My friend Sheela, an Evangelical Pentecostal from India, wore a t-shirt to our aerobics class that said on the front, "Even though there was no miracle...", and on the back, it said, "He is still God." She bought it from a man who was badly burned all over his body, his face very disfigured. He traveled to different congregations to tell his story. He had prayed for a miracle, for his burns to be completely healed. There was no miracle, he said. And yet he still had faith. He went all over, telling people not to lose heart, to trust God anyway. Live your life in service and love anyway.
I find this remarkable. It contradicts the "Super Jesus" miracle stories - John's line that Jesus waited until Lazarus was dead to come so that he could revive him and more people would believe in him because of a more stupendous miracle. It contradicts decades of traveling faith healer shows that get people to "come to Christ" because people come forward and are healed of their diseases. The blind see, the lame rise up from wheelchairs.
Most of this is trickery, of course. I started calling my column "Leap of Faith" after the movie of that title that came out in the early '90s. Steve Martin was a traveling preacher who duped people out of their money by pretending to work miracles of healing in the crowd. Turns out he had a receiver in his ear, hooked up to Debra Winger, who was spying on the crowd, and giving him tidbits of information, allowing him to miraculously know things about people. The movie turned when there actually was a miracle healing, much to the shock and amazement of Martin & Winger. No one could explain it. But it also forced Martin's character to get close enough to real people who were hoping and trusting him with their lives, and he couldn't go on pretending. He fell in love with a waitress and stayed. That's when he found actual faith - in himself, in other human beings, in goodness - perhaps in God. You had the sense that he now wanted to be worthy of the goodness and trust of the young man he had "healed". To be real.
But it's much more frequent that there is no miracle. At least not in the way we hope.
When I was a student chaplain, we met with a woman in a wheelchair who was a full-time chaplain at the hospital. She said that the miracle healing stories were sometimes tough for people to know what to do with. How fervently, how faithfully they prayed for God to remove their affliction. Let them walk. Let them see. Let their cancer disappear forever. "I believe in Jesus. Why doesn't he heal me?" they ask, and their hearts break. Our job, she said, was to show them that there could be healing, no matter what the state of their bodies. She was proof. As long as there can be life, as long as we can live with purpose, that's healing. That's still a miracle.
It takes people who really believe this, and live it themselves to teach it to us.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Noble Intentions
Then after this he said to the disciples, “Let us go to Judea again.” The disciples said to him, “Rabbi, the Jews were just now trying to stone you, and are you going there again?” Jesus answered, “Are there not twelve hours of daylight? Those who walk during the day do not stumble, because they see the light of this world. But those who walk at night stumble, because the light is not in them.” After saying this, he told them, “Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep, but I am going there to awaken him.” The disciples said to him, “Lord, if he has fallen asleep, he will be all right.” Jesus, however, had been speaking about his death, but they thought that he was referring merely to sleep. Then Jesus told them plainly, “Lazarus is dead. For your sake I am glad I was not there, so that you may believe. But let us go to him.” Thomas, who was called the Twin, said to his fellow disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” John 11:7-16
I love the fuss with the disciples. He tells them Lazarus is sleeping, or fallen, but he has to go, and they're going with him.. The disciples, a bit edgy after the whole Bethany Stoning Episode, try to talk him out of going. If he's just sleeping, what does he need you for? C'mon. And see? Plenty of people for you to help here. We're worried about your safety (and ours). You have to also wonder if they resent the special privilege these folks have. (They're not our friends. Shoot.) Only Thomas sways the group - if we really love him, we should be willing to die with him. Of course, that proves ironic in the coming scenes, doesn't it?
When it's really time for Jesus to die, they flee. We all get angry with the disciples for their failing to stay by their friend, but how human is that? Have you ever made a noble pronouncement only to be unable to carry it out? I believe Thomas wanted to think he could die with Jesus, perhaps with all his heart.
It reminds me of reading about Germans who hid Jews from the Nazis. I immediately wanted to think I would be one of them. Not someone who was too afraid to give up her basement because she had seen what happened to people who helped. I especially wanted to think this when I became close friends with a rabbi (and now that I'm married to a Jew!) But I am realistic enough to know that I don't know what I'd have done. My rabbi friend told me that she doesn't know what she would be capable of doing; no one does. I'll always love her for that.
Maybe the point is wanting to, and doing whatever gives you the best chance of actually doing it. Not a bad goal to have.
I love the fuss with the disciples. He tells them Lazarus is sleeping, or fallen, but he has to go, and they're going with him.. The disciples, a bit edgy after the whole Bethany Stoning Episode, try to talk him out of going. If he's just sleeping, what does he need you for? C'mon. And see? Plenty of people for you to help here. We're worried about your safety (and ours). You have to also wonder if they resent the special privilege these folks have. (They're not our friends. Shoot.) Only Thomas sways the group - if we really love him, we should be willing to die with him. Of course, that proves ironic in the coming scenes, doesn't it?
When it's really time for Jesus to die, they flee. We all get angry with the disciples for their failing to stay by their friend, but how human is that? Have you ever made a noble pronouncement only to be unable to carry it out? I believe Thomas wanted to think he could die with Jesus, perhaps with all his heart.
It reminds me of reading about Germans who hid Jews from the Nazis. I immediately wanted to think I would be one of them. Not someone who was too afraid to give up her basement because she had seen what happened to people who helped. I especially wanted to think this when I became close friends with a rabbi (and now that I'm married to a Jew!) But I am realistic enough to know that I don't know what I'd have done. My rabbi friend told me that she doesn't know what she would be capable of doing; no one does. I'll always love her for that.
Maybe the point is wanting to, and doing whatever gives you the best chance of actually doing it. Not a bad goal to have.
Love w/o Plan
Now a certain man was ill, Lazarus of Bethany, the village of Mary and her sister Martha. Mary was the one who anointed the Lord with perfume and wiped his feet with her hair; her brother Lazarus was ill. So the sisters sent a message to Jesus, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” But when Jesus heard it, he said, “This illness does not lead to death; rather it is for God’s glory, so that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” Accordingly, though Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus, after having heard that Lazarus was ill, he stayed two days longer in the place where he was. Then after this he said to the disciples, “Let us go to Judea again.” John 11:1-7
I am compelled by this story, and I have no idea how much of it I believe. It's told during Lent, because it prefigures Jesus' own death and resurrection, however you interpret the latter. It's another of what I call the "Super Jesus" stories - told to show his power and might. And his profound compassion speaks louder to me than anything else in it.
Jesus gets this letter from Mary and Martha, about their brother, Lazarus. "Lord, he whom you love is ill." Matthew Henry points out that there's no instruction here, no overt plea for Jesus to do anything - just information. Maybe they don't want to presume he will come, but know he would, if only he knew. They're also willing to interrupt him in healing all those other people - I picture Jesus as the Free Clinic - sick people all over him because they have nowhere else to turn. And Mary and Martha know that in spite of all of these others, he will care deeply about Lazarus. It's like the lost lamb for whom the shepherd ignores the other 99.
Notice how many times it's mentioned that Jesus loves these particular people, revealing personal details about them. I tend to picture Jesus as loving everybody like a fair parent - equally, if a bit impersonally. If Jesus communicates something of God to us, then this tells me that God loves us specifically, for our exact human selves. It counteracts the image of the dad with too many kids - "You're Betty, right? Okay, don't tell me. I know it starts with a B." God knows us and cares about us personally. Henry says that friendship means "your cares and your crosses multiply" - and that is the case with Jesus and his friends here.
