Faithful Action

John 12:1-8

March 17, 2013/Fifth Sunday of Lent

            The name Mother Teresa has become synonymous with self-sacrifice, devoted service and commitment to the poor.  It’s hard not to think of goodness and compassion and kindness when you hear her name. If you knew nothing else about her outside of the work she did in the poorest slums of Calcutta – now Kolkata – India, you would believe that she really was a living saint.  You would have to be the most ardent disciple ever to do what she did without ceasing, and presumably without complaining.

            But in the years immediately following her death, her personal journals, kept over the 50 years she lived and worked in the midst of such extreme poverty, revealed what seems to be an almost constant crisis of faith. 

            She doubted.  She feared.  She lacked faith. 

            It seems that for many people these were shocking revelations.  The people who were most aghast that Mother Teresa would write about her lack of faith, felt that these admissions of doubt tarnished her reputation.  Well, she couldn’t have been a real saint if she had any doubts about her belief in God.

            But other people, myself included, saw this as making her more real.  Honestly I would have been more surprised if she had never questioned her faith.  I can’t imagine living the life she lived, with extreme poverty, misery and suffering as her constant companion, and not feeling doubt.  How could she not sometimes question the existence of a merciful God when surrounded with the terrible suffering of God’s children? 

            Yet I think what is really important about seeing this side of Mother Teresa is not that she doubted.  It’s that she doubted and she never stopped serving.  Her response to her doubt was not to walk away, give up or even become cynical.  She just kept serving.  Her doubts, her fears, her crisis of faith never hindered her faithful action.  Even her belief that she lacked belief never kept her from following her call to discipleship. 

            I think the question we have before us from our passage in John’s gospel is what makes for a faithful disciple?  What is discipleship? 

            This is the story of Jesus being anointed for burial.  Variations of this same story are told in the other gospels, but in John’s gospel the setting for the burial is in the home of Lazarus, the man whom Jesus raised from the dead.  There, with his sisters Mary and Martha, Lazarus sits, alive and well, at table with Jesus and with Jesus’ disciples.  While they are all gathered there, Mary takes a pound of expensive perfume made from pure nard and pours it on Jesus’s feet.  She anoints his feet, then wipes it away with her hair.  There was no hiding what she had done either, because the fragrance of the perfume fills the whole house with its scent.

            This is an act of great intimacy.  I’m sure those who witnessed it were well aware of the way Mary’s actions could be misconstrued as inappropriately intimate.  Yet whatever sexual undertones might be implied, Jesus is not perturbed or put off by Mary’s intimate gestures. 

            Judas, on the other hand, speaks out.  Mary has been wasteful.  She has wasted perfume which could have brought good money to help the poor in this inappropriate behavior.  John does not let his readers’ labor under any false pretenses about Judas.  John’s gospel is written with the assumption that anyone reading it already knows the story of Jesus, but his words give interpretation to the events that took place. 

            So in his telling John declares that Judas doesn’t give a flip about the poor.  He is a thief who steals from the common purse, and he is also the one who will betray Jesus.  Let there be no mistaking that Judas is one of the bad guys.

            However I don’t think that the truth about Judas negates the fact that he spoke aloud what I suspect all the other disciples were thinking.  I doubt that what Mary did was seen by the other disciples as compassionate or caring or loving or necessary.  I imagine that the intimacy made them uncomfortable.  I’m sure they were shocked that such an expensive perfume was just poured out on their teacher’s feet.  Judas just said what they were all thinking. 

            I also imagine that it came as a surprise to them that Jesus defended her. 

            “Leave her alone.  She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial.  You always have the poor with you, but you do not have always have me.”

            Jesus interprets Mary’s response to him in light of his upcoming death.  She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. 

            Mary seemed to understand what the disciples didn’t; that Jesus was soon to die.  He would not die the death of a king but of a criminal.  Her decision to anoint his feet was her response as a disciple.  She believed and she acted.  This was her faithful action. 

            What does it mean to be a disciple?  What does discipleship look like? 

            As often happens with John’s gospel, I leave a passage with more questions than I when I started.  Certainly a question that is raised for many of us is Jesus’ words about the poor.  Is he being dismissive of poverty?  It’s never going to go away, so it’s better just to love me, be in relationship with me and let the rest work itself out? 

            I think this is often how it’s been interpreted.  The prevailing wisdom has been that it is better to have a living relationship with Jesus and trust that the poor are in God’s hands.  We shouldn’t ignore the needs of the poor, but our relationship with Jesus trumps all others. 

