Scripture: Joel 2:21-27
The American artist Normal Rockwell painted one of the enduring images of thankfulness. You may know it.
A family is gathered around a beautifully set dinner table. An elderly couple stands at its head. The wife holds a platter bearing a gleaming brown turkey that looks like it weighs about two-hundred pounds. The husband, dressed in an immaculate dark suit and tie, looks on proudly. The seated family members—all smiling—chat merrily and prepare to dig in. Everything is perfect.
I’ve know this painting for as long as I can remember. When I was a child I loved and admired the perfection this image projects: perfectly prepared food arriving right on cue; perfectly mannered family members enjoying each others’ company; perfectly happy people relishing a perfectly wonderful Thanksgiving afternoon. Alas, things change. And as I have grown older I have come to find this painting, well, mildly irritating.
In my experience, things go wrong on Thanksgiving. Someone forgets to take the plastic bag of giblets out of the bird. When no one’s looking the dog eats the entire pan of stuffing. When everyone’s looking the dog gets violently ill. The only lawyer in the family breaks a tooth on an unfrozen pea. Somebody forgets to bring the pumpkin pie. Somebody brings a pumpkin pie but somebody else accidentally sits on it. Everyone’s favorite relative can’t make it. Everyone’s least favorite relative comes early and announces that they’re spending the night.
All joking aside, Thanksgiving can be hard, and not just because of our elevated expectations and our striving for perfection. Thanksgiving can be hard because it can arrive at a time when we just don’t feel very thankful, or, at least, at a time when our feelings of thankfulness are leavened by other feelings.
Life happens—we lose a loved one, we lose a job, we lose our health, we lose our way, we lose our hope—and Thanksgiving arrives in the middle of it. Perhaps we have an unsettled home life or no family around us when Thanksgiving—with its emphasis on home and family—appears and underscores our solitude and loneliness. And even when these things aren’t happening to us we know they are happening to others in the world who God invites into our care and prayer.
If we’re struggling with our sense of thankfulness right now then Rockwell’s painting may strike us as banal, even insulting. “Of course,” we say, “of course we would be able to feel thankful if the world looked like that.”
The text from the book of Joel may inspire the same response. After all, this passage makes it sound like the author had good reasons to celebrate. “The Lord has done great things!” the author tells us. There’s been plenty of rain; the pastures are green; the trees bear fruit; the fig trees and the vines have been full; there’s lots of grain; vats overflow with wine and oil. Indeed, one of the verses from Joel seems to convey precisely the same message as the Norman Rockwell painting: “You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied…”
But let’s examine this for a moment. It turns out that Norman Rockwell painted his famous picture in 1943, when the world didn’t look much like that idyllic gathering around the Thanksgiving table. The United States was at war in Europe, North Africa, and the South Pacific. The Nazis had begun implementing a fully developed plan of Jewish genocide that would result in the deaths of millions of innocent people. Panic here at home had led to the interment of 110,000 Japanese-Americans who had done nothing except be Japanese-Americans. And, ironically in light of the plenitude reflected in the painting, there was rationing of meat, sugar, coffee, and gasoline.
The author of Joel had ample reasons to despair as well. We don’t know precisely when the book was written. Unlike many texts in the Hebrew Bible, this one does not mention any rulers or nations that give us a solid clue about its historical situation.
But the text does tell us something very important about the moment at which the prophet speaks. In the chapter preceding the one cited we learn that the community has just survived a calamitous invasion of locusts. The first chapter of Joel describes the event in alarming terms:
“What the cutting locus left, the swarming locust has eaten. What the swarming locust left, the hopping locust has eaten, and what the hopping locust left, the destroying locust has eaten …[A] nation has come up against my land, powerful and without number, its teeth are lions’ teeth, and it has the fangs of a lioness. It has laid waste my vines, and splintered my fig trees; it has stripped off their bark and thrown it down; their branches are made white.”
In short, the book of Joel—like the painting of Rockwell—is the work of a man living through desperate and broken times.
We, too, dwell in broken times.
Perhaps our lives feel broken to us. Perhaps we’re struggling with broken health, a broken relationship, a broken sense of well-being, a broken hold on our identity, a broken confidence in who we are and why we’re here.
Perhaps the world feels broken to us. Perhaps we see a world set upon by difficulties as numerous and relentless as the locusts that plagued Joel. We do not need to catalog those problems here. Tomorrow morning’s newspaper will do enough of that for us.
So, what are we to do?
Well, I think Joel invites us to do two things.
The first will probably strike you as obvious and as a commonplace sentiment. Joel suggests that we take stock of those things we do have to be thankful for. He tells us that a great plague threatened the survival of his community but then the rains came and conditions started to turn around. Joel looks at the state of things and says “Thanks be to God, who has dealt wondrously with us.” In that spirit, we can pause to express our thanks for all the wondrous things God has done for us, even in this our brokenness, even in these our broken times.
But Joel offers us something much more. For after Joel shares his great words of thankfulness he goes on to say this:
“And it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions. Even upon the menservants and maidservants in those days, I will pour out my spirit.”
This may sound familiar to you even if you have never read the book of Joel.
If it does, that’s probably because these are also the precise words Peter speaks at Pentecost. In the second chapter of the book of Acts, Peter recites this passage from the second chapter of the book of Joel.
