PROPER 14, A, 08/10/14

Matthew 14:22-33

Spoiler alert! This is largely the same sermon I preached in 2011, so it may sound familiar, but given the reading you just heard, do you remember it? I’m using it because I didn’t remember it at all! And I assume that if I wrote it three years ago but can’t remember it, maybe we all need to hear it again.

This story of Jesus walking on the water never made much sense to me, and I felt the same when I read it earlier this week. Feeding people makes sense; healing people makes sense; what’s the purpose of walking on the water?

There’s a trick I learned from someone, although I can’t remember who it was. When a story like this one doesn’t seem to make sense, try treating it like a parable. So let’s imagine this as a story told about a religious leader who sent his followers off in a boat so he could go up on the mountain to pray.

Just think, Jesus puts all 12 of his disciples, every one of them in a boat and sends them out into very rough water. Granted, some of them were fishermen and had experience, but still they were having great difficulty in the midst of wind and waves.

Might this be an early experiment – send the followers off by themselves to see how they do? What else do they need to learn before the master really leaves? Maybe the boat is an image for the early church? Or even the church today?

In the Jewish tradition the sea represent chaos, maybe even evil. Karl Barth said this about water in the creation story: “It is the principle which, in its abundance and power is absolutely opposed to God’s creation. . .representative of all the evil powers. . .” Think not only of the creation story but also that of Noah, the deliverance of Israel through the parting of the waters, and the entry into the land across the swollen Jordan River. In all of these the Lord triumphs over the waters. (Iwan Russell-Jones, Feasting on the Word, Year A, vol.3, p.334)

“When evening came, he was there alone, but by this time the boat, battered by the waves, was far from the land, for the wind was against them.” In the original Greek, the word here translated as “battered” could also be rendered as “tortured.” (Irv Arnquist at text study)

Tortured is a word that suggests a human object, thus further supporting the suggestion that the boat represents the church. In Jesus’ time the waves might represent the evil of the Roman empire. Today, it would suggest the same sort of forces that subjugate people or deny them the basic necessities of life. In other words, those things that stand against the Kingdom of God.

So here is the church, surrounded by chaos, having trouble making headway against the wind and waves – hmmm, sound familiar? And if this relating of the boat to the church sounds far-fetched to you, consider that where you usually sit in the church is called the NAVE. Haven’t you seen churches that especially remind you of an upside down boat?

And in this story Jesus not only calms the storm, but also walks on the water. Is this not a startling image of who is in charge? Might this be a reminder to the early church and to us of the ongoing presence and power of Christ?

Still, it’s no wonder that the disciples are afraid when they see Jesus. Is this a ghost? Is it some sort of evil apparition? In response to their fear, Jesus says, “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.”

In the Greek original, the phrase translated, “it is I,” is ego eimi. This is the same phrase, I AM, that was spoken to Moses out of the burning bush as the name of God. (Iwan Russell-Jones, FOW, A, 3, p. 334) So Jesus is implying, at least, that I AM is here, walking safely through the wind and waves.

The injunction not to fear is a familiar one, with echoes throughout the Bible. We are not to be afraid in the face of God’s mighty acts, but rather be called to action and worship. Isaiah says (43:1-3):

“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.

We are already redeemed and have no cause to fear, no matter how we are battered. But that is not the end of the story is it? Now we have Peter, in his usual brash manner, saying, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Jesus says, “come.” Peter jumps out and walks on the water —- until he is distracted by the strong wind that is still blowing, and becoming fearful, starts to sink into the water. Notice it is fear that causes the difficulty. Jesus links this to lack of faith, but it’s important to consider how Jesus speaks to Peter.

When Jesus reached out his hand to lift Peter up, he says, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” How do we know what his tone of voice was? We don’t, but I tend to think it was gently chiding rather than severely critical – sort of like we are apt to use the phrase to chide someone – Oh ye of little faith.

After all, Peter had the faith to believe he could follow Jesus onto the water and when he began to sink, he did have the faith to call out to Jesus, “Lord, save me!” And it was only Peter who had the gumption to respond to their experience by taking the risk to try it himself. And in the end, when Jesus entered the boat and calmed the sea, all the disciples worshiped him.

Would that have happened if Peter had not done what he did? Maybe it takes one person responding to the call, taking the risk to step out into the void, trusting in God, to convince the others. (DOCK HOLLINGSWORTH, ibid, p. 335)

Certainly, when I consider the history of our faith, there have always been Peters who lead the way, who provide examples for the rest of us to follow, who take the risk necessary to step out in faith. And I’m not just talking about saints and martyrs. There are folks like this in every congregation.

It seems to me that one point of this story is that even people who don’t have enough faith, who only have a small amount of faith, are capable of leading others to God.

I think about the novice priest who agreed to do confession with me, without ever having done it before, and provided for me a significant turning point in my own spiritual life. I think about the associate pastor who preaches the tough sermons about what the teaching of Jesus implies for our political life, because the Rector dare not preach them for fear of being fired.

I think about the woman I knew years ago who befriended a neighbor and gave her the money needed for her survival, even at risk of her own future. I think of the gray haired women fixing a meal at another church here in town ten years ago discussing homosexuality, wondering why the church was making such a fuss about it. “Aren’t we all God’s children?” someone asked. I think about all the people who staff the clothes closet, the food shelf, the Community Cafe, who fix food for the hungry or for the bereaved.

Clifton Kirkpatrick, in his commentary on this passage, says this: “The key to faith and fullness of life in Christ is to follow Peter’s example and be willing to step out of the comfort and security of the boat and head into the troubled waters of the world to proclaim the love, mercy, and justice of God that we find in Jesus Christ… If we get out of the boat we can count on the accompaniment of our Lord. . . . Getting out of the boat with Jesus is the most risky, most exciting and most fulfilling way to live life to the fullest.” (ibid, p. 336)

By all means, let’s come into the boat, into the nave, to worship God regularly, but then let’s get out of the boat and do some earthly good in the world around us. AMEN

Proper 13, A

Isaiah 55:1-5

Matthew 14:13-21

The feeding of the 5000 is such a familiar story for most of us that it’s hard to grasp its significance. There are two aspects of the context of this story that may help us recover our appreciation.

The first one requires a bit of historical setting on what was happening in Palestine prior to and during the lifetime of Jesus. Remember that when the Hebrews entered the land from Egypt, they were nomads who lived off their flocks. After they entered the promised land they gradually became farmers. They settled into farming villages and the land they owned was passed on to their sons.

