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A very curious phrase appeared in last week’s scripture reading from the book of James. It was in verse 25: “But those who look into the perfect law, the law of liberty, and persevere, being not hearers who forget but doers who act – they will be blessed in their doing.” It’s that phrase, “the law of liberty” that caught my attention when it showed up again in this week’s reading. James writes, “So speak and so act as those who are to be judged by the law of liberty.” I love the turn of words; I’m not entirely sure why. I guess it’s because I love the word liberty, and, stuck together with the word law, it sounds almost like an oxymoron. What in the world could this “law of liberty” be?
James starts out by talking a lot about transgressing [I don’t like that word as much as the word liberty]. He offers a little snapshot of one of our familiar transgressions, welcoming the rich, nicely dressed, influential person with great falderal, and ignoring the poor, dirty stranger with shabby clothes. Then he says, “. . . if you show partiality, you commit sin and are convicted by the law as transgressors.”
Now, I have to admit, I’m not fond of reading from scripture about “committing sin” and being “convicted as a transgressor.” I have a feeling there are others who share my discomfort. From time to time I hear someone say, “I don’t like those prayers of confession in worship. I don’t like to wallow around in guilt. When I come to church I want to be uplifted, not put down.” Believe me, I sympathize. It makes me a little uncomfortable too. I’ve got guilt stuff running around in the back of my head from all the way back in Sunday school, and it’s one of the things that turned me off about church when I was a teenager. After all, I knew I was going to be judged worst of all, and probably go straight to hell because I used to sit up in the balcony of the sanctuary playing poker with my friends during worship (you know, holding the cards down real low so the preacher – who happened to be my father – wouldn’t see).
But you have to admit, there’s a lot said right there in the Bible about sin, and a lot about confessing sins and seeking forgiveness. Jesus certainly spent a lot of time talking about it, and he gave us a pattern of prayer to use that began, “Our father, which art in heaven,” and led to “forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.” So, you can argue that it doesn’t feel good to admit you’re a “transgressor,” but you can’t argue with Jesus.
And after all, James does have a good point in this passage when he talks about our sin of favoritism. It does seem to be in our nature to play favorites. When “a person,” as James says, “with gold rings and in fine clothes” walks in, and “a poor person in dirty clothes also comes in,” don’t we tend to take notice of the one wearing the fine clothes and say, “Have a seat here, please”? The exasperating thing James has to say about this is that he lumps it right in there with adultery and murder. Now, it seems to me that showing a little partiality is a thoroughly human thing to do. And it doesn’t seem to be as serious an offense as murder, for crying out loud. And our hearts were all broken and even filled with rage to hear about the shooting rampage of a 14 year-old boy at a high school in Georgia, and how he got access to his weapon. At least if I were in charge of the universe, that sort of thing would be pretty far from showing a little partiality on the damnation scale. If anybody were going to be sent to “H, E, double hockey sticks,” I’d think it would be the murderers. Those of us who just forget ourselves every now and then and show a little extra courtesy to the one who butters our bread can surely be understood and won’t lose our assigned seating on the bus to the pearly gates. But James has got this bug in his bonnet about being “transgressors.” And he says that “whoever keeps the whole law but fails in one point has become accountable for all of it.” In other words, I guess he’s saying, if you’re trying to be good and not do any bad things, then if you show partiality to someone, you’re just as bad off as the murderer. Now does that seem fair to you?
After all, Jesus himself showed partiality in a big way. In this remarkable story we heard from the gospel of Mark, Jesus is confronted by a Gentile, a woman who is described as Syrophoenician. I find that interesting because it means she was a Syrian from the Phoenician coast. The place she lived – in the vicinity of Tyre – is now in Lebanon, but was then part of Syria. That area was densely populated and quite wealthy at the time. So it was what we might refer to as a geopolitically prominent region. We might be likely to offer her one of the best seats in the house if she came to visit in her fine clothes and rings. And these days, our hearts especially go out to Syrian citizens, so we’re likely to side with her on a number of counts. But Jesus apparently had a problem with her. She was a Gentile. She asked him to heal her daughter. And his reply? “Let the children [that is, the Jews] be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs [that is, the Gentiles].” Essentially, he called her a dog. This Syrian woman from a wealthy, influential region, he called a dog; his ministry was for the Jews. Now I ask you, is that not showing partiality?
Here’s the kicker: this woman who had every right to be incensed, who might easily have spit in his face, or at least wheeled around and left in a huff, said, “Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” That’s a woman of substance and grace. And Jesus knew it. He told her, because she said that, her daughter was healed. Something tells me that Jesus was so tuned in – so capable of reading a person’s character in an instant – that he knew how she would respond. Something tells me he set the whole thing up to make a point and to demonstrate something to those around listening in. Something tells me it had everything to do with the law of liberty.
After all the admonitions about transgressing and showing partiality, James tells us to “So speak and so act as those who are to be judged by the law of liberty.” And the “law of liberty” sounds like something different than the regular old law about not playing poker in the balcony. Indeed it is. James says, “For judgment will be without mercy to anyone who has shown no mercy. . .” It seems this harshest of verdicts is reserved only for one kind of sinner, the one who shows no mercy himself. Maybe the murderers and people who show partiality aren’t necessarily going to hell after all. Maybe there’s some real grace in being held equal with the murderers. Maybe I am just as guilty for showing partiality (or playing poker in the balcony) as the guy doing twenty to life for first degree homicide. And maybe that truth is actually liberating; because maybe it breaks down the barrier between me and him. Maybe in the eyes of the Almighty he and I can’t be separated from each other by judgment, because we’re both guilty as charged, and both share the free grace of Divine mercy. If that’s the case, then whether he’s behind the bars, or I’m strolling around free as the breeze paying lots of attention to the person with rings and fine clothes, we’re still brothers, bound together by mercy. Maybe Jesus knew that. In his day a Jew and a Gentile were separated in the eyes of the faithful by a judgment as severe as that of the Taliban. And Maybe Jesus was making the point that a Gentile woman could hold her own in a contest of wit and grace with a learned Rabbi, and was equally deserving of mercy. Maybe he was making the point that Jews and Gentiles, faithful followers and blatant transgressors were bound together by a judgment of mercy. And that’s no meager bond. Maybe that’s what it means to be “judged by the law of liberty.” Maybe the law of liberty is the law of mercy.
The law of liberty is this: mercy trumps judgment. That’s what James is saying. Sometimes we play the judgment card, and say “you evildoer, you’ll have to answer for that!” or “I know I’m no good; I’ll never forgive myself.” But, by the spirit of grace, we also can play the mercy card. Every so often a little break in the clouds of our hearts opens up and we find ourselves capable of saying something like, “I know you hurt me bad, but I can’t just quit loving you,” or “If I can be forgiven, knowing what I’ve done, then maybe I can forgive myself.” The point is that when someone plays the judgment card, and someone else plays the mercy card, mercy wins. That’s what I like about faith. Mercy trumps judgment.
We’re beginning a whole new program year here at the Memorial Congregational Church. And I’d like to start us off on a keynote: if we are to stand for something in this world, if we are to be known for something in the community, if we are to speak a word to those who come looking for a little light on their path, then let it be this: Let us set judgment aside, and let this be known as a place where mercy is proclaimed, and mercy is given. Let us be those who affirm and hold ourselves accountable to the law of liberty.
Who are you? Have you ever stopped to ponder what it means when you say to someone, “I decided not to go”? Or what you’re talking about when you say you “changed your mind,” or “talked yourself out of something”? Who is this “you,” of which you speak? Do you know yourself? To what degree can you, in fact, know yourself? Or are you, perhaps, trapped within the distorted self-images and subjective experiences that leave you incapable of seeing yourself as you truly are?
All this may seem like idle musing about some abstract philosophical query. But I would suggest there’s a lot more to it than that. I think there are some intriguing clues, or at least fascinating questions, in scripture about this notion of a “self.” How is a person defined, and what does it mean when I take some responsibility for being “me?”
Jesus opened the question for us when he said, “there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.” In other words, we are not simply tainted by the world with which we come in contact, we must assume full responsibility for our actions.
Jesus is actually making a rather profound statement here. He is saying in essence that if you want to find the source of evil, don’t look around you, look within. From where, indeed, does evil come? From where does goodness come? Is it all so clear as Jesus makes it sound? What is this “human heart” that he speaks of?
There was a professor of pastoral psychology at our seminary who used to say that everyone is simply doing the best they can with what they have to work with. Some people wind up being so emotionally twisted by the combination of their genes and the developmental influences on them that all they have to “work with” is rage. Some people have had the natural instinct for human compassion squeezed right out of them. If so, one might ask to what degree that person is responsible for the limitations and distortions of their own heart. What goes into making a criminal mind? What causes a man to kidnap an eleven year old girl and hold her in a secret backyard prison as a sex slave for eighteen years, fathering two children with her? What leads another to be a powerful contributor to society, or a positive influence on others?
I remember several years ago taking Dadgie out to a nice restaurant for a belated celebration of our anniversary. It happened to be right after the death of Ted Kennedy. There was a piano player in the room, so I stuffed some money in his jar and asked him if he could play Camelot in honor of Teddy. He stopped playing for a moment, and asked me what I thought of him. I recall that he, like John McCain, at the time, had a gift for connecting with people on a personal basis and working across the aisle. He asked me why I thought he was able to do that and I said I thought that because of all the trauma and difficulty of his life, a good portion of it of his own making, he was more in touch with basic human frailty, and able to be less judgmental of others. The piano player agreed. And he played Camelot for us.
Truth is, Teddy and John were, like all of us, a product of the circumstances of birth, and all the experiences and influences that make up a life. All of this goes into creating a “human heart” – for good or for ill.
But when you try to peer into your own heart and know what is there, what can you see? Can you truly know how all of those bits and pieces of experience have affected you, or are they so familiar that they blind you to the reality of your virtues and your failings?