A prominent biblical scholar describes what this means for us:
“Peter, quoting Joel, imagines a community of free, bold, hope-filled men and women, boys and girls … What a stunning vocation for [us], to stand free and hope-filled in a world gone fearful … and to think, imagine, dream, vision a future that God will yet enact. What a work of visioning for [us] when society all around is paralyzed in fear, preoccupied by commodity, mesmerized by wealth, seeking endless power, and deeply, deeply frightened.” (Brueggemann, Inscribing the Text, 115)
Consider the thankfulness this should also inspire—thankfulness for our freedom to think, for our capacity to dream and imagine, for our ability to hope and have courage.
We strive to remember the blessing of what is. Here, the scriptures call us also to see the blessing of what might yet be.
I have to confess that this also softens my view of the Rockwell painting. For I have come to understand that Rockwell was getting at very much the same point. His painting does not offer us a conveniently and extravagantly retouched photograph of real life. It offers us a dream, a vision, an imagined world in which we gather in joy and peace and share in abundance and love. I understood this as soon as I learned about the context of its creation and the title of the painting: “Freedom from want.”
And what does all this mean for us as individuals? I think it means something very important indeed. For if in this idea lies the remedy for a broken world, in it also lies the remedy for our broken lives.
Let me put it this way. Many of us maintain a polite but distant relationship with God when things are going well. We draw an artificial line between the sacred and the secular and then dwell in the latter space. And in the process we come to confuse the idea that God made us free with the idea that God made us independent.
Then trouble comes. Tragedy strikes—or threatens to strike. We become aware of our limitations, our finitude, our weakness, our brokenness. In the midst of our freedom we discover our dependence. And then we throw ourselves at God’s feet or into God’s arms. As a friend of mine used to say, in our relationship with God we are often “foul weather friends.”
But here’s the amazing thing: God welcomes us, even us, even as we come, even as we are. We come to God like beggars at the door. And—astonishingly—God takes us in.
Of all the things for which we have to be thankful, surely this must be the greatest of all—that God works in us even through our brokenness, perhaps—I venture to say—especially through our brokenness.
I don’t have the right words to describe this. But I think the poets do.
The 17th century clergyman and metaphysical poet George Herbert wrote about how our “restlessness” tosses us to God for “rest.” The great Irish wit and poet Oscar Wilde put it this way: “How else but through a broken heart / May Lord Christ enter in?”
Or think of the lines of poet and songwriter Leonard Cohen. Cohen wrote a beautiful song about the brokenness of the world—and of each of us—that includes this refrain: “Ring the bells that still can ring / Forget your perfect offering / There is a crack, a crack in everything … That’s how the light gets in.”
We must come to each day in search of thankfulness, fully awake to the blessings of this life, filled with gratitude for those with whom we share our days on earth. We must saying, with Joel, "praise God who has dealt wondrously with us."
But we must also come to each day aware of the hard news too, fully awake to the fact that we are a broken people living in a broken world, aware of the reality that there is, indeed, "a crack in everything.”
Still, that is also—in the true “gospel” sense of the word—the good news.
Because, my friends, in most of our lives that’s how the light gets in.
Amen.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
Closely, Safely, Collectively, Immediately
Scripture: Matthew 4:18-22
Years ago my parents attended the funeral of someone they knew, though not very well. The funeral lasted for a long time and, just when my parents thought it was over, a family member announced that the service would continue at the grave site. My parents looked at each other, shared a silent moment of marital conspiracy, and decided to head for home. So they nodded politely at the other attendees, got in their car, and drove off. As my father was pulling down their street he happened to look in his rearview mirror, where he saw a horrific sight: a whole line of cars, assuming my father was in the funeral procession headed to the grave site, had followed him home.
Now, I think this story has a moral: you have to know who you’re following and you have to know where you’re going. The fourth chapter of Matthew also tells us some things about deciding who to follow, and how to follow, and even how to lead. I want to take a close look at this passage, and particularly at the wonderfully simple and wonderfully powerful invitation Jesus extended to each of the four fishermen and extends to each of us: "Follow me." And I’d like to take that close look with four words in mind: closely, safely, collectively, and immediately.
Let’s begin by remembering a bit about the context of this passage. It comes very early in Jesus’s public ministry. He had an amazing new message to bring to the world. He wanted people to listen to him. He needed to establish a faith that would embrace everyone and would endure forever.
If you or I were called to such a task we would probably be tempted to go to the best parts of town, the centers of political power, the universities, and the churches. We would try to recruit the wealthy, the influential, the educated, and the devout. We would establish committees, review resumes, consider credentials, develop a strategic plan, write a mission statement (no pun intended) and so on and so on. But God’s ways and our ways are often quite different. And thank heaven for that—literally.
So where did Jesus go to begin his ministry? To the Sea of Galilee. And who did he recruit there? Four fishermen. Working fishermen. Not four guys lazing around in a bass boat with nothing better to do. But four hard-working no-nonsense don’t-mess-with-me laborers. And when Jesus approached them they were deep in their task, nets in hand.
The Bible tells us, though, that when Jesus invited them to follow him they did so immediately. Immediately. For some reason, these four fishermen understood that they needed to make a decision, to choose, to go in a new direction, to leave old things behind—in short, to follow. So they did. Immediately.
This prompts an obvious question: why would they do that? Why would they walk away from their work, their families, and their lives to follow a relatively unknown itinerant preacher? Why would they up and leave poor old Zebedee? Can you imagine how amazed Zebedee must have been when his sons dropped their nets and walked off to follow Jesus? Can you imagine how awkward it must have been when Zebedee arrived home without them?