When farmers own their own land, they can handle bad years because they always have food for their families. But what was going on in the time Jesus was growing up, was that many farmers lost their land and either moved on to the big city or became tenant farmers, also known as sharecroppers.

I’ve read that at the time Jesus was preaching, just three families owned most of the farm land in Palestine. These families decided what the farmers would grow and they wanted to grow whatever Rome wanted to buy. So the tenant farmers had to plant what they were told, and their own families often went hungry, especially in poor crop years.

Warren Carter, in commenting on this reading, noted that a lack of food was one of the ways people of that time experienced this disparity in power and wealth. “It is also one of the reasons we see so many sick people in the Gospels.”

John Dominc Crossan calls this gradual process the Romanization of Palestine. And the same process was beginning to happen to the fishing business on the Sea of Galilee when Jesus was preaching. This Romanization of Palestine inevitably led to a widening gap between the elites, who owned the resources, and the rest of the population.

The second thing to consider is how Matthew sets the context for the telling of this miracle story. We’ve heard in the last few weeks numerous parables about the Kingdom of God. It’s like a mustard seed, it’s like yeast, it’s like a pearl of great price, it’s like a net thrown into the sea, etc.

These are followed by the story of Herod’s birthday party, where all the elite gathered to feast on sumptuous food and the very best wines. They were entertained by the dancing of his step daughter Salome. When Herod promised her whatever she wanted in return, she asked for the head of John the Baptist on a platter. Herod complied and John’s head was brought in to the dinner party on a platter.

Consider the contrast of this to the feeding of the 5000, which immediately follows. Here we have a large crowd of country people, probably mostly farmers and fishermen, who stay with Jesus into the dinner hour. Jesus takes 5 loaves and two fish, blesses them and feeds the entire crowd with basketfuls left over. Not rich food, not fancy food, but fish and bread, just enough for everyone to be fed and some left over – so say, only a small bit more than enough. No fancy wine, no killing, no body parts carried in on a platter.

Let’s remember, too, that the people surrounding Jesus were seeing and living through this Romanization of their country. And no doubt the story of Herod’s party and the death of John had spread quickly throughout the countryside. Now consider what they might have thought about this experience of dining with Jesus. The contrast to the rest of their reality is what is so striking. The feeding of the crowd is like another parable about the Kingdom of God. This is what life would be like in the Kingdom of God, not at all like life in the Empire of Rome.

I’ve always loved this story because it is a story of abundance. But what else does it say when you contrast it with what came before? Herod had everything a person could want in his world, yet he caps his party by killing John the Baptist AND bringing his head in on a platter. What kind of food is that? How does his behavior compare to the compassion and generosity shown by Jesus?

What do these passages have to say about the difference between the abundance of luxuries and the abundance of the basics? God’s abundance is about living a full and meaningful life, not a life of waste and extravagance. So how do you define what is necessary and what it luxury?

In today’s reading from Isaiah, the prophet says, “Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread?”

Clearly bread here represents the necessities of life, which includes bread, but is not limited to that. My short list of necessities includes the following: clean air and water, shelter, enough food in enough variety to stay healthy, practical clothing, and creative opportunities – to be able to do useful work, create art, music, tools, and laughter.

You might have a different list, but I want you to make a list this week. What are the necessities of life? Are cars on the list? Cell phones? How about loving relationships, a family, a community? An easy chair? How about artificial light? How much of your money do you spend on things that are not necessities? I’m almost afraid to look, but I will look this week and I hope you will too.

Think of the families you know where both parents work full time. I’m sure some of them have to do that to make ends meet, but how many families do this because they have to have so much stuff above and beyond the necessities?

One of the curious things about luxuries, about stuff that we accumulate, is that no matter how much we have, it is usually not enough. This tends to create the push to always work for more, but the truth is that no amount of stuff is going to satisfy us. What Jesus understood is that we need love, compassion for others, meaningful relationships, satisfying work, and just enough stuff to keep us going. Having enough can be very satisfying when we have rich relationships.

Ten days ago we discovered our sewer line was plugged. We thought we were going to have to live for four or five days without sewer. Suddenly, we realized how important the sewer was for our daily life. Is it a necessity? Well, not really. People lived for millennia without them, but, Oh my, life is certainly more complicated without them in this day and age. Just one more luxury for which to be grateful!

What are the luxuries in your life? Which ones satisfy you and which ones don’t? Make a list and check it twice. Eliminate the things that do not satisfy. And then thank God for all that you are and all that you have. AMEN

Proper 12, A

Romans 8:26-39

Matthew 13:31-33,44-52

Early one weekend morning, a man was trying to decide if he really wanted to wake up yet. He was gazing out his window and sipping that first cup of coffee when he was startled at the sound of the telephone. He answered the phone. It turned out to be his neighbor, a prim and proper sort of woman, calling in some distress. Please, she asked, can you come and help me?” Still shaking the sleep from his brain, the gentleman asked, “What’s wrong?” Still a bit kerfuffled, the sweet old neighbor replied, “Well, I have opened a new jigsaw puzzle, and I am looking at all these pieces. I cannot imagine how to begin putting the puzzle together. The neighbor asked, “What is the puzzle supposed to be?” “The picture on the box is a rooster.” Being a good neighbor the gentleman replied, “I’ll come over and see what I can do to help.” He went over to his neighbor’s house. He saw the box and all the pieces spread out on the table. He suggested, “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Let’s just stop and take a deep breath. Let’s sit down at the table here and have a cup of hot tea. After we relax a moment, we will put all these cornflakes back in the box.”

The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed. The kingdom of heaven is like yeast. The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure, like a merchant, like a net.

And the world of the parables is like a box of cornflakes.

We think it contains puzzles we should solve, neat pat answers that make a pretty, orderly picture when we’re done. Really it contains spiritual food that must be masticated and swallowed and digested and processed to become nourishment for our souls. St. Teresa of Avila said “One Word of God’s will contain within itself a thousand mysteries.” Sometimes we need to take in a cleansing breath, let out a sigh too deep for words and live the mystery.

Mustard seeds. They are small. Really quite small. Not quite the botanical champions of the miniscule that Jesus suggests, but you’d need tiny tweezers and good magnifying glass to be pick them back out of soil. Mustard shrubs on the other hand, can grow to 15 feet, making them giants in the shrub world. They do not begin to compare to the mighty cedars or oaks with which Jesus’s followers would have been quite familiar, but they nonetheless make pretty impressive strides from their diminutive beginnings.

