Category Archives: reflections

Take my hand and lead me home

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There are many occasions in our lives where, if we allow time to reflect, we’ll realize that we are at a loss. That we really don’t know what to do or how to respond to the situation we find ourselves in, or to the challenge posed by it.

Such times of life seem characterized simple endurance. But there is a difference, I think, between enduring and abiding. Endurance puts all the weight of getting through on our own sholders, on being strong enough to bear it. Abiding hints at a foundation, a support and bulwark beyond ourselves. As Christians we are called to abide. Specifically, we are called to abide in Christ, which is to abide in hope.

Hope can be a difficult thing because of the way we often think about it. For some among us, hope seems to be characterized by a lack of grief, or pain, or by an active glossing over of the negative emotions we experience in response to loss, affliction, illness, abuse, or trauma. I was recently reading an account by a grieving mother who’d lost her child. When she took the time and went through the effort of sharing her pain with others, some–calling themselves Christian–were all too quick to respond by citing scripture: do “not grieve as others do who have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13). As a Christian herself, she was not without hope, but as someone who had experienced loss, she was grieving, and there is nothing at all wrong with that. (In such situations I direct folks to Romans 12:15–Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. Any desire to “correct” the grieving of others means that we are not actually with them in their time of need).

Enduring such a situation means learning to put one foot in front of another. Abiding at such a time means remembering–somehow–that we don’t have to put one foot in front of another alone. We might think of enduring as being like Atlas of Greek myth, kneeling, bowed down, but enduring, with the weight of the world resting on our sholders. Alone. Weighed down. Unable to do anything but endure. But we don’t have to be frozen and weighed down. We can move forward, even in the dark. And we don’t have to find our way alone, in the darkness of such times. We can find our way home, because Jesus is there to lead us. To help us endure, yes–but also to help us learn what it means to abide.

Our gospel lesson (Mark 1:29-39) provides us with the moving story of the healing of Simon Peter’s mother-in-law.  We don’t know her name (nor do we know the name of Peter’s wife for that matter). One of the pastors I follow online has decided, for the purpose of her sermon, to refer to her as Lois, which name is as good as any, so I’ll follow suit.

Lois is not in a good situation. She’s sick, in danger–fevers can be scary things in our day; at the time of the New Testament, they were often a prelude of bad things to come. But Jesus comes to her. Jesus, fresh from the Synagogue there in Capernaum, where he demonstrated his authority and power by silencing the demon and casting it out of the afflicted man. Jesus arrives at the house of Simon Peter and Andrew and is immediately told of Lois’ condition. He went to her, took her hand, lifted her up… and she was cured. The fever left her. Immediately. To emphasize the point that she was completely well, we’re told that she “immediately began to serve them” (Mark 1:31). I should acknowledge here that I’ve had some questions arise about the results of this healing. I recall one Bible study where someone made the comment, “Well, that sounds about right.. the woman was nearly dead and it took Jesus himself to heal her, and the first thing she ends up doing is taking care of the men.” If we see it this way, I think it’s safe to say we’re missing the point. It’s a shame, because a lot of people have evidently missed the point, enough that one of my study Bible’s includes a note about this that makes an important point for us:

One must beware of any tendency to reduce the importance of the mother-in-law’s action because she is a woman.  She acts toward Jesus and the others as the angels earlier acted toward Jesus in the wilderness. (p 1807, The New Interpreter’s Study Bible)

The word used to describe Lois’ actions (serve) is the same word used in Mark 1:13 to describe the actions of the Angels as they were said to have “waited” on Jesus.

One of my former seminary professors, Fr. Bill Carroll, now engaged in parish ministry, wrote a moving sermon on this week’s gospel (Mark 1:29-39) a few years ago (which he re-posted a few days ago), that has embedded itself in my thought process this week. In particular, in terms of the symbology of Jesus taking the mother-in-law’s hand and lifting her up. Connecting the dots of this healing act to our own need and desire to be lifted up, to have Jesus take our hands in the dark hours of our lives, he mentions the beloved hymn Precious Lord.

I’m sure many of you know the words:

Precious Lord, take my hand // lead me on, let me stand // I am tired, I am weak, I am worn // Through the storm, through the night // Lead me on to the light // Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.

How many of us are aware of the origins of this hymn? Like several other beloved hymns–probably more than we actually know–Precious Lord is the result of tragedy. Thomas Dorsey wrote it shortly after the death of his wife in childbirth, followed shortly by the death of their infant son. (I’m struck by the similarities this story bears to the origins of another well known hymn, It is Well With My Soul).

Somehow it is prayer and praise, testimony and plea all in one. In it Dorsey’s words become ours, as we sing and ask that Jesus would take our hand, while at the same time proclaiming that he has and will.

Texts like this speak to us, no matter the details of our lives, because they speak to universal experience. As Fr. Carroll put it so well, “They apply equally well at deathbed or prison. They can soothe a broken heart or console a grieving parent. They provide hope and strength for us in times of loss, danger, and struggle–whenever we are tired, weak, or worn.”

Remember that Simon Peter’s mother-in-law is said to have served Christ in a manner similar to the Angels in the wilderness. I think we can expand this analogy if we look at the role of Angels in scripture. Angels are the messengers of God (angelos means messenger), they proclaim the acts of God and share good news. It is in their very nature to do the will of God. As Christians we are called to do the will of God as revealed in Jesus, to do what he commanded us–to love one another as he has loved us, to share the good news, to imitate Christ as best we can in our faltering ways.

In the darkest and most challenging times of our lives we can find the strength not just to endure, but to abide, praying for help, and testifying to it.

We can abide in Christ because we do indeed, have hope.  Hope that in such moments, Christ will lead us home here, and that in the end, when we stand “at the verge of Jordan,” ready to cross over and be with God, Christ is there as well. As Dorsey writes in another verse:

When the darkness appears // and the night draws near // And the day is past and gone // At the river I stand // Guide my feet, hold my hand // Take my hand, Precious Lord, lead me home.

In the end we are able to abide in Christ, because Christ abides with us–taking our hands and being with us in the most trying moments of our lives, calling us. Wounded angels walking the highways of life, abiding in Christ and sharing his Love. Amen.

Casting out the Demons that know our names

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As I’ve been writing out my thoughts for the upcoming solemn communion preparation class that will begin at the end of February, I’ve been rereading a number of books to refresh and tighten up my thinking on the sacraments. One of these, which I purchased in seminary as one of those “other recommended texts” is by the French Roman Catholic theologian Louis-Marie Chauvet and is entitled The Sacraments: The Word of God at the Mercy of the Body.