            While Jesus’ words make me uncomfortable, I don’t believe that he is dismissing poverty as a fixed state of being.  His actions on behalf of the poor, the sick, the forgotten, and the lost belie any doubt I have about my responsibility to the rest of God’s children, especially the poor.  Jesus loved the least of these.  His words and his deeds spoke loudly and clearly that God has, to paraphrase liberation theology, a preference for the poor. 

            Yet I think that what Jesus is trying to say in honoring Mary’s gesture of love is that our response to his love, God’s love should be extravagant, excessive, and even in the eyes of the world, wasteful. 

            Last week my friend Jim Hawley spoke profoundly about the word prodigal meaning not lost but waste.  The love of the father for his lost then found son was extravagant.  His grace and mercy and forgiveness were extravagant.  Perhaps the older brother saw the wasted life of his younger sibling as wasteful, and the love his father showed him on his return as wasteful as well.  But I think the father’s response was that there is no such thing as wasted love or too much grace. 

            Isn’t Mary’s response to Jesus another side of that coin?  She is so filled with love for him that she responds extravagantly.  The cost of the perfume means nothing in light of her love for Jesus.  After all, proof of Jesus’ love and his true identity as the Son of God is sitting right at the table with them – Lazarus.  Raised from the dead, Lazarus. 

            So Mary responds with extravagant love.  Her most faithful action is to love without thought of cost or what is deemed appropriate behavior in the eyes of those around her.  Her faithful action is to love extravagantly.

            Aren’t we as disciples called to do the same?   Is that what it really means to be a disciple?  It seems to me that discipleship is not just about right belief; it’s also about faithful action.  It is about extravagant love in response to the extravagant love that’s shown to us.  And this isn’t an either/or circumstance.  It’s not that if we respond with extravagant love to God in Christ, that we won’t have enough left to share with others.  I think the opposite is true.  The more we love the more love increases.  I think the more we respond in extravagant love to Jesus, the more we share that extravagant love with others. 

            So let our faithful action as disciples be our extravagant love.  For God.  For one another.  And for all whom we meet.  Let all God’s children say, “Amen.”

Sleepwalking

What the $%&* Is Going On Here?

The following is a response to a writing prompt from another writers' blog.  The challenge was to write a response to "What the $%&* is Going On Here?" 

What would happen if one day

you woke up

and found yourself in a traffic jam? 

You look at the 16-year-old sitting next to you,

earbuds and loud music

blocking out conversation or relation,

but the last time you checked he was six,

with a gap toothed grin and a hug for every minute

and your name was Mommy, not an irritated What.

You catch the crow’s feet in the rear view mirror,

but can’t recall those deep lines settling

around eyes burned out in defeat. 

What would you think if one afternoon

you came home and saw your father,

once tall and straight-backed

weave his way across the grass, bent low,

unsteady in spite of the twisted wooden cane

with the rubber foot? 

You instinctively take his hand,

but still feel his strong arms, lift you effortlessly

over his shoulder, voice crying out in joy

 at the potato sack he found on the lawn.

What would you believe if the door opened

and your husband met you,

eyes indifferent except for frustration

at the lateness of dinner? 

You can only see a young man with

long sideburns in a rented tux

standing next to you,

giggling through promises you both

thought you meant.

What would you feel as you passed

around the dinner rolls and glazed carrots

and roast chicken, but didn’t know

how you’d gotten to this meal,

this table,

this life?

 

What would you do if you realized

that you’d been asleep. 

Asleep for a lifetime.

You missed it.

You missed it all.

Life grew up around you,

but you failed to open your eyes. 

What would you say? 

A Different Future

Luke 13:1-9

March 3, 2013/Third Sunday of Lent

            The late William Sloane Coffin, who was the pastor of Riverside Church in New York City, a civil rights activist, a profoundly gifted preacher, teacher and writer and who has become for me a mentor of faith, lost his 24-year-old son Alex in a terrible car accident.  Ten days after his death he delivered a sermon that is more commonly known as A Eulogy for Alex.  The following is an excerpt from that sermon.

            When a person dies, there are many things that can be said, and there is at least one thing that should never be said. The night after Alex died I was sitting in the living room of my sister's house outside of Boston, when the front door opened and in came a nice-looking, middle-aged woman, carrying about eighteen quiches. When she saw me, she shook her head, then headed for the kitchen, saying sadly over her shoulder, "I just don't understand the will of God." Instantly I was up and in hot pursuit, swarming all over her. "I'll say you don't, lady!" I said.