Yeast. Added to flour and water, even a tiny portion will make the dough grow beyond the bounds of the bowl of the unaware baker. Steve Kelsey tells the story of his friend Judy. One day, Judy decided to bake bread. She took out the recipe and carefully gathered all the ingredients it called for. Unfortunately, as she carefully worked her way through the recipe, instead of adding one cake of yeast to the mix as required, she added one whole box of yeast. Allow the dough to double, said the recipe Judy’s dough doubled and quadrupled and sextupled. She added more flour, maybe to try to drown out that yeast?-and it kept growing and growing. She added more water, and it kept growing. “She tried cutting the mound of dough in half, pounding it, caressing it, covering it, pleading with it-and it kept growing and growing and growing. Finally, in desperation, Judy went out and buried the huge lump of dough in her front yard, came back inside, and sat down in the living room to watch TV. Within an hour, her father came bursting through the front door screaming: “THERE’S SOMETHING GROWING IN OUR FRONT YARD!!!” (Steve Kelsey, Sermons That Work)

Much has been made of the concept of great things from small beginnings with these parables, and rightfully so. These are some pretty impressive growth stories. Dominican writer and scholar Barbara Reid says, “Parables turn the world upside down by challenging presumptions, reversing expectations, and proposing a different view of life with God.” Impressive as the growth might be, growing from something small into something large hardly challenges our presumptions or reverses our expectations. Our kids or grandkids shock us with their rapid growth, but it is a shock we anticipate experiencing.

Let’s talk about mustard. To us it’s a condiment, lovely on corned beef and rye. To 1st century Palestine it a pernicious weed. No farmer planted that mustard on purpose. It fell among the good seeds. The Roman naturalist, Pliny the Elder, who died in 79AD, had this to say about mustard, “Mustard grows entirely wild…When it has once been sown it is scarcely possible to get the place free of it, as the seed when it falls germinates at once.” It would have been the Palestinian equivalent of the South’s kudzu vines, taking over vast tracts of land, crowding out the established crops.

And yeast? For us an indispensable ingredient in our bread heavy diets. To observant Jews, to Jesus’s followers, it represented the essence of corruption, pollution. It was that from which the house must be purified before Holy Days.

The mustard seed, too small to be extracted from the ground, germinating almost instantly, becomes one, indivisible from the world into which it falls, attracting new life.

The yeast – Once that Divine Baker Woman mixes yeast with the the stuff of the dough, with the water and the flour, they become one. You cannot separate the yeast from the rest of the dough. They grow and change together, transformed by their own interaction.

In the 1980’s, when apartheid was still going strong, Bishop Desmond Tutu said “when the white people arrived, we had the land and they had the Bible. They said, ‘Let us pray’, and when we opened our eyes, they had the land and we had the Bible. And we got the better of the deal”.

“The kingdom of heaven, like the mustard seed, invades the cultivated soil of our certainties and our boundaries and creates out of it all something new – ”the better of the deal.” Hidden within what we think we see so clearly, it is subversive and grows up in unexpected ways until what we thought we knew is transformed and redeemed by our surprising, invasive God.” Theodore J. Wardlaw, Feasting on the Word.

The Divine Baker Woman has unalterably blended the yeast of the kingdom into the life of the world until we are changing and growing, suffused and inalterably transfigured by its loving leaven. The kingdom of God is before us, behind us, around us, within us; – For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. We can sit back and contemplate the puzzle, the mystery that is life in God, or we can greedily gobble down the divine cornflakes of life, absorbing the spiritual nutrients and celebrating the nourishment that transforms our souls and our lives. Bon appetit!

PROPER 11, A

Matthew 13:24-20, 36-43

When I was very young, back in the 40’s, I spent big chunks of the summer with my Grandmother in a little town in southern Iowa. Now my Grandmother was a devoted Methodist and a life-long student of the Bible. While I didn’t realize this at the time, she had learned to speak in parable language.

There was a little boy who lived next door to Gram, probably three years younger than I. By the age of 5 he was already clearly a “geek,” by which I mean he was woefully lacking in physical coordination and he wore coke bottle glasses. His teachers had told his parents that he was “slow” and there was nothing much to be done about it. And being a small town, everyone else seemed to know this about him too. “Tsk, tsk, poor Joey.”

Gram, however, spent a lot of time with Joey. He would come over after school and they would read together, and I presume talked too, because she was so good at talking to children. When I asked her why she was spending time with him she just said, “Well, Lynn, there’s no telling the luck of a sick calf.”

I’ve never forgotten this, although I’m sure I didn’t really understand it at the time. But isn’t that what parables are like? We hear them and continue to wonder if we understand them or not. Sometimes they come to mean much more to us later on, or come back to us when our own experience reflects the content of the parable.

I hope you heard Sam’s sermon last week, because I heartily agree with her that including an “explanation” of the parable renders it rather lifeless and less meaningful. Today’s reading suffers from the same problem. The parable of the wheat and tares is followed immediately by an explanation that turns it from a parable into an allegory. Now, was this done by Jesus or by the writer of Matthew or by some later editor. We don’t know and probably never will, but I seriously doubt it was Jesus.

One of my issues with the explanation is that it provides such fodder for the hellfire and damnation preachers who use fear to keep people in line. I mean, who among us wants to be tossed into the fire amidst weeping and gnashing of teeth? Even if it doesn’t happen until the end of time?

So, for the moment at least, let’s ignore the explanation, and consider the parable for ourselves. We have a Master who sows a field with good seed to grow a crop of wheat. But someone comes in the night and sows weeds in the same field. By the time the servants discover this, it’s too late to pull the weeds without damaging the wheat — what today we call “collateral damage.”

So the master says to let them grow together until harvest time. Then the reapers will separate the wheat from the tares, and put the wheat in the barn and burn the weeds.

Clearly this is a parable about good and evil, with the wheat being the good seed and the weeds being the evil. But notice that the master leaves them alone to both grow, rather than ruin any of the good crop. Also remember that the rain falls on both equally. Also that there’s no telling one from another until they are mature plants.

Now traditionally the focus of this parable has been what happens at the end. But I find what happens during the growing more interesting. “No, no,” says the master. “Don’t tear up the weeds because you will tear up the nearby wheat as well.” In other words, it’s NOT our job to root out evil. In fact, in the explanation given that job falls to the angels, and only at the end of time.

Of even more interest to me is what is this field in which the wheat and tares are growing? The explanation is that the field represents the world. Andy Berry, the pastor at Littlefork Lutheran, asked us at text study, “What if the field represents a human being?” Oh my, that’s quite different.

Would that offend any of you? – the idea of good and evil both existing within you? It certainly fits my experience in life. Remember the recent reading from Paul, who asks, “Why do I do the things I don’t want to do?” Why do I do evil when all I want is the good?”