Something in Chauvet’s introduction struck me as incredibly important for many of us today:

First, theology is a believer’s task. Faith is not at the end but at the beginning of this task. To make an act of faith does not mean simply either to believe that God exists (“believe that” is in the domain of opinion) or to believe ideas about God, beautiful and generous as these ideas may be (to believe for example in science, the immortality of the soul, or astrology, still pertains to a purely intellectual thought process), but to believe in, which means to have trust in someone, to put one’s faith in that person. This is never the product of a merely intellectual reasoning. Because it necessarily involves us as persons in a vital relationship with another, “to believe in” (a spouse, a friend, and so on), belongs more to the relational than to the rational order… (Page ix, The Sacraments, Chauvet).

The contrast that Chauvet draws attention to, between believing that something is or believing certain ideas are true and believing in, that is, putting one’s faith in something or someone, is central to a problem that besets us as Christians. It is not a new problem. It is a very old problem–as old as Christianity itself, as old as faith itself. It is a problem that James, the brother of our Lord rails against in his epistle, putting the problem in stark terms: “You believe that God is one [or simply, that God is]; you do well. Even the demons believe—and shudder” (James 2:19).

In the account from Mark’s Gospel (Mark 1:21-28) of the exorcism of the demoniac at Capernaum we are faced with the reality of the difference between believing that something is the case and putting one’s faith in something. It has been said by cultural commentators that the standard form of American religion, whether liberal or conservative, takes the form of gnosticism. The term gnosticism comes from the Greek word gnosis, which means knowledge, and while there are multitudinous forms, in the ancient world and in our own day, one of the basic elements is that it depends upon knowledge. Knowing the right things, or perhaps even being one of a select group that knows the right things is seen as salvific. In other words people focus on getting the intellectual details of their theology right. I often say that some folks go into a church and check to see if the statement of faith matches the one they brought in the door with them, as though they were looking at the platform of a political party. Having checked off the right boxes we can confidently remain exactly as we are. Or at least we think we can. In reality, we deceive ourselves: “Even the demons believe–and shudder.” If we believe that we have the right beliefs, and we check our boxes off and never give such things another thought–and by so doing, never experience a softened heart that can be changed by the prompting of the Holy Spirit–then we are not actually experiencing a spiritual relationship with God.

While the language of relationship may be overused in some quarters, and it can drift off into its own form of shallowness, when properly considered, it does help us identify the way we’re to interact with God. For one thing, a relationship is not static, it is dynamic and changing and–ideally–deepening. In such a context it is impossible for us to ever say that we are “done” because there is always some new challenge, some new learning that we’re called to as we seek to reflect Christ more and more in our lives. The problem with believing the right things as a sort of intellectual exercise and believing that’s enough is that it becomes ever more tempting and easy to justify our own actions even when we know–intellectually–that they aren’t the most honoring to God. In other words, intellectual check-lists when divorced from a living–which means humbling, but also an up-building–relationship with God can leave us in bondage to forces in our lives that are positively demonic in the sense that we have given over control to something outside of ourselves that holds us in bondage.

In the encounter at the Synagogue in Capernaum we learn something about the nature of the forces that seek to oppress us: they know our names. This means much more than we might believe. When Jesus teaches in the Synagogue and is challenged by the unclean spirit, the demoniac cried out, “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God” (Mark 1:24). The fact that the unclean spirit calls Jesus by name and announces his role (indeed, it is thematic in Mark that the demons understand this reality more clearly than the people) is significant. Historians and biblical commentators remind us of the ancient belief that knowing someone’s name gave you a form of control over that person. In this instance, the unclean spirit is defending against the authority and power of Christ by naming him and showing that his identity is known. In contrast to other exorcists of the time, Jesus performs no elaborate rituals, uses no tools etc…, but simply commands the spirit to be silent and come out of the man. There is no engaging in a game, there isn’t even a contest, the spirit is silenced and exorcised immediately on the word of Christ. It is this action, this demonstration of power and authority (the Greek word is the same) that leaves the people wondering. From this exchange, we can see, on the one hand how knowing something like a person’s name–that is having intimate knowledge of them–can be important, and in certain circumstances can even be threatening. This is not so much about knowing someone’s name, I believe, as it is about knowing enough about them to know their weaknesses. To know someone’s name in the ancient sense may perhaps be related to having someone’s “number” in our parlance. The fact of the matter is that the demons all of us face every day have our number–they know our weaknesses. Those demons, those interior voices, contracted, inherited, or formed, possessing or oppressing us, which I believe are so often related to what some authors refer to variously as our impostors, shadow sides or inner critics–they know our weaknesses and they prey upon them to keep us in bondage.

These are the sins, fears, and the pains that know our name and can paralyze us or prevent us from doing what we know we should. These are the things that drag us back down into the mire of self doubt and pity on the one hand, and the false foundation of self aggrandizement on the other. These are the voices that whisper in the dark that we’re not good enough, that we’re not worthy enough, that we can’t do it, while in the next instant pushing us to go it alone, to rely solely on ourselves and to reject the companionship, friendship, and aid that we need in this life. It’s the voice that tells us no matter how much we succeed, it’s never good enough, that no matter how much we need help, we ought to be able to do it on our own or we’re failures. It’s the desire that prompts the addict to find the next fix, the spouse to reject marital counseling, and any of us to give up and not try something we believe we may be called to do.

The question for us today is this: what are the demons that know our names? What are the things in our lives that limit us, that keep us going round in the same old harmful patterns, that keep us from changing when we know we need to change? All of us need to change. That may seem like a bold statement, but we’re not far enough out from those new year’s resolutions to have forgotten the reason why they’re so popular: the recognition that all of us, in ways small or large need and desire change in our lives. The problem is that most often, we don’t know how to change, we don’t even know where to begin.

A few weeks ago, I gave a bit of a devotional at one of our Wednesday Eucharists, and I mentioned a song I’d recently heard by the singer Ben Harper. I may be wrong, but I don’t think Harper is a Christian. His background is interesting, with a Jewish mother from a family of folk singers, and a father who was part African American and Cherokee. Harper is certainly spiritual, and has recorded plenty of songs on spiritual and even Christian themes, on his own and with the gospel singers the Blind Boys of Alabama. On his latest album, Give Till it’s Gone (a title probably deserving of some reflection in and of itself) he has a song entitled “Don’t give up on me now.” I absolutely love the chorus of this song because I think it epitomizes so well the state in which most of us live most of our lives. It goes like this:

I don’t even know myself // what it would take to know myself // I need to change, I don’t know how // don’t give up on me now.

The gift of the gospel is that it shows us where to start. We don’t have to fear the demons that know our names because the one who is the Lord of all Creation calls us each by name. We are known and loved by God in Christ. The one who had the power and the authority to silence the demons tormenting the man in that Synagogue all those centuries ago in Capernaum can also silence the voices that torment us in our day. For every voice that tempts us to give up, to loathe ourselves, to reject the hope of strengthening or rebuilding relationships with loved ones, or to loose the hope of finally beating some harmful behavior, or even that seemingly insignificant voice that convinces us not to attempt a challenging task–there is a great voice that drowns them out, that calls us by name and silences the cacophony. The first step of change, the foundation of hope, of the ultimate hope presented in the gospel, is that God has not given up on us. On any of us. No matter what we’ve done, no matter what we think of ourselves or what others believe or think about us. We know our worth in the eyes of God, a worth measured in the person and work of Jesus Christ, the one with the authority to silence our demons, and to bring us home to God.