Why did the four fishermen follow Jesus, and follow him without hesitation? Well, we know why they didn’t do it. They didn’t do it because they were perfect or, to put it more pointedly, because they were better “followers” than you and me. It is true that they came to love Jesus dearly. But it is also true that they came to doubt him and deny him.
Nor do we have any reason to believe they followed him because he performed a miracle for them. Neither Matthew nor Mark talk about anything remarkable happening on this occasion, aside from the occasion itself, aside from four fishermen dropping their nets to follow a carpenter from Nazareth.
Luke does tell the story a little differently. Luke tells us that Jesus filled the nets of the fishermen and then called them to follow. Luke does not, however, say that they followed because he filled their nets. And it is a good thing Luke does not say this, since the claim would be unbelievable.
I have fished since I was a child. have known sport fishermen and professional fishermen, fly fishermen and bait fishermen, seven year old fishermen and seventy year old fishermen. But I have never known a fisherman who decided to quit just when the fishing got good. Those fishermen may have stopped fishing despite the fact that their nets were full, but they certainly would not have stopped fishing because their nets were full.
I want to suggest to you that the Bible tells us exactly why the fishermen followed Jesus. But it tells us in an indirect and subtle way. To understand why the fishermen followed Jesus all we need to do is look, very carefully, at what he said to to them. And then we need to listen, very carefully, to what he says to us.
Jesus said two things to the fishermen. He said “follow me.” And he said “and I will make you fish for people.” Let’s start with the first words, "follow me."
“Follow me” is a exquisitely simple phrase that does a lot of work. Those two words say many different things. When someone says “follow me” they are saying “come along with me.” To follow someone is to travel with them, close to them.
Have you ever had this happen: You are with a group that decides to drive somewhere. You have to go in your own car but you do not know how to get where everyone is going. So some well-intentioned person says “follow me.” But then they peel away from the curb, go thirty miles an hour above the speed limit, and race through yellow lights just as they change to red. Of course, you can’t follow them because you can’t stay close. Gradually, you fall behind. And then you are lost.
Jesus called the fishermen, and calls us, to a “closer walk.” We cannot follow at a distance.
“Follow me.” Having someone follow us also allows us to keep them safe. If someone stays with us, near us, right behind us, we can watch over them and help them arrive at their destination safely and securely.
Don’t get me wrong. When we choose to follow Jesus we do put ourselves at risk. We do put ourselves in danger of losing some things that are dear to us: like our anger; our intolerance; our prejudices; our complacency; our selfishness; our eagerness to judge others; our reluctance to speak truth to power; our indifference toward injustice.
It is one of the great paradoxes of our faith. When we choose to follow Jesus we risk losing everything—everything that finally doesn’t matter. And when we choose to follow Jesus we gain everything—everything that finally does matter. Jesus taught his disciples about this paradox when he said “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” With respect to the things that matter, we are never safer than when we follow Jesus Christ.
Some time ago Lisa and I toured the Park Street Congregational Church in Grand Rapids, Michigan. It has some famous Louis Tiffany stained glass windows we wanted to see. One of those windows shows Jesus walking along a rocky ridge. On both sides of the ridge the edge drops off dramatically. But Jesus strides along peacefully, confidently, fearlessly. Two lambs follow behind him as closely as they possibly can. They peer over the edges in wide-eyed astonishment. But they follow safely, because they follow the Son of the living God.
“Follow me.” I find it fascinating that in this passage in Matthew Jesus did not recruit one disciple—he recruited four. He built a community of followers that they might enjoy the blessings not only of His presence, but of their presence. They did not simply follow Him; they followed Him together.
This reminds me of a familiar sight on the streets of many towns. I’ll bet you’ve seen it, too. A teacher has drawn the unenviable assignment of taking a group of kindergarten students on a field trip. In an effort to maintain some sort of control over the herd the teacher has taken a long rope and given each child a place to hold. They follow the teacher along, safely connected to their leader and to each other. They yank this way and that and their path does not follow a precisely straight line. But they get where they need to go, and they get there together.
I think this depicts our own journeys perfectly. Along we go, children of God, trying to follow, sometimes wandering off to pursue a distraction, pulled safely back into line by those on the journey with us, tugged gently forward by the one we follow.
“Follow me.” Jesus said this, but he said something more. He said “and I will make you fish for people.” In other words, Jesus did not simply invite the disciples to follow. He also invited them to lead. He extended an extraordinary invitation to four ordinary people. It was an act of trust. It was an act of respect. It was an act of hope. It was an act of faith. It was an act of love.
Why did the four fishermen drop everything to follow Jesus? Because, as it turns out, he did perform a miracle for them. He loved them. And He loves us, too.
Jesus calls us to follow, and calls us to lead, and in order to do both things we need only do one thing: love. Oh, how simple the message; oh, how often we miss it. When the great theologian Karl Barth visited Princeton someone asked him if he could summarize the principal message of the dozens of volumes he had written. He thought a moment and said: “Yes, I can. Jesus loves me this I know; for the Bible tells me so.”
Oh, how simple the message; oh, how often we miss it. But Jesus calls us with a clear and unmistakable command. He calls us to love the sick, the imprisoned, and the oppressed. He calls us to love the poor, the ugly, and the addicted. He calls us to love the stranger we don’t know at all and the family member we know all too well. He calls us to love our neighbors. He calls us to love our enemies. He calls us to love ourselves, which sometimes may seem hardest of all.