If we think of the field as everyman, a human being, then the reaping at the end of time has a different sense as well. If the angels are going to separate the tares from the wheat, and get rid of the tares by throwing them into the fire, and store the wheat in the barn, that sounds to me like a process of refinement, of reconciliation, of God removing the wicked parts of me and just keeping the good. Need I say that I like this idea a lot better than that I might, all of me, be thrown in the fire because I was labeled as one of the tares.

My point here is that with a parable, there’s always more than one way to look at it. And just that fact gives the parable a richness and depth that is sadly lacking in an allegory. So do not accept any explanation that attempts to explain it to you in just one way, not even mine. Parables are meant to be thought about, mulled over, revisited as your own experience of life expands.

The part of this parable that grabbed me the most was the master’s command to let the weeds and the wheat grow together. That serves as a reminder to me, and one that I often need, that it is not up to us to identify, judge, and uproot evil in the world. Yes, there are any number of ways that we can stand against what we deem to be evil or unjust in this world, but we are not to judge or name –call other people. We can not know what harm that may bring to others, even if we are right about a particular person. And more importantly we may be, and probably are wrong or at least partly wrong about that person.

Live and let live seems to be at least one major point of this parable. We are only able to make judgments about ourselves, not others, but that’s not much fun, is it? And pointing out the faults of others is a convenient way of not looking at our own faults. Yet we all live in this world together and have to find peaceful ways of doing that. Not judging others seems to be one step in the right direction.

Remember the little boy my grandmother befriended? He earned a Ph.D in physics and spent his life teaching others. “There’s just no telling the luck of a sick calf!” AMEN

PENTECOST 5, Proper 10, A

Isaiah 55:10-13

Matthew 13:1-9,18-23

In a family of engineers, of clear-thinking, logical, organized, physics oriented pragmatists, I was, to put a kind note on things, an aberration. So much an aberration that for a time I actually considered a career as a lawyer. This odd choice (for my family) was engendered not so much by a love of the intricacies and vagaries of the law as a deep seated desire to argue. With everybody.

Supportive in spite of their misgivings, and perhaps eager to redirect my more confrontational characteristics in a positive direction, my parents offered me an age appropriate introduction to the law. You remember the old nursery rhyme – Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water…. In the Legal Guide to Mother Goose, the budding young barrister experiences the old favorite thus:

The party of the first part, hereinafter known as Jack, and the party of the second part hereinafter known as Jill.

Ascended or caused to be ascended an elevation of undetermined height and degree of slope, hereinafter referred to as “hill.”

Whose purpose it was to obtain, attain, procure, secure or otherwise gain acquisition to, by an and/or all means available to them a receptacle or container, hereinafter known as “pail,” suitable for the transport of a liquid whose chemical properties (sic) shall be limited to hydrogen and oxygen, the proportions of which shall not be less than or exceed two parts for the first mentioned element and one part for the latter. Such combination will hereinafter be called “water”. (The Legal Guide to Mother Goose, Translated by Don Sandburg)

You get the idea. Clearly, my aspirations to the bar were short-lived, and today I stand before you in quite a different role. There are any number of reasons that I didn’t continue in that direction. Among other things, I chafe against that compartmentalization; that minute defining that seems so often self fulfilling – a receptacle or container suitable for the transport of liquid, hereinafter known as “pail”. The party of the first part, hereinafter known as “Jack”. And once the container is “pail” or the party is “Jack” that is what they are – and there it is in black and white and that is the end of that – ipso facto.

The Parable of the Sower we just read, this famous, well-loved, oft quoted parable rubs me the same wrong way. The party of the first part, from whom the Word was snatched, wrested, seized or otherwise caused to be removed, hereinafter known as the “path soil” and the party of the second part, on whom the Word rested and briefly flourished but who did not maintain appropriate care, nourishment, sustenance and/or maintenance, hereinafter known as “rocky soil”, and so on.

And here we are, with these clear-cut, cleanly defined categories, wondering; wondering “Who am I?” “Which soil are we?” I can’t accept anymore, if ever I did, the self serving notion that we, the faithful, church going, creed quoting, hymn singing Christians can rest happily on our laurels, confident in our place as the party of the fourth part, hereinafter known as the good soil. I cannot. Because as Suzanne Guthrie says, “I embody the infertility, the leaving to chance, the impossibly stubborn thorns, the immutable rocks, the shallow soil, the unprotected ground, the carelessly trodden pathways wide open for winged robbers and burrowing thieves”. We all experience moments of dry, arid seeming faith, lose root in the face of oppression, feel the choke of daily cares and worries. Are we assigned to one sort of soil or another as our faith lives evolve? Or are we placed in a category according to the preponderance of our parts: soil consisting of not less than 2 and not more than 4 parts fertile soil, shall be considered fertile. Soil with at least one, but no less than 2 parts fertile soil, and further, containing more than 2 parts rocky soil shall under no circumstances be considered path soil… And suddenly we’re at pains to determine how the soil might change itself, or if the soil might change itself.

But Jesus was no lawyer, and this is not the parable of the 4 soils. This is the Parable of the Sower. Parables are simple in construction; rich and complex in meaning. What if we got the name right, but the message wrong? What if this parable does not focus on our flaws, or our category, or the other guys’ flaws or categories, but instead on the sower?

Jesus is no lawyer, and if this parable is any indication, He’s not much of a farmer either. What farmer throws expensive, precious seed thither and yon? Caught by the wind, plucked by the birds, snared in the crevices, the rocks, the weeds. No tilled land, no cultivation, no mulching. This is not good husbandry. But it is the nature of the God we follow.

Jesus isn’t teaching us about law or farming or economics or frugality. Jesus makes a comment on the nature of the world and its people – the different soils. But His lesson is about outrageous abundance, about holy abandon in the cultivation of the seeds of love, of justice, of grace. As the Rev. Dr. Delmer Chilton writes, “We are called to sow the seed of the kingdom, indiscriminately, wildly, prolifically, tossing out bouquets of God’s love to everyone around us.”

Three short months ago, Miss Emma Marie Mattsen came into the world, pink and beautiful, voicing her opinion of the transition between one world and the next. In a few moments she will be baptized, born formally into the family of God, the priesthood of believers. God offers us hope, joy and life abundant. We can emphasize for Emma and for all the world the rocks and the thorns and the limitations of this world. For surely they are inescapable. Or we can offer to her – and please God she can in turn offer to another and another – a view of the extravagance of the sower “who flings seed everywhere, wastes it with holy abandon, who feeds the birds, whistles at the rocks, picks his way through the thorns, shouts hallelujah at the good soil and just keeps on sowing… willing to keep reaching into his seed bag for all eternity, covering the whole creation with the fertile seed of his truth.”(Barbara Brown Taylor, The Seeds of Heaven)

“For you shall go out in joy,
and be led back in peace;
the mountains and the hills before you
shall burst into song,
and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.”