Then there's this business of why he delays going for two days. This is a crucial point in the story and the part I struggle with the most. I'm right with Mary & Martha and the crowd who light into him for not coming sooner. I just don't buy delaying going to help your friends so that you can do a big, impressive miracle and show everybody. People didn't need that to see in Jesus the tremendous love and power he brought. So why DID he drag his feet? No good answer. Except that John does what we do when we don't understand why God doesn't do what we want: We make up something, we invent some good reason that shows everything was planned out, all for a purpose, so we can have assurance that God has everything under control. See? Jesus knows what he's doing ALL THE TIME.
What if we are loved and deeply cared for, even if there is no grand plan? To me, that's why you have a human being represent God in the first place.
I am compelled by this story, and I have no idea how much of it I believe. It's told during Lent, because it prefigures Jesus' own death and resurrection, however you interpret the latter. It's another of what I call the "Super Jesus" stories - told to show his power and might. And his profound compassion speaks louder to me than anything else in it.
Jesus gets this letter from Mary and Martha, about their brother, Lazarus. "Lord, he whom you love is ill." Matthew Henry points out that there's no instruction here, no overt plea for Jesus to do anything - just information. Maybe they don't want to presume he will come, but know he would, if only he knew. They're also willing to interrupt him in healing all those other people - I picture Jesus as the Free Clinic - sick people all over him because they have nowhere else to turn. And Mary and Martha know that in spite of all of these others, he will care deeply about Lazarus. It's like the lost lamb for whom the shepherd ignores the other 99.
Notice how many times it's mentioned that Jesus loves these particular people, revealing personal details about them. I tend to picture Jesus as loving everybody like a fair parent - equally, if a bit impersonally. If Jesus communicates something of God to us, then this tells me that God loves us specifically, for our exact human selves. It counteracts the image of the dad with too many kids - "You're Betty, right? Okay, don't tell me. I know it starts with a B." God knows us and cares about us personally. Henry says that friendship means "your cares and your crosses multiply" - and that is the case with Jesus and his friends here.
Then there's this business of why he delays going for two days. This is a crucial point in the story and the part I struggle with the most. I'm right with Mary & Martha and the crowd who light into him for not coming sooner. I just don't buy delaying going to help your friends so that you can do a big, impressive miracle and show everybody. People didn't need that to see in Jesus the tremendous love and power he brought. So why DID he drag his feet? No good answer. Except that John does what we do when we don't understand why God doesn't do what we want: We make up something, we invent some good reason that shows everything was planned out, all for a purpose, so we can have assurance that God has everything under control. See? Jesus knows what he's doing ALL THE TIME.
What if we are loved and deeply cared for, even if there is no grand plan? To me, that's why you have a human being represent God in the first place.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Surrender Dorothy
Life comes from God's spirit, and that's outside our control. Living in God's kingdom means getting blown about by his spirit. You never know what direction that wind will come from next. It's totally unpredictable. Its power comes from something we can't even see. An invisible force fuels the new life I'm talking about. You can't hope to corner it or fence it in. You simply surrender to it. - Virginia Stem Owens, Looking for Jesus
If you left my life up to me, I'd spend the day wandering the mall with a bag of peanut M&Ms in one hand, and a credit card in the other. That's my illness's vision of a great life for me. Never mind the debt it would create, never mind the poundage, never mind the dawn-of-the-dead state of consciousness. It's a handy way to drown out bad news, including consequences for behavior. That, my friends, is complete control.
And it doesn't work, so daily, I practice surrender. I awaken and simply say Uncle. You are going to have to help me find some other use for this day. I'm going to have to give it to you. I don't like it, I'll probably never want to, and half the time, I don't mean it. But it is my daily practice to keep letting go of the controls and handing them over. I have to stop and listen for directions. I have to do things I *gulp* don't feel like doing.
So instead of reading my book [better: buying new books!] I do the laundry as I promised my husband. I am scared to call up my dad and not know what to say. When you ask what's new there's not much - watching TV with my mom in between fixing meals for her and taking her to the toilet. And I call. (Once I made myself call and was feeling all virtuous about it, and he cut the call short to watch his TV program. God laughed. She thought that was a good one.) I do the things that are normal and healthy and not at all what I feel like doing, but it keeps me out of chaos enough to deal with the bigger stuff.
And no guaranteed answers on the bigger stuff, either. Should I marry this person? Should I take that job? Should I take a group to the Holy Land, as I am about to do in little more than a month, even with only a sort-of peace, dribbled over with home made rockets and jet retaliation? "I don't know," Jesus says, in that annoying way he has. You've got as much information as I do. I'm not going to tell you in the comfort of your lawn chair. You do your best, and the results are up to God. "Life comes from God's spirit", Virginia Stem Owens says in her wonderful paraphrase of Jesus to Nicodemus. You have to take a few risks. You can't get the test answers in advance. Admit it. Surrender. Enjoy.
If you left my life up to me, I'd spend the day wandering the mall with a bag of peanut M&Ms in one hand, and a credit card in the other. That's my illness's vision of a great life for me. Never mind the debt it would create, never mind the poundage, never mind the dawn-of-the-dead state of consciousness. It's a handy way to drown out bad news, including consequences for behavior. That, my friends, is complete control.
And it doesn't work, so daily, I practice surrender. I awaken and simply say Uncle. You are going to have to help me find some other use for this day. I'm going to have to give it to you. I don't like it, I'll probably never want to, and half the time, I don't mean it. But it is my daily practice to keep letting go of the controls and handing them over. I have to stop and listen for directions. I have to do things I *gulp* don't feel like doing.
So instead of reading my book [better: buying new books!] I do the laundry as I promised my husband. I am scared to call up my dad and not know what to say. When you ask what's new there's not much - watching TV with my mom in between fixing meals for her and taking her to the toilet. And I call. (Once I made myself call and was feeling all virtuous about it, and he cut the call short to watch his TV program. God laughed. She thought that was a good one.) I do the things that are normal and healthy and not at all what I feel like doing, but it keeps me out of chaos enough to deal with the bigger stuff.
And no guaranteed answers on the bigger stuff, either. Should I marry this person? Should I take that job? Should I take a group to the Holy Land, as I am about to do in little more than a month, even with only a sort-of peace, dribbled over with home made rockets and jet retaliation? "I don't know," Jesus says, in that annoying way he has. You've got as much information as I do. I'm not going to tell you in the comfort of your lawn chair. You do your best, and the results are up to God. "Life comes from God's spirit", Virginia Stem Owens says in her wonderful paraphrase of Jesus to Nicodemus. You have to take a few risks. You can't get the test answers in advance. Admit it. Surrender. Enjoy.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Love Your Enemies
You have heard it said, "You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy." But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you. - Matthew 5:43-44
I was taking the back streets to my OA meeting, and stopped at a stop sign. As soon as I pulled forward, I heard someone behind me lay into his horn. Not just a short toot to call something to my attention, nor a single blast of frustration, but repeated pounding. I looked in my rearview mirror, and saw a man giving me the finger, still pounding his horn, face screwed up in fury. What did I do? I wondered. (I'm female, plus I'm from Minnesota, so I always think it's something I did.) I didn't think I cut him off, there was no opportunity. Meanwhile, he continued to pound his horn, and jab his middle finger at me, even as he turned the corner. Quite an accomplishment of coordination, actually. But why?
I suddenly remembered my bumpersticker that reads: "We support the freedom to marry. Unitarian Universalists standing on the side of love." There's a rainbow off to the side, in case you didn't quite get it. Well I'll be, I thought. I've finally stood up in such a way as to draw ire. I thought about my church, and the story we proudly tell about hosting James Farmer to speak to us about integration in the 1960s, and someone burning a cross on our lawn. This is certainly on a smaller scale, but it feels like a badge of honor.