Jesus calls us to love those we may find unlovable, and that poses a serious challenge. But, as C.S. Lewis suggested in Mere Christianity, even when you cannot love someone you can at least act as if you do. Lewis observes, “As soon as we do this we find one of the great secrets. When you are behaving as if you love someone, you will presently come to love [them].”
When we love, we follow Jesus. When we love, we gather others to his flock. When we love, we serve the kingdom of God. As the old hymn says, it is with “deeds of love and mercy [that] the heavenly kingdom comes.”
Jesus calls us to love, and therefore also forbids us from hating. We are forbidden from hating someone because of the color of their skin. We are forbidden from hating someone because of their gender. We are forbidden from hating someone because of their politics. We are forbidden from hating someone because of who they love. We are forbidden from hating. Period.
To love—joyfully and fully and unconditionally, as God loves you—that is what it means to follow. That is what it means to drop your nets and come along. That is what it means to bring others along with you. That is what it means to lead, in Jesus’ name.
This day, and every day, Jesus renews his invitation to us: “Follow me.” And we know what we need to do to accept. Put aside old grievances; make a friend of a stranger; visit someone we know is lonely; invite someone to dinner, offer someone a ride, tell someone a joke, send someone a letter. Give. And forgive. Love.
It is the most wonderful invitation ever extended in the history of the world. Let us respond with all our hearts and minds and voices. And let us draw up to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ—closely, safely, collectively, immediately.
And follow him.
And follow him.
And follow him.
Amen.
Years ago my parents attended the funeral of someone they knew, though not very well. The funeral lasted for a long time and, just when my parents thought it was over, a family member announced that the service would continue at the grave site. My parents looked at each other, shared a silent moment of marital conspiracy, and decided to head for home. So they nodded politely at the other attendees, got in their car, and drove off. As my father was pulling down their street he happened to look in his rearview mirror, where he saw a horrific sight: a whole line of cars, assuming my father was in the funeral procession headed to the grave site, had followed him home.
Now, I think this story has a moral: you have to know who you’re following and you have to know where you’re going. The fourth chapter of Matthew also tells us some things about deciding who to follow, and how to follow, and even how to lead. I want to take a close look at this passage, and particularly at the wonderfully simple and wonderfully powerful invitation Jesus extended to each of the four fishermen and extends to each of us: "Follow me." And I’d like to take that close look with four words in mind: closely, safely, collectively, and immediately.
Let’s begin by remembering a bit about the context of this passage. It comes very early in Jesus’s public ministry. He had an amazing new message to bring to the world. He wanted people to listen to him. He needed to establish a faith that would embrace everyone and would endure forever.
If you or I were called to such a task we would probably be tempted to go to the best parts of town, the centers of political power, the universities, and the churches. We would try to recruit the wealthy, the influential, the educated, and the devout. We would establish committees, review resumes, consider credentials, develop a strategic plan, write a mission statement (no pun intended) and so on and so on. But God’s ways and our ways are often quite different. And thank heaven for that—literally.
So where did Jesus go to begin his ministry? To the Sea of Galilee. And who did he recruit there? Four fishermen. Working fishermen. Not four guys lazing around in a bass boat with nothing better to do. But four hard-working no-nonsense don’t-mess-with-me laborers. And when Jesus approached them they were deep in their task, nets in hand.
The Bible tells us, though, that when Jesus invited them to follow him they did so immediately. Immediately. For some reason, these four fishermen understood that they needed to make a decision, to choose, to go in a new direction, to leave old things behind—in short, to follow. So they did. Immediately.
This prompts an obvious question: why would they do that? Why would they walk away from their work, their families, and their lives to follow a relatively unknown itinerant preacher? Why would they up and leave poor old Zebedee? Can you imagine how amazed Zebedee must have been when his sons dropped their nets and walked off to follow Jesus? Can you imagine how awkward it must have been when Zebedee arrived home without them?
Why did the four fishermen follow Jesus, and follow him without hesitation? Well, we know why they didn’t do it. They didn’t do it because they were perfect or, to put it more pointedly, because they were better “followers” than you and me. It is true that they came to love Jesus dearly. But it is also true that they came to doubt him and deny him.
Nor do we have any reason to believe they followed him because he performed a miracle for them. Neither Matthew nor Mark talk about anything remarkable happening on this occasion, aside from the occasion itself, aside from four fishermen dropping their nets to follow a carpenter from Nazareth.
Luke does tell the story a little differently. Luke tells us that Jesus filled the nets of the fishermen and then called them to follow. Luke does not, however, say that they followed because he filled their nets. And it is a good thing Luke does not say this, since the claim would be unbelievable.
I have fished since I was a child. have known sport fishermen and professional fishermen, fly fishermen and bait fishermen, seven year old fishermen and seventy year old fishermen. But I have never known a fisherman who decided to quit just when the fishing got good. Those fishermen may have stopped fishing despite the fact that their nets were full, but they certainly would not have stopped fishing because their nets were full.
I want to suggest to you that the Bible tells us exactly why the fishermen followed Jesus. But it tells us in an indirect and subtle way. To understand why the fishermen followed Jesus all we need to do is look, very carefully, at what he said to to them. And then we need to listen, very carefully, to what he says to us.