Praise be to God.

Amen and Amen.

Genesis 22:1-14
Romans 6:12-33
Matthew 10:40-42

We have in today’s readings some very difficult texts.
First, the frightening passage from Genesis, where God tests Abraham. The idea that God would demand that Abraham sacrifice his own son is so terrifying to us that the compilers of our lectionary removed this passage from its more prominent position as part of the Good Friday liturgy. It raises many questions – difficult questions – including who would want to worship a God who makes such outrageous demands?
Then, we have Psalm 13: “Will you forget me for ever, O God?” As we sing this psalm, are we to have perplexity in our minds and grief in our hearts? Are we to cower in fright because our enemy triumphs over us again and again? The psalm does go on to express trust in God, but, honestly, who wants to deal with a God who hides his face from us?
And the passage from Paul’s Letter to the Romans is a treatise on sin. The Blessed Apostle depicts sin as the opposite of obedience to God. Our catechism refers to sin as distorting our relationship with God, with other people, and with all creation – that’s not exactly the same thing. Because obedience to God, well, that takes us back to the first lesson – and who wants to be obedient to a God who makes such outrageous demands?
Author Phyllis Tribble has referred to biblical passages such as this as “texts of terror.”
But, like it or not, these are part of our sacred scripture, facets of the God revealed to us in the Holy Bible.
For most of us in the Episcopal Church – and even the wider Anglican Communion – ignoring these texts is something of a lifelong devotional practice. It is far, far easier to look away than to confront the painful reality of such texts of terror, isn’t it?
But we are challenged to reconcile the violence in the Bible with the idea of a loving God, and so we tend to concentrate more on the many passages where God is depicted as loving, as nurturing, as caring.
And, fortunately, the scales are tipped from violence to love in the transition from the Old Testament to the New.
The gospels and the New Testament are not entirely devoid of violence, but – on the whole – they depict a God of love much more than a God of vengeance.
The opposite is true of the Old Testament. It’s full of violence – much like the world in which we live.
Regardless of how much or how little violence there is in our biblical narrative week by week, we struggle with it.
Even in today’s gospel passage, Jesus is hardly unconditionally affirming. Let’s examine that more closely.
He speaks of rewards – for prophets, for the righteous. And he speaks of people who losetheir reward.
If the reward is eternal life, who wouldn’t be concerned about losing that? And doesn’t it make us scared to think we could lose it?
And the passages right before today’s reading from Matthew’s gospel have even more terrifying concerns: about sending us out like sheep into the midst of wolves, about being flogged, about being persecuted, and about losing our life for Christ’s sake so that we can find it. Jesus also says that whoever denies him before others, he also will deny before God in heaven. Ouch.
But Jesus also says, paraphrasing slightly, “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me … and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple – truly I tell you, these will definitely have their reward.”
Maybe that’s what we should concentrate on: welcome.
Not fear, not violence, not vengeance – but welcome, acceptance and love.
The world has had enough of retribution.
The world has had enough of aggression.
The world has had enough of terror.
And the Bible’s had more than its fair share of all of these – because the Bible is about the journey of humankind almost as much as it is about God.
So, maybe one lesson to learn from all this is about free will: your choice, my choice, our choice.
Because we are all created in the image of God, we are free to make choices.
Free to choose love, free to create, free to live in harmony, free to reason.
And there’s a flip side to that: We are also free to hate, free to kill, free to foster discord, and free to deny the good sense given us.
Abraham could have said, “No, I will not sacrifice my only son!” to God, but he chose to be obedient. And God spares Isaac.
The psalmist could have cried, “I don’t trust you, O God,” but instead choses to praise God. And God responds with saving help.
Paul could have insisted that “we should sin because are no longer under the law,” but instead proclaims our true freedom in righteousness. And God gives us the free gift of eternal life.
It makes you wonder: If we get all these blessings for behaving badly, how much must God love us?
The answer, of course, is infinitely, without bounds, reservation or qualification of any kind.
God loves us enough to overlook our wrongdoings.
God loves us enough to pardon our offenses.
God loves us enough to forgive.
And, so, how are we to respond? With hatred, malice, fear and prejudice? Or with love, forgiveness, mercy and faith?
The answer is clear.
We are given a choice. It’s up to each and every one of us, each and every day we live.
We can seek to oppress and control others, to amass power and wealth and to serve the demons of this world.
Or we can do justice, love kindness and walk humbly with our God.
We can affirm the goodness of creation – as told in the creation story in Genesis.
And, following the teaching of Jesus, we can welcome the stranger – offering not just hospitality but acceptance without judgment, giving without obligation and love without condition.
It’s a choice.
So let us choose life. Let us choose justice. Let us choose to offer a cup of cold water to one of those little ones in the name of God.
Let us put our trust in God’s mercy; and our hearts will be joyful because of God’s saving help. We will sing to the Holy One, who has dealt with us richly; through our ongoing choice for good, we will praise the Name of God Most High.

Jeremiah 20:7-13
Matthew 10:24-39

Jesus called the 12 disciples before him. Go out, He said. Tell the world the good news, He said. “Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out demons.” Tell them of the coming Kingdom, He said. It’s a beautiful message, a worthy mission. He could have stopped there, no?

This would square with the comfortable, kind, loving image of Jesus we cherish. The picture painted in warm hues, exuding compassion in those benevolent eyes and open arms. The image is shattered as He goes on –

“Do not think that I have come to bring peace to the earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.” What happened to our sweet, loving, curing, cleansing Jesus? What happened to the Lord of Love, the Prince of Peace? Apparently what happened is that He has come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. “Oh” said the disciples (Matthew didn’t record this part, of course) Oh. well. oh dear. Yes. Mmm. Can we go back to that breaking bread together part?

We find Jeremiah feeling a little disillusioned with his lot today as well. Born into prestigious circumstances in the late 600’s BCE, the son of a priest, Jeremiah found himself an unwilling prophet at God’s behest. Called to prophesy in dramatic fashion, he demurred – I am only a boy. God didn’t let him off the hook and called him to prophesy death and destruction to God’s unfaithful people. This unpopular message took its toll. The reluctant prophet was attacked by his own brothers, beaten, tortured, imprisoned by the king, threatened with death, and thrown into a cistern by Judah’s officials. One can understand why Jeremiah was not 100% enthusiastic about his calling.

