I remember this one.
Matzoh not Moloch
…Do you not know that a little leaven leavens the whole lump? Cleanse out the old leaven that you may be a new lump, as you really are unleavened. For Christ, our paschal lamb, has been sacrificed. Let us, therefore, celebrate the festival, not with the old leaven, the leaven of malice and evil, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth. (I Corinthians 5:6b-8)
There’s been a lot of outrage lately about a study of people’s emotions that was conducted on Facebook. In my opinion, the study was conducted in an unethical manner, but it did affirm something important: emotions are contagious online.
Now, any parent or teacher in the world could probably have figured that out, and I suppose that the speed with which the outrage spread only confirmed the study’s finding. But other studies in America and China reveal another important aspect of this important truth: not all emotions travel the same.
Rage travels fast because it gets us fired up and wanting to take action–so we pass along that angry tidbit on our social networks. At my house, we call this “feeding the beast.”
But the one emotion that outpaces anger is awe–“feelings of wonder and excitement that come from encountering great beauty or knowledge.” “Awe,” says Jonah Berger of the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School, “gets our hearts racing and our blood pumping….This increases our desire for emotional connection and drives us to share.”
Feeding the beast is not a product of our networked world, of course. If it were we wouldn’t read in the Bible about “the tongue–a restless evil, full of deadly poison.” I think most of us enjoy having a bit of conversational capital that we can spend to buy prestige or power or the downfall of our enemies.
But if the Dark Side is quick and effective, there’s still hope for humanity. Our love of beauty and understanding is a sign of the Spirit moving through us and among us. I laugh to think that I must imagine myself “a new lump” but perhaps that’s just another example of holy hilarity and the foolishness of God. Unleavened I must be.
Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. (Philipians 4:8)
Praying for Pharaoh
The Exodus story is much stranger than I remembered. I read it again the other day and there was so much that just seemed odd and complicated.
To begin with, why do you think God wants Pharaoh to let the Hebrews go free? If you trusted vague memory, you might think it was because God is a freedom-loving deity and slavery is wrong. But what God actually says is, “Let my people go, that they may serve me” which sounds much more like he’s telling Pharaoh “You have something that belongs to me, and I want it back.” Oh.
And then there are all those plagues, and all that back and forth–essentially between God and Pharaoh, but with Moses and Aaron in between. In memory, the plagues create the mounting drama, and ensure that we are clear about how stubborn and wicked Pharaoh is. In memory (and the movies), the plagues are God’s way of wearing down Pharaoh’s resolve, but this time through it seemed to me that there was more going on.
Setting aside the whole question of “the Lord hardened Pharaoh’s heart” and Pharaoh’s free will in this situation (we’ll have to save that for another time), each plague is both a sign of God’s power (witnessed by Egypt and Israel) and an opportunity for repentance. And every time Pharaoh repents and says, “Ok, you can go, just stop the plague,” Moses has to go out and intercede for Egypt.
Wait. Moses has to pray for Pharaoh? That must have been terrible. Why plead on behalf of the oppressor? “Stop the gnats. Stop the frogs. Stop the locusts. Forgive him. Have mercy on Egypt.” Do you think that what Moses wanted to say was “Wipe them out and let’s be done with this!?” Do you think that after a while he might have doubted Pharaoh’s sincerity? Why did God put Moses through that? Why was intercession required? Why couldn’t Moses just command the plague to end?
I wondered about this the other day as I read familiar verses in Romans 8
Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words. And he who searches the hearts of men knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.
Pharaoh didn’t know God, did he need Moses in this weakness? I need to think about this more.
Intercession is a mystery–deeply strange and sometimes difficult. Why should God, knowing someone’s need better than we do, command us to pray for them? Why should we pray for our enemies? What does it mean that God, knowing our hearts, wills the Spirit to intercede for us?
I think it may have something to do with forgiveness. “And whenever you stand praying, forgive.” Perhaps intercession enables forgiveness. Perhaps it is a sign of forgiveness. Perhaps the Exodus is not only a story of God’s mounting wrath, but also his repeated forgiveness. Perhaps we never really forgive anyone until we lift them up and stand with them in God’s presence.