Jesus said two things to the fishermen. He said “follow me.” And he said “and I will make you fish for people.” Let’s start with the first words, "follow me."
“Follow me” is a exquisitely simple phrase that does a lot of work. Those two words say many different things. When someone says “follow me” they are saying “come along with me.” To follow someone is to travel with them, close to them.
Have you ever had this happen: You are with a group that decides to drive somewhere. You have to go in your own car but you do not know how to get where everyone is going. So some well-intentioned person says “follow me.” But then they peel away from the curb, go thirty miles an hour above the speed limit, and race through yellow lights just as they change to red. Of course, you can’t follow them because you can’t stay close. Gradually, you fall behind. And then you are lost.
Jesus called the fishermen, and calls us, to a “closer walk.” We cannot follow at a distance.
“Follow me.” Having someone follow us also allows us to keep them safe. If someone stays with us, near us, right behind us, we can watch over them and help them arrive at their destination safely and securely.
Don’t get me wrong. When we choose to follow Jesus we do put ourselves at risk. We do put ourselves in danger of losing some things that are dear to us: like our anger; our intolerance; our prejudices; our complacency; our selfishness; our eagerness to judge others; our reluctance to speak truth to power; our indifference toward injustice.
It is one of the great paradoxes of our faith. When we choose to follow Jesus we risk losing everything—everything that finally doesn’t matter. And when we choose to follow Jesus we gain everything—everything that finally does matter. Jesus taught his disciples about this paradox when he said “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” With respect to the things that matter, we are never safer than when we follow Jesus Christ.
Some time ago Lisa and I toured the Park Street Congregational Church in Grand Rapids, Michigan. It has some famous Louis Tiffany stained glass windows we wanted to see. One of those windows shows Jesus walking along a rocky ridge. On both sides of the ridge the edge drops off dramatically. But Jesus strides along peacefully, confidently, fearlessly. Two lambs follow behind him as closely as they possibly can. They peer over the edges in wide-eyed astonishment. But they follow safely, because they follow the Son of the living God.
“Follow me.” I find it fascinating that in this passage in Matthew Jesus did not recruit one disciple—he recruited four. He built a community of followers that they might enjoy the blessings not only of His presence, but of their presence. They did not simply follow Him; they followed Him together.
This reminds me of a familiar sight on the streets of many towns. I’ll bet you’ve seen it, too. A teacher has drawn the unenviable assignment of taking a group of kindergarten students on a field trip. In an effort to maintain some sort of control over the herd the teacher has taken a long rope and given each child a place to hold. They follow the teacher along, safely connected to their leader and to each other. They yank this way and that and their path does not follow a precisely straight line. But they get where they need to go, and they get there together.
I think this depicts our own journeys perfectly. Along we go, children of God, trying to follow, sometimes wandering off to pursue a distraction, pulled safely back into line by those on the journey with us, tugged gently forward by the one we follow.
“Follow me.” Jesus said this, but he said something more. He said “and I will make you fish for people.” In other words, Jesus did not simply invite the disciples to follow. He also invited them to lead. He extended an extraordinary invitation to four ordinary people. It was an act of trust. It was an act of respect. It was an act of hope. It was an act of faith. It was an act of love.
Why did the four fishermen drop everything to follow Jesus? Because, as it turns out, he did perform a miracle for them. He loved them. And He loves us, too.
Jesus calls us to follow, and calls us to lead, and in order to do both things we need only do one thing: love. Oh, how simple the message; oh, how often we miss it. When the great theologian Karl Barth visited Princeton someone asked him if he could summarize the principal message of the dozens of volumes he had written. He thought a moment and said: “Yes, I can. Jesus loves me this I know; for the Bible tells me so.”
Oh, how simple the message; oh, how often we miss it. But Jesus calls us with a clear and unmistakable command. He calls us to love the sick, the imprisoned, and the oppressed. He calls us to love the poor, the ugly, and the addicted. He calls us to love the stranger we don’t know at all and the family member we know all too well. He calls us to love our neighbors. He calls us to love our enemies. He calls us to love ourselves, which sometimes may seem hardest of all.
Jesus calls us to love those we may find unlovable, and that poses a serious challenge. But, as C.S. Lewis suggested in Mere Christianity, even when you cannot love someone you can at least act as if you do. Lewis observes, “As soon as we do this we find one of the great secrets. When you are behaving as if you love someone, you will presently come to love [them].”
When we love, we follow Jesus. When we love, we gather others to his flock. When we love, we serve the kingdom of God. As the old hymn says, it is with “deeds of love and mercy [that] the heavenly kingdom comes.”
Jesus calls us to love, and therefore also forbids us from hating. We are forbidden from hating someone because of the color of their skin. We are forbidden from hating someone because of their gender. We are forbidden from hating someone because of their politics. We are forbidden from hating someone because of who they love. We are forbidden from hating. Period.
To love—joyfully and fully and unconditionally, as God loves you—that is what it means to follow. That is what it means to drop your nets and come along. That is what it means to bring others along with you. That is what it means to lead, in Jesus’ name.
This day, and every day, Jesus renews his invitation to us: “Follow me.” And we know what we need to do to accept. Put aside old grievances; make a friend of a stranger; visit someone we know is lonely; invite someone to dinner, offer someone a ride, tell someone a joke, send someone a letter. Give. And forgive. Love.
It is the most wonderful invitation ever extended in the history of the world. Let us respond with all our hearts and minds and voices. And let us draw up to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ—closely, safely, collectively, immediately.