Teresa of Avila lived in sixteenth century Spain. Deeply devout, she was educated by nuns and joined a Carmelite convent at age 20. Distressed by the lax moral situation found in the convents, Teresa fought for reform, urging true devotion, poverty, and chastity. Her unpopular message earned the wrath of her sisters. She was turned out from her house in the middle of a rainstorm. The donkey cart she was riding in struck a rock and she was tossed into the mud. She sat in the mud in her rain-soaked habit, turned her face to heaven and declared to God, “Lord, if this is the way you treat your friends, it’s no wonder that you don’t have many.”

Thing is, it’s not about making friends. It wasn’t for Jeremiah, it wasn’t for Teresa, it wasn’t for Jesus, it cannot be for Jesus’s modern day disciples. Jesus’s sword is a metaphorical one – he fought battles with weapons of truth, faith, justice – not steel. His description of family strife described a blunt reality, not a goal. Jesus lays it out. Follow me. Live for God. Bad things will happen. They’ll happen anyway. God loves you beyond imagining. God is with you.

Today, here, now – we are unlikely to be martyred for our faith, unlike the early days of Christianity, unlike some parts of the world still today. Yet, the fear creeps in. The world runs on it. The media feeds on it. We face very real threats. The water is rising, threatening homes and livelihoods. Pollution is growing, threatening the water we drink, the air we breath, the food we eat. Horrible wars rage for decades. People die because of their religion, their parentage, their color. Disease is. Poverty is.

We also face less tangible threats – threats our own fears make real – fear of change, of inadequacy, of ugliness, of THEM and what THEY represent. Fear is a powerful motivator, even fear (mmm, perhaps especially fear) centered on irrational self-generated threats. Novelist Steven King writes, “The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn’t real. I know that, and I also know that if I’m careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle.”

Have you ever stayed quiet in the face of hurtful jokes or attitudes, just to avoid conflict or loss of status? Have you ever felt the sudden urge to visit the other side of the street when you see someone dirty, or talking to themselves, or otherwise different coming towards you – just in case? Have you ever felt the need to pass on negative stories about someone, just to feel a little better about yourself?

Jesus laid out reality – to be a disciple, to bring the Kingdom of God close means facing conflict, challenging the power structure, sometimes opposing family or friends in the name of what is just and Godly.

The prophet Jeremiah, mired in the misery of a fate he cannot control finds firm ground in his commitment to God crying “Sing to the LORD; praise the LORD! For he has delivered the life of the needy from the hands of evildoers.” Jeremiah cries out his truth, serving his God, serving his people.

Jeremiah knew, Jesus knew – bad things happen. Always have. The question is how we respond. Episcopal theologian Verna Dozier said, “Don’t tell me what you believe. Tell me what difference it makes that you believe.”

The flood waters are still rising, damaging property, damaging lives. What a holy response to see true neighbors pouring in to help bag sand, build levies, comfort neighbors, and feed volunteers.

People get sick and people die – Jesus lives in those who visit, who hold their hands, who pray.

People live in poverty and isolation separated from the world by tragedy, mental illness, poor choices, or personal demons. God blesses the ones who help to keep them fed, clothed, dry, warm and even connected to the rest of the world with something as simple as a smile or a kind word.

Dangerous Prayers

Deliver us, O Truth, O Love, from quiet prayer
from polite and politically correct language,
from appropriate gesture and form
and whatever else we think we must put forth to invoke
or to praise You.

Let us instead pray dangerously –
wantonly, lustily, passionately.
Let us demand with every ounce of our strength,
let us storm the gates of heaven, let us shake up ourselves
and our plaster saints from the sleep of years.

Let us pray dangerously.
Let us throw ourselves from the top of the tower,
let us risk a descent to the darkest region of the abyss,
let us put our head in the lion’s mouth
and direct our feet to the entrance of the dragon’s cave.

Let us pray dangerously.
Let us not hold back a little portion,
dealing out our lives–our precious minutes and our energies–like some efficient accountant.
Let us rather pray dangerously — unsafe, profligate, wasteful!

Let us ask for nothing less than the Infinite to ravage us.
Let us ask for nothing less than annihilation in the
Fires of Love.

Let us not pray in holy half-measures nor walk
the middle path
for too long,
but pray madly, foolishly.
Let us be too ecstatic,
let us be too overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse,
let us be undone, and dismembered…and gladly.

Left to our own devices, ah what structures of deceit
we have created;
what battlements erected, what labyrinths woven,
what traps set for ourselves, and then
fallen into. Enough.

Let us pray dangerously — hot prayer, wet prayer, fierce prayer,
fiery prayer, improper prayer,
exuberant prayer, drunken and completely unrealistic prayer.

Let us say Yes, again and again and again.
and Yes some more.
Let us pray dangerously,

the most dangerous prayer is YES.

Regina Sara Ryan

Trinity Sunday
Genesis 1:1-2, 4a
Matthew 28:16-20

…We worship one God in Trinity, and Trinity in Unity,
neither confounding the Persons, nor dividing the Substance.
For there is one Person of the Father, another of the Son, and another of the Holy Ghost.
But the Godhead of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, is all one, the Glory equal, the Majesty co-eternal.
Such as the Father is, such is the Son, and such is the Holy Ghost.
The Father uncreate, the Son uncreate, and the Holy Ghost uncreate.
The Father incomprehensible, the Son incomprehensible, and the Holy Ghost incomprehensible.

The whole thing is incomprehensible if you ask me….

Today marks Trinity Sunday – one of the seven principal feasts of the church. What I just read is a portion (a very small portion, by the way) of the Athenesian Creed – one of a number of products of the impassioned, contentious, protracted 4th century debate about the nature of the of the relationship of God and Christ, and possibly the Holy Spirit, depending on who you talked to. Landing on the wrong side of that debate in the 4th century could get you exiled, disenfranchised or worse. Athenesius himself was exiled a total of 5 times. This was not a 2 -sided debate. We had Adoptionism, Sabellianism, modalism, modal manarchism and Arianism.

While this theological battle raged, Emperor Constantine credited the Christian God for his own victory in a more physical war. He converted to Christianity, bringing his armies and his empire with him. Theologians may thrive on the tension of uncertainty using it to stretch their spiritual limits, to flex their faith muscles. Nations and armies need certainties, defined limits, discipline. Emperor Constantine convened the Council of Nicea to lend some clarity to the situation.