And I think about Jesus' instruction to us to love our enemies, to pray for those who persecute us. Now in his day, that probably meant the Romans, and one certainly need do nothing to have an enemy in one's life. But there had to have been ways for you to keep your head down, never speak out, never draw a hostile response. And that wasn't the choice he made. In our day, I think for those of us in the majority - white, middle class, part of nice, wholesome heterosexual marriages - it takes a lot for us to even have an enemy, or come face to face with them. It's pretty easy to preach about love, and I often do. Seldom do I stick out visibly enough in loving someone that others find objectionable that the hatred comes out in response.
And I am praying for this man.
I was taking the back streets to my OA meeting, and stopped at a stop sign. As soon as I pulled forward, I heard someone behind me lay into his horn. Not just a short toot to call something to my attention, nor a single blast of frustration, but repeated pounding. I looked in my rearview mirror, and saw a man giving me the finger, still pounding his horn, face screwed up in fury. What did I do? I wondered. (I'm female, plus I'm from Minnesota, so I always think it's something I did.) I didn't think I cut him off, there was no opportunity. Meanwhile, he continued to pound his horn, and jab his middle finger at me, even as he turned the corner. Quite an accomplishment of coordination, actually. But why?
I suddenly remembered my bumpersticker that reads: "We support the freedom to marry. Unitarian Universalists standing on the side of love." There's a rainbow off to the side, in case you didn't quite get it. Well I'll be, I thought. I've finally stood up in such a way as to draw ire. I thought about my church, and the story we proudly tell about hosting James Farmer to speak to us about integration in the 1960s, and someone burning a cross on our lawn. This is certainly on a smaller scale, but it feels like a badge of honor.
And I think about Jesus' instruction to us to love our enemies, to pray for those who persecute us. Now in his day, that probably meant the Romans, and one certainly need do nothing to have an enemy in one's life. But there had to have been ways for you to keep your head down, never speak out, never draw a hostile response. And that wasn't the choice he made. In our day, I think for those of us in the majority - white, middle class, part of nice, wholesome heterosexual marriages - it takes a lot for us to even have an enemy, or come face to face with them. It's pretty easy to preach about love, and I often do. Seldom do I stick out visibly enough in loving someone that others find objectionable that the hatred comes out in response.
And I am praying for this man.
Friday, February 13, 2009
The Spirit bloweth
The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” Nicodemus said to him, “How can these things be?” John 3:8-10
I looked up the Greek word thelei, translated in the NRSV as "chooses". It's also translated as "wills", "wishes", "desires", and in my KJV, "listeth". So of course I had to look up "listeth," which I had always thought was to lean or tilt sideways. (Its archaic meaning is actually "wish" or "desire".) But my on-line Greek word study goes on. The sense of the word is "natural impulse", which is "more violent than a reasonable resolve... It is therefore used in cases where the wisdom and justice, etc, are not apparent..."
Whoa. This is a really different image of the spirit and nature of God. Even for today. The Aramaic word for Spirit is ruach, also breath, or wind. I hear this and think of the cool, floaty breeze I feel lying on a hammock with my pina colada. This Spirit is much more bracing. Not something I can tame or something that can be whatever I want. Jesus really captures the mystery, the mystifying practice of determining who or what God is, and what the &%*@ she wants from me. Accepting this, being willing to live in its sometimes chaotic windyness, is to be born of the spirit. My God is not a sadist, though, nor is the God of Jesus. This is the same person who calls God "Abba" - Papa or Daddy - and says God is crazy over li'l baby sparrows . I feel that.
And yet my experience of the Spirit can be one of chronic not-fairness, and "ya sure didn't ask me didja"ness. I immediately thought of this line by Carl Jung: To this day, God is the name by which I designate all things that cross my willful path, violently, recklessly, all things that upset my subjective views, plans and intentions, and change the course of my life for better or worse. And so why would you submit yourself to this? What's the difference between a life of complete self-will and a life of the spirit?
I asked my rabbi friend David this, and he said it's not like you get a nice thick manila envelope with collated instructions. More like, he says, he will be sitting counseling someone who has taken the trouble to seek him out and who sits down and chats about the weather. If he has plugged in to the spirit, he says, he will know something of what the person is really trying to say. At least he'll know that they're afraid to say what's really troubling them.
Jesus takes the man's flattering opening about his miracles, and somehow ferrets out what he really wants to know: Unless you are born again, you will not know the kingdom. Excuse me, Nicodemus thinks, did I even ask that? Either some of this conversation was left out, or Jesus knows what people are about to ask once they get around to it, so he figures he might as well just move things along - don't take all night. And he's blunt in this conversation, verging on testy. Why do you marvel? Why don't you know this? This sure isn't the Super-Nice! Jesus I was taught about in Lutheran Sunday School.
And the Spirit may not be Super-Nice! either. But it's real. And attuning to it makes a lot more sense than thinking I can outsmart it.
I looked up the Greek word thelei, translated in the NRSV as "chooses". It's also translated as "wills", "wishes", "desires", and in my KJV, "listeth". So of course I had to look up "listeth," which I had always thought was to lean or tilt sideways. (Its archaic meaning is actually "wish" or "desire".) But my on-line Greek word study goes on. The sense of the word is "natural impulse", which is "more violent than a reasonable resolve... It is therefore used in cases where the wisdom and justice, etc, are not apparent..."
Whoa. This is a really different image of the spirit and nature of God. Even for today. The Aramaic word for Spirit is ruach, also breath, or wind. I hear this and think of the cool, floaty breeze I feel lying on a hammock with my pina colada. This Spirit is much more bracing. Not something I can tame or something that can be whatever I want. Jesus really captures the mystery, the mystifying practice of determining who or what God is, and what the &%*@ she wants from me. Accepting this, being willing to live in its sometimes chaotic windyness, is to be born of the spirit. My God is not a sadist, though, nor is the God of Jesus. This is the same person who calls God "Abba" - Papa or Daddy - and says God is crazy over li'l baby sparrows . I feel that.
And yet my experience of the Spirit can be one of chronic not-fairness, and "ya sure didn't ask me didja"ness. I immediately thought of this line by Carl Jung: To this day, God is the name by which I designate all things that cross my willful path, violently, recklessly, all things that upset my subjective views, plans and intentions, and change the course of my life for better or worse. And so why would you submit yourself to this? What's the difference between a life of complete self-will and a life of the spirit?
I asked my rabbi friend David this, and he said it's not like you get a nice thick manila envelope with collated instructions. More like, he says, he will be sitting counseling someone who has taken the trouble to seek him out and who sits down and chats about the weather. If he has plugged in to the spirit, he says, he will know something of what the person is really trying to say. At least he'll know that they're afraid to say what's really troubling them.
Jesus takes the man's flattering opening about his miracles, and somehow ferrets out what he really wants to know: Unless you are born again, you will not know the kingdom. Excuse me, Nicodemus thinks, did I even ask that? Either some of this conversation was left out, or Jesus knows what people are about to ask once they get around to it, so he figures he might as well just move things along - don't take all night. And he's blunt in this conversation, verging on testy. Why do you marvel? Why don't you know this? This sure isn't the Super-Nice! Jesus I was taught about in Lutheran Sunday School.
And the Spirit may not be Super-Nice! either. But it's real. And attuning to it makes a lot more sense than thinking I can outsmart it.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Nick at Night
Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.” Jesus answered him, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.” Nicodemus said to him, “How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?”Jesus answered, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above.’ The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” Nicodemus said to him, “How can these things be?” - John 3:1-9
So Nicodemus the Pharisee comes to Jesus at night. He starts off with the niceties, complimenting Jesus on his bonafides, the miracles that confirm his authority as a teacher of God's truth. "We know you are of God" is an interesting expression. Who's the "we"? He comes alone at night; who among his fellow priests would agree with this statement? Perhaps he is so accustomed to thinking of himself as part of this elite group, these Pharisees, that he cannot say "I" anymore. But they're not around.