And follow him.
And follow him.
And follow him.
Amen.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Song of Life
Scripture: Psalm 23
The twenty-third psalm is unquestionably among the most beloved and familiar texts in the Bible. It has a central place in both the Christian and Jewish faiths. Early religious education often includes committing the psalm to memory—a project some children pursue more successfully than others.
One of my favorite YouTube videos features a little girl named Abby reciting the psalm. She does a wonderful job but has a little trouble remembering the verses. She does, however, recall that the word “surely” is important because it signals the closing lines. So periodically she pauses and looks into the camera and says “surely?,” “surely?” “now surely?” All of us who have tried to memorize Psalm 23 can feel nothing but empathy.
Psalm 23 is one of the few biblical texts that turn up frequently in our popular culture. Musical renditions of it have been composed by everyone from Franz Schubert to Duke Ellington to Leonard Bernstein to Bobby McFerrin to the Eagles. As all you heavy metal fans know, even the group Megadeth has set it to music.
It is quoted in numerous films, from dramas like The Elephant Man and Alfred Hitchcock’s Lifeboat to comedies like The Bishop’s Wife and Woody Allen’s Love and Death. Because of its association with desperate situations it appears in a disproportionate number of horror movies, resulting in more than a few absurdities. In the film Van Helsing, Frankenstein quotes from the psalm after being captured by Dracula. And in the 1953 cult classic The War of the Worlds a priest recites it as he walks toward invading Martians.
Yet somehow the psalm has not been cheapened or its power diluted. It still consoles and inspires us. We still turn to it in times of anxiety, softly uttering its opening lines as if they made breathing possible again. We still turn to it in times of grief and loss, particularly in times of death, invoking its verses as if they made some sense out of that final transition that so often seems to us senseless.
So it is unsurprising that President Bush quoted from Psalm 23 in his speech on the evening of September 11, 2001. And it is unsurprising that it is often the scripture chosen as the reading for church services remembering the terrible events of that day. To borrow a phrase from psychiatrist Carl Jung, the twenty-third psalm has an honored place in the “collective unconscious” of humankind.
All this leads to a question: why does Psalm 23 have such a strong and distinctive hold on us? I think there are three reasons, two fairly obvious and one perhaps less so. And I think that in teasing out these reasons we may not only discover something about this psalm—we may discover something about life itself.
The first attraction of Psalm 23 lies in its magnificent poetry. The Bible contains few passages that have the same dramatic pauses (“The Lord is my shepherd … I shall not want”), the same stunning imagery (“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies”), the same haunting metaphors (“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I fear no evil”), or the same lyrical sweetness (“He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul”). I obviously haven’t kept count, but I’d guess that by now I’ve probably written more than a million words in the course of my life; I’d happily trade all of them for the privilege of being able to claim that I had written “He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul.” It doesn't get any better than that.
But the poetry here is not just beautiful; it is dense with meaning. Consider, for example, the first five words of the psalm, which convey five very different messages depending on the word you stress. The Lord is my shepherd—there is only one God. The Lord is my shepherd—I follow the Lord and no one else. The Lord is my shepherd—I experience God’s presence in my life here and now. The Lord is my shepherd—God cares for me as though I were the only one. The Lord is my shepherd—God leads me and loves me. Five distinct messages; communicated in five words; all of them profound; all of them true. This is writing of divine genius; do not try this at home.
The second attraction of Psalm 23 is the sense of deep restorative peace it provides to us. Psalm 23 works this magic by embracing a fundamental truth about human nature: we feel comfort when we are in the presence of loving strength. Indeed, this truth is embedded in the very language we use: the word “comfort” is derived from the Latin “con fortis,” or “with strength.” So Psalm 23 takes an idea we may think of as soft, warm, and fuzzy—the idea of “comfort”—and joins it with images that are strong, powerful, and authoritative—the rod and staff of the shepherd.
And the world presented in Psalm 23 is a world that requires strength; it is the world as we find it; it is, as author and rabbi Harold Kushner observes, a “dangerous, unpredictable, frightening” world. Psalm 23 does not try to comfort us by imagining a life filled with sweetness and light and bunnies and ponies—a life we could dismiss as the fantasy of someone in deep denial of reality. Rather, it gives us life as we experience it: life with hunger and thirst; life with worry and fear; life tormented by enemies and haunted by the shadow of death. Psalm 23 succeeds in providing us with comfort because it offers no false promises about where our travels will lead us. Rather, it offers the simple—but infinitely powerful—assurance that God will go along with us every step of the way.
That brings us to the third, and perhaps least obvious, attraction of Psalm 23: it is not just a beautiful poem full of consoling thoughts; it is a song about how we should live; it is, indeed, the song of life. Biblical scholar J. Clinton McCann, Jr. puts it this way: “To be sure, it is appropriate that Psalm 23 be read and heard in the midst of death and dying. It may be more important, however, that this psalm be read and heard as a psalm about living, for it puts daily activities, such as eating, drinking, and seeking security, in a radically God-centered perspective that challenges our usual way of thinking.” (New Interpreter’s Bible, 767)
So Psalm 23 depicts a God who lives in every dimension of our life. The Lord goes before us and “leads” us like a shepherd. The Lord goes beside us and brings us rest, food, drink, and restoration of the soul. The Lord even follows behind us: “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”
This last observation raises an interesting point: although the word “follow” has a long tradition in translations it probably misses the mark. The Hebrew verb used here has a much more active sense to it. Indeed, it is better captured by the word “pursue.” (McCann, 768) This is not a God who follows us around; this is a God who pursues us—and pursues us with goodness and mercy. What else would we expect of a God who understands how lost we would otherwise feel in a world that so often seems to us “dangerous, unpredictable, and frightening?” What else would we expect of a God who knows how easily we wander off the paths of righteousness? What else would we expect of a God who loves?