Mother’s Day meditation on loaves and fishes
Mosaic, Church of the Multiplication, Tabgha
Photo: Berthold Werner, Wikimedia Commons
Once upon a time, I was a storyteller. I would memorize stories and perform them–sometimes for children, sometimes for adults, sometimes by myself and sometimes in concert with other storytellers. It was a great art form to inhabit and explore, and it deepened my understanding of both story and audience in ways that singing, teaching, and writing had not.
So I suppose I will always bring a bit of the storyteller with me when I read the Bible. I find myself looking for patterns–the bits that give the tale its structure so it will stand in memory. I look for the phrases that cannot be changed in the telling without altering the identity of story (“Trip-trap, trip-trap, trip-trap”). And I look for the words that carry emotion and meaning–the ones that do the work of placing what’s in my brain into yours.
This morning I was reading the Feeding of the Five Thousand in Mark and thinking about mothers and ministry and the nature of God; wondering if the sermon today would try to fit in Mother’s Day; thinking about the things I had learned about God by being a mother. So I really felt the weight of fatigue when Jesus has compassion on the apostles and says to them, “ ‘Come away by yourselves to a lonely place, and rest a while.’ For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat.”
No time to eat. That phrase is doing some work. What parent hasn’t had a day like that? And going to “a lonely place” doesn’t sound like a vacation, just quiet. Sometimes that’s all you get, but that’s enough.
Jesus and the apostles got into a boat and tried to get away, but the people figured out where they were going and “ran there on foot from all the towns, and got there ahead of them.” The crowd was excited. They didn’t plan ahead. They just flocked to Jesus. And when Jesus comes ashore, he again shows compassion “because they were like sheep without a shepherd.” A phrase that must be kept intact.
The hour grows late, they’re far away from everything, and once again people need to eat.
Hmm. The story returns to the idea of hunger and need. The first time that happened, Jesus gave the apostles a break. What will happen this time?
The apostles want the people to “buy themselves something to eat,” but Jesus says “You give them something to eat.”
Sounds like a Jesus sort of thing to say. Just when you’re tired and hungry, you can’t give any more of yourself to the people in your life who need you (and heaven knows you could use a rest), he commands you to do more.
“You want us to go buy food for all these people?”
Boy, that sounds cranky and argumentative.
“No.”
And then there’s a miracle. Supper was created out of what was on hand. The mystery of generative compassion is made manifest once again.
“And they all ate and were satisfied.” Another phrase to keep.
Probably even the apostles had a chance to sit down at this point. Everybody in that lonely place, sitting and eating together, talking, inwardly digesting the lessons they’d learned. And who knows, maybe when the evening meal was finished and it was time to go home, they all pitched in to clean up the leftovers.
Category: miracles /
Simultaneous contrast with withered plants
Simultaneous Contrast
Image by Demi-Plum on DeviantArt
When two colors appear side by side, it changes our perception of them. Graphic designers and artists use this effect called simultaneous contrast. Sometimes when I think about passages of scripture they seem to exhibit simultaneous contrast as well. Different aspects of the story will leap out at me depending on which stories I hold in my mind in close proximity. I’ll show you what I mean.
It started when I read Mark 11: 12-25, where Jesus is driving the money-changers and vendors out the temple. Wrapped around the cleansing of the temple is the cursing of the fig tree in two parts: first the seemingly unjustified cursing, then, the following day, Jesus explanation of the withered tree. Here’s how it goes:
On the following day, when they came from Bethany, he was hungry. And seeing in the distance a fig tree in leaf, he went to see if he could find anything on it. When he came to it, he found nothing but leaves, for it was not the season for figs. And he said to it, “May no one ever eat fruit from you again.” And his disciples heard it.
And they came to Jerusalem. And he entered the temple and began to drive out those who sold and those who bought in the temple, and he overturned the tables of the money-changers and the seats of those who sold pigeons; and he would not allow any one to carry anything through the temple. And he taught, and said to them, “Is it not written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers.” And the chief priests and the scribes heard it and sought a way to destroy him; for they feared him, because all the multitude was astonished at his teaching. And when evening came they went out of the city.