There is a remarkable verse in the book of James that focuses our attention like a laser beam: “. . . if any are hearers of the word and not doers, they are like those who look at themselves in a mirror; for they look at themselves and, on going away, immediately forget what they were like.” Reading this stopped me in my tracks. I thought about looking in the mirror when I shave each morning. I realized that I don’t really look at myself in a penetrating way. My reflection is like some object that I am working with, making sure that I don’t miss any whiskers. The sad truth is, I suspect I am like those who look away from the mirror and have little thought of who that person was I just saw.
Can any of us stand to look into a mirror for any length of time and catch our gaze with our own eyes, trying to see deeply into one’s soul and figure that person out? I think this may be quite difficult for us not only literally, but figuratively. But I think that’s what’s being suggested here.
Taking a good, long look in the mirror, what do we see? I think our scripture readings today are offering some things to look for.
The list of evil things that Jesus says emerge from within the human heart are instructive. There are twelve of them: “fornication, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, licentiousness, envy, slander, pride, folly.” Every one of them is a failure of human relationship. Every one of them is a means by which we separate ourselves, and the bond between us is broken. So, perhaps the first thing to look for in the mirror is to comprehend the reality of our oneness with all others and with all of creation, and the means by which we are connected to one another – to those who have gone before us and those who will come after us. And, after all, that’s the root meaning of the word “remember.” Remembering is the opposite of dismembering. To dismember is to cut apart into many pieces. To remember is to put the pieces back together and make one whole.
Such a view leads us inevitably to see the ways in which we, by judgment, distortion, prejudice, or assumption, deny the reality of that connection and perpetrate the sometimes comfortable and always destructive myth of our complete autonomy from one another. In other words, a serious look in the mirror takes us invariably to a broader view of all those in our lives with whom we form a network of being, and the essential value of those ties.
We are not simply separate selves; we live for others. Which leads, I believe, to another truth about the person in the mirror. The one we see there is, like all the others to whom we are connected, a gifted and flawed human being – sometimes soaring, sometimes falling. And the common bond we share, the glue that binds us together, is that we live always in the burgeoning promise of Divine forgiveness. We are bound together by grace.
Consequently, we are led to recognize that we, and those to whom we are connected, are not so righteous and principled as we might suppose, and we are not so hopeless and irredeemable as we might suppose. There is great comfort, and great motivation in this knowledge. It can keep us humble, and also keep us striving to always improve, to do better.
The cautionary note sounded in this epistle of James is in verse 26: “If any think they are religious, and do not bridle their tongues but deceive their hearts, their religion is worthless.” In other words, what we are battling in our effort to come closer to the Lord, and closer to being the person in the mirror that we are intended to be is self-deception. Deceiving one’s own heart, as James puts it, is the enemy of true religion.
We deceive our own hearts when we focus on some other person, or some amorphous institution or practice, as the source of trouble or evil rather than, as Jesus cautioned us, to look to our own hearts. We deceive our own hearts when we think of ourselves as totally independent, autonomous beings, who are not impacted by the actions of others, and whose actions have no relationship to the welfare of our neighbors. We deceive our own hearts when we view ourselves as superior or standing on higher ground than our brother or sister. And we deceive our own hearts when we cannot face ourselves in the mirror, with shame so great that we believe ourselves to be beyond redemption.
And, can we entirely know ourselves? Perhaps not, but the value of self-examination is worth the effort. As Buechner said, “[you live the mystery of yourself] not by fully knowing yourself, but by fully being yourself.” And Plato said “The unexamined life is the life not worth living.” So I offer to you this suggestion. Take a long look in the mirror. It’s a scary idea, but I’m going to try it myself. It may be rather uncomfortable. But if you look long enough and intently enough, if you peer deeply enough into your own heart, if you try to comprehend what makes that person on the other side of the mirror tick, what all has contributed to his or her personality and perspectives, who are the circles and lines of people to whom he or she is profoundly connected, and what does it mean that his or her failings are covered by Divine, abundant mercy, then when you look away, you might be afforded the transcendent grace of remembering who you are.
I leave you with a poem from Peter “Dale” Winbrow, an oldie but a goodie:
When you get what you want
in your struggle for self
And the world makes you
king for a day,
Just go to a mirror
and look at yourself,
And see what that one has to say.
For it isn’t your father
or mother or wife
Who judgment upon you must pass;
The one whose verdict
counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.
Some people may think you
a straight-shootin’ chum
And call you a wonderful guy,
But the one in the glass
says you’re only a bum
If you can’t look him
straight in the eye.
He’s the fellow to please,
never mind all the rest
For he’s with you clear up to the end,
And you’ve passed your most
dangerous, difficult test
If the one in the glass is your friend.
You may fool the whole world
down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be
heartaches and tears
If you’ve cheated the one in the glass
There are a lot of things in life that seem like they ought to be simple, but really aren’t. For starters, computers. It seems simple enough. Turn the thing on, do your work, then turn it off. But, no, you have to update your system with the latest antivirus definitions. So you connect to the update doohickey, and start to download, which ties up your computer and slows you down while it’s going on. Then you get a message saying not all updates were successfully downloaded, so you click on the tech support link, and wait for five minutes while it tries to set you up with a technician, but then a message comes up telling you that there are 70 people ahead of you in the queue, so you send them an email about the problem but never hear back. Meanwhile, you’ve spent three hours trying to do five minutes worth of work.
Another example is love. In adolescence all that matters is the fluttering of the heart whenever the object of our desire enters the room. Two houses, three children, 967 arguments over how to squeeze the toothpaste or load the dishwasher, and several major life crises later, we discover that “love” is more than a feeling, it’s also a project, requiring a lot more attention, and a lot more of you than you initially expected.
Well, the same turns out to be true for today’s scripture reading. At first blush, we have here what seems to be a simple statement from Joshua to the gathered leaders of Israel: “Serve the Lord.” And we have a simple reply: “We will serve the Lord.” It’s hard to imagine how you could even make a whole sermon out of that. That is, until you read a little more carefully, and realize that Joshua is talking about something far more difficult and complex than it seems.
The key is here in verse 15: “Now if you are unwilling to serve the LORD, choose this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served in the region beyond the River or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you are living . . . .” The two options Joshua puts before the people are telling. The alternatives to the one true God are these: the old gods of your ancestors, or the new gods of the Amorites.
In other words, “serving the Lord” means doing the hard work of resisting the false gods we are consistently drawn to: the god of yesterday’s answers to yesterday’s problems, and the god of the latest new thing. The temptation that lies before us is to claim for ourselves someone else’s god – our parents’ god, or the god that’s on TV. The sirens’ song that would pull us into a trap of self-destruction is alternately the song of tradition and the song of modern culture. Somehow, we keep believing that we can be saved from meaninglessness and futility either by our rituals or by our toys.
We have felt the lure of tradition. Our traditions entrap us and threaten to destroy us when we make gods out of them. And how easily that happens. The implied divinity of our rituals and expectations sneaks up on us and overtakes us without the slightest awareness on our part. In a publication called “The Pentecostal Minister” William Poteet told of a Russian czar in 1903 who noticed a sentry posted in a very odd place on the Kremlin grounds apparently guarding nothing. He asked about it and discovered that back in 1776 Catherine the Great found on that spot the first flower of spring. “Post a sentry here,” she commanded, “so that no one tramples that flower under foot!” So there a sentry was posted for the next 127 years.
How many sentries do we post over the transient fancies of our lives? We are creatures of habit, including yours truly. We sit in the same pews Sunday after Sunday; we expect to sing the same familiar hymns we have sung for 30 or 50 or 70 years; we want to be reassured by the same interpretations of the same scripture as we have always known; we listen for affirmation of our favorite theological themes, and post an internal sentry to stand guard over the flowers of our assumptions, preconditions and prejudices.
I was in a church one time where they actually had people lining up, taking sides, getting ready to go to battle with each other – over whether the new carpet in the sanctuary was going to be a different color.
Sometimes we don’t even know where the things come from that we worship and hold on to as though they were sacred. For instance, as most you know, I was raised a Baptist. And as a good Baptist, I had throughout my life experienced, practiced and believed in adult baptism. For many years I would have passionately argued that baptizing babies was silly and meaningless. But then, a number of years ago, I was exposed to the idea of people coming to faith through their families. I learned of the concept of welcoming a child into the family of the church, as you welcome the rest of the child’s family, and the value of acquiring faith through a process of growth that can just as easily begin with baptism as culminate in it. So, by the time I went to a United Church of Christ church, I was already “on board” with the idea of baptizing babies. It didn’t take any effort at all to feel at home in the UCC. But that transformation didn’t happen overnight. Several years ago at a meeting of Baptist clergy I was reminded of just how far I had come. The conversation turned to the crisis in that denomination over the inclusion of homosexual people in the church. One of my colleagues said, “I just don’t understand what all the flap is about. Why should some people get upset just because the church opens its doors to everyone. This isn’t even some major theological issue. After all, it’s not like baptism or something. Now, if someone wanted me to start baptizing babies, that’d be something to go to the mat about!” I have to confess, I just shrugged and looked out the window. I realized that just a few years earlier I had been worshiping that same old Baptist tradition myself.
But it’s not only the idols of our traditions that deceive us into worshiping them – “the gods our ancestors served in the region beyond the River.” Joshua, as he spoke to the leaders of Israel, was wise enough to tell them about the equally perilous temptation of worshiping the latest cultural phenomenon – “the gods of the Amorites in whose land you are living.”
Those of us who aren’t serving lifeless and empty traditions that we hardly understand, are often found instead serving vain and silly fads that we also barely understand. The latest fad is artificial intelligence. I wonder sometimes how much natural intelligence there is running around. If we someday end up with an AI generated preacher, we might as well have an AI generated congregation. Then everyone can just stay home and be comfortable. Maybe I’m just an old fuddy-duddy, but if coming to church doesn’t ever make you at least a little bit uncomfortable, then we’re not doing our job here. The great preacher and teacher, Fred Craddock, once said in a seminar I attended that a preacher has a responsibility to be interesting, but worship is not a show.
The point is this: there’s a very great temptation, and therefore a tendency, for all of us to fall into serving whatever’s at hand. For some of us that may be ideas and traditions and patterns that we’ve known all our lives, value systems we were handed by our parents, or rituals that satisfy our need for consistency. For others it may be some new craze, or cultural fixation, a shared anger about something into which we can pump our fear of futility, or even a new car or computer or cell phone. In any case, it’s likely to be chosen because it’s comfortable, it’s convenient, or it’s consistent.