When we face a particularly difficult or trying time, when it seems like we’re fully in the grip of something that knows or name, that capitalizes on our weaknesses, let us remember that we are called by a greater name, the name of Christ, and marked and sealed as his own, forever. In the name of Christ, called by the name of Christ as Christians, we have been and can be freed from bondage. Amen.

An acoustic version of the Ben Harper song I referenced:

Thoughts after Convention

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I’ve just returned home from the 180th Annual Convention of the Diocese of Tennessee. After the better part of two days spent in meetings, considering resolutions and hearing reports, I’m pretty much brain dead and for the most part am only doing the most necessary things (like reading stories to my 9 month old son) before bed. But, in the quiet this evening, as I reflected upon tomorrow’s gospel text and ordered my thoughts for my sermon and brief report on convention, my attention was caught by one of the old Prayer Books that sit on my shelf.  This one is a beautiful 1928 Book of Common Prayer printed in 1929 by Cambridge/James Pott & Company in New York. It has fantastic red under gold edging on the pages of india paper.  But it’s beauty isn’t the best thing about it.  It’s what’s inside this Prayer Book, which I picked up at an SPCK book sale while I was in seminary at the University of the South, School of Theology.

As with old Bibles, old prayer books become the repository of mementos and notes, cards printed with favorite hymns and hand written heartfelt prayers. As I flipped through its pages tonight, trying to still a mind that is still on over drive, I noticed the section of family prayers toward the end, it’s pages marked with the incidental dirt of hands pressed against them in prayer.  Obviously the owner of this prayer book had used these family prayers frequently, even marking certain ones with an x, presumably to indicate favorites: For Quiet Confidence, For Guidance, the first of two prayers for trustfulness, and finally the prayer for Joy in God’s Creation and For the Children.

Marking these pages were several sheets of paper including a Prayer for The United Nations Organization adapted from the Book of Common Prayer, and Acts of Devotion. Finally there was what seemed to be the most interesting piece, at least for the present, a prayer for the unemployed by the Bishop of New York, reproduced below:

A Prayer for Those in Need through

Unemployment

Set forth by the Bishop of New York
For Use in the Churches of the Diocese and
by the People in Their Homes

*

O Almighty God Who hast blessed the earth with all that is needful for the life of man, give Thy help and comfort to all who are in need and especially to those who are now suffering through unemployment; stir us to do our part for their aid and relief; help us to realize our responsibility for the injustices of our social and industrial life; fill us with the desire to purify our civilization and make it truly Christian that we may be delivered from the evils alike of grinding poverty and of excessive riches; lead us into the paths of simple and upright living; take from us the spirit of covetousness and give us the spirit of service; show us the way so to order our life as a nation that, receiving the just reward of honest labour, none may want, but each according to his need may share in Thy bountiful provision.

We ask this in the Name of Him Who came into this world to show us the way of justice and love, Thy Son Christ our Lord. Amen.

 

Come and See, Go and Tell

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St. Philip

On December 15th one of the more intelligent, pugnacious, and acerbic banner bearers of the so-called New Atheists passed away.  Christopher Hitchens was well known for his political and cultural commentary, and for his books such as God is not great. There were unfortunately, I’m sure, some Christians who exhibited a bit of schadenfreude at his passing.  On the whole though, his death seemed to inspire thoughtful commentaries and reflections upon the nature of belief and disbelief.

Hitchens was insistent, up to the end of his battle with cancer, that he had no doubts and remained firm in his conviction that God does not exist.  There would be no death bed conversion, no rolling of the dice or Pascal-like wager in favor of theism.

When asked how he would respond if he discovered there was a state of consciousness beyond this life, he responded with “I will be surprised, but I like surprises.”

The most poignant commentary by far was that of his brother Peter. Of course, the commentary of any family member on the passing of a loved one is bound to be poignant.  This was more so because of the long running disagreement between the two, a disagreement centering on faith. While Christopher was one of the more well-known atheists in the western world–or at least the Anglo-sphere–Peter is a Christian and responded to his brother’s book with his own, The Rage Against God: How Atheism led me to Faith.

While Christopher and Peter participated in a number of public sparing matches over the years, limited eventually by their desire that, in Peter’s words, their disagreement not “…turn into gladiatorial combat in which nothing would be resolved and enmity could be created.”

In the end, it seems, faith was a subject that was off limits as a topic that would inspire more heat than light in their relationship.  As Peter writes toward the end of his reflections on his brother’s passing, about the last time they saw each other:

We both knew it was the last time we would see each other, though being Englishmen of a certain generation, neither of us would have dreamed of actually saying so. We parted on good terms, though our conversation had been (as had our e-mail correspondence for some months) cautious and confined to subjects that would not easily lead to conflict. In this I think we were a little like chess-players, working out many possible moves in advance, neither of us wanting any more quarrels of any kind. (In Memoriam: Christopher Hitchens 1949-2011)

Some, perhaps, would be inclined to say that Peter failed in keeping his duty as a Christian, that he should have harried his brother to the end in order to bring him to faith.  I would submit that such a view of sharing the gospel is not only ineffective, but in the end, runs counter to the gospel that it purports to espouse. Fundamentally, such a situation highlights that it is not our responsibility to convert others.

Only God can bring others to conversion, attempting to do so ourselves only serves to alienate people and in fact, drive them away from the opportunity to see God at work in our lives.

The story of the calling of Nathaniel illustrates some of this.

Philip invites Nathaniel

John 1:43-51, the calling of Philip and Nathaniel, closes out the chapter and follows immediately on the heels of the calling of Andrew and Peter. Jesus is traveling through Galilee and he sees Philip along the way and simply says to him, “Follow me” (John 1:43). If Philip asked any questions or had to be convinced, the gospel account is silent. He responds to Jesus’ call quickly, and more than that, he immediately goes out to share what he has discovered, going to his friend Nathaniel and telling him “We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth” (John 1:45).

Just as Philip’s response may reveal something of his character, Nathaniel’s response shows that he is at least a bit incredulous, if not cynical of Philip’s pronouncement. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” he asks. Some scholars think that this sounds like a local saying, but there is no attestation of it outside the gospel of John. Regardless of whether this were a local saying around parts of Galilee, taking a swipe at Nazareth, Nathaniel shows his quick wit, skepticism and directness with this response.