The most vigorous debate came down to a controversy between the council’s opinion and the opinion of a fellow named Arius. Super simple version – Arius taught that Jesus was divine, and that God sent him to earth for the salvation of mankind; but Jesus Christ was not equal to the Father or the Holy Spirit. Arius could not conceive of a God who needed another – if Christ was co-eternal with the Creator, it implied to Arius that the Creator might be vulnerable – an unacceptable attribute in the One God. The Council of Nicea described the relationship between the Father and Son instead as Homoousios or Consubstantiality, meaning “of the same substance” or “of one being”. By extension, the Creator’s eternal co-existence with the Son, with the Spirit suggests that God exists in relationship.

Today, in the face of dwindling church numbers, shaky economy, violence against innocents, rising waters and all the rigors and concerns of daily life, it is possible that the critical import of Arius’s “anhomoios” versus the council’s “homoousios” might escape our immediate attention. Why should we care about a political struggle in the 4th century church? Why should we care about a clash in ancient esoteric philosophies?

The Rev. Suzanne Guthrie writes, “The greatest minds of Christendom have applied reason, philosophical rigor, depth and breadth to understanding and interpreting the the church’s experience of “Father” “Son” and “Holy Spirit”. But in the end, knowing God is as illusive as predicting a firefly’s trajectory over a field of hay after dusk, as futile as keeping track of a drop of rain fallen into the ocean in a storm, as blinding as gazing directly at the sun. But contemplating Trinity offers lessons in the dynamism of creation, incarnation, delight, genesis, the inter-relationship of being, of nothing, of everything, of darkness, of light.”

Forget the Greek double speak. Forget the political intrigue and the church politics. Forget the insane math – 3 = 1 – you’ll never get it to make logical sense. Even St. Augustine of Hippo in his own treatise on the Trinity, cautions against those who “allow themselves to be deceived through an unseasonable and misguided love of reason.” It’s not about about logic. It never was. It’s about love; it’s about relationship.

Father, Son and Holy Spirit; Creator, Redeemer, Sustainer – one God – eternally in relationship. This is not a God, alone, distant and indifferent. This is a God who lives in, as theologian Arthur McGill states, “a unity of love, a unity in which the identity of each party is not swallowed up and annihilated, but established”

Formed in the image of God, we are created to live in relationship. In an article on trust in the Harvard Business Review in 2009, Roderick Kramer wrote: “Within one hour of birth, a human infant will draw her head back to look into the eyes and face of the person gazing at her. Within a few more hours, the infant will orient her head in the direction of her mother’s voice. And, unbelievable as it may seem, it’s only a matter of hours before the infant can actually mimic a caretaker’s expressions. A baby’s mother, in turn, responds and mimics her child’s expressions and emotions within seconds. In short, we’re social beings from the get-go: We’re born to be engaged and to engage others.” To engage others, and to be engaged with God and all God’s creation. As one commentator (Steven Eason, Feasting on the Word) says, “We are immersed into the whole being of God, whether we understand it or not. We are not powerless in the world; we are not disconnected from the omnipotent God as Creator or from the redeeming work of God in human flesh, or from the very presence of that same God in the holy Spirit, who dwells within us and among us.”

“I am a rock, I am an Island” crooned songsters Simon and Garfunkel. The rate the water is rising, this may be truer than we know. But we live that way regardless of the water level much of this time in this culture that prizes individual achievement and climbing up the social/economic ladder regardless of who or what stands on the rung above. It’s a lonely way to live.

God in Christ through the Holy Spirit invites us to another way, living in community, living in love, living in justice. Living in community with the waters and the skies, with the swarms of living creatures, with the birds and the trees, with all of human kind, created in God’s image. Living in relationship with a relational God, we can kick over the ladder and leave our lonely islands. We needn’t give up our individual selves, only our selfishness. God will be with us, ever and always, to the end of the age.

The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you.

PENTECOST A

How often have you said – or heard someone else say, “I had the weirdest dream last night.”?

When we’re able to remember our dreams, they are usually weird because they jumble together faces we know with those we don’t; they use material from our daily life in the real word and add to it fantastical details from who knows where; they often feature our own self in the middle of a movie or a play or a book we’ve been reading. Generally they make no rational sense to us.

Dreams are indeed weird because they are not the product of a rational mind. Dreams are made up of symbols; like art and music, they require intuition and imagination to “understand” them. Their content is emotional rather than intellectual.

Many theologians of the past and a few today would say they tap into the spiritual reality that exists beyond the physical world in which we live. In other words, dreams arise from that connection between the life spirit inside us and the Holy Spirit.

In his post this week, David Lose said, “Pentecost is a time to dream.” And then it hit me that maybe the only way to understand the Pentecost story is to treat it like a dream.

The difficulty is that in today’s world most people don’t think dreams are significant – that is, they do not mean anything. At most they may indicate that one ate too much of last night’s roast beef or drank too much wine.

Since the time of the Enlightenment, the beginning of the scientific age, our civilization has come to accept the idea that the only things we know about, can know about, are the things in our physical and material world. Even in Christian circles, the idea of a spiritual reality beyond or beside the material world was lost. People generally no longer believe in visions or miracles and clearly more and more of them see no need for religion.

Yet for the great majority of our existence on earth, everyone assumed a spiritual realm as well as a physical one. The cave painters at Lascaux were creating visions to transform their children into adults. The native practice of the vision quest did much the same.

The Biblical text is full of similar experiences with visions and dreams, not to mention miracles. Morton Kelsey, in God, Dreams, and Revelation, says, “The main strand of Christian tradition, until almost modern times, saw the dream as one way that God speaks to man. Dreams were understood to give men access to a reality that was difficult to contact any other way. Every major event in Acts is marked by a dream, a vision, or the appearance of an angel.”

In the Christian tradition and possibly in all religions there are various means of trying to access the spiritual realm: meditation, centering prayer, Lectio divina, focusing on a visual icon, reciting something, even eating hallucinogenic substances and dancing (whirling dervishes).

Most of these are individual attempts to communicate with the divine, although the whirling dervishes whirl together in a group. But what happens in Acts is truly communal. So just imagine yourself in some role in this story and imagine that you are dreaming it.

The room fills with wind. No one can see it, but everyone hears it and feels it. Then the followers of Jesus begin to praise God in a huge variety of languages. What a babel of voices! But there are people from all over the Roman world in town, and they come to see what is happening, and each of them can understand what is being said. This is not a hoax, folks!