People pick on old Nick for this coming this way. "Too chicken to acknowledge Jesus in broad daylight, eh?" Well, um, yeah. He would have a lot to lose, marching up to Jesus and accepting his teaching in front of all his friends. Pharisees took vows in front of huge crowds of people to devote themselves to the law. They vowed to perfectly obey thousands of laws pertaining to every area of life. They studied, they worked hard. They lived a life apart - "Pharisee" means the Separated One. It's remarkable that he would seek Jesus out. He was certainly giving his life to God in the most committed way he knew. What could being born again mean to someone that dedicated?
I was "born again" when I was 13. Perhaps you've been in an altar call like mine. You remember the pastor asking the choir and the organist to play and sing "Just as I Am" a few million times, while he crooned his invitation to come up and accept Jesus as your Lord and personal savior. He made your life sounds mighty miserable, and Jesus sound mighty good.
I loved being born again, getting saved. I did it several times. I can almost remember how the industrial church carpeting felt under my knees, the blonde wooden prayer rail under my hands. I liked the drama of it, the whole notion of giving myself to God, of yielding to something that was also a sense of yearning inside of me - union with the divine. Knowing my purpose. Not being alone, ever again. Joy, he promised. (Sure sounds sexy as I write this, and I suppose old Rumi would agree: God is lover.) Sometimes there were "counselors" who told you what prayers to say. You had to confess your sins and accept Jesus' death on the cross as being personally yours. You had to say that Jesus was the power that would rule your life, whether you had any notion of what that meant, or not. No wonder Nicodemus wanted a few facts, a little evidence before signing on.
Then the morning after. I expected a new life, as promised. Presto-change-o, holy life. It was always my same old life, except maybe an added attempt to be good. I was part of an elite, though, a group of people who were right with God. My parents weren't born-again, I went to church with friends or alone. I read a lot of things to try to help me understand what to do next. I had obligations to show myself as an example, to witness to others and save them, too. We had some remarkably kind adults in our church who tried to mentor me. They tried to reduce my suffering by teaching me to hold myself apart a little less. I always felt like a failure. I think I expected that I would simply feel God, that Jesus would come and change me in a way that was, well, obvious. That somehow that ritual, that expectancy would yield something, by itself.
It's taken me decades to have the courage to expect something again. Not in the same way. (Abracadabra, Jesus!) Jesus' way takes a lot of work, a lot of dedication, and it's a way taught by many other teachers besides him. And I think it's true that we can't just decide to love people on our own, to overcome our own self-centeredness, our own fears, to overcome the injustices of the world, just because we make up our minds to do it, doggone it. We need help.
That's where the whole "born of water, born of the spirit" comes in for me. I do think the Spirit exists. I've felt its gentle whoosh under me sometimes, or its sharp-stick prodding. I do think we must yield ourselves to it, constantly listen for it, surrender and become willing for it to change us. It's slow. It takes patience and rededication. My 13-year-old self would've given up on it ages ago.
No wonder Nicodemus doesn't "get it" at first. No wonder he asks dumb questions. He's already giving God everything. Why should he change? Like Nicodemus, I enjoy my introvert's "separate" life, surrounded by books, hoping to get to God through them. I think Jesus is asking for something more passionate, and much less comfortable. Damn it.
So Nicodemus the Pharisee comes to Jesus at night. He starts off with the niceties, complimenting Jesus on his bonafides, the miracles that confirm his authority as a teacher of God's truth. "We know you are of God" is an interesting expression. Who's the "we"? He comes alone at night; who among his fellow priests would agree with this statement? Perhaps he is so accustomed to thinking of himself as part of this elite group, these Pharisees, that he cannot say "I" anymore. But they're not around.
People pick on old Nick for this coming this way. "Too chicken to acknowledge Jesus in broad daylight, eh?" Well, um, yeah. He would have a lot to lose, marching up to Jesus and accepting his teaching in front of all his friends. Pharisees took vows in front of huge crowds of people to devote themselves to the law. They vowed to perfectly obey thousands of laws pertaining to every area of life. They studied, they worked hard. They lived a life apart - "Pharisee" means the Separated One. It's remarkable that he would seek Jesus out. He was certainly giving his life to God in the most committed way he knew. What could being born again mean to someone that dedicated?
I was "born again" when I was 13. Perhaps you've been in an altar call like mine. You remember the pastor asking the choir and the organist to play and sing "Just as I Am" a few million times, while he crooned his invitation to come up and accept Jesus as your Lord and personal savior. He made your life sounds mighty miserable, and Jesus sound mighty good.
I loved being born again, getting saved. I did it several times. I can almost remember how the industrial church carpeting felt under my knees, the blonde wooden prayer rail under my hands. I liked the drama of it, the whole notion of giving myself to God, of yielding to something that was also a sense of yearning inside of me - union with the divine. Knowing my purpose. Not being alone, ever again. Joy, he promised. (Sure sounds sexy as I write this, and I suppose old Rumi would agree: God is lover.) Sometimes there were "counselors" who told you what prayers to say. You had to confess your sins and accept Jesus' death on the cross as being personally yours. You had to say that Jesus was the power that would rule your life, whether you had any notion of what that meant, or not. No wonder Nicodemus wanted a few facts, a little evidence before signing on.
Then the morning after. I expected a new life, as promised. Presto-change-o, holy life. It was always my same old life, except maybe an added attempt to be good. I was part of an elite, though, a group of people who were right with God. My parents weren't born-again, I went to church with friends or alone. I read a lot of things to try to help me understand what to do next. I had obligations to show myself as an example, to witness to others and save them, too. We had some remarkably kind adults in our church who tried to mentor me. They tried to reduce my suffering by teaching me to hold myself apart a little less. I always felt like a failure. I think I expected that I would simply feel God, that Jesus would come and change me in a way that was, well, obvious. That somehow that ritual, that expectancy would yield something, by itself.
It's taken me decades to have the courage to expect something again. Not in the same way. (Abracadabra, Jesus!) Jesus' way takes a lot of work, a lot of dedication, and it's a way taught by many other teachers besides him. And I think it's true that we can't just decide to love people on our own, to overcome our own self-centeredness, our own fears, to overcome the injustices of the world, just because we make up our minds to do it, doggone it. We need help.
That's where the whole "born of water, born of the spirit" comes in for me. I do think the Spirit exists. I've felt its gentle whoosh under me sometimes, or its sharp-stick prodding. I do think we must yield ourselves to it, constantly listen for it, surrender and become willing for it to change us. It's slow. It takes patience and rededication. My 13-year-old self would've given up on it ages ago.
No wonder Nicodemus doesn't "get it" at first. No wonder he asks dumb questions. He's already giving God everything. Why should he change? Like Nicodemus, I enjoy my introvert's "separate" life, surrounded by books, hoping to get to God through them. I think Jesus is asking for something more passionate, and much less comfortable. Damn it.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
After the Miracle
1011At once the man was made well, and he took up his mat and began to walk.Now that day was a sabbath. So the Jews said to the man who had been cured, ‘It is the sabbath; it is not lawful for you to carry your mat.’ But he answered them, ‘The man who made me well said to me, “Take up your mat and walk.” 1213’ They asked him, ‘Who is the man who said to you, “Take it up and walk”?’ Now the man who had been healed did not know who it was, for Jesus had disappeared in the crowd that was there. Later Jesus found him in the temple and said to him, ‘See, you have been made well! Do not sin any more, so that nothing worse happens to you.’ The man went away and told the Jews that it was Jesus who had made him well. Therefore the Jews started persecuting Jesus, because he was doing such things on the sabbath. But Jesus answered them, ‘My Father is still working, and I also am working.’ - Matthew 5:10-17
Interesting to hear what happens after the miracle. Usually we just hear about Jesus' fab-ness, close the book and turn out the lights. The End. Healing may require adjustment, though, a tiny lifestyle change. I said before that healing often requires you to do something different than you have done before. And then you have to keep doing it.