I would say that, in many ways, there are a lot of Nathaniel’s in our culture today.  People who, while not exactly hostile to faith, are at least skeptical of its more traditional and institutionalized forms. Ours is, largely, a culture that empowers the individual, including in the area of the spiritual. This can be a good or bad trait, but it always means that received authority is a poor support for something you’re hoping to share with others. Likewise, argument becomes a self-defeating tool when trying to share the faith with others.

Imagine, if you will, what might have transpired if Philip had tried to brow-beat, cajole or otherwise convince Nathaniel of the rightness of his assessment of who Jesus is. Nathaniel seems a pretty self-possessed guy, free with his thoughts and secure in them. Of course we can’t know exactly what would’ve happened, conjectural as that thought is, but we can take something important away from the way Philip handles the situation. He doesn’t attempt to overwhelm Nathaniel with the prowess of his logical argument, or to confound him with scripture citation after scripture citation. Philip knows his friend, and that makes all the difference.

Rather than attempt to convince Nathaniel, Philip does something profoundly simple. He says in response to Nathaniel’s quip, “Come and see.”

This is precisely how we’re to respond to the various Nathaniel’s in our own lives today. We share with them what we have found in Jesus Christ, but when it comes time to convince them, time for them to move from audience or bystander to participant, we’re called to simply say, “Come and see.”

This is an amazingly freeing proposition.  Episcopalians and other mainline protestants have rightly been accused of being a bit embarrassed by the “e” word, evangelism.  There’s no denying that one of the reasons our congregations are shrinking is because of a simple failure to share what we have found with others. Few mainline folks invite others to church for example.

And that raises an important question.  Are we neglecting to invite others because we are embarrassed by Jesus, by the forcefulness of other Christians or is it something else.  Is it because we are afraid that people won’t actually meet Jesus if they come to worship with us?

The Invitation is to see Jesus at work

Philip invites Nathaniel to come and see Jesus, and in so doing he recognizes that the impetus for conversion comes not from his argument, no matter how well crafted or how well meaning.  The impetus for conversion comes from Christ himself. It is God who turns hearts, not us.

This truth is evidenced in John by a contrast between what Philip says and what Jesus says. Philip, in his invitation to Nathaniel says that he has found the Messiah, the one of whom Moses and the prophets wrote. Of course, as readers and hearers we know that it is in fact Jesus who finds and calls Philip. The reality behind this is highlighted even more starkly when Nathaniel takes Philip up on the invitation to come and see Jesus.

As Nathaniel approaches, Jesus calls out to him, saying “Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit!” (John 15:47). In the exchange which follows, Nathaniel is amazed that Jesus tells him what he was doing before they met, that he had been sitting beneath a fig tree. Jesus tells him that he will see greater things than these, including “heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man” (John 1:51). This demonstrates an important theological truth that will be emphasized even more in John 15, when Jesus says “You did not choose me but I chose you” (John 15:16).

So it is Jesus who does the choosing, not the individual. Philip does not convince Nathaniel, he simply offers an invitation for him to come and see Christ at work.  When we invite folks to come and see, we are inviting them to come and see what Jesus is doing, whether that is in our corporate worship, in the way we live our lives, in the way we respect one another and serve those in need. We are relieved of the need to convince others as though they could come to faith through debate, but we should be reminded of the responsibility to share our experience with others, and to invite them to come and see Christ at work.  When we have come and seen, we have the responsibility to go and tell, without the fear of rejection, without the added expectation of somehow having a good enough argument, or a profound enough story to convince someone else. We bring others to Christ, and let Christ do the work, just as Philip did.

In the past a person hounded by others may have feigned belief to keep the peace in their relationship, or they may have attended church services simply because it was the culturally acceptable thing to do, but today, there is no such pressure. Indeed, societal pressure actually runs against belief or at least active involvement in a faith community. There is truth to the old adage that “a man convinced against his will is of the same opinion still.” In today’s world, attempts to force agreement don’t even result in false believers, they result in people alienated from faith and more people cheering on the criticisms of the New Atheists.

So, while it is unfortunately true that some well meaning Christians would (and have in my hearing) criticize Peter Hitchens for not “doing enough,” and that there are many who would opine with certainty on the eternal fate of his brother, I applaud Peter for not pushing, and for offering a witness to the fact that a Christian can maintain their convictions while also maintaining their relationship with those who do not agree.  When we let go of the lie that we can save others, then we are truly free to share the good news with them, in deed as well as word, and in a situation where words just won’t do, we still have the relationship and we can say, by our love, “come and see” Christ at work in the way we live our lives.

Let all of us who have seen, have the strength to share the truth, and also the strength to let go of what is not our responsibility, so that we can fulfill what is: inviting others to meet Jesus and let him do the convincing.

The Least of These

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Christ in Judgement

Christ in Judgement

Christ the King Sunday
November 20, 2011
Scripture: Matthew 25:31-46

Collect of the Day (Proper 29):

Almighty and everlasting God, whose will it is to restore all things in your well-beloved Son, the King of kings and Lord of lords: Mercifully grant that the peoples of the earth, divided and enslaved by sin, may be freed and brought together under his most gracious rule; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

“And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me” (Matthew 25:40).

Commentators who reflect on our Gospel passage have referred to this as a “word-picture of the last judgement.”1 It occurs in the midst of a section of Matthew’s Gospel known as the “eschatological discourse.” In other words, it is in the midst of a section that deals with the last things–the events that will bring in the summation of history and includes the final judgement. This particular section deals with the judgement of the nations (both collectively and as individuals I believe). It is a passage in which Jesus picks up on many of the themes of the prophetic tradition not only in terms of the judgement, but the reason for such judgement.

A partial understanding of the background for this passage can be found in the reading from the book of the prophet Ezekiel (Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24), in the sense that Ezekiel represents a portion of the prophetic tradition.  In commenting on this passage, theologian and pastor Walter Brueggemann notes that Ezekiel is pondering how it is that his society has come to such dire straights, being the subject not only of military destruction but of deportation, and attempting to shine a light into the future. Ezekiel does this “under the metaphor of ‘shepherd.’ The image of ‘shepherd,’” Brueggemann notes “is much used in the biblical world for ‘king,’ an image that permits great elasticity in his interpretive commentary.” (read it all)

For Ezekiel, exile has become Israel’s lot because of a failure of leadership: they are the victims of bad kings, kings who looked to their own desires rather than the needs of their people (Ezek. 34:1-9).

The whole people suffer the consequences of their leaders’ selfishness and poor judgement and there is only one solution: God himself promises to become king over his people. “I will save my flock, and they shall no longer be ravaged; and I will judge between sheep and sheep” (Ezek. 34:22).

Unlike the rulers Israel has been burdened with in the past, God’s dominion works for the common good. “God will not be self-indulgent as the previous kings have been, but will be fully and attentively concerned for the vulnerable flock that is Israel” (Brueggemann).