As they passed by in the morning, they saw the fig tree withered away to its roots. And Peter remembered and said to him, “Master, look! The fig tree which you cursed has withered.” And Jesus answered them, “Have faith in God. Truly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be taken up and cast into the sea,’ and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that what he says will come to pass, it will be done for him. Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours. And whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against any one; so that your Father also who is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses.”
I know I’ve heard this passage a hundred times, and I’ve always heard it as a story about the power of prayer (Have faith and cast that mountain into the sea!), but I’d never realized that the money-changers were inside a fig tree sandwich, so to speak. I wondered why Mark would write it that way. Then I noticed that the two incidents both involve Jesus teaching about prayer.
“Is it not written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations’? But you have made it a den of robbers.”
And
“…Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours. And whenever you stand praying, forgive, if you have anything against any one; so that your Father also who is in heaven may forgive you your trespasses.”
That phrase “whenever you stand praying” reminded me of the Amidah–the central prayer in a Jewish service, recited in services three times daily during the week, and also at Sabbath and holiday services. Amidah is Hebrew for “standing,” and this prayer is recited while standing with feet firmly together so as to imitate the angels, “whose legs were straight” in Ezekiel 1: 7.
But here is the bit that stood out for me, the Amidah is said during services–which would be held in the temple or in a synagogue–in a house of prayer. And the Amidah, which is also called the Shmoneh Esreh–the Eighteen Blessings–includes praise, petitions, and thanksgiving. The worshiper asks for God’s forgiveness, compassion, and justice, but the prayer says nothing about the worshiper forgiving anyone else. To say “whenever you stand praying, forgive” represents a change, I suspect, and that, of course, reminded me of these familiar words from Matthew 6:
And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors
So maybe these incidents are linked because they are about prayer. Because we need to know how to pray and to be mindful about how we treat a house of prayer, and, yes, to believe in the power of prayer.
But why did Jesus have to kill the fig tree? Was it just to make a point? It wasn’t even fig season. Wasn’t he expecting a bit too much? Is this an illustration of his anger before he even reached the temple? It seems almost petulant.
And thinking about petulance and withered plants put me in mind of another story–this time from Jonah (Jonah 3:10; 4: 1-11)
When God saw what they did, how they turned from their evil way, God repented of the evil which he had said he would do to them; and he did not do it.
But it displeased Jonah exceedingly, and he was angry. And he prayed to the Lord and said, “I pray thee, Lord, is not this what I said when I was yet in my country? That is why I made haste to flee to Tarshish; for I knew that thou art a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and repentest of evil. Therefore now, O Lord, take my life from me, I beseech thee, for it is better for me to die than to live.” And the Lord said, “Do you do well to be angry?” Then Jonah went out of the city and sat to the east of the city, and made a booth for himself there. He sat under it in the shade, till he should see what would become of the city.
And the Lord God appointed a plant, and made it come up over Jonah, that it might be a shade over his head, to save him from his discomfort. So Jonah was exceedingly glad because of the plant. But when dawn came up the next day, God appointed a worm which attacked the plant, so that it withered. When the sun rose, God appointed a sultry east wind, and the sun beat upon the head of Jonah so that he was faint; and he asked that he might die, and said, “It is better for me to die than to live.” But God said to Jonah, “Do you do well to be angry for the plant?” And he said, “I do well to be angry, angry enough to die.” And the Lord said, “You pity the plant, for which you did not labor, nor did you make it grow, which came into being in a night, and perished in a night. And should not I pity Nin′eveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?”
“You pity the plant…” I do pity the plant. Sometimes it’s easier to pity the plant than the people making money off of other people’s piety. It’s so painful when a tree is cut down. Do I feel that much compassion for the TV evangelist who encourages the faithful to call in their pledges? Would it offend my sense of justice if God ended up pitying folks who, given what God has already said, clearly deserve a bit of wrath? Would that make me angry enough to die?
So what’s the point? I’m not sure. All I know is that an interesting thing happens when you put these stories side by side. God seems to be using plants to comment on situations where we might be tempted to point the finger and get angry about other people’s sins–where we might get a little rigid in our thinking about justice.
Whenever you stand praying, forgive. That’s all I know for sure. I don’t think it’s wrong to pity the plants. I think I know my right hand from my left. I hope I’m not one of the cattle.