Jesus slips into the crowd, and our ex-lame guy is on his own. He's walking around with his mat and runs into the temple officials (Don't you just cringe at the way John calls them "the Jews" as if everybody in the story wasn't Jewish, including the main character? I know that the John community for whom this was written was being kicked out by mainstream Judaism and had a few reasons to be cheesed. But you can just see centuries of hatred being inspired by these few words. Wish I could get in there with my big politically correct eraser. But you probably don't want to turn me loose.)
Actually, when you get past this, it's kind of funny. Here's this guy people have seen limping around for decades. He's just been miraculously healed and all they can think to say is "No mat-carrying." Jesus is saying that God is more interested in compassion and easing human suffering than rules about doing stuff on the Sabbath. But our guy doesn't get this yet. He panics. Well I wouldn't be carrying this mat except that this guy who healed me said to. What a weinie. You can also picture the officials, can't you, cramming their helmets down on their skulls like the keystone cops, and taking off to chase the healer.
No wonder Jesus finds him and tells him not to sin again. Once again, centuries of silly ideas in these words. Jesus definitely isn't buying into the notion of God punishing people for their sins with physical affliction. Nor do I think he's saying that he is the same as God. 'My Father is still working, and I also am working.’ sounds rather smug. I might have said, "God wants us to care for each other, no matter what day it is, and if you want to encourage that spark of God in you, you have to practice. " Or to the newly healed man: "Don't get caught up in legalism and blame. You have to think differently than you did before. You will stay healed if you remember to have gratitude for your healing and value compassion. Including the people who were stuck where you were before."
Easy enough to say, I guess.
Interesting to hear what happens after the miracle. Usually we just hear about Jesus' fab-ness, close the book and turn out the lights. The End. Healing may require adjustment, though, a tiny lifestyle change. I said before that healing often requires you to do something different than you have done before. And then you have to keep doing it.
Jesus slips into the crowd, and our ex-lame guy is on his own. He's walking around with his mat and runs into the temple officials (Don't you just cringe at the way John calls them "the Jews" as if everybody in the story wasn't Jewish, including the main character? I know that the John community for whom this was written was being kicked out by mainstream Judaism and had a few reasons to be cheesed. But you can just see centuries of hatred being inspired by these few words. Wish I could get in there with my big politically correct eraser. But you probably don't want to turn me loose.)
Actually, when you get past this, it's kind of funny. Here's this guy people have seen limping around for decades. He's just been miraculously healed and all they can think to say is "No mat-carrying." Jesus is saying that God is more interested in compassion and easing human suffering than rules about doing stuff on the Sabbath. But our guy doesn't get this yet. He panics. Well I wouldn't be carrying this mat except that this guy who healed me said to. What a weinie. You can also picture the officials, can't you, cramming their helmets down on their skulls like the keystone cops, and taking off to chase the healer.
No wonder Jesus finds him and tells him not to sin again. Once again, centuries of silly ideas in these words. Jesus definitely isn't buying into the notion of God punishing people for their sins with physical affliction. Nor do I think he's saying that he is the same as God. 'My Father is still working, and I also am working.’ sounds rather smug. I might have said, "God wants us to care for each other, no matter what day it is, and if you want to encourage that spark of God in you, you have to practice. " Or to the newly healed man: "Don't get caught up in legalism and blame. You have to think differently than you did before. You will stay healed if you remember to have gratitude for your healing and value compassion. Including the people who were stuck where you were before."
Easy enough to say, I guess.
Heal Yourself Already
1011Take up your mat and walk.
The healing here is completely participatory. Jesus makes this guy DO something, probably something he doesn't want to do in the first place. Isn't most healing like that? Who wants to hear that your knee problem will get better if you just *ahem* stop putting so much weight on it? When I have an ache or a pain I will sometimes not tell my husband, who teaches yoga and will suggest helpful poses. My preferred method is to pop some Aleve, then curl up and whimper till it passes.
I'll never forget the powerful shrink who told me that I had processed my childhood traumas enough, it was time to let go, time to stop seeing the world through a victim's eyes. "Sure," I said. "I'll just do that." Interesting. Sarcasm had rarely filled me to the point where it bulged out of my eyes like that. But, really. Didn't she know that I longed to do it, that I was in therapy because it seemed impossible? But she just sat there, fixing me with those intense blue eyes, not backing down.
I definitely didn't want to do group therapy, psychodramas, therapy with actual physical contact with others. And it, um, worked. I never would have believed that I could heal with my family. That I could be married. I wanted to keep doing the same thing - screwing up relationships with men, avoiding Thanksgiving and telling my sad tale to therapists. I could have lain by that pool for 38 years, thinking, Today for sure. Had Jesus asked me if I wanted to be healed, I am sure I would say yes. Had he told me to take up my mat and walk already, I'm not sure.
Maybe it worked because somebody insisted - someone who really cared, who spoke with the authority of her own healing. Hm. I wonder if Jesus could heal and believed in healing because he had experienced his own.
The healing here is completely participatory. Jesus makes this guy DO something, probably something he doesn't want to do in the first place. Isn't most healing like that? Who wants to hear that your knee problem will get better if you just *ahem* stop putting so much weight on it? When I have an ache or a pain I will sometimes not tell my husband, who teaches yoga and will suggest helpful poses. My preferred method is to pop some Aleve, then curl up and whimper till it passes.
I'll never forget the powerful shrink who told me that I had processed my childhood traumas enough, it was time to let go, time to stop seeing the world through a victim's eyes. "Sure," I said. "I'll just do that." Interesting. Sarcasm had rarely filled me to the point where it bulged out of my eyes like that. But, really. Didn't she know that I longed to do it, that I was in therapy because it seemed impossible? But she just sat there, fixing me with those intense blue eyes, not backing down.
I definitely didn't want to do group therapy, psychodramas, therapy with actual physical contact with others. And it, um, worked. I never would have believed that I could heal with my family. That I could be married. I wanted to keep doing the same thing - screwing up relationships with men, avoiding Thanksgiving and telling my sad tale to therapists. I could have lain by that pool for 38 years, thinking, Today for sure. Had Jesus asked me if I wanted to be healed, I am sure I would say yes. Had he told me to take up my mat and walk already, I'm not sure.
Maybe it worked because somebody insisted - someone who really cared, who spoke with the authority of her own healing. Hm. I wonder if Jesus could heal and believed in healing because he had experienced his own.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Beautiful and Brave
In meditating on the lame man by the pool, I had the following encounter.
I am sitting on our dock at our lake cabin. I am eight. I wear my lime-green one-piece, the one I hate, with its babyish ruffle around the butt. I swing my legs above the water. It's early morning, and no one else is up yet. I look and look at the water, so perfectly still. The call of the loons quivers in the air. At the opposite shoreline, there is a perfect upside-down reflection of jack pines, scrub brush, sand.
I want to jump in and I'm afraid. Most of my fantasies involve being the first or the only one to do something, and being admired for it. Perhaps someone will get up when I'm already in the water, and say, What a brave, beautiful girl. I am also a weak swimmer; I flunked swim class at our town pool this year. There are fish in the lake. Sharp rocks. It will be cold. I look at the water.
I am a lonely child. My parents are worried about things that they don't talk about. My mother has been diagnosed with cancer, but no one talks about it with her. Nor is anyone is going to tell an 8-year-old that cancer means death, at least it did back then. My sister is 18 and pregnant, and we're not talking about that, either. I know because she's getting married, and they have said there will be a baby. Is she ashamed? Is she happy? She doesn't say, either.