Discovering where the Lord is truly at work, and where we are asked to grow, and to serve, that’s a lot more work. Because that Lord is not found in the musty old hand-me-downs of our parents’ faith, and not in the shiny new toys of the emerging culture. The power of Divinity is found in the honest encounter of your truest heart with the heart of divine truth in the here and now. Sometimes that means being rather brutally honest with ourselves. Sometimes it means challenging our assumptions. Sometimes it means letting go of the familiar, the convenient, even the comfortable.
It can even mean letting go of “God” – or at least, the conception of God that we carry around in our heads. When the people of Israel took this message to heart they said they were ready to drop their false gods. “Far be it from us,” they said, “that we should forsake the LORD to serve other gods; for it is the LORD our God who brought us and our ancestors up from the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery, and who did those great signs in our sight. He protected us along all the way that we went, and among all the peoples through whom we passed; and the LORD drove out before us all the peoples, the Amorites who lived in the land. Therefore we also will serve the LORD, for he is our God.”
Joshua’s response is remarkable. Listen to this: He simply said, “You cannot serve the LORD.” The very thing he wanted them to do he told them they can’t do. Why? Because if you’re simply serving the “god” who takes care of you every time you need help, drives out the Amorites for you, and fixes every problem, you still aren’t serving the one true Lord of Life. I heard a football player on the radio once claiming that it was God who helped him hike the football just right. Dadgie and I have a name for that God; we call him, “Good-ole’-God.”
Joshua is saying that serving the Lord involves trial. It means hanging in with love, and self-sacrifice, and justice when it’s neither comfortable nor fashionable. It means doing the work to actually seek the mind of Christ when an issue or question arises instead of resorting by default to one’s own self-interests, prejudices, and familiar assumptions. It often means doing that which doesn’t come naturally. But it carries with it the great reward of feeling integrated with something beyond yourself, and of knowing you are on a path of discovery and growing into more of all that you are intended to be.
So I urge you to leave off defending either your traditions, or your innovations. I urge you to let go of the battle between the old and the new, and instead seek the divine urging that calls to your heart filling you with deep, profound appreciation for every precious moment of life. And wanting to share that joy and love with those around you, discovering that serving the Lord means serving others. I urge you to make a profound choice in your life: whether you will serve the gods of your ancestors which they worshiped beyond the river, or the gods of the strangers among you in this culture – or whether you will at least try your best to serve the Lord.
My wrestling career was short-lived. In high school, I tried just about every sport there was; I was on the football team, I ran track, I was a gymnast. But wrestling lasted about as long as it took for some sweaty, smelly guy to get my head in a ferocious arm lock. That was it. I decided quickly that wrestling was no fun.
Except for those devotees of the WWF, most of us aren’t very fond of wrestling. We’d just as soon not wrestle with the big questions of existence. We’d just as soon not wrestle with the principalities and powers of this world. Life, after all, gives us plenty enough to grapple with; we don’t need to go looking for more. We’re faced with disturbing headlines week after week about sex scandals, political scandals, and corporate scandals. We see the values of our culture changing, and familiar landmarks disappearing. Mostly, we’d like to find something solid to hang on to, and live in as much peace as we can find. We watch presidential candidates act like children in the school yard trying to pick a fight, and we recoil, acknowledging that we’d rather be, as the old saying goes, “lovers, not fighters.”
So, all things considered, I suspect that were it I, encamped alone by the river Jabbok, standing in the dark, face to face with some strange dude who I figured had divine superpowers, I doubt that I would be inclined to wrestle with him, let alone grab his arm and put him in a half-Nelson, refusing to let go until I wrested a blessing from him. Some nerve this Jacob has – wrestling with the Almighty.
What a bizarre story this is. Jacob, camped on the river, wrestles all night-long with a man who touches him and throws his hip out of joint, but Jacob holds on tight and won’t let go until he receives a blessing. So the man gives him a new name. He is now “Israel.” And, in the end, we discover that this mysterious stranger is, in some way we cannot entirely understand, none other than the Lord of all Creation. Or at least Jacob was convinced of it; he names the place Peniel (which means the Face of God), saying, “For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved.”
Jacob, you see, was used to taking what he wanted. He stole his brother’s birthright, he conned Laban out of the best of his flock, and he and Rachel took off in the night with her father’s household Gods. So, when Jacob saw the face of Divinity before him, it was only natural that he would grab for whatever he could get out of the situation.
It is rather astounding that Jacob had the nerve to try to wrestle the Lord for a blessing, but what is even more astounding is that same Lord seemed to approve. In giving him the name Israel, Jacob is made the father of a nation, a nation which is the prototype of the Lord’s own people.
Apparently, the Almighty places a much higher value on wrestling than we do. We find accounts with similar themes in other places in the Bible. Scripture says that Job stood his ground and argued with God, called God unfair, and refused to back down. In the end, that same Lord declared Job’s position to be “truth,” and rewarded Job for his tenacity. Jesus spent a night in the garden grappling with his inner fears, and with the divine burden that had been dropped on him, trying to escape, seeking the unfathomable will of the One he called his “Father.” From the prophet Elijah to the Apostle Paul, those whose minds and hearts are seized by the power of Divinity are found wrestling – wrestling with their calling, with inner doubts – wrestling with life. It seems this is intended to be the case. Apparently there is much for us to learn, and much growing for us to do. And apparently, there is no way to learn and grow without doing some wrestling along the way.
Apparently it’s in the divine plan that we are supposed to wrestle from life – perhaps even from the hand of the Almighty – that which is of value. Anyone who has put time and effort into personal growth knows that. Psychotherapy, spiritual discipline, recovery work, marriage counseling are all clear examples of the truth we know, that growth is painful, and never comes without courage and hard work. “Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.”
So the Divine wrestling opponent rewards Jacob for fighting to get his blessing. There’s something a little disturbing in that. Most of us are taught from the time we’re still in diapers not to fight. We are led to believe that the peaceable and gentle folks hold the high moral ground. Even Jesus says, “Blessed are the meek.” And now, here’s Jacob, grabbing whatever he can lay his hands on, fighting for what he wants, and he gets promoted to “Granddaddy of all the children of Israel.”
For any of us who have ever been beaten up by the fifth grade bully, or cheated out of something we deserved, or beaten to the punch by some self-centered, grabby, “me-first,” line-butting idiot, we have some serious questions about this story. Our problem has to do with the use of power. We’re terribly and justifiably afraid of power abused. And anyone who becomes so used to wielding power that he’s willing to arm-wrestle the Lord of Hosts seems at the very least arrogant, and quite possibly a megalomaniac.
I believe there’s a message here for any and all of us who are inclined to shrug our shoulders against the evils of the world, turn up the TV, and plead the comfortable myth of powerlessness. I believe there’s a message here for any of us who don’t want to be bothered with difficult questions or controversial issues. I believe there’s a message here for any of us who think that life is supposed to be about fast food, no hassle checking accounts, comfortable cars, and work-saving technologies – smooth sailing, and care-free, with values clear and answers readily spelled out in black and white.
That is, I believe, the attraction of both the highly liturgical, doctrinal churches, and the conservative and fundamentalist churches. In those places, answers are easy, and wrestling matches with the Almighty are discouraged. A huge number of folks are attracted by this approach. The churches that offer “ten clear steps to salvation,” ready made answers to life’s questions, and passionate conviction about cookie-cutter Bible studies are growing by leaps and bounds. It’s extremely satisfying, not to mention comfortable, to find a lot of people around you in total agreement about matters of faith and life and society, and to have those opinions all supported by a strongly reinforced pattern of biblical interpretation.
But this is not for us. We are a church that chooses the more difficult, if less popular, path. We are a church that believes passionately in the worth and freedom of each soul seeking their own path of faith. We are a church that looks at scripture and finds there a Lord who deals with individuals in individual ways, confronts them in the midst of their particular circumstances, and calls upon them to wrestle – to wrestle with questions of truth and meaning, the questions of affluence and poverty, the questions of human worth and dignity, and liberty and justice, rather than to blindly accept what the religious authorities of the day are meting out.
That makes our path one that is not taken by many. It is a path that often leads us into conflict, and for a lot of folks, conflict is a dirty word. Not for us. Conflict is like carbon dioxide, it’s a by-product of life and growth. Ours is a path for wrestlers, those who would wrestle with life and with faith. But it is a path which we believe to be a faithful one, and to which we therefore adhere with deep conviction.
But there is a caution here for us. As I said, most of us would really rather not wrestle. We’d rather avoid conflict and struggle if at all possible. And, we find that there are many ways to avoid wrestling matches. One is to go for the easy answers, but another is to stop asking the questions.
You see, it’s easy for folks like us, and churches like ours to fall into patting ourselves on the back for refusing to accept the dogmas of either Catholicism or fundamentalism, while consistently failing to raise the hard questions and search for our own answers. It’s easy to accuse others of being sucked into Bible studies that teach everyone to mouth the same answers and close their minds, while never picking up a Bible ourselves.
A church like ours, and a faith like ours, carries with it a tremendous responsibility. In many ways it’s like the responsibility of a democracy, which quickly falls apart if the populace becomes uneducated (a catastrophe with which we as a nation are now flirting). Our community of faith cannot long survive if we cease to grapple with the questions of life, the truths of scripture, and the paradoxes of faith. If we choose, instead, to avoid the wrestling match by avoiding confronting the often complex judgements of scriptural truth, avoiding serious dialogue about controversial subjects, avoiding bringing the powers of theological reflection to bear upon the issues of our lives and our world, then we are getting no further than those with cookie-cutter answers. In fact, we may even be in worse shape than them, having become, as the writer of Revelations says, “neither hot nor cold.”
And the fight is not only an inner one. We are children of the Most High, and if so, then heirs to the promise and keepers of the created world. And sometimes that world needs powerful allies. There are times when it is necessary to wrestle whatever justice or truth one can from the grasp of the world’s power brokers. At such times, people may be called upon to throw themselves into battle against a seemingly overpowering foe. At such times, a great blessing may indeed fall to one who has the temerity to wrestle – even with the Almighty.