Category: "Lord's Prayer", forgiveness, Jesus, justice, mercy, prayer / Tags: Amidah, fig tree, Jonah, money-changers, plant
The King’s Highway
US 501 North of Durham, NC
Photo credit: Jim Saintsing
A friend of mine took this picture and it reminded me of a gospel favorite by Thomas A. Dorsey and Mary Gardner, performed here with Alex Bradford. If you don’t know about Thomas A. Dorsey, you should. He’s the composer of Take My Hand Precious Lord, Peace in the Valley, When the Gates Swing Open, and many, many more. This is just a taste.
The most difficult Sunday
Photo © BrokenSphere / Wikimedia Commons
CC-BY-SA
The older I get, the harder it is to haul myself out of the house and into a pew on Palm Sunday. It’s not that I’m opposed to celebrating the triumphal entry or going outside and marching around waving palms in broad daylight on city streets. No. I’m fine with all of that, and I actually enjoy the pageantry.
But as the years accumulate behind me, all that glory, laud, and honor starts to feel a little hollow on Palm Sunday, because you know that this is not going to end well. After the palms comes the Passion narrative. In less than an hour people are going to be shouting “Crucify him!” and there will be machinations and treachery and just plain human meanness and weakness. The cruelty won’t even stop once they’ve got him on the cross. The soldiers, the passersby, and the thieves crucified beside Jesus taunt him. It’s a truly wrenching service in which a joyful crowd turns into an vicious mob, Barabbas is set free and Jesus dies. And it all happens so quickly.
For me, Palm Sunday is one of the most depressing Sundays of the year. The story confirms most of the worst of what we know to be true about humanity. It rings uncomfortably true.
So why go? Why not just skip it this year?
Because I don’t want to be one of those people who would let Jesus go to Jerusalem by himself. Because I can’t say “What a friend we have in Jesus” if I’m not willing to be a friend. Because being sad and uncomfortable is a small thing in comparison to the sacrifice and the gift.
What language shall I borrow
To thank thee, dearest Friend,
For this thy dying sorrow,
Thy pity without end?
O make me thine for ever;
And should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never
Outlive my love to thee.
Sir, we wish to see Jesus
Head of Christ by Warner Sallman
Image: Wikimedia Commons
Cristo Redentor, Rio de Janeiro
Photo: Wikimedia Commons
King of Kings
Photo: Wikimedia Commons
Laughing Jesus
Christ with arms raised
by Georges Rouault
Homeless Jesus
Timothy P. Schmalz, artist and photographer
Head of Christ by Richard Hook
Holy Card
Photo: Holy Cards for Children
The Good Shepherd icon
Cristo Redentor de los Andes
Photo credit: Andy Stuardo licensed CC-BY-SA via Wikimedia Commons
Pieta by Michelangelo
St. Peter’s Basilica
Photo: Wikimedia Commons
And Jesus Wept
St. Joseph’s Catholic Church near the Oklahoma City National Memorial
Photo: Crimsonedge34 licensed CC by 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons
The Wales Window for Alabama, created by John Petts
16th St. Baptist Church, Birmingham, AL
Photo: Wendy McFadden – Christian Churches Together
Head of Jesus by Rembrandt
Staatliche Museen Preussicher Kulturbesitz, Berlin
Resurrection of Christ
Isenheim altarpiece
Photo: Wikimedia Commons
Inspired by a sermon about our different versions of Jesus, I thought I would share a few of the many. There are thousands out there in art high and low–and that’s not even counting the kitchy plastic dashboard Buddy Jesus bobbleheads. Suffice it to say, that people imagine Jesus in all kinds of ways–which says a lot about us, and only a little about Jesus. One thing it says loud and clear is, “Sir, we wish to see Jesus.”
The sermon also made me think about Jesus’ words to Thomas (John 20:29), “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.” I always felt those words as a rebuke to Thomas, but perhaps they have a second meaning. Perhaps it might actually be easier to believe Jesus is the Son of God if you never saw him in person.