As McCann says, this invites us into a “radically God-centered perspective” on life. It calls us to recognize that while we’re busy watching for extraordinary things from God we should not miss God’s presence in ordinary things. The great Jewish theologian Martin Buber puts it this way:
"[O]ne should hallow all that one does in one’s natural life. One eats in holiness, tastes the taste of food in holiness, and the table becomes an altar. One works in holiness, and he raises up the sparks which hide themselves in all tools. One walks in holiness across the fields, and the soft songs of all herbs, which they voice to God, enter into the song of our soul. One drinks in holiness to each other with one’s companions, and it is as if they read together in the [scriptures]. One dances the roundelay in holiness, and a brightness shines over the gathering."
The idea that we can devote our every action to God—no matter how small the action—is reflected in the monastic tradition within Christianity, where eating, drinking, sleeping, even sweeping the floor take on the spirit of holiness because they are done in the spirit of holiness. As that tradition recognizes, we can charge almost anything we do with divine light—and, if we find we cannot, then perhaps we ought to take a closer look at what we’re doing.
You may say, “well that is all well and good for those who live in monasteries or in religious retreats, but I live in the real world.” Well, Psalm 23 takes any such excuse away from us. Its text makes clear that the psalmist lives in the same place we do—that “dangerous, unpredictable, and frightening” place we call life. Indeed, the Bible attributes this psalm to David, a man who knew worry and war and weakness in ways most of us can only imagine. Centuries later, another poet from the House of David would come into the same hard world, a world that would crucify Him. And He, too, would tell us to put the Lord at the center of our lives.
The Lord is your shepherd. If you follow, you will find everything you need. Your soul will be healed. You will know the right path. And even when that path takes you down into death itself you will have no reason to fear, for the Lord will give you strength, and, through strength, comfort. Along the way you will face many trials and tribulations; but the grace and love of the Lord will provide a banquet of peace for you even in their presence. God will bless you and fill you to overflowing. And, while you may sometimes turn your back to the Lord and flee in the wrong direction, the Lord will pursue you, so that you might know the goodness and mercy the Lord provides.
Could it be so? Could it be that the most powerful force in the universe—the very creator of the universe—cares so much for each and every person? Could it be that God so loves the world?
As the psalmist says—and as little Abby kept trying to say—surely, surely, surely it is so.
Amen.
The twenty-third psalm is unquestionably among the most beloved and familiar texts in the Bible. It has a central place in both the Christian and Jewish faiths. Early religious education often includes committing the psalm to memory—a project some children pursue more successfully than others.
One of my favorite YouTube videos features a little girl named Abby reciting the psalm. She does a wonderful job but has a little trouble remembering the verses. She does, however, recall that the word “surely” is important because it signals the closing lines. So periodically she pauses and looks into the camera and says “surely?,” “surely?” “now surely?” All of us who have tried to memorize Psalm 23 can feel nothing but empathy.
Psalm 23 is one of the few biblical texts that turn up frequently in our popular culture. Musical renditions of it have been composed by everyone from Franz Schubert to Duke Ellington to Leonard Bernstein to Bobby McFerrin to the Eagles. As all you heavy metal fans know, even the group Megadeth has set it to music.
It is quoted in numerous films, from dramas like The Elephant Man and Alfred Hitchcock’s Lifeboat to comedies like The Bishop’s Wife and Woody Allen’s Love and Death. Because of its association with desperate situations it appears in a disproportionate number of horror movies, resulting in more than a few absurdities. In the film Van Helsing, Frankenstein quotes from the psalm after being captured by Dracula. And in the 1953 cult classic The War of the Worlds a priest recites it as he walks toward invading Martians.
Yet somehow the psalm has not been cheapened or its power diluted. It still consoles and inspires us. We still turn to it in times of anxiety, softly uttering its opening lines as if they made breathing possible again. We still turn to it in times of grief and loss, particularly in times of death, invoking its verses as if they made some sense out of that final transition that so often seems to us senseless.
So it is unsurprising that President Bush quoted from Psalm 23 in his speech on the evening of September 11, 2001. And it is unsurprising that it is often the scripture chosen as the reading for church services remembering the terrible events of that day. To borrow a phrase from psychiatrist Carl Jung, the twenty-third psalm has an honored place in the “collective unconscious” of humankind.
All this leads to a question: why does Psalm 23 have such a strong and distinctive hold on us? I think there are three reasons, two fairly obvious and one perhaps less so. And I think that in teasing out these reasons we may not only discover something about this psalm—we may discover something about life itself.
The first attraction of Psalm 23 lies in its magnificent poetry. The Bible contains few passages that have the same dramatic pauses (“The Lord is my shepherd … I shall not want”), the same stunning imagery (“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies”), the same haunting metaphors (“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I fear no evil”), or the same lyrical sweetness (“He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul”). I obviously haven’t kept count, but I’d guess that by now I’ve probably written more than a million words in the course of my life; I’d happily trade all of them for the privilege of being able to claim that I had written “He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul.” It doesn't get any better than that.
