The chief priests and scribes had a crafty question for Jesus: is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor? If Jesus said yes, then he would be subject to criticism for paying homage to a political figure. If he said no, then he could be prosecuted for defying the power of the emperor. It seemed as though they had cornered him with an unanswerable question.
Jesus evades the trap by showing that the currency of the realm bears the emperor's image and so can be given (or, if you prefer, given back) to the empire. Give the emperor's things to the emperor, give God's things to God. It is a brilliant reframing of an unacceptable binary choice into an acceptable one. The story has much to teach us--not just about how we view the relationship between our faith and the world as we find it, but about how we analyze the difficult choices that often confront us.
But I think that the story offers other lessons as well. Consider, for example, the response of the chief priests and scribes after Jesus answers their question: "and, being amazed by his answer, they became silent." This seems to me a pregnant silence, indeed.
There are occasions when God's grace or love or blessings keep us from silence: we must speak out; we must cry aloud; we must praise and celebrate. But there are other occasions when we are so moved that speech fails us altogether: we cannot describe what we have experienced; words are inadequate; we must be quiet and still. These occasions have something in common: we often find ourselves in the midst of them when we have made ourselves open to God's presence and influence in our lives.
What I love about this story, though, is that a silence-inducing amazement comes not to Jesus's disciples--but to his critics; not to the true believers--but to the skeptics. It comes in the midst of doubt, intransigence, and resistence. It comes at a singularly unlikely moment to a singularly unlikely audience.
It is tempting, perhaps, to focus on the priests and scribes and to shake our heads in judgment over how they missed such a signal opportunity to see the truth. But it seems to me that the more interesting project is to use this story to focus on our own struggles. And this is a particularly appropriate project for the self-reflective season of Lent.
The final line of this story tells us that God can amaze us--any of us, all of us--to the point of stunned silence even when we are not feeling particularly open to it. Even when we are assailed by our own doubt, intransigence, and resistence. Even when we think the unanswerable questions of life have worked our faith into a corner from which it could not possibly escape.
Amen.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
Long Walk Home
In 1705, the young Johann Sebastian Bach took an apparently unannounced leave from his job to walk more than 300 miles to hear one of the leading musicians of his day, Dietrich Buxtehude, play the organ. Bach was gone for weeks. One can only imagine the consternation this must have caused among those who directed Bach's work and whose work he in turn supervised.
One of my favorite music historians observed that Bach did this because he was Bach. I'm not sure that's quite right. I prefer to think that Bach did this because he believed what Bach believed--that there was something higher, greater, more beautiful, and more important than the admittedly significant and conspicuously pressing obligations of the day.
One of the subtler aspects of Jesus's travel into the wilderness is that the Bible tells us almost nothing about what he had been doing before he set out. I believe it would be a mistake to interpret this silence as suggesting that Jesus was idle, lazing about, and doing nothing that mattered to those who knew and loved him. Rather, it seems to me that the narrative absence signals something very powerful: whatever activities had been occupying Jesus's time, they were completely eclipsed by the higher, greater, more beautiful, and more important things that were about to happen.
This season of Lent is an excellent time to ponder the questions raised by this untold part of the story.
What am I treating as important that will, in the grand scheme of things, finally seem trivial?
What is the higher, greater, more beautiful, and more important mission that calls to me?
Am I walking through life ...
or to Life?
One of my favorite music historians observed that Bach did this because he was Bach. I'm not sure that's quite right. I prefer to think that Bach did this because he believed what Bach believed--that there was something higher, greater, more beautiful, and more important than the admittedly significant and conspicuously pressing obligations of the day.
One of the subtler aspects of Jesus's travel into the wilderness is that the Bible tells us almost nothing about what he had been doing before he set out. I believe it would be a mistake to interpret this silence as suggesting that Jesus was idle, lazing about, and doing nothing that mattered to those who knew and loved him. Rather, it seems to me that the narrative absence signals something very powerful: whatever activities had been occupying Jesus's time, they were completely eclipsed by the higher, greater, more beautiful, and more important things that were about to happen.
This season of Lent is an excellent time to ponder the questions raised by this untold part of the story.
What am I treating as important that will, in the grand scheme of things, finally seem trivial?
What is the higher, greater, more beautiful, and more important mission that calls to me?
Am I walking through life ...
or to Life?
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Farther Than Expected, Closer Than Imagined
Scripture: Psalm 19
There is a lot going on in Psalm 19.
It is a song of praise. It tells us that the law of the Lord is perfect, the decrees of the Lord are sure, the precepts of the Lord are right, the commandments of the Lord are clear, and the ordinances of the Lord are true. It assures us that, through obedience to the Lord’s word, we will find wisdom, joy, enlightenment, and a reviving of the soul.