We recoil when we consider those who assume for themselves the authority of divinity and attempt to impose their beliefs on others. The abuse of theology, like abuse of power, can be a terrible thing. But I would submit this morning that it just may be a far greater sin to live an entire life as though one were powerless. The meek may inherit the earth, but the timid and apathetic will consign it to hell.
Are we carrying on the sacred heritage of our tradition? Are we being faithful to the principle of “soul liberty” that defines us? Are we standing up and being counted in the war against ignorance, indifference, and mindless lockstep dogmatism? Are we struggling with the principalities and powers of greed and injustice? Are we wrestling with any of it?
Well, each one of us must wrestle with those questions ourselves. But while we are at it, I would suggest that we all pray for guidance, for wisdom, and for courage; and I think we should chalk one up for Jacob, a guy with the guts to twist God’s arm.
There was a popular song some time ago that went like this:
“Honesty is such a lonely word;
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard,
But, mostly, what I need from you.”
Ain’t it the truth? Gerber claimed that their Good Start Gentle formula prevented children who took it from developing allergies. A lawsuit filed by the Federal Trade Commission ended with Gerber agreeing not to make any similar claims for the product or imply the government authorized such a claim. Sensa claimed that its powdered additive – that you sprinkle on food – enhanced the smell and taste of food, thus making users feel full and eat less. The FTC ruled that the claim misled consumers and made unfounded weight-loss claims. The organization was forced to pay $26.5 million for a settlement, and was also charged for failing to disclose that they had paid customers for their endorsement. In its ads, Lumos Labs claimed its app, which offers users access to games and brain training exercises, that it would help prevent Alzheimer’s disease or help students perform better in school, though it had no proof. The company was fined $2 million by the FTC. A television ad showed a Nissan Frontier pushing a dune buggy up a hill – a feat the truck is unable to pull off in real life. The company was forced to stop airing the advertisement, or any commercial making similar unfounded claims in the future.
Such outrageous commercial claims wash over our heads daily. We rarely object. We quietly tolerate such lies. Why? Because we know that they’re nothing more than “sales-speak” – putting together pleasant sounding words in a way that makes us feel good. So it doesn’t matter to us any more if advertisers lie to us night after night in our living rooms; we really don’t expect anything more from them.
The credibility crisis in the American market place is a very quiet disease. But don’t be mistaken, friends, it is malignant. Every time a car is described as “the ultimate in styling and performance,” every time a can of beer is promoted as having the power to completely alter reality as we know it, or a bottle of soda pop is heralded as a fountain of youth, or the best way to lose weight and look like a fashion model, every time a telephone company portrays itself as the sole custodian of down-home family values, our entire social contract is cheapened a little more, and so are we.
I remember watching a movie in which Dudley Moore played an ad-writer who decided to start telling the truth. He wrote an ad for Volvo that called the car, “Boxy, but good.” Several other ideas he came up with were equally honest and to the point, so they locked him up in a mental institution. It’s a hilarious premise for a movie, but it’s also a telling caricature of the advertising industry, an industry from which we no longer anticipate a single honest word.
But if we’ve gotten used to dishonesty in advertising, we’ve come to expect it in politics. Tell me, would you, how we got from the America that treasured the little folk legend of George Washington chopping down the cherry tree and saying, “I cannot tell a lie . . .” to the America in which “politician” is a four letter word? How did we reach the point of acceptance of public deception and duplicity as standard practice for political campaigns? How did we reach the point that legislators try to get a bill passed or defeated in Congress by saying absolutely anything, no matter how outrageously false or exaggerated, to get the public on their side?
We live in a world now where you are well advised to believe almost nothing you read, especially if it comes across your computer screen. I’ve been told that I need to download someone’s product immediately because I have a non-existent virus that will take over my computer and wipe out my hard drive. Then, this email: “Permit me to inform you of my desire to introduce to you into this humanitarians work. . . I am writing to you now from my sick bed here in the hospital. . . .There is Eighteen Million Five Hundred Thousand United State Dollars my husband has in an account with the Guarantee Trust Bank of which I am the next of kin. With my health condition and because my husband and I have no child, I decide to contact you so that I will pass the right of next of kin to you.” What’s so disturbing is that I suppose there are people who actually respond to these things.
But, as troubling as all this is, there are issues of truth-telling that are far closer to home than advertising, politics and Internet schemes, aren’t there? In our families, even within our own hearts, honesty is often difficult and, at times, not even welcome.
The lighter side of this malady is, I suppose, illustrated by the case of little Sarah who decided to help get ready for company. She set the dishes out on the table and helped make everything just right. Uncle Jake arrived for dinner. Everything was fine as they sat down to eat, but then Dad noticed that something was missing.
“Sarah,” he said, “you didn’t put a knife and fork at Uncle Jake’s place.”
“I know,” she explained, “I thought he wouldn’t need them ’cause Mommy said he always eats like a horse.”
Well, there are times when we would be just as happy with a little less honesty. But most of the time we find ourselves needing more.
The Bible offers what, at first glance, looks like a very simplistic answer to a very complex problem: “Speak the truth.” That’s it. It’s the same phrase in both Ephesians and Zechariah, even though the two passages are written in different languages.
But there is a larger context of Biblical theology in which this phrase is set that unlocks the door to some valuable insights. It goes something like this: What you nurture in your own heart, and speak with your own lips, has consequences not only for yourself, but for the community and the world around you. And, truth is not just good policy, it is at the very heart of Divnity and of the message of Christ.
I’ve tried to take the biblical context and attendant observations about truth-telling and deceitfulness, and boil them all down into a few basic principles, none of which hold any claim to absolute truth, but they are my best shot.
First, truth is a way of life. Pascal said that we have to love the truth in order to know it. I think he was close, but I’m not so sure that truth is something to be known, so much as it is something to be lived!
There are a lot of folks around who are sure they know the truth. Turn on any radio talk show and you’ll hear them. But people who are convinced that they know the truth (a group which, I confess, at times includes yours truly) have a tendency to use that presumed “knowledge” to bludgeon others into seeing the same “truth.” The problem being that sometimes it “just ain’t so.” And when everyone goes around speaking the same lie, it passes for the truth.
Living the truth, on the other hand, is a life quest that refuses to be satisfied with simple answers, and is therefore always ready to decipher and expose the lie, whether it comes from the lips of another, or from one’s own. Living the truth is a body involving, mind absorbing, heart consuming commitment – a commitment to asking honest questions of life and of one’s self, and not settling for the expedient lie, to avoid embarrassment, shame, or responsibility. It is a commitment to gently suspending judgement of other people in the absence of absolute understanding of them. It is a commitment to seeking that in life which is positive and productive and up-building, because such things reflect the truth of our common bond and common destiny as children of Divine Promise. Truth is a way of life.
The second principle I offer for your consideration is this: Truth must begin as a personal commitment, and it must become a communal bond. Nothing could be more personal than these words from Ephesians that call for hands that do honest work, mouths that offer words of grace, and hearts that are tender. Nothing could be more personal, especially when you realize that what we translate as “tenderhearted” is, in the Greek, literally, “of healthy bowels.” We think of the heart as the seat of emotion; the ancient Greek and Hebrew cultures saw the bowels and kidneys as the residence of love and passion and hate.
I can’t imagine a more appropriate image for agenda-driven, ulcer-plagued, twentieth century America than the very personal note that honesty within and truthfulness without might have some connection to a sound digestive system. The truth – living the truth and speaking the truth – begins as a very personal matter. But it leads to so much more.
The reason to speak the truth with your neighbor is that, as Paul writes, “we are members of one another;” the reason to do honest work is to be able, as he says, “to give to those in need;” the reason to speak words that are good and up-building is, in Paul’s words, “that they may impart grace to those who hear.”
We are responsible to and for each other. But we sit here in this place today as those who know the tie that binds us is more than a social ethic, it is divine identity! Because we are the body of Christ. And as such, we have no greater calling than to live for truth – truth which begins as a personal commitment and becomes a communal bond.
Which brings me to my third and last principle: Truth is irrepressible, and contagious. John Jay Chapman referred to absolute truth as like perfect pitch. He says that if a perfect “A” is sounded by enough people, then those folks who are sounding a “G-flat,” or who have been “caterwauling and murdering the scale for years” will be gradually drawn to that perfect “A.”
Is there a potential for honesty and truth-telling to prevail in our national life? How far will the American public go in accepting the premise that falsehood is a necessary political expedient, or that deception and exaggeration are the only ways to do business? Do you and I have any responsibility for setting limits on public deception? And if we could, might we begin to change the mind and heart of our nation? Is it indeed possible that, if a note of truth is sounded long enough, then the lies with which we live will ultimately be drowned out?
I believe it is possible. Because when one person finally decides to get honest with himself, others take note. When a group of people finally commit to living the truth, others are drawn to them. When a nation finally speaks what it means, and stands behind its words, the world is grateful. Truth is irrepressible, and contagious.
We need a revolution in our world, a rebellion against the tyranny of falsehoods that fill our airwaves, and our minds, an uprising of social conscience that turns over the rocks which conceal the purveyors of the lie – the lie that tells us we are nothing more than helpless pawns in the big games of commerce, governance, and war.
If, in fact, such a revolution is in the offing, it will begin with individual hearts and lives, and grow through the ties that bind us in community. It will begin with a commitment to truth – truth with ourselves, and truth with one another. It will be marked by honesty – honesty on our lips, and honesty in the work of our hands, honesty that can drive the market, and reshape our political landscape.
Honesty.
It’s an ambitious agenda;
it’s a scarce commodity;
it’s hard work; and it’s, as the song says, “mostly, what we need.”