I have become very good at being alone and imagining nice things. Just imagining. I probably would never have gone in if he hadn't sat beside me. He wears a t-shirt and cut-offs like everybody else. He shows up from time to time, so I'm not scared of him. Who could be, anyway? He is so friendly. "What are you doing out here", he asks.
Nobody else would ask this. What does it look like I'm doing? Sitting and dangling your feet in the water is hardly suspect. "Looking at the water", I say. He seems to see the real things under the surface, as I have begun to do. I wonder what he sees in me.
"Kind of early", he says. He frowns at the water. He isn't telling me not to be there, just pointing out a fact. I went out there alone because the rest of them would spoil it somehow. My mother would tell me to wait til it got warmer, my sister would get fed up with my fence-sitting, with no appreciation for the sad, terrifying beauty. She would jump in, probably, and goad me until I either jumped in or got mad and went away.
"Yeah it's early," I say. "So what?" I'm sorry I said that. I want him to like me. He doesn't seem to notice.
"Thinking about jumping in?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why don't you?"
I shrug and we both look at the water some more. It is so lovely. "Well why don't you," he asks again. "You put your suit on, in fact you do this every morning. I think you want to."
I say it's cold and there are fish and rocks... Everything sounds like a dumb excuse. My child self doesn't have words for this yet, but I am afraid I will be pulled into something I cannot control. "Do you want to jump in?" he asks gently. Words so close, they sound like my own.
And so I do. I jump in the water. It is cold, the slap of it like February. All my life, I've been told you're supposed to brace against the cold, not to be so exposed - you could die. But I don't die, I feel incredibly alive. And I do feel beautiful and brave. I look around for him to see it, but he has gone. He is always doing that.
I am sitting on our dock at our lake cabin. I am eight. I wear my lime-green one-piece, the one I hate, with its babyish ruffle around the butt. I swing my legs above the water. It's early morning, and no one else is up yet. I look and look at the water, so perfectly still. The call of the loons quivers in the air. At the opposite shoreline, there is a perfect upside-down reflection of jack pines, scrub brush, sand.
I want to jump in and I'm afraid. Most of my fantasies involve being the first or the only one to do something, and being admired for it. Perhaps someone will get up when I'm already in the water, and say, What a brave, beautiful girl. I am also a weak swimmer; I flunked swim class at our town pool this year. There are fish in the lake. Sharp rocks. It will be cold. I look at the water.
I am a lonely child. My parents are worried about things that they don't talk about. My mother has been diagnosed with cancer, but no one talks about it with her. Nor is anyone is going to tell an 8-year-old that cancer means death, at least it did back then. My sister is 18 and pregnant, and we're not talking about that, either. I know because she's getting married, and they have said there will be a baby. Is she ashamed? Is she happy? She doesn't say, either.
I have become very good at being alone and imagining nice things. Just imagining. I probably would never have gone in if he hadn't sat beside me. He wears a t-shirt and cut-offs like everybody else. He shows up from time to time, so I'm not scared of him. Who could be, anyway? He is so friendly. "What are you doing out here", he asks.
Nobody else would ask this. What does it look like I'm doing? Sitting and dangling your feet in the water is hardly suspect. "Looking at the water", I say. He seems to see the real things under the surface, as I have begun to do. I wonder what he sees in me.
"Kind of early", he says. He frowns at the water. He isn't telling me not to be there, just pointing out a fact. I went out there alone because the rest of them would spoil it somehow. My mother would tell me to wait til it got warmer, my sister would get fed up with my fence-sitting, with no appreciation for the sad, terrifying beauty. She would jump in, probably, and goad me until I either jumped in or got mad and went away.
"Yeah it's early," I say. "So what?" I'm sorry I said that. I want him to like me. He doesn't seem to notice.
"Thinking about jumping in?"
"Uh-huh."
"Why don't you?"
I shrug and we both look at the water some more. It is so lovely. "Well why don't you," he asks again. "You put your suit on, in fact you do this every morning. I think you want to."
I say it's cold and there are fish and rocks... Everything sounds like a dumb excuse. My child self doesn't have words for this yet, but I am afraid I will be pulled into something I cannot control. "Do you want to jump in?" he asks gently. Words so close, they sound like my own.
And so I do. I jump in the water. It is cold, the slap of it like February. All my life, I've been told you're supposed to brace against the cold, not to be so exposed - you could die. But I don't die, I feel incredibly alive. And I do feel beautiful and brave. I look around for him to see it, but he has gone. He is always doing that.
Do You Want to Be Healed?
Now in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate there is a pool, called in Hebrew Beth-zatha, which has five porticoes. In these lay many invalids—blind, lame, and paralyzed. One man was there who had been ill for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had been there a long time, he said to him, “Do you want to be made well?” The sick man answered him, “Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me.” Jesus said to him, “Stand up, take your mat and walk.” At once the man was made well, and he took up his mat and began to walk. - John 5:1-9
The healing pool must have been a popular place. Its name, Beth-zatha (or Bethesda in Aramaic) means House of Grace. Lots of people took themselves there. There are five porticoes, which, according to Wikipedia, is "a porch that is leading to the entrance of a building, or extended as a colonnade, with a roof structure over a walkway, supported by columns or enclosed by walls." Having five of these suggests a rather large structure. There were the blind, lame and paralyzed, all waiting to have a shot at a rare opportunity. They are all carefully watching the water for an angel to appear, a sign of God's healing grace. First one in gets their dearest wish, it would seem.
The man in our story has been coming to this place for 38 years. Jesus probably knows this because of talk in town. Look at this guy, the hopeless case. Everyone feels sorry for him or decides he's probably not been healed because of his own sin, God has judged him unworthy. Interesting that Jesus picks this man to talk to, out of everyone. He asks kind of a dumb question, "Do you want to be made well?" Well, Duh. The gospels tend to leave out the eye-rolling that meets so many of Jesus' questions. Why else would he be there? Why does anybody go there? He gives Jesus the spiel he probably gives everyone. Well of course, but I'm lame, and no one will help me. I always miss my chance. Seems pretty reasonable, actually. And yet he returns, day after day.
He is in that awful, middle place I know so well. You know what is wrong with you. You see the cure, and there is always something that blocks you. Maybe you don't really want to be healed. Maybe you are used to the way things are. Healing requires so much courage.
Notice that Jesus doesn't offer to jump in the water and give the man the chance he's been waiting for. This would also be a reasonable expectation from a healer, a model of compassion. Jesus asks him to do something much harder. To give up on the impossible conditions he has put around his healing and go for broke: Take up your mat and walk. More eye-rolling, I suspect. Don't you think I would do that if I could? But something shifts in him. What the hell, he thinks, what do I have to lose? That's when you do it, isn't it? When you've tried everything else, when the thing you've ruled out as impossible gets put in front of you, and you have to make a choice between trying and staying stuck. And when someone has the nerve to ask.
The healing pool must have been a popular place. Its name, Beth-zatha (or Bethesda in Aramaic) means House of Grace. Lots of people took themselves there. There are five porticoes, which, according to Wikipedia, is "a porch that is leading to the entrance of a building, or extended as a colonnade, with a roof structure over a walkway, supported by columns or enclosed by walls." Having five of these suggests a rather large structure. There were the blind, lame and paralyzed, all waiting to have a shot at a rare opportunity. They are all carefully watching the water for an angel to appear, a sign of God's healing grace. First one in gets their dearest wish, it would seem.
The man in our story has been coming to this place for 38 years. Jesus probably knows this because of talk in town. Look at this guy, the hopeless case. Everyone feels sorry for him or decides he's probably not been healed because of his own sin, God has judged him unworthy. Interesting that Jesus picks this man to talk to, out of everyone. He asks kind of a dumb question, "Do you want to be made well?" Well, Duh. The gospels tend to leave out the eye-rolling that meets so many of Jesus' questions. Why else would he be there? Why does anybody go there? He gives Jesus the spiel he probably gives everyone. Well of course, but I'm lame, and no one will help me. I always miss my chance. Seems pretty reasonable, actually. And yet he returns, day after day.