How could it be easier to believe through a story than with a real flesh and blood person in front of you? When you hear the gospel, you can imagine him in almost any way you want: white, black, brown, tall or short, clean or scruffy, humble but with a presence–any way that is not an impediment. So the fuzzy edges of understanding might make it easier to embrace the truth, to be open to growth and deepening understanding. Perhaps waiting to see Jesus can be a sort of blessing, and our knowing that we do not know a semi-permeable membrane through which the Holy Spirit may pass. Perhaps we should have a bit of compassion for the people of Nazareth who in his presence believed they knew Jesus all too well and got caught up thinking, “Where did this man get this wisdom and these mighty works? Is not this the carpenter’s son?…” and they took offense at him. (Matt. 13)
Maybe we are blessed by hearing only and not seeing, and yet believing. Whatever version of Jesus speaks to us.
Medical oddity
And when Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a great crowd gathered about him; and he was beside the sea. Then came one of the rulers of the synagogue, Ja′irus by name; and seeing him, he fell at his feet, and besought him, saying, “My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her, so that she may be made well, and live.” And he went with him.
And a great crowd followed him and thronged about him. And there was a woman who had had a flow of blood for twelve years,and who had suffered much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was no better but rather grew worse. She had heard the reports about Jesus, and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his garment. For she said, “If I touch even his garments, I shall be made well.” And immediately the hemorrhage ceased; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her disease….
While he was still speaking, there came from the ruler’s house some who said, “Your daughter is dead. Why trouble the Teacher any further?” But ignoring[a] what they said, Jesus said to the ruler of the synagogue, “Do not fear, only believe.” And he allowed no one to follow him except Peter and James and John the brother of James. When they came to the house of the ruler of the synagogue, he saw a tumult, and people weeping and wailing loudly. And when he had entered, he said to them, “Why do you make a tumult and weep? The child is not dead but sleeping.” And they laughed at him. But he put them all outside, and took the child’s father and mother and those who were with him, and went in where the child was. Taking her by the hand he said to her, “Tal′itha cu′mi”; which means, “Little girl, I say to you, arise.” And immediately the girl got up and walked (she was twelve years of age), and they were immediately overcome with amazement. And he strictly charged them that no one should know this, and told them to give her something to eat.
A quick note today. Two things struck me as I read this passage:
The first was the condition of the woman with the hemorrhage, because she “had suffered much under many physicians, and had spent all that she had, and was no better but rather grew worse.”
If you’ve ever gone through invasive medical procedures for yourself or with a loved one, especially when trying to track down an elusive diagnosis, you know what this is like. You start to wonder if the doctors see you as a human being or just a medical mystery to be solved. People you don’t know come in to study you. You wonder if the cure is worse than the disease. You get tired of being a medical oddity. An anomaly. A freak.
That thought put me in a frame of mind to read the following story about Jairus’ daughter a bit differently than I usually do. When Jesus tells the crowd that the girl is “not dead but sleeping” and allows no one but Peter, James, and John and the girl’s parents to witness the miracle of her resurrection, he is giving the girl more than just life. Jesus gives her a life–which is to say, he gives her the cushion that a twelve year old would need to grow up and be happy. He strictly charges the adults not to tell what has happened so she can grow up as a person and not always be known as a freak or The Girl Who Was Dead. Ja’irus’ daughter is brought back to her parents and to herself–for all anyone outside knows, she really was just sleeping. It’s such a compassionate miracle. Not a manifestation of God’s glory at the expense of an adolescent. No, Ja’irus’ daughter will be all right. Now if someone will just get that child something to eat.
Climbing and hanging suspended
In this school of love there is always more to be learned. Love is infinite. Someone who has made progress in this school can be sure that it is
love that has drawn her and led her and taught her the ways that she has faithfully followed. Often in great labor and in many activities, in great infirmity and in strong desire, in frequent impatience and in great dissatisfaction, in adversity and in prosperity, in great pain, in seeking and asking, in lacking and in having, in climbing and in hanging suspended, in following and in striving, in need and anxiety, in fear and concern, in great faithfulness and in many unfaithfulnesses, in pleasure and in pain, is she ready to suffer. In death and in life she commits herself to love.
Beatrice of Nazareth.
Edith Scholl introducing Beatrice of Nazareth, The Seven Modes of Love, Tjurunga No. 50, 82. From In the School of Love: An Anthology of Early Cistercian Texts, Edith Scholl, ed.