Nearly eight years ago one of the true icons of modern music, the poet, singer, and song writer Leonard Cohen “slipped the surely bonds of earth” . . . and, as he put it, “stood before the Lord of Song.” His song, Hallelujah, has always enchanted me, and I thought today I’d unpack it a bit in the light of scripture. I wanted to play the song for you but that ran into too many problems, so I’ll recite his words like poetry (which, in fact they are). I’m sure most of you have heard the song. We begin with King David:
These are Cohen’s familiar words:
Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do ya?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Well, King David, so scripture tells us, played the lyre, and as a boy he played it so sweetly that it drove the evil spirits from the heart of King Saul. But David, the magical musician, grew up to be a baffled king, indeed. He was not a plaster saint in Israel’s memory as is our own George Washington. He was remembered as sometimes faithful, sometimes devious, sometimes courageous and sometimes paranoid, occasionally guided by his great wisdom, and frequently led astray by his uncontrolled passions. He was, it seemed, truly baffled by life and by his place in it.
Isn’t it astounding that the ancient Israelites, so sure of their place as the chosen people, would reflect in sacred writings on the troubled heart and distasteful deeds of the king who, from antiquity, had so powerfully defined them?
A case in point: King David, his head full of the trappings of power, strolled on his rooftop late one afternoon and chanced to see a beautiful woman below bathing. He inquired about the identity of this beauty and was told she was Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah. So he sent for her and made love to her in his quarters. Later, Bathsheba sent word to King David; “Guess what? I’m pregnant.” So, the good king did what any upright father of a nation might be expected to do; he devised a way to kill Bathsheba’s husband, Uriah. He had him put at the front of an advancing military charge, and as might be expected, Uriah was cut down in the battle. After Bathsheba had time to do her mourning, David sent for her and married her. O David, “You saw her bathing on the roof, Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya.”
Not exactly the kind of story you’d expect to find in an Israeli student’s history book. But then, these writers didn’t seem to be interested in glossing over the weaknesses and failings of their leaders. And Leonard Cohen, a faithful Jew, was also not interested in polishing the image of an historic ruler of Israel. But it wasn’t always lust and depravity that marked those ancient leaders; sometimes it was pure stupidity, as in the case of Samson who succumbed to the transparent, flagrant greed of his lover, Delilah.
Samson’s enemies, the Philistines, had offered Delilah eleven hundred pieces of silver if she would find out the source of Samson’s great strength and betray him. So she asked Samson, and he toyed with her; he told her his weakness was fresh bowstrings. If he were bound with them, he would become weak. So, inexplicably, he let her tie him up with fresh bowstrings while the Philistines hid in the shadows. She shouted, “The Philistines are upon you!” And, of course, he snapped the strings. She kept asking him what his weakness was, and he kept lying to her, and she kept trying to tie him up for the Philistines, and he kept breaking the ropes. You’d think, after a few times, he might catch on that this woman may not be entirely worthy of his trust. Anyway, he got so tired of her nagging, that he finally told her the truth, that if his hair were cut, he would lose his strength. So she cut off his hair, the Philistines grabbed him, put his eyes out, and carried him off in chains. And Delilah was financially set for life. O Samson: “She tied you to a kitchen chair, She broke your throne, and she cut your hair.”
From all this painful past, in all this ugly, tainted history, is there nonetheless a hallelujah to be sung?
Once agin, Cohen’s words:
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya
She tied you
To a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Ancient leaders are not alone in their foibles. How many, many times you and I have been tripped up by our passions, our self-interest, our naivete, our foolishness, our greed. In spite of our claims to goodness and our aspirations to worthiness, failure and folly seem to be woven into the fabric of existence. And sometimes souls seem terribly and irreconcilably lost. Sometimes it feels as though a heavy cloud had moved in to obscure the sunlight of Divine presence, and all that remains is darkness. We see such a thing in the haunting face of a young Black man cut down in the prime of life by an anxious, trigger-happy police officer. We see it in the body-count on the nightly news from the hearts of our major cities. And when the bodies fall, and the odor of gunpowder fades, the rest of us are left to try to make the puzzle pieces fit together in some picture of reality that makes sense.
There are too many guns in America. There are too many assault weapons, and way too many super clips of ammunition. There is too much despair in America. There are too many lost souls, and way too few resources for the mentally ill. There are too few ears listening for the “cry you can hear at night”. There is too little hope in the despairing streets of our cities, and way too few opportunities for broken people to find the light in the darkness of those cold streets.
But even with the echoes of gunfire bouncing off the walls of our cities, is there nonetheless a tear-filled, “cold and broken hallelujah” to be sung?
From Leonard Cohen:
Maybe there’s a God above
But all I’ve ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew ya
It’s not a cry you can hear at night
It’s not somebody who has seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
So many of our hallelujahs are broken and cold. They are anguished cries that rise up from parched mouths and frozen tongues.
But some words of praise are even broken and cold. Is there a more broken hallelujah from a more broken human being than the cry of “Allahu Akbar” shouted before the bomb goes off? Such a cry is regarded as holy by those who shout it. But when it’s the final exclamation of a suicide bomber the words sound more like profanity to us.
It’s not only Muslims, you know. Our own Christian tradition is replete with fanatics who thought they were doing “God’s will” by slaughtering people. And this disease goes back even further. In the book of Revelation we read this morning that angels in heaven would be singing “hallelujah!” when “the great whore . . . Babylon” (which was code language for Rome) would be burned to the ground. “Hallelujah, Amen!” they would sing.
What are we to say about such brokenness – the broken lives, the broken souls, the broken hearts, screaming words of praise and words of hatred? Here’s the thing that gets stuck in my head about all this: whether people are praising one another, praising the Lord, or shouting at their enemies, whether they are assiduously watching their language, dropping a profane word into their vocabulary, or swearing like a drunken sailor, whether they are throwing around the latest rehearsed political put-down, mangling the king’s English beyond recognition, or offering resplendent words of inspired leadership, isn’t it a deeply compelling and even awe-inspiring thing that we human beings are able to convey to one another the depths of our hearts – love, joy, peace, hope, hatred, fear, confusion, the very essence of being human? Every word of language is blazing with the astonishing light of the laws of physics, the very power of creation. The ability to do what I’m doing right now, to pass the inner workings of my soul on to another being, is a miracle! It’s a wonder! It’s a profound reflection of the divine gift that, in spite of all our failings and foibles, resides at the core of our existence.
Amid all our words, profane words, holy words, or broken words, is there a hallelujah to be sung?
Here’s how Cohen put it:
You say I took the name in vain
I don’t even know the name
But if I did, well really, what’s it to ya?
There’s a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah
You and I want to fill our Sunday mornings with holy hallelujahs, but we find ourselves from Monday through Saturday living with broken words, broken dreams, broken promises. It’s not that we’re terrible people; we’re basically good people. But we’re people. Like David, like Samson, like the bad cops, the religious extremists, and street rioters, our humanity keeps getting in the way of our aspirations. I reach the point where I feel that if I do the right thing instead of bollixing everything up half the time, it’s a pretty good percentage. But we keep trying; and that’s also what makes us human.
And here’s what I believe down to the very soles of my feet: you can get enthralled by a woman you see bathing from your rooftop; you can be foolish enough to let another person cut your hair and dis-empower you; you can say the wrong thing, embarrass yourself by your vocabulary, but you can’t screw up badly enough to cut yourself off from the Heart of Being. Your life is like a song, but you’re not singing it – you’re being sung! The words, the words of your character, your essence, your soul, at times profane, at times holy, are being sung through the years, at times off key or off tempo, but the melody underlying it is harmonious and brilliantly performed by the composer of the work, who is the very Heart of Existence.
This is the essence of faith. Faith isn’t the commitment to be a good boy or girl; faith isn’t mouthing a bunch of religious doctrines; faith isn’t the determination to believe a lot of things that seem unbelievable; faith isn’t the will power to use clean language or speak nicely about people. Faith is an attitude of being. It is a “hallelujah” sung in the face of the hooded messenger of fate. It is an awareness of the timeless and elegant beauty of being connected to the Center of Existence, and knowing, in a way that transcends language and reason, that through all the failures and missed opportunities there is nonetheless a hallelujah to be sung! Through all the abusive moments and times of inadequacy there is nonetheless a hallelujah to be sung! Through all the denials, days of skepticism and nights of despair, no matter what, in the end, we all stand together before the Lord of song with nothing on our tongues but Hallelujah!
Here’s his last stanza:
I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool ya
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
I must confess, it’s been so many years that I can’t entirely remember from whom I first heard the line. I think it was the great Black preacher, Sandy Ray, holding forth at the Mordecai Johnson Institute of Religion, but I know it was over forty years ago. All I remember is the ringing sound of the voice saying, “Give your lunch to Jesus!” He had just told the story of the feeding of the five thousand, and of the little boy who offered his five barley loves and two fish, a little boy who, in fact, gave his lunch to Jesus. And he admonished us to do the same, to give whatever we had to Jesus, no matter how meager, no matter how seemingly inconsequential. Just give whatever you have to Jesus, and see what he can do with it. I was carried away by the simple power of that message all those years ago, and in reflection, I still am.
My theology has changed a lot over those years, but I’d like to reflect with you this morning on how, after all these years, and all the hard knocks of over fifty years in parish ministry, and all the frustrations, sacrifices, disappointments and painful lessons of a guy who’s been around the block so many times now that my beard is grey and my hair is falling out, those simple words, “give your lunch to Jesus,” still carry meaning for me.
It is particularly now that the simplicity of “give your lunch to Jesus” strikes a deep and powerful note, because it is now that the world seems a far too complicated, too painful, and too confusing place. But I am not drawn to the simplicity of this phrase because it’s an escape from the problems of the world. I’m drawn to it for exactly the opposite reason – it describes three miracles that are the only means I can think of for saving the world.
Before I share those three miracles with you, I have a few things to say about water, economics, and war. You’ve read the news. You know that while the oceans are rising, there are also places where water is becoming more scarce every year. More heat and dryness out West in our country has led to drought worsening in Northern California, the Northwest, Northern Rockies, into the Plains, but that’s nothing compared to places on this globe where clean water has become such a scarce commodity that it’s like gold – and the poor have about as much access to it as they do to gold.
