it quite well.  I have great sympathy for Joseph and Mary in this story.  We have so little information about Jesus' childhood and growth.  But, this story is key:  Jesus *must* spend time in the synagogue as a prelude to the conclusion of the story:  he increased in divine and human favor.

It seems these days it is hard to get people to spend any time in church.  Yes, many are devoted and regularly present.  But, when asked to step outside of our normal bounds, the response is usually less than enthusiastic.  The *must* that Jesus submitted to expressed more than an obligation; it showed the ordering of his priorities and his increasing awareness of identity.  Do we have any *musts* in regard to our own honoring of God's desires for our life?  One *must* for me is gratitude and kindness.  Even when I am disappointed, irritable, short on patience, as a leader in the church it is not an option to treat others as less than.  If we cannot embody God's love then we are nothing more than a clanging gong.

                               

When I consider the *musts* in my life, it seems to call up the dichotomy between my wants and needs.  That is a hard-learned lesson of maturity: what I want is not always what I need.  When I think of the must-haves in my life they are truly basic: food, rest, connection to God.  When I think of my wants, well, the list gets longer all of a sudden.  Do I allow my wants to dictate my life?

                           

Our devotion asks where I feel the most complete and fulfilled.  Easy answer: in nature, under the sky, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin and the cool earth beneath my feet.  I seek to balance my *musts* with my *wants* in finding God and honoring God's community.  I suspect true balance leads to wisdom along with divine and human favor.

Do You Believe I Am Able?

Funny how the devotion today ties into some my pondering for Sunday's sermon.  I'm thinking of Sarah (for Bold Women's Sunday) and the time she was eavesdropping when God told Abraham she would have a son.  And, Sarah laughed!  While I don't hear any laughing on the other end of Jesus' question today, there is the implicit question of trust in something that seems unbelievable:  two blind men being healed instantly.

Instead of laughing, when Jesus asks "do you believe I am able" they readily respond "yes, Lord."  And, interestingly, Jesus says "according to your faith let it be done to you."  Here we have the faith/belief distinction.  It is one thing to believe that God is capable of all things.  That is sort of an intellectual assent.  But, to have the faith that God can and will do impossible things, that is more of a faith/trust assent that comes from deep within our gut.

Our questions for reflection ask us to list five things we are certain God can do, and three things we are not so certain God can do.  I have trouble thinking of God's power in terms of can't or not able.  God can do all things, period.  Will I understand God's action, presence, absence, or providence?  No, I won't.  And, I have surrendered to not trying to grasp, manage, or seek after that?  Most of the time, yes.  If faith is the assurance of things hoped for, my questions lie not with God's power to fulfill promises but with my own  understanding of what I truly hope for.  

I think the question of ability lies with us.  Are we able to trust?  Are we able to cultivate a faith that is at peace with what is?  As Jesus asked his disciples, "can you drink from this cup," I am reminded of the truth of this quote: The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less. We buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment. More experts, yet more problems. More medicine, but less wellness.

Is God able to deliver us?  Absolutely.  Will we surrender?  That is the question.

Did not anyone else return to give thanks?

In the South we like to take the time to be gracious.  I can remember my Grandmother teaching me the importance of thank-you notes and basic respect and courtesy.  In our reading for today, Jesus wonders how nine lepers, made whole, could walk away without a word of thanks.  I too wonder how or why such could happen.

We cannot skip over the intentional emphasis that Luke gives to the one grateful leper being a Samaritan.  When we hear the designation of Samaritan we can conjure up any image or people that would give us pause, perhaps stir fear in us.  When we imagine such, we get a glimpse into the dramatic rift between the Jews and Samaritans of the time.  Time and again Jesus steps right over those boundaries, ignores the social caste system to do what God does best: engage, enlighten, heal, and make free.

I still wonder about those other nine.  Did they feel as if they had obeyed the command of Jesus, showed themselves to the temple priests, been healed, and therefore they were done?  In other words, I've got what I want so I will be on my way now.  Do we do the same with our faith?  Follow the commands, receive some sense of accomplishment, and be on our way to the next task.  Does God often wait in the distance for us to acknowledge or to return in gratitude only to be left there waiting?

Our devotion asks that we list five things we are thankful for.  That seems a small number, but here goes:  my family, friends, health, provisions, and awareness of the divine.  What are you grateful for?

A last thought that strikes me is this: Jesus said, "your faith has made you well."  That ties in to our overarching question this week:  do you want to be made well?  Jesus didn't wave a magic wand on the spot for the ten lepers to impress them with his power.  He told them to do something--to go and show themselves to the temple priests--to submit to the local religious authorities.  I am sure for the Samaritan this was quite a challenge knowing the temple priests could have been harsh, if not deadly, in their reaction to him.  But, he went.  And he was healed.  He was set free and he returned to give thanks for this wholeness and freedom.  