In what appears to be a strange twist however, Ezekiel tells us that God’s direct rule will be exercised through a human ruler, “I will set up over them one shepherd, my servant David, and he shall feed them: he shall feed them and be their shepherd. And I, the LORD, will be their God, and my servant David shall be prince among them; I, the LORD, have spoken” (Ezek. 34:23-24).

It is this theme of the promised shepherd/prince that is picked up in our Gospel lesson, except this is no longer a rule limited in scope to the people of Israel, but rather a dominion of dominions for a ruler over all the nations: “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory.  All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at his left” (Matt. 25:31-33).  The hope presented by this passage is the promise that God will set things right, not only for the people of Israel, but for the whole earth.  The time of half-measures has ended and God himself, incarnate in the Son of Man, will exercise dominion over all the world, and the sheep (those who do the will of God) and the goats (those who do not) will be judged according to their actions and divided, being set either at the right hand (a place of honor) or the left (a place of judgement).2

While this passage is clearly about Christ’s Lordship over all the world, the judgements rendered are profoundly personal. What has been done in service of the people has been done for the King of All. There is a solidarity expressed here as Christ says, in the person of someone else that you have met: I was hungry, I was thirsty, I was a stranger, I was naked, I was sick, I was in prison, and in each case the righteous provided the need, while the unrighteous did not–neither really knew what they were doing.

In some ways this passage stands as a bookend to the sermon on the mount, especially the beatitudes. If the beatitudes proclaimed God’s blessing on those at the margins of society, then this section demonstrates to us the way that we are called to serve our King.

In the previous portions of this section of Matthew’s Gospel, we have been exhorted to be faithful, prepared, and to use the resources (talents) we have been given rightly and in the service of others. But if we were wondering about the application of these expectations, it is made clear here that we are to prepare for Christ’s return”by living the imperative to love one’s neighbors, especially the marginalized,” and it is for this that we will be judged in the end.3

There are a few things for us to keep in mind as we reflect on this. the first is that those people labeled “righteous” are surprised. They were not trying to force God’s hand or win anything for themselves. They were simply fulfilling the call of human charity.4 That said, because they were caring for the people of God–people made in the image of God–they were showing honor directly to God as well.5

The second thing to consider is that the tradition finds in these acts six of the seven traditional “acts of mercy,” (the seventh being the burial of the dead). At the same time, as St. Anthony the Great notes “Feeding the hungry, welcoming strangers, and visiting the sick are mundane acts. In this sense ‘virtue is not far from us, nor is it without ourselves, but it is within us, and is easy if only we are willing.’” 6

Finally, in this passage, Christ is not only indicating his solidarity or unity with the downtrodden or needy, but with the whole of humanity. The acts of mercy for which people receive honor are many of the same acts that defined Jesus’ presence among the people during his earthly ministry.

In other words, Christ is King over all, but the King who shows his people how to serve. When we serve others, Christ is active in us, serving Christ in others. These acts of mercy–both in the giving and in the receiving–reveal the unity of humanity made in the image of God and therefore called to display that divine character by caring for it in others. And so, we see one of the ways in which Christ, in Paul’s words, “fills all in all” (Ephesians 1:23).

Today is Christ the King Sunday, and today we are reminded that Christ’s Kingship:

It puts in check all earthly so-called kings.  Christ is the King.  The one, the only, the ultimate.  All others who would presume to claim authority for themselves or even to exercise it by virtue of their office must see how they square up with the example of Christ.

The kingship of Christ makes the abuses perpetrated by other rulers all the more apparent. And it demonstrates the call of the Kingdom on all our lives.

If God became incarnate in Christ for all of humanity, then how can we value one another any less.

If Christ cared for the ostracized and the alienated. If he dined and conversed with the tax collectors and the prostitutes of his society, then how can we wall ourselves off.

If Christ offered healing to the sick, mercy to the afflicted, hope to the hopeless–then how can we possibly desire to offer them anything less.

If we believe that Christ shows us what it means to be truly human–humanity without the stain of sin–then how can we say that striving to be truly human can mean striving for anything less than being like Christ.

If we truly believe what we profess today, that Christ is indeed King over all, then how can we do anything less than strive to find ways to serve Christ in others.

We know where to begin. Jesus said: I was hungry and you fed me, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you comforted me, I was in prison and you visited me.

Caravaggio's Seven Acts of Mercy

Caravaggio's Seven Acts of Mercy

  1. The Oxford Bible Commentary, p. 878 [↩]
  2. The New Oxford Annotated NRSV: Matthew 25:31-46 : The judgement of the nations. 31: The Son of Man, 8.20n. 32: 24.9; 28.19; Isa 66.18; Joel 3.2 . 33: Right, the auspicious side, while left was the bad or unlucky side. The distinction between sheep and goats ma reside in the fabrics the two produce: goats produce dark hair, which was used to make ill-omened sackcloth (11.21n.), while white wool was a sign of prosperity, p 1784 NT [↩]
  3. Oxford Biblical Commentary, p. 878 [↩]
  4. The New Jerome Biblical Commentary, p. 669 [↩]
  5. The Oxford Biblical Commentary, p. 878, “The concept of service to Jesus through service to others goes back to Prov. 19:17: ‘Whoever is kind to the poor lends to the Lord, and will be repaid in full.’  What is new in Matthew is the Son of Man’s identification with the needy.” [↩]
  6. (St. Anthony the Great, quoted in the New Oxford Biblical Commentary, p. 879). [↩]

Doers of the Word and Students of Christ

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Christ the Teacher

The Letter of James, which some scholars contend echoes the words and teaching of Jesus more than any other portion of the scriptures outside the Gospels, provides the following exhortation: “But be doers of the word, and not merely hearers who deceive themselves” (James 1:22).  This statement could well the the corollary of the intriguing comment that Jesus makes to his disciples and the crowds in the midst of today’s gospel lesson (Matthew 23:1-12):

“The scribes and the Pharisees sit on Moses’ seat; therefore, do whatever they teach you and follow it; but do not do as they do, for they do not practice what they teach” (Matt. 23:1-3).

Be doers of the word, and not merely hearers, James admonishes us.  Be doers of the law and not simply promulgators Jesus seems to be saying.

Both of these statements are directed at the faithful in general, but both are particularly pointed for those who are in the position of teaching the faith.  Call no one rabbi (great one or teacher) Call no one Father.  Call no one instructor.

But while they are particularly pointed for religious types–I’m often called “Father Jody” after all, the issue can be pushed.  St. Jerome dealt with the question of whether anyone could rightly be called teacher or father:

“No one should be called teacher or father except God the Father and our Lord Jesus Christ.  He alone is the Father, because all things are from him.  He alone is the teacher, because through him are made all things and through him all things are reconciled to God.