Now, I have a little morning ritual that I’ll tell you a secret about. My shower head has settings on it for wide spray, concentrated spray, and shower massage. I personally love the massage setting, so I just keep it there most of the time. Unfortunately, the water pressure from our well pump varies quite a bit from time to time depending on where we are in the backflow cycle of our filtration system. So, sometimes the flow is strong and vigorous, and other times it’s merely acceptable. But when it’s at its lowest, there’s not enough water pressure to drive the massage mechanism on my showerhead. So, here’s my morning ritual. I put the showerhead on massage and hope that it keeps working. I try to divine the pulses and sounds of the system to determine if it’s going to keep going or stop and just squirt a steady stream. So I try to get in a little massage action on my back before it might quit on me. Now, I realize that this is a trivial little part of my day that most of you are probably not be the slightest bit interested in, but here’s the point: somewhere in Nigeria there’s a mother who, like hundreds of thousands of others all over the continent, wakes every morning hoping against all hope that she will be able search out, scrounge, or steal from somewhere, somehow, enough clean drinking water to keep herself and her children alive for one more day without giving everyone a deadly disease. When I awake in the morning hoping that my shower massager will keep working, I should at least have the decency to be embarrassed.
Water is an increasingly precious commodity. We have lots and lots of it here where we live; even when there are dry conditions, none of us has been terribly inconvenienced. We haven’t figured out a way to get water from here to sub-Saharan Africa; redistribution of this resource is pretty tough to work out. But even if we could, how ready would you and I be to share? Would we happily, or even grudgingly, limit our own water availability to the point that it impacted our ease of living? I raise this question because it strikes at the heart of a very large issue for our world. I suppose it’s largely an economic question: how do we come up with an equitable distribution of limited resources?
We have a presidential campaign underway (in case you haven’t noticed) in which economic policies are front and center. The Republicans and Democrats are perhaps not as far apart on this score as many of us suppose. The difference between the two parties is only a matter of degree in terms of taxes for the wealthy, how much government should be involved in things like private sector support, health care, regulation of the financial markets, etc. Each party has its own vision for what kind of policies will prove to be best for all Americans. But the truth is, no economic system or set of policies and laws will be the determining factor in that larger question of equitable distribution of resources. If people want to accumulate for themselves everything they can, hoard resources, assets, and the means of production, while others are left to fight over the table scraps, they will do it. No economic system, no set of regulations, will keep us from it. We will find a way. And whether people who earn over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year pay 35% income tax or 39.6% is not going to change that dynamic one iota. If I thought political systems were the answer I’d be a politician. The answer has to do with what’s going on in the hearts and minds of people, and that’s one reason I have been in the ministry.
Which takes us to war. War is always about inequality. It’s always about some people wanting what others have and adopting any means necessary to get it. The primary instigation for such conflict is always the desire on someone’s part to get the wealth, power, influence, religious privilege, resources that someone else has. It is the dynamic of greed and desire based on perceived social, political, religious, or economic, inequalities writ large. And the stockpiling of nuclear weaponry, and the actions of wing-nuts like Vladimir Putin are all part of the global distrust and hubris that grows out of this human condition.
So, the question is not simply economics, it’s a moral question: how do we come up with a world in which people are willing to share, even to the point of some self-sacrifice? That takes us to our three miracles. Most people think the miracle of the feeding of the five thousand was that Jesus used some magic power to make the loaves and fishes grow and become tons of food. If that’s all there is to it, I have to confess, I’m not impressed. No, the miracles in this story are bigger than that in my mind. They are no less than the potential salvation of the world.
It all started with a little boy who brought a basket lunch to the first century equivalent of an outdoor rock concert. As rock concerts are wont to do, the show went on a lot longer than anyone figured it would, and we all know what happened. Anyone who’s ever put up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with potato chips in a brown bag knows the point of greatest significance in this story: it’s about what happened when a little boy decided to give up his lunch.
But it didn’t have to happen the way it did. The boy with the loaves of bread and fish in his basket might have looked around at this sea of people and clutched his lunch a bit more closely. He might have logically concluded that, in a crowd so vast, in a place where no clear answers were evident, in a situation that looked murky at best and at worst defied all attempts to offer a reasonable solution, the best course of action was to hold on to what little he had, withdraw from the problem and leave the perplexing task of taking care of all those people to “those who are more familiar with the situation.” But he didn’t. And that’s the first miracle of this story. He did a miraculous thing: he gave his lunch to Jesus.
It could have gone differently. Andrew might have seen the boy approaching with his little basket of barley loaves and fish, and intercepted him with a warm and appreciative smile: “Thank you, son. Your desire to help means a lot, but I’m afraid we need a bit more than a few pieces of bread and fish. You might as well hold on to them.”
It could have gone differently. Philip, who knew that they needed more than 200 denarii might have gotten so involved in the “Over the Hillside, Over the Top” financial campaign that he might not have even noticed the little boy trying to offer his lunch.
But it didn’t go that way. The boy gave up his lunch, and I think that gesture changed everyone at the gathering. I know I’m reading into the story, but I can’t help it; it only makes sense. I think he inspired the disciples. And I think, so inspired by his gesture, the disciples were able to be inspiring to the crowds as they went among them. Which takes us to the second miracle. People passed the food among themselves and each one shared with his neighbor. I suspect, that, inspired by the act of this small boy, others in the crowd who had something to eat were motivated to share what they had as well. In how many crowds of five thousand people would that happen, without a few grabbing as many baskets as they could and running off to another hillside with their booty? Everyone shared what was there. For me, that’s miracle enough. It’s miracle enough to demonstrate that human beings aren’t destined by their genetic code or “survival of the fittest” to live always and only for themselves. It’s miracle enough to convince me that we are all capable of becoming more than we are, and even sacrificing some of our own riches, pleasures, and security for the sake of others.
Which leads naturally to the third miracle. The food was distributed, and scripture says, “they were satisfied.” There’s the miracle. Everyone in that place was satisfied with what they got. I don’t know how much each person ate. Some surely ate more than others. Some surely just took a few bird pecks, to leave more for others. Some were probably ravished, and gobbled up loaves; others were probably not that hungry, or decided to wait till they got home. There were probably five thousand different stories of eating loaves and fishes on that day. But here’s the miracle: everyone was satisfied with what they had. How many of us in this land of plenty are satisfied with what we have? How many of us instead yearn for something else, something more in life, some different life circumstance, some more dependable security, some greater comfort?
What a miracle took place on that hillside! It was the miracle of a little boy who in spite of his own desires, amidst the intimidating atmosphere of people in authority, and in the face of ridiculous odds offered up his lunch. It was the miracle of an overpowering spirit of sharing that spread through the crowd like some benign virus. It was the miracle of five thousand people all deciding at last that they were satisfied with what they had.
Do you find yourself at times lost in sea of uncertainty about the future, maddening debates that miss the point, and confounding dilemmas that seem to be ignored? Do you find yourself looking at your own meager resources of faith, finances, and fortitude, and feel ready to just give up? Do you wonder if your own little drop in the bucket of time spent volunteering to bring meals to a family in crisis, or helping with the food pantry, or tutoring children, or visiting someone in the hospital, or just being thoughtful and kind really matters in the grand sweep of things? I have a word for you today: “Give your lunch to Jesus.”
The power of your faith or convictions may seem quite flimsy and of little merit in comparison to those around you who seem to have so much to offer. The possibility of being a friend to a person in need may not seem of any real value in a world where people are hurting and suffering by the hundreds of thousands. But I have a word for you today: “Give your lunch to Jesus.”
We are faced with a world of so much need, and so many seemingly unanswerable questions. But we keep learning, in one context after another, that putting forth a little effort and doing the best we can with what we have is often blessed by the Spirit of Christ in ways that surprise us, and lead us closer to true understanding and true community. As for me, I’ll never turn on my shower massager again without thinking about some woman and her children in Nigeria scrounging for enough to drink. And I’ll be motivated by that thought to do my part in whatever small way I can. In various and wondrous ways we keep discovering anew the profound value of a simple lesson:
Don’t cling to what’s yours with a death grip;
don’t flail around grasping for more;
don’t despair;
don’t surrender;
don’t give up;
just “give your lunch to Jesus.”
In Ottumwa, Iowa, about sixty-five years ago, on any warm summer night, somewhere in the vicinity of the 200 block of South Ward Street, you would have heard some kid yelling, “Ally, ally outs in free!” It meant that the person who was “it” had found somebody who was out hiding in the bushes and had beat them back to “home.” The game was over and everyone who was out hiding behind the garage or under the porch was supposed to come back in so a new game could be started with the loser of the foot race being “it.” The cry, at least in my neighborhood in the mid-fifties meant that all the “outs” (those who were still out hiding) could come “in” “free” (that is, without getting penalized) since the game was over. Hence, “Ally, ally outs in free.” Now, I know that a lot of you learned the phrase as “Olly, olly oxen free,” but let’s be honest; that doesn’t make any sense. Some people say it’s a corruption of the German phrase “Alle, alle auch sint frei,” or, roughly, “everyone, everyone is free.” But that’s just bad German. Anyway, we said it how we said it. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
There was something almost sacred about that phrase. We never messed with it. We were, I confess, fond of trying to trick each other into coming out of hiding so we could get them and win the game. We might yell, “Joey, your mom wants you to come out so you can go home for dinner!” or “Oh, I stubbed my toe, come help me.” We were shameless. But there was a sort of unspoken sanctity about “Ally, ally outs in free.” There was no joking with it. When you used that phrase, it was real; the game was over; there were no tricks.
I tell you about all of this as a way of asking your indulgence if I take a bit of liberty with the lofty language of scripture this morning. I’d like to offer a translation of today’s text. I’m translating into the language of the ’50’s, as heard in the neighborhood of 245 South Ward Street. In that jargon, these words from the second chapter of Ephesians would sound something like this: “Ally, ally outs in free.”
The Apostle Paul knew who the “outs” were in the early Christian movement. They were the Gentiles, those who were not pure. In those days the test of authenticity for “church membership,” if you will, was not how many committees and rummage sales you had worked on, it was whether or not you were a child of Abraham, a faithful Jew, adhering to the law of Moses. The early Christians, the first followers of Jesus, were Jews; and the non-Jews, the Gentiles in places like Ephesus were not quickly embraced by the faithful in Jerusalem.