It is a song of creation. The sun, the earth, the sky—everything around us, the psalmist says, proclaims the presence, the power, and the glory of God. Sometimes we forget that the psalms are songs, but the poetry of Psalm 19 keeps this fresh in our consciousness: “In the heavens he has set a tent for the sun, which comes out like a bridegroom from his wedding canopy, and like a strong man runs its course with joy.”
It is a song of petition. The psalmist prays for the Lord to guide him, to “clear him from hidden faults,” and to lead him to and through a life that is blameless and innocent of transgression. And he poses this somewhat puzzling request: “Keep back your servant also from the insolent; do not let them have dominion over me.” Biblical scholars suggest that this verse is probably better translated this way: “Keep me from proud thoughts, and do not let them control what I do.” It is important that we get this right, because it relates to a point we’ll explore a little later.
The psalmist thus says three things to God: you’re great; you’re everywhere; and I need your help. It is hard to argue with any of those ideas. Let me correct myself—it is impossible.
So, as I say, there is a lot going on here. Indeed, Psalm 19 encompasses so many different themes that some scholars have suggested that it is actually an assemblage of at least two distinct works. This may have merit: certainly, this psalm lacks the kind of conspicuously unitary thematic structure that we find in many others. Psalm 19 does not talk about just one thing.
At the same time, however, I believe that Psalm 19 has two fairly subtle unifying characteristics that deserve our attention. Those qualities are not just matters of academic interest. Rather, they tell us something important about what Psalm 19 means and about how we might put it to use in our everyday lives—particularly during this season of Lent.
First, Psalm 19 approaches all of its diverse messages from a positive point of view. The psalmist is a realist: he recognizes that things can go wrong—and so can he. But he does not speak in any of the voices that we hear in many other psalms. We do not find the cries of frustration, the exclamations of outrage, the pleas for vengeance, or the fears of abandonment that we encounter elsewhere. Psalm 19 is a song of confident faith, a celebratory offering from one who believes that the Lord loves him, wants the best for him, and will help guide his steps.
And this makes the second unifying characteristic of Psalm 19 all the more interesting. You see, I believe that Psalm 19 is also unified by a theme of deep personal humility. The psalmist acknowledges that he suffers from flaws both conspicuous and “hidden”; he recognizes that he will make mistakes; he knows that his own strength and wisdom are inadequate to make him into the person God wants him to become; he worries about falling captive to his pride.
This juxtaposition of abundant confidence and abject humility is striking. In this day and age, it is also very refreshing. These days, we hear lots of confident proclamations about who God is, what God wants, and whose side God has taken. We hear a lot less humility.
So the way the psalmist concludes his song strikes me as singularly beautiful and poignant: “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.” Now, think about this in the broader context of Psalm 19 that we just discussed. The psalmist prays that God might find his words and thoughts acceptable—even when his words and thoughts are as simple and pure and righteous as “you’re great; you’re everywhere; and I need your help.”
This is true humility. This is an almost alarming recognition of how profoundly little we can know about the mind of God. This is the voice of someone who understands the limitations of his understanding. And it is a voice that echoes throughout the most sacred texts of our faith. Now we see in a mirror, dimly. Now we know but only in part.
I promise that someday I will preach a sermon where I do not quote Robert Frost. But today is not that day. Frost has some gentle fun with the limitations of our knowledge in a poem called “Neither Out Far Nor In Deep,” one of my favorites. It goes like this:
The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.
As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull.
The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be—
The water comes ashore
And the people look at the sea.
They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?
This seems to me a particularly appropriate poem for the season of Lent. We cannot look out far. We cannot look in deep. But we get ourselves to the best spiritual shoreline we can find—and we watch.
Many years ago, I found myself staring out into Lake Superior on a clear, sunny, shimmering Michigan afternoon. After a while, I noticed a little black dot on the horizon. Gradually, the dot got bigger and seemed to turn red. Then I thought I could see other colors—yellow, blue, green. Finally, I could make out the shape of a big, billowing spinnaker; pulling a handsome sailboat behind it; headed in my direction as if someone knew I had been hoping for it to appear.
We see in a mirror, dimly. We know only in part. We cannot look out far. We cannot look in deep. But, sometimes, we can see out farther and in deeper than we expected. And, always, the thing that we are looking for is there, borne up in the wind, working its way toward us, closer than we imagined.
May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.
Amen.
There is a lot going on in Psalm 19.