But one might ask, “Is it against this precept when the apostle calls himself the teacher of the Gentiles?  Or when, as in colloquial speech widely found in the monasteries of Egypt and Palestine, they call each other Father?” Remember this distinction.  It is one thing to be a father or teacher by nature, another to be so by generosity.  For when we call a man father and reserve the honor of his age, we may thereby be failing to honor the Author of our own lives.  One is rightly called a teacher only from his association with the true Teacher. I repeat: the fact that we have one God and one Son of God through nature does not prevent others from being understood as sons of God by adoption.  Similarly this does not make the terms father and teacher useless or prevent others from being called father. (Jerome, Commentary on Matthew 4.23.10)

Jerome has touched on something important: the fact that Christians believe that Christ plays an ongoing role as our great Teacher.  One of the great classics of the early Christians centuries is entitled “Christ the Teacher” (Cyril of Alexandria), and there is a particular Iconographic depiction of Christ that bears this name as well.   You see, as one commentary puts it “Christians have only one teacher, Christ, in the sense that they are lifelong disciples of him alone.  Other teachers play a transitory role.” (The New Jerome Biblical Commentary)

The problem is when religious leaders, teachers and others forget the fact that we are all answerable to that which is greater than ourselves.  When this forgetfulness is coupled with power it leads to abuse.  As St. Chrysostom says in his commentary on this passage: “For such are all they who practice self restraint in mere words while being unforgiving and grievous to bear when they have had no experience of the difficulty in actions.  This is no small fault.  In no small way does Jesus increase the former charge. (St. John Chrysostom, The Gospel of Matthew, Homily 72.2)

So, we understand how it is that a person can be called “teacher” if they have association with the Teacher, that is, Christ.  But what about “Father?”

Just as St. Jerome indicates that no one should be called teacher except insofar as they have association with the Teacher, so does C.S. Lewis argue that to call a person father is only rightly done insofar as they reflect the virtues of the Father, that is God, the archetype of our virtuous and righteous actions.  Lewis was not, and most people today are not, so naive as to think that every human father actually acts in this way.  Unfortunately there is ample reason for the fact that many people have problems reflecting upon God as Father because of their relationships with their human fathers.  Recognizing that troubling reality does not prevent us from seeing in this fact a clarion call to greater virtue among human fathers–they are called to exhibit the love of God.  They are called, as we all are, to be doers of the word.

I would say that the same is true in talking of the mothering virtues as well–they are archetypical of God, who is spoken of in scripture as brooding over Jerusalem as a hen broods over her young (Psalm 91:4; Matthew 23:37; Luke 13:34).  This imagery is appropriated in a rather  jarring, but wonderful and effective way by Johnny Cash in his song When the Man Comes around, in the phrase, “When the Father Hen shall call his Chickens home.”

This is why Paul can use both masculine and feminine imagery in reference to his relationship with the Thessalonians.  He and his co-workers where “gentle [...] like a nurse tenderly caring for her own children,” and in our lesson for today, Paul says they “dealt with each [of the Thessalonian believers] like a father with his children,urging and encouraging [...] and pleading that [they] lead a life worthy of God, who calls you into his own kingdom and glory” (1 Thessalonians 2:11-12).

Anything that is good, anything that is virtuous in humanity is good in reference to God, is good in the sense that it reveals the character, the heart, of God.  And working to share the nature of Christ is precisely what it means to be a disciple, a student.  The word is the same from which we get the term “discipline,” so to be a disciple of Christ is nothing less than to be a doer of the word, and not a hearer only.  It implies action.

So before you give anyone any sort of honor, square them up and see if they are striving to lead a virtuous and faithful life.  Are they humble before God and are they trying as best they can to love their neighbors.  Are they truly exhibiting the passion of a faithful teacher, the care of a spiritual father.  Are our mothers nurturing and our fathers supporting (recognizing that, of course, men and women can each do both of these things).  In other words are we working every day to be more and more Christ like, and reveal in a more complete way the character of the God in whose image we were created in whose presence we thrive.  This is what it means to be doers of the word.  This is what it means to always be students of Christ the Teacher.

 

A Litany for the Tenth Anniversary of September 11th

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At St. Joseph of Arimathea this Sunday we will have a somewhat different service as we observe the tenth anniversary of September 11th.  Along with almost everyone I’ve talked to, I find it hard to believe that ten years have passed since that day.  And yet, much has happened since then in my life and in the lives of so many people.  Our nation is certainly in a different place.  And because so much has happened, and so much that has happened has been affected by the events of those days, it is appropriate to observe the anniversary.  Additionally, there is something particularly powerful about the passage of a decade, and the call to look back over what has happened during those interveneing years.

As part of our observance of the day, for the liturgy geeks among us, we will begin with the Penitential Order & Decalogue at both services (8 AM Rite I and 10:30 Rite II).  The purpose of this, with its movement of the confession to the beginning of the service (which I ordinarily dislike) is that it will both set the tone for the service as one of remembrance and reflection, as well as provide a more distinct opportunity for the Prayers of the People to be a focal point during that portion of the service.  In the place of our normal prayers we will have a litany written for the occasion.  I couldn’t find one that I liked completely, so I took inspiration from several.  Primarily from the Great Litany in the Book of Common Prayer and from this version authored by another Episcopal Priest (also, you’ll note, inspired by the Great Litany).

The version I’ve compiled/authored is below and I would be interested in any constructive criticism that might aid in its improvement before Sunday.

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Returning the things of God to God

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There is a constant struggle going on at the heart of the Church, and the heart of each Christian, to know how to respond to events in society and in our personal lives.  We consider and delve into ways of approaching current events.  We read the newspaper and ethical dilemmas present themselves, we drive to work and see people in need, we reflect upon the policies of our government–local, state and national–and we try to influence them the best we can to reflect the justice we believe our faith demands.

A friend may come to us with a problem, or we may find ourselves in a situation where we find it’s nearly impossible not only to do the right thing but to discern what it is.  We need overarching principles to guide our reflections and help us address complexity and confusion.

In considering the different ways Christians are called to exercise our faith in our personal lives and in our public/civic involvement, I’ve found a diagram to be particularly helpful.  You should know that I have a particular fondness for triangular diagrams.  There are two that I think simplify any discussion of theology or engagement with culture (i.e. missiology).  Theologically, I love this diagram of the Trinity.  The Father is not the Son, the Son is not the Father, the spirit is neither etc… it says a lot in a concise form:

But the diagram I think is helpful in this situation is of more recent origin.  I found it in an article entitled “Preaching to Postmodern People.”  The diagram explains the way in this the Gospel interacts with the culture and with the Church, and their relationship to one another.