So, Paul tells these newbies, these new Gentile followers of Christ, that they should no longer consider themselves “strangers and sojourners” – they are no longer “outs” – but “fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God.” They are now “in,” and, what’s more, they are “in, free.” They’re not “in” because they contributed enough dollars, or because they belong to the right social class, or because they’ve put in enough hours on programs and projects, but totally by grace, totally without price or accounting, “free.” “Ally, ally outs in free.” It’s a sacred thing. No playing around; no tricks. The words can be trusted.
Are you one of the “outs,” or are you “in?” If the truth be known, most of us feel at times like one, and at times like the other. In some settings, with our friends, or in places where we spend a lot of time, we are at home, it’s our turf, we feel comfortably “in.” In other arenas of life, any of us can feel like a stranger, a sojourner. Attending a friend’s wedding reception, in a room full of complete strangers, moving into a new town, or even attending a church, can seem like being on someone else’s turf.
But, there are folks who have been “outs” for so long, and ousted from so much, that the entire world feels like someone else’s turf. That’s a particularly painful way to go through life. It can lead to chronic shuffling of the feet and downcasting of the eyes. Sometimes I think a person can feel so thoroughly “out” of this world that everyone in it is seen as nothing more than an alien being responsible in some convoluted logic for one’s own misery.
And we are all well aware of the zones where we are “out” or “in,” the boundaries of which are defined by skin color, or socio-economic background, or language, or political views. Sadly, those who attempt to cross these boundaries are consistently met with looks, and gestures, and comments that remind them they are out of their territory. Certain sections of any major city, certain communities, clubs (country and otherwise), political organizations, even service organizations, can be such places of clearly identified turf. I’m led to wonder if a young man takes a rifle to a rooftop to try to assassinate a candidate for the presidency because the divisions between us have become so extreme that it seems in his twisted mind it’s the only solution.
I’ve often wondered what a visitor from another planet would make of all this. I imagine such a newcomer to earth standing with mouth agape, and head cocked trying to understand as we explain all the intricacies of social stratification. I wonder if the alien would say, “But, you all look alike, and you’re all on this same little planet together. The purpose of all these divisions among yourselves eludes me.” I don’t know what we’d say to that alien to explain it all. I’m not sure that I could make sense out of it. For whatever reason, we seem to be enamored of drawing circles around ourselves, whether we draw them to identify ourselves as “ins” or to identify ourselves as “outs,” we can be equally comforted by them.
Well, check your magic marker at the door when you enter this place, because we draw no circles here. As soon as you cross the threshold of the church, you enter a place where there are no “ins” and no “outs” – at least that’s the ideal we try to hold ourselves to here. It’s not easy, because it goes against the grain of everything else in our lives and seems almost contrary to our very natures. We might be more comfortable in some ways if there were different levels of membership, each with a different status. In fact, we sometimes subconsciously try to create them. We could have hierarchies like the rest of the world does, based on seniority or talent. That way you could work your way up the ladder over the course of a few years and become a “senior, chief muckity-muck,” but then we wouldn’t learn anything, would we?
And, once every month we come to the table, to eat the same bread and drink the same cup. Every Sunday we sit and stand and sing together, with no honored places, or positions of privilege, to declare a oneness in Christ that flies in the face of society’s proclivity for naming the “ins” and the “outs.”
Martha Sterne tells a wonderful story about a sermon that went way out of control. “A friend was delivering the sermon to his parish in downtown Macon, Georgia,” she writes, “on a Sunday in the late sixties. As you know, the whole country was in an uproar with Vietnam and civil rights marches and women were waking up and young people finding spectacular ways to be outrageous.
“All of this was swirling around his congregation, which included city fathers, who made it clear to their young rector that on Sundays they wanted to rest from the unrest. . . .
“Newcomers were showing up in church, some in jeans and long hair, even rock musicians. The newcomers got involved in outreach ministries serving the poor, which was sort of okay with the church leaders. But the newcomers also wanted the poor and anybody else to come to church which was not okay. They even put an advertisement in the paper with the Sunday service schedule and a picture of a black sheep and the words ‘Come As You Are.’
“Inviting even more strange people to flock to the church through the newspaper, with the connotation that some of the sheep might be black, was the last straw for the traditionalists. One woman mailed a letter to the entire parish in which she stated that the reach of the outreach people had exceeded the grasp of any sensible person by a long shot.
“Thus, lack of appreciation pervaded the atmosphere on that Sunday. . . . The priest . . . launched, subtly of course, into repenting the traditionalists’ sins. He spoke with assurance, deftly weaving the stories of Isaiah’s community and Jesus’ crowd and the world of Macon, Georgia. He described the parallels in a gently ironic tone, and he looked out over the congregation who seemed transfixed. If the truth were to be told he was pleased with himself. Then as he paused for breath, the unthinkable happened. A lady stood up. . . . she said, ‘do you mean to say we are wrong? Do you mean to say that for all these years we have been wrong?’
“Then the young rector opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. And he stood in the pulpit. For a moment, all was silence. And then another voice in the congregation spoke up and then another and then another. And people talked of trying to become part of church and being frozen out. And others mourned the loss of respect for traditions held dear. And some yelled in anger and some said they were afraid of what the church and the whole world were coming to. And many people cried. The congregation argued with itself for about twenty minutes. And the young rector stood in the pulpit. And listened. Then for a moment all was silence again. And he said, ‘I don’t know what to do. What do we do now?’ And someone said, ‘well, we might as well do [communion].’
“And they [celebrated the Lord’s Supper] . . .And of course you know the rest of the story. Like Paul and the Gentiles or Nixon and the Chinese, the enraged traditional woman became the instrument of reconciliation between the old-timers and the new people. She was the first woman ever on the vestry, and largely through her sponsorship, the first female priest in Georgia came to that congregation. And through the grace of God in her and some others, the doors of the church opened wider to invite strangers in and to send people out to love and serve.”1
And, like that church in Macon, Georgia, Sunday after Sunday here, together, we continue to lift up to those around us a model of community without barriers and divisions, and we continue to invite others to do the same.
My message today is not complicated; in fact, it’s rather brief. It boils down to this: In the course of my ministry, I’ve thought of three or four things that are so important I’ve wished they could be written on a big sign over the front door to the church. One of them is this:
“Ally, ally outs in free.”
1 Martha Sterne, All Saints’ Church, Atlanta, GA, “Can Pentecost Be Private?,” Journal For Preachers, Pentecost, 1997, pp. 40-41.
One of my first pastorates out of seminary was in a small rural community in upstate New York. I have changed quite a bit since those days, but one way in which I remain much the same person is that I have always loved to have fun. I tend to make light of a lot of things, and I’m particularly good at particularly bad jokes. Sometimes I even get a little carried away and get downright silly. Well, in this rural church there was a farmer by the name of Elihu Jones. Elihu was a stern, austere man who had admirably made his way through life by sheer hard work. He was an early riser, and a no-nonsense, nose-to-the-grindstone sort of guy. He read the Bible regularly and could quote chapter a verse when called upon. Mostly, though, he didn’t say much. I’ll never forget one evening after a church meeting held in someone’s home, Elihu came up to me and confronted me about the jokes and light-hearted fooling around that was my wont. He said that he didn’t think it was quite appropriate for a minister to behave in such a way. When I protested he put me in my place by quoting Isaiah 53:3. He said, “Jesus was a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief!” Well, dear old Elihu probably went to his grave thinking that I was a lost cause. And I guess he was right; I’ve never gotten over my inclination toward light-hearted fun and bad jokes. But then, I’m not convinced of Elihu’s scriptural exegesis. I recall also that Jesus seemed to enjoy a party – he turned the water into wine at the wedding feast in Cana. And I suspect that he must have known how to have a good time because he got the finger-wagging rebuke that comes to those who don’t take it all as seriously as some would prefer. Jesus tells us in Matthew 11:19 that he was accused by some of being a glutton and a drunkard, and hanging out with the wrong crowd. You don’t get that kind of reputation for nothing.
King David certainly knew how to party. He brought the sacred arc up from the house of Obed-edom to Jerusalem “with rejoicing”. And then he got so carried away that he stripped down to his skivvies, and started dancing in the street. Now, I can’t really imagine a national leader doing that today (the image is a bit unsettling), but for David it kind of feels right. He was, if you’ll pardon the expression, “letting it all hang out.” There was something authentic and compelling in his outrageous performance that was not simply calling attention to himself but reminding everyone that even though he is king, he also a human being. But Michal, the daughter of Saul, looked out her window and saw the king prancing around in front of everyone in his skivvies, and she was scandalized. She let him have it – called him vulgar and shameless. For David, I guess, that’s what you get for dancing.
It seems there’s always someone around to throw cold water on the party. And if the truth be known, a lot of the time that’s you and I. We adhere to our sense of propriety. We don’t want to be seen as fools. And consequently, we can find ourselves disinclined to really loosen up to find and express the joy in life.
Now, I have to admit, I haven’t always felt much like dancing – let alone doing it in the street in my BVD’s. But I think David’s dance is about something larger than having fun. He explains to Michal: “It was before the Lord, who chose me in place of your father and all his household, to appoint me as prince over Israel, the people of the Lord, that I have danced before the Lord. I will make myself yet more contemptible than this, and I will be abased in my own eyes.” In other words, David was dancing with his feet because he felt blessed enough by the Lord’s presence and favor that he was dancing in his heart. And having a dancing heart is what it’s all about.
I think that David’s dance is informative. It is the sense of being connected to the divine, of being one with the Heart of Existence, of being touched by the Divine Light, that makes a heart dance. And you don’t have to be happy for that to happen. Your heart can dance even when your eyes are flooded with tears.
I’ve often tried to describe what this “dancing heart” feels like; I never seem to quite get it right. It’s so hard to explain because it’s not just about being happy, it is a certain lightness that comes when one can let go of hurt and fear in the awareness of a deeper Presence. One elucidation of this feeling is found in C. S. Lewis’s description of the emotional reaction to the name of Aslan in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. He writes that, “each one of the children felt something jump in his inside. . . . Susan felt as if some delicious smell or some delightful strain of music had just floated by her. And Lucy got the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of summer.”1 It’s that kind of transportation to a place of freedom and wholeness that I’m talking about.