Faith doesn't always lead us into predictable or even logical situations.  It often does the contrary and can feel like a long walk down a plank.  But, it can set us free and leave us grateful when we have the radical trust to follow that still small, loving voice. 

WHERE is your faith?

Where is your faith?  It is a daunting question.  While our minds perhaps jump to the abstract, "how am I doing with faith?" there are different questions I hear there.  Where?  Is my faith in a box at church?  Is my faith in my back pocket?  Is my faith in my house and all my stuff?  Do I carry it with me or leave it at home?  Is my faith on loan from my parents and external sources?  Is my faith my own?  Is my faith a gift?  Is it something I have earned with good works?  Where is my faith?

I'm good at asking questions.  I'm not always good at answering them.  That wonderful gift gave me the ability to get a couple of degrees in theology.  But, it doesn't make me a wiser, mature spiritual person.  It doesn't make me a good pastor or person.  My faith, at its deepest, is in the unruly, unyielding, unpredictable holy spirit of God.  It is that spirit that disarms my false sense of mastery, disintegrates my neatly formed questions, and challenges me to let go and be:  be still and know that I am God.  

Some days all I can hold on to is that assertion that God is and I am not (not God, that is).  I am creature, human, limited, flailing about in the sway of life.  My faith is in that which I cannot master, reproduce, control, manipulate, fool, or outlast.  And, yet, I try to do all of these things.  My faith is in the people of God as broken as we are.  My faith is in the fleeting, often ill fated nature of this life.  My faith is in resignation, surrender, and being emptied.

We like to think that we would have been different out there in that boat with Jesus.  But, I doubt I would have.  When the going gets tough, I forget and I fear, I entertain anxiety, I seek control and predictability.  I seek comfort.  C.S. Lewis' charge that we try the impossible rings true:  we try to remain ourselves, with happiness as our personal aim, while also wanting to be "good."  I think my quest for balance resides in overcoming this dualism:  how can I be good, content, and serene in all moments of my life?  How might I transcend this pursuit of happiness?

I will never be wholly successful of my own volition.  My faith will precede me, beckon me, and elude me.  Perhaps my faith lies on the horizon and I run to meet it.  I pray to rely on the source of all peace and true comfort on this journey through the storms and stillness of life.

Whom are you looking for?

We are reminded that Jesus asks this question when Judas has betrayed him and then arrived with the soldiers.  Jesus already knew well who they were looking for.  This scene reminded me of the famous Shakesperean quote:  "Et tu, Brute?"  Funny how if we shine a spotlight on the situation, Jesus was not as much concerned with the impending arrest, but more with the betrayal by a friend.  He was concerned enough to have the moment of confrontation, gentle and fleeting as it was. I think Jesus' question to Judas probably made Judas think; it was an instant piercing realization that Judas had sold out a friend, his "Lord" for 30 pieces of silver.  We love to criminalize Judas and yet we have all played the part.

Whom am I looking for?  Rather, what am I looking for.  I can hear Bono's chorus to his famous gospel tune, "I still haven't found what I'm looking for."  It is easier to seek a what than a whom.  I can seek approval, popularity, acceptance, conformity, wealth, success, etc.  The world is geared for the onward chase of things.  But, what does it mean for me to seek a Whom?  My Beloved?  The Divine?

In the past, in my youth, I looked for mentors, people I could admire and maybe emulate.  Young people are geared toward having idols: rock stars, sports figures, etc.  I don't think we realize how we idolize others until we are older.  In youth we easily look past any one person's failures, their less than qualities.  But, as we get older, we can see them more clearly just as we can see our own wrinkles sprouting on our spiritual and physical complexions.

 
People can disappoint and delight us.  People are a mixed bag of saint and sinner at any given moment.  There is no one really able to sit atop a pedestal and remain there for long especially in the religious sphere.

If one is to find God in the religious sphere, then the looking can take place amidst some confusion.  Is God there only?  Certainly not.  Can it be hard to find God there?  Absolutely.  Is it worth the sorting, the daily commitment to community, the surrender to growth on a less than horizontal horizon? A question only you can answer.  Will it be easy?  No.  Can it be done?  Yes.

In high school we were introduced to John Keats.  I'll never forget his Ode on a Grecian Urn.  While I was not mature enough to digest all of the nuances of abstract thought and poetry, one impression did stick.  We are all captivated by the chase, the chase of someone or something.  What or who that is depends on each of us.  But, the rub seems to be this:  we are happiest while in the chase, never acquiring, only catching glimpses of our Beloved.  When and if we do acquire and possess, we quickly grow bored and faint of heart.  Therefore, can I consent to the presence of the absence of my Beloved?  Can I surrender to this chase and find bliss?  Do I have the perseverance and clarity of mind to run a good race?  I think Keats knew humankind quite well:

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!