It is a song of praise. It tells us that the law of the Lord is perfect, the decrees of the Lord are sure, the precepts of the Lord are right, the commandments of the Lord are clear, and the ordinances of the Lord are true. It assures us that, through obedience to the Lord’s word, we will find wisdom, joy, enlightenment, and a reviving of the soul.
It is a song of creation. The sun, the earth, the sky—everything around us, the psalmist says, proclaims the presence, the power, and the glory of God. Sometimes we forget that the psalms are songs, but the poetry of Psalm 19 keeps this fresh in our consciousness: “In the heavens he has set a tent for the sun, which comes out like a bridegroom from his wedding canopy, and like a strong man runs its course with joy.”
It is a song of petition. The psalmist prays for the Lord to guide him, to “clear him from hidden faults,” and to lead him to and through a life that is blameless and innocent of transgression. And he poses this somewhat puzzling request: “Keep back your servant also from the insolent; do not let them have dominion over me.” Biblical scholars suggest that this verse is probably better translated this way: “Keep me from proud thoughts, and do not let them control what I do.” It is important that we get this right, because it relates to a point we’ll explore a little later.
The psalmist thus says three things to God: you’re great; you’re everywhere; and I need your help. It is hard to argue with any of those ideas. Let me correct myself—it is impossible.
So, as I say, there is a lot going on here. Indeed, Psalm 19 encompasses so many different themes that some scholars have suggested that it is actually an assemblage of at least two distinct works. This may have merit: certainly, this psalm lacks the kind of conspicuously unitary thematic structure that we find in many others. Psalm 19 does not talk about just one thing.
At the same time, however, I believe that Psalm 19 has two fairly subtle unifying characteristics that deserve our attention. Those qualities are not just matters of academic interest. Rather, they tell us something important about what Psalm 19 means and about how we might put it to use in our everyday lives—particularly during this season of Lent.
First, Psalm 19 approaches all of its diverse messages from a positive point of view. The psalmist is a realist: he recognizes that things can go wrong—and so can he. But he does not speak in any of the voices that we hear in many other psalms. We do not find the cries of frustration, the exclamations of outrage, the pleas for vengeance, or the fears of abandonment that we encounter elsewhere. Psalm 19 is a song of confident faith, a celebratory offering from one who believes that the Lord loves him, wants the best for him, and will help guide his steps.
And this makes the second unifying characteristic of Psalm 19 all the more interesting. You see, I believe that Psalm 19 is also unified by a theme of deep personal humility. The psalmist acknowledges that he suffers from flaws both conspicuous and “hidden”; he recognizes that he will make mistakes; he knows that his own strength and wisdom are inadequate to make him into the person God wants him to become; he worries about falling captive to his pride.
This juxtaposition of abundant confidence and abject humility is striking. In this day and age, it is also very refreshing. These days, we hear lots of confident proclamations about who God is, what God wants, and whose side God has taken. We hear a lot less humility.
So the way the psalmist concludes his song strikes me as singularly beautiful and poignant: “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.” Now, think about this in the broader context of Psalm 19 that we just discussed. The psalmist prays that God might find his words and thoughts acceptable—even when his words and thoughts are as simple and pure and righteous as “you’re great; you’re everywhere; and I need your help.”
This is true humility. This is an almost alarming recognition of how profoundly little we can know about the mind of God. This is the voice of someone who understands the limitations of his understanding. And it is a voice that echoes throughout the most sacred texts of our faith. Now we see in a mirror, dimly. Now we know but only in part.
I promise that someday I will preach a sermon where I do not quote Robert Frost. But today is not that day. Frost has some gentle fun with the limitations of our knowledge in a poem called “Neither Out Far Nor In Deep,” one of my favorites. It goes like this:
The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.
As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull.
The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be—
The water comes ashore
And the people look at the sea.
They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?
This seems to me a particularly appropriate poem for the season of Lent. We cannot look out far. We cannot look in deep. But we get ourselves to the best spiritual shoreline we can find—and we watch.
Many years ago, I found myself staring out into Lake Superior on a clear, sunny, shimmering Michigan afternoon. After a while, I noticed a little black dot on the horizon. Gradually, the dot got bigger and seemed to turn red. Then I thought I could see other colors—yellow, blue, green. Finally, I could make out the shape of a big, billowing spinnaker; pulling a handsome sailboat behind it; headed in my direction as if someone knew I had been hoping for it to appear.
We see in a mirror, dimly. We know only in part. We cannot look out far. We cannot look in deep. But, sometimes, we can see out farther and in deeper than we expected. And, always, the thing that we are looking for is there, borne up in the wind, working its way toward us, closer than we imagined.
May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.
Amen.
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