But your heart can’t dance if it’s tied up with resentment and weighed down with anger. That was the case for Herodias in our gospel reading from Mark today. Her heart was so twisted up with rage at John the Baptist that all she could think about was killing him. So her daughter performed a death-dance before the king and wound up with an ugly, bloody head on a platter. That’s what you get for dancing if that’s the kind of dance you’re into.
And your heart can’t dance if it’s in a straightjacket. And that’s what happens so often when we become emotionally absorbed in our own trials and traumas. I’ve discovered something about that also. When all there is to do is sit around, felling sorry for myself about something, the minutes and hours can seem interminable – unbearable. Often, all it takes is to have some focus other than myself to make it all seem so much more manageable. Dadgie, bless her heart, can lift me up with a smile or a kiss. Something like that can do wonders to take you out of yourself. I think that’s the case for any of us. When we get into those awful times of self-absorption and self-pity, it can turn into a downhill spiral that’s hard to get out of – and that’s the straightjacket that keeps one’s heart from dancing. I think that’s one of the great values of the kind of fellowship we have in this church. We rub elbows around here and get to know each other, and in time, we learn to truly care about one another. I’ve seen people here reaching out to others in times of need, and I’ve seen folks doing that in scorn of their own infirmities and troubles. The bonds that we form in this church family are mutually healing. They shift our perspective and free our hearts.
So, one way to get a dancing heart is to get outside of yourself. Another way is to simply stop taking yourself so seriously. I think it was G. K. Chesterton who said that angels are able to fly because they take themselves lightly. There is great power for healing to be found in poking fun at one’s self. Sometimes you and I can get so consumed by our agendas and priorities that one might think the world rises or falls on whether we get what we want. Maybe that’s the value in telling jokes and being a little silly. It keeps one from getting too serious about one’s own place in the world.
But perhaps the best way to get a dancing heart is to spend time realizing your connection to the quiet Power that pervades all being. Whether it’s through meditation or simply repeated moments of reflection, there is a tremendous release that comes with such broadened awareness. Reading the Bible stories can do that for some people. Encountering the life of Jesus and taking his words to heart can bring a whole new perspective on life and help to unbutton that straightjacket around one’s heart.
But there are bound to be those who resent you for having inappropriate affect, for reflecting inner peace and joy in the face of trauma. They’re the same ones who will scold you for telling jokes when they feel proper decorum is called for. And they’re the ones who will look down on you and call you vulgar if they catch you dancing in the street – I suppose that’s what you get for dancing. Just be careful not to be one of those scolding types yourself.
Instead, nurture a heart of joy, a heart that is in tune with the great Heart of Love that beats throughout this created order, a heart that can find peace in the midst of the storm, a heart that is free from the bondage of self-absorption and is free to be concerned for the welfare of others, a heart that can help you laugh at yourself and find the best in life. That, after all, is what you get for dancing.
1 C. S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Harper Collins, 2002, pp. 74-75.
A few years ago scientists made a big discovery at the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. They smashed a couple of protons into each other at near light speeds, and up popped the evidence of a hitherto unconfirmed subatomic particle. It’s a boson, which is just a fancy name for photons, and some other elusive particles that flash into and out of existence when particles collide. This boson is very much the particle that was predicted to exist by Peter Higgs back in 1964. So this particle, now called the Higgs boson, confirmed the existence of the related “Higgs field” that acts a kind of cosmological sticky soup permeating all of space and slowing down other particles, causing them to acquire mass. This process is called the “Higgs mechanism.” The “Higgs mechanism” is simply the generation of masses for the W+, W− and Z weak gauge bosons through the breaking of electroweak symmetry. Now the big question. Do I really understand everything I just said? Not entirely.
But here’s where it gets interesting for us. Somewhere along the line (to the consternation of physicists), media types started referring to the Higgs boson as “the God particle,” perhaps assuming that since the Higgs field would be responsible for the generation of mass, and therefore everything we see in the universe, it would be somehow the key to creation itself, or more likely, media types thought calling it the “God particle” would sell more newspapers, magazines, and air-time. The truth is it’s not really God, it’s simply a theory about how the physics of the universe operates (which, I suppose, could mean about the same thing, depending on your conception of God). But it’s not even anything new; physicists have been doing math and physics based on calculations for the Higgs field ever since Higgs came up with the idea. They had already taken that theoretical line of research almost as far as they go with present knowledge. So, physicists didn’t really get so excited about the realization that this new boson is pretty much the same particle that Higgs envisioned. What really got their engines revving is the possibility that it would turn out to be somewhat different than the classical Higgs boson. Because that would mean they’d have to go back to the drawing board and take up a whole new line of research and investigation. That’s what really turns them on. Therein lies my message today: a complicated, confusing, unknown, and angst-producing world is the best kind of world to live in. Isn’t it lucky that’s the one we’ve got?
I was driven to this notion when I started to read the lectionary for today and saw that those who compile the lectionary readings had decided in their wisdom to leave out some verses from the passage in 2 Samuel you heard this morning. In your bulletin, it says the reading is 2 Samuel 5:1-10. I have to confess, I fudged a bit. The actual lectionary reading, and the one I had Barbara read for you this morning, leaves out verses six through eight. Well, you know me; I couldn’t resist looking to see what they decided to skip over. Here it is:
“The king and his men marched to Jerusalem against the Jebusites, the inhabitants of the land, who said to David, ‘You will not come in here, even the blind and the lame will turn you back’ – thinking, ‘David cannot come in here.’ Nevertheless David took the stronghold of Zion, which is now the city of David. David had said on that day, ‘Whoever would strike down the Jebusites, let him get up the water shaft to attack the lame and the blind, those whom David hates.’ Therefore it is said, ‘The blind and the lame shall not come into the house.’”
David wants his men to attack the blind and the lame in Jerusalem because he hates them. Yeah, I can understand why the lectionary people would want to skip over those verses. As you can imagine, this really got me going. So I started to dig. What’s going on here? Well, it turns out these three verses are considered by most biblical scholars to be so corrupted as to be practically non-translatable. In other words, with the passing down of the story, first orally, from generation to generation, and then in written form, transcribed and recopied innumerable times, the words got jumbled and truncated to the point that transcribers were struggling to make sense of them and so revised them even further. So translators are left trying to make sense of what has been passed down to us in Hebrew which, according to the best I’m able to do, translates the words of David most literally as, “Whoever would strike down the Jebusite and struggle with [something – which may mean a water shaft] and the lame and the blind, hated by David’s soul.” All of this leads to the question, what might the original sentences have been? There’s no way to know. But there’s an intriguing possibility. If one reads some later accounts in the Bible, in Joshua and Judges we find these words: “the Jebusites live with the people of Judah in Jerusalem to this day.” So, David did not wipe out or drive out all the Jebusites when he conquered Jerusalem. So it would be reasonable to assume that some kind of amnesty was accorded to the Jebusites that would have been set down in a retelling of the story, such as an account like this in 2 Samuel. Add to this notion something else I discovered in doing my own translation. If you move one little dot from above the left side of a letter to above the right side of the letter, it changes that letter from a sin to a shin, and so changes what the word might be. The translation might go from, “the lame and the blind, hated by David’s soul . . .” to “the lame and the blind, sublime to David’s soul . . .” Now, I’m no Hebrew authority, so don’t put a lot of stock in my half-baked notions here. But if I’ve lost you in all this linguistic ruminating, that’s OK, because here’s the point of all this: It’s the corrupted text, the part that doesn’t make sense, that offers the most intriguing area of study, and yields a potential insight (at least an hypothesis) that could make the passage mean just about the opposite of what it seems – and could shed a gracious light on an otherwise ugly scenario. That’s the kind of thing that really turns me on – just like the physicists get turned on when the experimental results throw them for a loop.
I think this has everything to do with what the Apostle Paul was getting at in his second letter to the Corinthians. He talked about a “thorn” that was given to him in the flesh. We don’t know what that was, apparently some physiological problem that he struggled with through at least his adult life – maybe a chronic disease, or a physical impairment, or epilepsy, who knows? But Paul saw in this thorn in the flesh something of great value. He rejoiced in it, and said, “Whenever I am weak, then I am strong.”
You and I yearn for a simpler life. We’d like to be free from travail, exempt from frustration. We imagine that the best in life are those days when we zip effortlessly from one simple routine to another without any glitches. We dread the thought of having our plans interrupted, our dreams crumpled, our expectations frustrated. And we’ve got it all backwards. We could learn a lesson from the physicists and from the apostle Paul. It’s the hitches in our plans that offer the greatest possibility for finding new directions. It’s the places where we get tripped up that afford us the best chance of learning something. It’s the struggles and difficulties of life that point the way to a deeper and more meaningful existence. Angst is not our enemy; it’s a blessing!
Stop and consider for a moment what life would be if everything were simple and always went smooth as silk – no troubles, no worries, no surprises, no glitches. Sounds like paradise, right? Think again. Nothing new; nothing challenging. Nothing to adjust to and become more of a person because of. Without the possibility of discovering something dreadful there is no possibility of discovering something full of wonder. Without dead-ends there are no new roads to travel.
Here’s my thought. What if the angst that seems to be part of our lives is, in fact, like a Higgs field permeating the very fabric of our existence and making life possible? What if every event, every encounter, every experience of life moves through this field encountering angst and gets slowed down enough to acquire true essence – like a quark or an electron gains mass moving through the Higgs field? If the analogy is apt, then you and I couldn’t really exist – we wouldn’t be people of substance – without the traumas, frustrations, and pains that are our constant companions. In fact, these are our treasures, because they so invariably point the way to new possibilities and larger lives. They strengthen and teach us. When you stop to think about it, maybe this all does have to do with a sort of “God particle.” Maybe the fact that existence is chock-a-block full of challenging, eye-opening, soul-stirring frustrations and problems is proof enough for the existence of the Almighty.
So, I leave you with the words of Paul: “Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak, then I am strong.”
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