In the diagram, the Gospel is at the top corner of the triangle, and interacts with the culture through the “conversion encounter axis.”  This describes the way the gospel can come to challenge some of the fundamental assumptions of a society, and invite conversion (think Paul on the road to Damascus as an example).  This demonstrates that, in terms of the broader society, encountering the gospel is something that directly challenges the makeup of society–or at the very least its abuses.  On the other hand the Church encounters the Gospel along the “reciprocal relationship axis.”  That is, ideally, the church is already aware of the gospel–we should not be surprised by it–and acts out of relationship with and love of God.

One aspect of this is that it is not primarily the responsibility of the Church to convert the culture–the Holy Spirit through the encounter with the Gospel message does that–but the Church must be there to declare the message, and perhaps more importantly, to interpret the message for the culture when the culture experiences the Gospel critique out of context.

The final side of the triangle depicts the Church’s relationship to the culture.  This is called the “Missionary dialogue axis.”  In our lessons from John’s Gospel (John 14:15-21) and the Acts of the Apostles (Acts 17:22-31), I believe we see the latter two of these sides in action.

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The things that define us

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What defines you?  Is it your job? Your family? A hobby?

Are you defined by your likes or dislikes?  By your accomplishments or failures?

What defines who you are?

For many in this room (or reading this), one answer that should come to mind relatively soon in this thought process is this: I am a Christian.  The fact that I have been saved by Jesus Christ defines me.

But this doesn’t simply mean that we are called by Jesus’ name and that is all.  It means that we live in a particular way, a way that reminds others what it means to be Christian, to follow Jesus.

This means that we fulfill the call to love one another:  “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13:35).  But loving one another is often much easier in theory than in practice.  A preacher I once heard put it this way: I don’t love you because you’re lovable, I love you because Christ loves you; and how can I hate what God loves?

Most of us are less than lovable, especially when we’re at our worst.  And yet, we’re commanded to love one another–and ourselves–as Christ loves us.  Sacrificially.  Unflinchingly.  Without regard to what is deserved.

The love that we are called to extend toward one another is the same sort of love that God extends toward all of us, and it is a function of grace: one-way love without need or expectation of reciprocity (though it does inspire reciprocity).  That this love is a function of grace is clear in that it is undeserved and, without God’s help, we are unable to offer it to others.  God’s grace must be operative in us in order for us to become conduits for this love.

If Christians are a community defined by and reflecting God’s agape–over flowing, one way love–then we are also a community that must reinforce the recognition of our dependence upon God in the most basic ways.  Because of this human need, we can be thankful that Christ did not simply leave his fledgling community with a series of impossible commandments: he left his sacraments as a means of equipping the saints for their work.  That is to say, the sacraments are both signs and effectual means of God’s grace.

Specifically today, it is appropriate to reflect upon the Lord’s Supper (or Eucharist as Episcopalians usually refer to it).  In our Gospel lesson (Luke 24:13-35), I would argue that we see Christ acting as the celebrant of the Eucharist, offering it to his disciples.  Just as he had done during the feeding of the five thousand, and later during the last supper, Christ takes the bread, blesses it and breaks it.  In each case the need of those receiving is met.  Through their reception of bread and wine, Cleopas and his companion have their eyes opened and they are able to see the truth and understand the teachings that Jesus opened to them on the road.

In these events we not only have the precursor to the Eucharist, but also the structure of Christian worship: study/reflection/teaching on the Holy Scripture, followed by the breaking of bread.

It may seem strange that God would choose something as common place as bread and wine–as common as a meal–to be the sign of his continued presence with his people.  And yet, that is precisely what he does.  God takes what is ordinary and makes it extraordinary, what is mortal and makes it divine, what is finite and makes it infinite.  Iin Christ, God takes ordinary humanity and makes it divine.  As Christ ascends to the right hand of the Father, humanity is taken into the very life of God, and that in turn, through Christ in us, the power of God is give to us so that we might live as Christ lives.

The Eucharist constitutes and forms the community and then gives the community the means to go forth into the world rejoicing in the power of the spirit.  Like the disciples that Jesus encounters on the road to Emmaeus, Christ is revealed to us (again and again) in the breaking of the bread.

And being the community that is called together by the sharing of a meal, by the confessing and forgiving of our sin, we are called to go forth and spread the good news to others. In doing this, the Eucharist provides us with sacramental strength, but also an effective example that should be an encouragement to all of us: God is going to accomplish his purposes through us; no matter how ordinary we believe ourselves to be, God makes us extraordinary.

 

Judgement Day

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I believe it’s fair to say that our culture has an obsession with judgement and the end times. It’s an ironic obsession, given the way we often live our lives and structure our society. If we were really concerned about God’s wrath, one would think we’d take better care of one another.

The fact that we’re here today is testimony to a huge disappointment for some of our brothers and sisters in Christ. As many of you, I’m sure, have heard, a man who was already known for falsely identifying the date of an event known as the rapture of the church, predicted that it would occur on May 21, 2011 at 6 p.m. (there was evidently some confusion as to whether this was to occur separately in different time zones or not).

The idea of the rapture and its subsequent popularity has its origins in the work of folks like Irishman John Nelson Darby, a former Anglican priest and a leader of the Plymouth Brethren and William Miller (founder of the movement that would eventually become Seventh Day Adventists and Jehovah’s Witnesses), and their particular readings of biblical prophecy–particularly Daniel, I Thessalonians and Revelation. In recent memory, these ideas have been popularized through the Left Behind series of novels. The problem, of course, is that these are rather odd ways of reading scripture and are not at all literal readings faithful to the texts, especially in those forms that attempt to determine, by applying biblical prophecy to current events, the specific time or date of Jesus’ second coming.

It is important to note that, in questioning the degree to which such millenarian or dispensationalist eschatologies (beliefs about the last things) are faithful to scripture, we are not questioning the second coming of Christ–which is, sadly, how some would see it. The second coming (parousia), is a core Christian doctrine, and we profess it in our Eucharistic prayers (along with the resurrection), for example, when we say as a body “Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again,” or “We proclaim his death, we remember his resurrection, we await his coming in glory.”

The danger of beliefs such as the rapture, especially when they began as the apocalyptic beliefs of the oppressed, but are now the beliefs of people of significant power and means, is that they encourage sinful human beings to attempt to force God’s hand by becoming involved in world events in a particular way, or, alternatively, to abandon concern for the world because “it’s all going to burn anyway.” Neither response is appropriate for Christians.