He is in that awful, middle place I know so well. You know what is wrong with you. You see the cure, and there is always something that blocks you. Maybe you don't really want to be healed. Maybe you are used to the way things are. Healing requires so much courage.
Notice that Jesus doesn't offer to jump in the water and give the man the chance he's been waiting for. This would also be a reasonable expectation from a healer, a model of compassion. Jesus asks him to do something much harder. To give up on the impossible conditions he has put around his healing and go for broke: Take up your mat and walk. More eye-rolling, I suspect. Don't you think I would do that if I could? But something shifts in him. What the hell, he thinks, what do I have to lose? That's when you do it, isn't it? When you've tried everything else, when the thing you've ruled out as impossible gets put in front of you, and you have to make a choice between trying and staying stuck. And when someone has the nerve to ask.
Walter Wink: I Bilong You
"When people say Jesus is divine, or the Son of God, or God, I have nothing in my experience that can help me comprehend what they mean... I do not know what the word "divine" signifies. But I do have an inkling of what the word "human" might entail, because we are made in the image of God, the Human One, and there have been exemplary human beings, in our tradition and others." - Walter Wink, The Human Being: Jesus and the Enigma of the Son of Man
I am agog and swooning over Walter Wink's book, The Human Being: Jesus and the Enigma of the Son of Man. I admired his Powers books, where he talks about Jesus' program of non-violence and standing up to the "domination system", all that around us which makes us feel helpless about racism, war, sexism, etc. But I must admit Human Being has me pining for it while I do just about everything else.
I puzzle over his description of God as The Human One, based on Ezekiel's vision of God as a human being, or something like a human being, on a throne. Here we go again, I thought. The old man in the sky. Who needs it? But Wink interprets this vision, and Jesus' subsequent identifying with it by calling himself the Son of Man, as a religious call to humanness, not necessarily, divinity. He says, Divinity is not a qualitatively different reality; quite the reverse, divinity is fully realized humanity. The goal of life, then, is not to become something we are not - divine - but to become what we truly are - human. We are not required to become divine: flawless, perfect, without blemish. We are invited simply to become human, which means growing through our sins and mistakes, learning by trial and error, being redeemed over and over from compulsive behavior - becoming ourselves, scars and all. It means embracing and transforming those elements in us that we find unacceptable. It means giving up pretending to be good and, instead, becoming real.
Is this cool stuff, or what?
Jesus uses the term "Son of Man" the most often in referring to himself - never "Son of God", by the way. (His other term for himself is a question: "Who do you say that I am?") Wink argues that most people say it's just a humble way of saying "I", as in "the writer of this blog" or "this preacher". But, he says, Jesus ain't modest. Anyone who says he's here to bring forth the Kingdom of God doesn't have self-esteem issues.
The term "son of" (and now in a fairer world, "daughter of" or "child of") has great currency in Judaism. It's a term of profound belonging. Men are called Joseph bar ______, son of someone. The most biggest ceremony in a person's life as a Jew is when he or she becomes a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, a son or a daughter of the commandment. You go through rigorous training and commit yourself as well as get affirmed by a community, that you belong to God, to a people, to a worldview.
As Wink points out, calling yourself a child of God, not only indicates great belonging, but also great intimacy. It puts relationship as central to your being, to your identity. You are most fully yourself in a web of other people. Something foreign, I think, to our self-made, super-individual, I-am-totally-unique sense of ourselves in the West. In this view, relationship is usually subordinate, and mutuality is something we have to work hard to build. The ghost of this old sense of belonging, however, is present in our insults. When someone really wants to hurt you, they call you a Son of Bitch or a Bastard. It slaps your mother, and erases your father altogether. You are utterly alone. Resist as we may our obligations, to have someone forcibly remove them for us still has impact.
Jesus puts relationship to other human beings as central to who he is. In Papua New Guinea, my diplomat friends tell me, their pigeon English has a curious and charming possessive form, "bilong". So if you were going to talk about your dog, it would be, Fido bilong me. I could imagine a term for Jesus, then, as Jesus bilong humanity. And living a religious life, I imagine, means that more and more, we bilong each other.
I am agog and swooning over Walter Wink's book, The Human Being: Jesus and the Enigma of the Son of Man. I admired his Powers books, where he talks about Jesus' program of non-violence and standing up to the "domination system", all that around us which makes us feel helpless about racism, war, sexism, etc. But I must admit Human Being has me pining for it while I do just about everything else.
I puzzle over his description of God as The Human One, based on Ezekiel's vision of God as a human being, or something like a human being, on a throne. Here we go again, I thought. The old man in the sky. Who needs it? But Wink interprets this vision, and Jesus' subsequent identifying with it by calling himself the Son of Man, as a religious call to humanness, not necessarily, divinity. He says, Divinity is not a qualitatively different reality; quite the reverse, divinity is fully realized humanity. The goal of life, then, is not to become something we are not - divine - but to become what we truly are - human. We are not required to become divine: flawless, perfect, without blemish. We are invited simply to become human, which means growing through our sins and mistakes, learning by trial and error, being redeemed over and over from compulsive behavior - becoming ourselves, scars and all. It means embracing and transforming those elements in us that we find unacceptable. It means giving up pretending to be good and, instead, becoming real.
Is this cool stuff, or what?
Jesus uses the term "Son of Man" the most often in referring to himself - never "Son of God", by the way. (His other term for himself is a question: "Who do you say that I am?") Wink argues that most people say it's just a humble way of saying "I", as in "the writer of this blog" or "this preacher". But, he says, Jesus ain't modest. Anyone who says he's here to bring forth the Kingdom of God doesn't have self-esteem issues.
The term "son of" (and now in a fairer world, "daughter of" or "child of") has great currency in Judaism. It's a term of profound belonging. Men are called Joseph bar ______, son of someone. The most biggest ceremony in a person's life as a Jew is when he or she becomes a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, a son or a daughter of the commandment. You go through rigorous training and commit yourself as well as get affirmed by a community, that you belong to God, to a people, to a worldview.
As Wink points out, calling yourself a child of God, not only indicates great belonging, but also great intimacy. It puts relationship as central to your being, to your identity. You are most fully yourself in a web of other people. Something foreign, I think, to our self-made, super-individual, I-am-totally-unique sense of ourselves in the West. In this view, relationship is usually subordinate, and mutuality is something we have to work hard to build. The ghost of this old sense of belonging, however, is present in our insults. When someone really wants to hurt you, they call you a Son of Bitch or a Bastard. It slaps your mother, and erases your father altogether. You are utterly alone. Resist as we may our obligations, to have someone forcibly remove them for us still has impact.
Jesus puts relationship to other human beings as central to who he is. In Papua New Guinea, my diplomat friends tell me, their pigeon English has a curious and charming possessive form, "bilong". So if you were going to talk about your dog, it would be, Fido bilong me. I could imagine a term for Jesus, then, as Jesus bilong humanity. And living a religious life, I imagine, means that more and more, we bilong each other.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Treasure Is Not a Handbag
An addendum, of sorts, to the last post. I have been making collages with the text of the parables of the hidden treasure and the pearl of great price. I'm using enlarged copies of my red letter edition to the King James, with its nice old typeface. The phrase "great price" keeps popping out, and it reminds me of an ad. "Pearls at a Great Price! Get Yours Today!" There's a notion much more familiar to us, easier to get than these weird old Jesus parables - wanting stuff.
Taken to its extreme, then, how is this different from just wanting some outrageous thing, like my lust for a handbag? The one I'm willing to pay so much for, because it's soooo darned cute.