But the poetry here is not just beautiful; it is dense with meaning. Consider, for example, the first five words of the psalm, which convey five very different messages depending on the word you stress. The Lord is my shepherd—there is only one God. The Lord is my shepherd—I follow the Lord and no one else. The Lord is my shepherd—I experience God’s presence in my life here and now. The Lord is my shepherd—God cares for me as though I were the only one. The Lord is my shepherd—God leads me and loves me. Five distinct messages; communicated in five words; all of them profound; all of them true. This is writing of divine genius; do not try this at home.
The second attraction of Psalm 23 is the sense of deep restorative peace it provides to us. Psalm 23 works this magic by embracing a fundamental truth about human nature: we feel comfort when we are in the presence of loving strength. Indeed, this truth is embedded in the very language we use: the word “comfort” is derived from the Latin “con fortis,” or “with strength.” So Psalm 23 takes an idea we may think of as soft, warm, and fuzzy—the idea of “comfort”—and joins it with images that are strong, powerful, and authoritative—the rod and staff of the shepherd.
And the world presented in Psalm 23 is a world that requires strength; it is the world as we find it; it is, as author and rabbi Harold Kushner observes, a “dangerous, unpredictable, frightening” world. Psalm 23 does not try to comfort us by imagining a life filled with sweetness and light and bunnies and ponies—a life we could dismiss as the fantasy of someone in deep denial of reality. Rather, it gives us life as we experience it: life with hunger and thirst; life with worry and fear; life tormented by enemies and haunted by the shadow of death. Psalm 23 succeeds in providing us with comfort because it offers no false promises about where our travels will lead us. Rather, it offers the simple—but infinitely powerful—assurance that God will go along with us every step of the way.
That brings us to the third, and perhaps least obvious, attraction of Psalm 23: it is not just a beautiful poem full of consoling thoughts; it is a song about how we should live; it is, indeed, the song of life. Biblical scholar J. Clinton McCann, Jr. puts it this way: “To be sure, it is appropriate that Psalm 23 be read and heard in the midst of death and dying. It may be more important, however, that this psalm be read and heard as a psalm about living, for it puts daily activities, such as eating, drinking, and seeking security, in a radically God-centered perspective that challenges our usual way of thinking.” (New Interpreter’s Bible, 767)
So Psalm 23 depicts a God who lives in every dimension of our life. The Lord goes before us and “leads” us like a shepherd. The Lord goes beside us and brings us rest, food, drink, and restoration of the soul. The Lord even follows behind us: “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”
This last observation raises an interesting point: although the word “follow” has a long tradition in translations it probably misses the mark. The Hebrew verb used here has a much more active sense to it. Indeed, it is better captured by the word “pursue.” (McCann, 768) This is not a God who follows us around; this is a God who pursues us—and pursues us with goodness and mercy. What else would we expect of a God who understands how lost we would otherwise feel in a world that so often seems to us “dangerous, unpredictable, and frightening?” What else would we expect of a God who knows how easily we wander off the paths of righteousness? What else would we expect of a God who loves?
As McCann says, this invites us into a “radically God-centered perspective” on life. It calls us to recognize that while we’re busy watching for extraordinary things from God we should not miss God’s presence in ordinary things. The great Jewish theologian Martin Buber puts it this way:
"[O]ne should hallow all that one does in one’s natural life. One eats in holiness, tastes the taste of food in holiness, and the table becomes an altar. One works in holiness, and he raises up the sparks which hide themselves in all tools. One walks in holiness across the fields, and the soft songs of all herbs, which they voice to God, enter into the song of our soul. One drinks in holiness to each other with one’s companions, and it is as if they read together in the [scriptures]. One dances the roundelay in holiness, and a brightness shines over the gathering."
The idea that we can devote our every action to God—no matter how small the action—is reflected in the monastic tradition within Christianity, where eating, drinking, sleeping, even sweeping the floor take on the spirit of holiness because they are done in the spirit of holiness. As that tradition recognizes, we can charge almost anything we do with divine light—and, if we find we cannot, then perhaps we ought to take a closer look at what we’re doing.
You may say, “well that is all well and good for those who live in monasteries or in religious retreats, but I live in the real world.” Well, Psalm 23 takes any such excuse away from us. Its text makes clear that the psalmist lives in the same place we do—that “dangerous, unpredictable, and frightening” place we call life. Indeed, the Bible attributes this psalm to David, a man who knew worry and war and weakness in ways most of us can only imagine. Centuries later, another poet from the House of David would come into the same hard world, a world that would crucify Him. And He, too, would tell us to put the Lord at the center of our lives.
The Lord is your shepherd. If you follow, you will find everything you need. Your soul will be healed. You will know the right path. And even when that path takes you down into death itself you will have no reason to fear, for the Lord will give you strength, and, through strength, comfort. Along the way you will face many trials and tribulations; but the grace and love of the Lord will provide a banquet of peace for you even in their presence. God will bless you and fill you to overflowing. And, while you may sometimes turn your back to the Lord and flee in the wrong direction, the Lord will pursue you, so that you might know the goodness and mercy the Lord provides.
Could it be so? Could it be that the most powerful force in the universe—the very creator of the universe—cares so much for each and every person? Could it be that God so loves the world?
As the psalmist says—and as little Abby kept trying to say—surely, surely, surely it is so.
Amen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)