What we have is a communal ecstatic experience happening. Everyone sees the same tongues of flame over the heads of the Jesus people. Is it any wonder that some of observers assume they had Bloody Marys for breakfast?

So Peter gets up and explains that the participants are not drunk. What’s happening is the fulfillment of Joel’s prophecy. “In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.”

So now you wake up. What do you make of this dream? While there have been skeptics in every age, the majority of people in the times before Aquinas and Descartes would accept Peter’s explanation. Of course, and it must have felt like a dream to the disciples as well.

We can only ask, what does this dream suggest to you? What did it feel like? Speaking other languages suggests that the spirit will assist the disciples in their attempts to spread the word. Their lack of other languages, their lack of formal education is not a problem. They, like us, have all they need to spread God’s word to others.

The flame that does not burn them suggests God’s refining fire to me, the fire that burns away sin. Think of the vision Isaiah had in which his mouth is touched by a burning coal to remove his guilt, so that when God says, “Whom shall I send?” Isaiah can reply, “Here am I; send me.”

In a sense we experience that refining fire every week when we receive communion. We are re-minded that our sins are forgiven, leaving us free and able to say, “Here am I; send me.”

When David Lose said, “Pentecost is a time to dream,” he wasn’t going where I’ve gone with the dream analogy, but rather about why we don’t dream, even in the sense of creating a dream for our future, whether an individual dream, like learning to play the piano, or a communal dream, like creating and carrying out a new mission project.

This kind of dreaming also requires imagination, thinking outside the box, as well as study and discernment. I hope that during this Pentecost season and beyond we will find a way to dream up our next missional outreach. I know we are short on volunteer strength and stamina, but we have a wealth of knowledge and planning skills. And we have substantial funds that could seed a new ministry that would use volunteers from other churches and the wider community as well.

SO – put on your dreaming caps. Fire up your imagination. What are the most pressing needs in our community? How can we partner with others to meet that need in a way that will be self-sustaining? Let me know what you dream up and we’ll talk. O yes, and pray too. AMEN

7th SUNDAY OF EASTER

John 17:1-11

When someone speaks of “eternal life,” what does that mean to you? For me, it calls to mind a statement from long ago like, “Jesus died for our sins so that we might have eternal life.” In the church of my childhood, this meant that God won’t punish us for our sins because Jesus took them on himself. And so our spirit will go to heaven when we die and live there forever, whatever that means. Another approach is that only at the second coming of Jesus will we be resurrected in our bodily form and live from then on forever.

Just the words “eternal life” summons pictures of angel choirs and sitting on a cloud playing a harp, streets of gold, and meeting St. Peter at the gate to heaven. All these things are part of our culture, not just what we learned in Sunday school, but also from jokes and cartoons and the Sunday papers.

OK. Can you now put such images on the shelf for the next few minutes? Pretend you’ve never heard of heaven or eternal life before. Let’s look at what Jesus has to say about it.

In today’s Gospel Jesus is praying to God to look after his disciples and followers after he leaves them. This is also a prayer said aloud for the benefit of the disciples, still trying to explain to them the nature of God. He begins like this: “Father, the hour has come; glorify your Son so that the Son may glorify you, since you have given him authority over all people, to give eternal life to all whom you have given him.”

Jesus claims that God has given Jesus authority over all people (and what part of all don’t we understand?). And furthermore, that Jesus is supposed to give eternal life “to all whom you have given him.” It sounds to me like that is to all those over whom Jesus has authority,” which he has just claimed is all people.

Then comes the key statement. “And this is eternal life, that they may know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent.” Wow. How different a definition from what I thought I knew!

Jesus says that eternal life is to know God and to know Jesus Christ. I suppose one could argue that since we can’t “know” God because we are human and flawed or limited, that such knowledge of God can only come after we die. But that’s not what Jesus says, is it? I think the implication here is that we can know God in this life, and that we can know God because we can know Jesus. If we know what Jesus was like, then we know what God is like.

Clearly John makes other statements throughout his Gospel that identify Jesus as the human image of God, and Jesus claims to be one with God. Beyond that he also claims that his followers may be one with him and that makes them one with God.

What sort of God can we know, if we study Jesus? Well, Jesus loved and cared for everyone. He was forgiving. He did not seek vengeance. He worked cooperatively with his disciples, training them to do what he did, and claiming they could even do more. He wants everyone to live an abundant life, living in peace with one another. He promises that we will be accompanied in life by the Holy Spirit.

To know God is not the same thing as to believe in God. I believe is a statement of doctrine. I know is a statement of experience. “I know that my redeemer lives” means I have had an experience that convinced me this is true.

To know God is to trust God. And, according to Marcus Borg, this is what “I believe in” used to mean.

In Alcoholics Anonymous and the other 12-step programs similar to it, there are two particularly central concepts. One is the recognition of a higher power than yourself. That might be God, or Allah, or Jehovah, or just a higher power. If someone doesn’t have any belief in such a thing, they are encouraged to pretend that they do. The dictum is to fake it until you make it. Because the second central concept is that you cannot control of your own life.

Giving up control and turning your life over to your higher power, what we would call God, is essential for recovery. I believe it is also essential for all of us and it is through this that we can experience both a resurrected life and what I think Jesus means by eternal life.

You’ve undoubtedly heard people say, “Oh just let go, and let God!” I usually want to strike the person who says it, but that does not mean it isn’t good advice. The problem is that most of us are control freaks to some extent or another, and I’m worse than most. Besides that, our culture sends us an unending stream of messages that encourage us to take charge, to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, to take control of our lives because it’s all our responsibility and we are all rugged individualists.

So to actually turn your life over to God or your higher power is not easy. It is a choice you can make, but you also have to work at it, because it is so easy to fall back into old patterns. To really let go and let God means no longer trying to control your life. It means accepting the bad things that come your way and giving thanks for the good things.

Use the serenity prayer, as used by AA, to remind yourself about who’s in charge.

It goes like this:

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” Repeat after me. . .

The huge advantage to trusting God and turning your life over to God is that this allows you to let go of fear and to experience peace of mind. That strikes me as the beginning of eternal life.

First Timothy tells us that the love of money is the root of all evil. It seems to me that fear is the root of all evil. We want money and come to worship it because we think having it will keep us safe. Trying to control our lives and/or the lives of others is based on a similar fallacy. There is no such thing as security in this world. It is always some form of fear that drives us to worship false idols.

Trusting in a higher power and accepting that we cannot control everything leads to the possibility of living a kinder and more peaceful life, without being driven by fear. Eternal life begins in the here and now. Allow your spirit to rest in God. AMEN