But even more problematic, is that speculation about the time of Christ’s return–something the Lord himself forbade–also seems to encourage speculation about who, precisely, is in or out of the kingdom of God. Below is an example of the sort of thing these ideas can result in. It’s a painting by a preacher, McKendree Robbins Long of North Carolina. (Long’s grandson, incidentally, Ben Long is a well known fresco painter who has worked in many churches in the US and Europe). McKendree Long was a classically trained portrait painter who acted as an ambulance driver in the first world war. When he came home, he stopped painting for years as he ministered. When he took up painting again, he did so in a surrealistic style in a subject matter that is more reminiscent of folk art:

Apocalyptic Scene with Philosophers and Historical Figures by McKendree Robbins Long, c. 1959 (North Carolina Museum of Art)

While the work is striking and, in a way, I think we’d be poorer for it as a culture if it didn’t exist, it’s subject matter is problematic from a theological point of view. It’s a picture of the last judgement with people being thrown into the lake of fire. Of particular interest is that you can make out specific historical and philosophical figures in the painting. Some are not surprising, and we may even agree with Long’s placement of them; Hitler is there being squeezed and bitten by a boa constrictor or other snake. In the middle of the lava you see a bird attacking Joseph Stalin. But there are others there as well. Over to the right side it’s pretty easy to make out Charles Darwin, Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud, Friedrich Nietzsche and Albert Einstein, not to mention a sizable number of women who seem to be dressed in a manner that, for Long, was probably provocative. At the top of the hill, talking to Dante Alighieri and looking on with evident satisfaction is Long himself, observing as divine punishment is meted out.

This painting is an example of someone taking upon themselves the authority of a judge. In fairness to long, it’s possible in the context that it’s less a theological than a social or political statement, but I would submit that it is a good illustration of a dangerous tendency. People are sinful and hurtful enough without ascribing to themselves the role of arbiter and judge of others’ eternal fate. And this is precisely what follows from attempts to predict when Jesus will return. It’s an exercise in hubris that leads to others. The person who attempts to calculate the time and date of Jesus’ return is claiming that they know more than Jesus himself. Once we believe we know more than Jesus, it’s not far to believing we know better than God. And we already know we have that sort of tendency toward judgmentalism (think Jonah and the people of Nineveh, among other numerous examples from within and outside of scripture). In other words, we often move the short distance from believing we know when Jesus is going to return and judge to believing we know how Christ will judge–that we know precisely who (and what sort of people) will be cast into fire.

In contrast to such temptations, which are often ultimately constructed upon our own inmost fears, scripture invites us to let go of our fears and follow God’s call in our lives. “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” Jesus says, “Believe in God, believe also in me.” Jesus goes on to declare to the disciples, some of the most comforting words of scripture, but words that many of us have misunderstood:

In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?

If you’re like me, then you’ve often heard these words in a particular way. Specifically, you may have heard them as words of hope, at a funeral for example, declaring that Jesus was going to a sort of geographic/spacial location to prepare a dwelling. This misunderstanding is not helped by the fact that the King James bible referred to “mansions.” Instead of a considering this promise in light of a physical dwelling (or even a localized spiritual approximation thereof) it should be thought more of in terms of relationship. In the Father’s household there are plenty of places for you. There is plenty of room for everyone in the family of God. So when Jesus says “And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also” (John 14:2-3), he’s speaking about his work on the cross–he goes to the cross and rises again to provide the means through which we may have relationship with the Father and through that relationship, be reconciled to one another.

This is why, when Thomas asks how they can know how to get to where Jesus is going, seeing as they don’t know where he’s going, Jesus refuses to get caught up in geographic thinking once again, and tells them “I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” Just as the idea of Jesus being the gate of the sheep was intended to demonstrate that the sheep must go through–that is, imitate–the shepherd in order to go anywhere, Jesus is telling his disciples to follow his manner of life, to adopt his care for others. In short, to continue his mission, because it’s only in fulfilling that mission out of gratitude to the grace and salvation we’re offered by Christ, that we can move closer to the Father and enjoy the sort of unity with God that is intended.

How does this effect the way we deal with our understandings of the last things? As Jesus said, the character of the Father is revealed in the Son. We know the character of God through the character of Christ, and therefore we can forgo the sort of fearfulness that dominates the apocalyptic thinking that many of our brothers and sisters embrace. This doesn’t mean that we assume ourselves worthy, it means that we’ve seen the grace of God. In contrast to the apocalyptic prophet that thrives on people’s fears of the unknown, we recognize that just as in Christ’s earthly ministry, God was keeping God’s promises to the people of Israel (as N.T. Wright has pointed out, Jesus is the new Temple, as things occur in the presence of Christ that had, up until that point only occurred in the Temple). God kept his promises then, and will keep the promises to come, when Christ returns. Of course there will be judgement, but for those who have their lives hidden with Christ in God, there is nothing to fear. Instead, we can rejoice in the knowledge that our God is merciful and full of grace.

So, rather than a bleak and judgmental image of the end that inspires fear, I would like to offer you another example, containing a different way of looking at this issue. The following is a selection from Flannery O’Connor’s short story “Revelation.” O’Connor is probably one of the few authors I’m aware of who grasp the concept of grace so well. In this story the main character, Mrs. Turpin has a run in with a girl who’s name is, not by chance, Grace. During an altercation Grace tells Mrs. Turpin that she’s a warthog from hell. This insult sticks with her and in the climax of the story Mrs. Turpin has a confrontation with God in which she demands to know how she can be both a hog and herself at the same time. Eventually she looks up into the sky and sees a streak in the sky, and has a revelation (keep in mind the time in which O’Connor is writing please, no hate mail):

[Mrs. Turpin] raised her hands from the side of the pen in a gesture hieratic and profound. A visionary light settled in her eyes. She saw the streak as a vast swinging bridge extending upward from the earth through a field of living fire. Upon it a vast horde of souls were rumbling toward heaven. There were whole companies of white-trash, clean for the first time in their lives, and bands of black niggers in white robes, and battalions of freaks and lunatics shouting and clapping and leaping like frogs. And bringing up the end of the procession was a tribe of people whom she recognized at once as those who, like herself and [her husband] Claud, had always had a little of everything and the God-given wit to use it right. She leaned forward to observe them closer. They were marching behind the others with great dignity, accountable as they had always been for good order and respectable behavior. They alone were on key. Yet she could see by their shocked and altered faces that even their virtues were being burned away. (Flannery O’Connor, “Revelation,” in The Complete Stories (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1971), 508.)

I love the last line: “Yet she could see by their shocked and altered faces that even their virtues were being burned away.” This is the reality that Mrs. Turpin failed to grasp initially, but that, by the work of grace (one hopes) the truth has been revealed to her: all of us are ourselves and “hogs” too. We’re all saints and sinners. Simultaneously justified and yet sinful. Mrs Turpin trusted in her own righteousness, and is disabused of that conceit. She comes to see the broad and radical love of God for creation and all that is in it–especially, it seems, for those we would least expect. When we recognize this reality, we can give up attempting to find the date and time for the second coming, for the judgement, because we know that we are utterly helpless and unworthy before God. We depend upon grace, all the more so because every day is judgement day and we are always found wanting–none of our virtues can survive in the presence of God–only Grace can. And this is the message we’re called to proclaim and put on every billboard literal and figurative we can find: God loves you and sent Jesus so that you would be made aware of it, come to love God, and out of gratitude and amazement, love one another.