The treasure is not a handbag. It's not just something you rully, rully want. The kingdom of God is you serving the world. The treasure or the pearl is what encourages you to do it. My husband said his pearl of great price was teaching yoga. He certainly gave up everything to do it. He had had a great-paying job at DuPont, (which helped keep me in handbags, let me tell you) he had years of training, he had professional status in the field of occupational health and safety. This also gave him a high DAR - Dad Approval Rating - not to mention status among men as a Regular Guy. And he was miserable.
The very weekend after he quit his job, he became a changed person: calmer, more present and alive. In a word, happy. The night he came home from teaching his first yoga class, he looked... complete. And here's why. Teaching yoga isn't just for him. It's a gift of love he brings. It's a way of spending himself that is truly of service. That's the kingdom. That's what makes it a Pearl, and not a pearl clutch bag. Which I would love to have, by the way.
Taken to its extreme, then, how is this different from just wanting some outrageous thing, like my lust for a handbag? The one I'm willing to pay so much for, because it's soooo darned cute.
The treasure is not a handbag. It's not just something you rully, rully want. The kingdom of God is you serving the world. The treasure or the pearl is what encourages you to do it. My husband said his pearl of great price was teaching yoga. He certainly gave up everything to do it. He had had a great-paying job at DuPont, (which helped keep me in handbags, let me tell you) he had years of training, he had professional status in the field of occupational health and safety. This also gave him a high DAR - Dad Approval Rating - not to mention status among men as a Regular Guy. And he was miserable.
The very weekend after he quit his job, he became a changed person: calmer, more present and alive. In a word, happy. The night he came home from teaching his first yoga class, he looked... complete. And here's why. Teaching yoga isn't just for him. It's a gift of love he brings. It's a way of spending himself that is truly of service. That's the kingdom. That's what makes it a Pearl, and not a pearl clutch bag. Which I would love to have, by the way.
Treasures, Pearls, and Bad Business Advice
“The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and hid; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field. “Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it. - Mt 13:44-46
William Brosend in his book Conversations with Parables, points out some helpful things about these "seeking and finding" parables. Both of them have some moral ambiguity, he says. Was it ethical to find something in someone's field, re-bury it and then not tell him about it when you offer to buy? Probably not. Bernard Brandon Scott says that it would involve quite a bit of dickering among rabbis as to who was the correct owner of the treasure, and we all know Jesus liked to avoid those meetings. And merchants tend to be shady characters in the Bible, when they are mentioned at all. This one probably intended to whip around and make a big profit off some shnook who didn't know what a pearl should go for. Not your high moral examples, either one. But at least we don't get off the hook thinking that the people in Jesus' stories are somehow better than we are, or more ethical, pious people.
I disagree with Brosend, though, that Jesus was giving some practical business advice - a variant on "be wise as serpents and gentle as doves" - and expecting both the field-digger and the merchant to sell their treasures. That explanation denies us one of the greatest pleasures of a Jesus parable, namely that it's a riddle, a koan, something that simply doesn't make sense on the face of it.
I like that both of them have to do with intense desire and our fears of survival, both things that money tends to stir up for us. Imagine that you are in an art gallery and you fall in love with a painting. You get lost in the vivid reds, yellows, the strong lines. The subject is a child, say, and there is something about her face that calls to you, that reminds you of your own childhood in a deeply personal way. The painting is rare, by one of your favorite artists, one you had never seen before. And you can't help yourself - you must have it. You don't care that it costs hundreds of thousands of dollars. The feeling that it stirs in you, the beauty, the power, makes you lose your head. In a trance, you put your house up for sale, your car, your entire stock portfolio (assuming it's worth anything). Finally you reach the sum, and you buy the thing.
You dumb bunny. Where are you going to put this painting, now that you have no walls? Never mind that, where will you sleep, what will you eat? How could an act of such incredible recklessness be "like the Kingdom of God"?
I think of the Kingdom as human beings embodying God's love for one another. God's love is lavish, abundant, generous. Reckless, Cynthia Bourgeault says. Jesus embodied this as he emptied himself out, gave his entire self for humanity. It's his way of getting to the center, of expanding beyond our usual judgmental and self-interested way of looking at the world. I am strongly reminded of the first three steps in AA, in which you admit your crazy way of trying to control everything (through addiction) has gotten you into hot water and so now you're ready to turn your will and life over to the care of God. You pretty much have to have a total garage sale of the soul for this to work.
So here's what I think: if we are to embody God's unconditional love somehow, the pearl or the treasure is whatever attracts us so wildly we are willing to give our all to it. Sometimes it's suffering, like addiction, that forces our hands. Sometimes life circumstances, like my stepmother getting Alzheimer's. My dad gives the last of his energy and strength to care for my mom. She's not the kingdom. Self-sacrificing love is the kingdom, and the treasure is the lure or the goad that gets us there.
That's just what I think. You?
William Brosend in his book Conversations with Parables, points out some helpful things about these "seeking and finding" parables. Both of them have some moral ambiguity, he says. Was it ethical to find something in someone's field, re-bury it and then not tell him about it when you offer to buy? Probably not. Bernard Brandon Scott says that it would involve quite a bit of dickering among rabbis as to who was the correct owner of the treasure, and we all know Jesus liked to avoid those meetings. And merchants tend to be shady characters in the Bible, when they are mentioned at all. This one probably intended to whip around and make a big profit off some shnook who didn't know what a pearl should go for. Not your high moral examples, either one. But at least we don't get off the hook thinking that the people in Jesus' stories are somehow better than we are, or more ethical, pious people.
I disagree with Brosend, though, that Jesus was giving some practical business advice - a variant on "be wise as serpents and gentle as doves" - and expecting both the field-digger and the merchant to sell their treasures. That explanation denies us one of the greatest pleasures of a Jesus parable, namely that it's a riddle, a koan, something that simply doesn't make sense on the face of it.
I like that both of them have to do with intense desire and our fears of survival, both things that money tends to stir up for us. Imagine that you are in an art gallery and you fall in love with a painting. You get lost in the vivid reds, yellows, the strong lines. The subject is a child, say, and there is something about her face that calls to you, that reminds you of your own childhood in a deeply personal way. The painting is rare, by one of your favorite artists, one you had never seen before. And you can't help yourself - you must have it. You don't care that it costs hundreds of thousands of dollars. The feeling that it stirs in you, the beauty, the power, makes you lose your head. In a trance, you put your house up for sale, your car, your entire stock portfolio (assuming it's worth anything). Finally you reach the sum, and you buy the thing.
You dumb bunny. Where are you going to put this painting, now that you have no walls? Never mind that, where will you sleep, what will you eat? How could an act of such incredible recklessness be "like the Kingdom of God"?
I think of the Kingdom as human beings embodying God's love for one another. God's love is lavish, abundant, generous. Reckless, Cynthia Bourgeault says. Jesus embodied this as he emptied himself out, gave his entire self for humanity. It's his way of getting to the center, of expanding beyond our usual judgmental and self-interested way of looking at the world. I am strongly reminded of the first three steps in AA, in which you admit your crazy way of trying to control everything (through addiction) has gotten you into hot water and so now you're ready to turn your will and life over to the care of God. You pretty much have to have a total garage sale of the soul for this to work.
So here's what I think: if we are to embody God's unconditional love somehow, the pearl or the treasure is whatever attracts us so wildly we are willing to give our all to it. Sometimes it's suffering, like addiction, that forces our hands. Sometimes life circumstances, like my stepmother getting Alzheimer's. My dad gives the last of his energy and strength to care for my mom. She's not the kingdom. Self-sacrificing love is the kingdom, and the treasure is the lure or the goad that gets us there.
That's just what I think. You?
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