For some reason, nothing so infuriates me as the incapacity of seemingly intelligent people to get it through their heads that God doesn't go around this world with his fingers on triggers, his fists around knives, his hands on steering wheels. God is dead set against all unnatural deaths. And Christ spent an inordinate amount of time delivering people from paralysis, insanity, leprosy, and muteness. Which is not to say that there are no nature-caused deaths — I can think of many right here in this parish in the five years I've been here — deaths that are untimely and slow and pain-ridden, which for that reason raise unanswerable questions, and even the specter of a Cosmic Sadist — yes, even an Eternal Vivisector. But violent deaths, such as the one Alex died — to understand those is a piece of cake. As his younger brother put it simply, standing at the head of the casket at the Boston funeral, "You blew it, buddy. you blew it." The one thing that should never be said when someone dies is "It is the will of God." Never do we know enough to say that. My own consolation lies in knowing that it was not the will of God that Alex die; that when the waves closed over the sinking car, God's heart was the first of all our hearts to break.

“God’s heart was the first of all our hearts to break.”  This is not the response that Jesus gives to the people who ask him about two tragedies in our gospel passage this morning, but I think the intent of the words is there.  If you were really listening to the scripture as it was read, or if you read along carefully in your own Bible, please feel free to look at me as if I’m crazy right now.  Go ahead. Give me the look.  It’s okay.  I’ll wait.

I know what I just said sounds off because at first glance there is nothing in this passage from Luke that would suggest that God’s heart breaks at the tragedies that befall us.  If anything it sounds like Jesus is saying bad things happen to people who bring it on themselves, and if you don’t change your ways it’s going to happen to you too. 

David Lose wrote in his weekly preaching article that when it comes to this passage there should be a warning label.  Approach with caution.  And I admit than when I read through the passages for this week, my first thought was “Maybe I should just preach from Isaiah.”

But warning label aside, here we are.  In the verses before these Jesus has been speaking to the people around him about their inability to read the signs of the kingdom.  They can look at the sky and figure out the weather that is coming but they don’t know how to interpret the signs of the times.  They need to settle up with their opponents or else it’s going to be them who lands in prison, having to pay off every last penny they owe.  So Jesus is already on the topic of judgment when he is told about a tragedy that has happened. 

It would seem that a group of worshipers had gone to make their sacrifices and they were killed by Pilate.  Even as they were fulfilling their religious obligation, even as they were making their own sacrifice they were sacrificed.  And in what is a particularly gory sentence, the blood of all was mingled together. 

Jesus asks them, “Do you think that because these Galileans suffered in this way they were worse sinners than all other Galileans?  No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.”

Then Jesus brings up another tragedy that has happened; when the tower of Siloam fell on 18 people.  Jesus asks again, “Do you think that they were worse offenders then all the others living in Jerusalem?  No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all perish just as they did.”

If the people listening to Jesus were hoping he’d give them answers that made them feel better, they weren’t getting their wish, were they?  Two tragedies – which as I understand, our only knowledge of them comes from this passage – one done by human hands, one a natural disaster.  But the underlying question is did these terrible events happen to people because God was punishing them.  Was it God’s will that these people die because they were worse sinners than others? 

At first glance it seems that Jesus’ response somewhat confirms that, doesn’t it?  Repent or perish as they did.  But is Jesus talking about a personal morality or is he really trying to get them to understand sin as a state of being?  Because the word repent isn’t just about confessing a litany of transgressions.  It means to turn around.  When we repent we turn around, we change direction, we reorient ourselves to God.  On the first Sunday of Lent I spoke of Jesus saying no to the devil in the wilderness.  But along with that no, he said “yes.”  He said “yes” to God.  He said “yes” to a life of faithfulness.  So it would seem that when we repent, we’re not just making a declarative statement about what we say “no” to.  When we repent we say “yes.”  We say “yes” to God.

But I think the problem is that we most often live our lives in a state of “no.”  I think that’s what Jesus is trying to point out to people in these verses.  I think those listening to him were more concerned about avoiding divine retribution than they were about living into the love and grace of the kingdom.  That’s why Jesus has been challenging them so intensely.  It seems that he’s trying to make them understand that they don’t get it.  You don’t get it.  You don’t get that the kingdom is right here.  You don’t get that it’s not about who sins more than whom.  You don’t understand that living a life of faith is not just doing everything you can to avoid punishment.  It’s not just about saying “no.”  It’s about saying “yes.”  Repent.  Turn around.  Reorient.  Change your direction.

Then Jesus tells them a story about a barren fig tree.  The man, the owner of the fig tree, sees that it bears no fruit.  So he wants to have it cut down!  It’s wasting soil. 

But the gardener asks for one more year.  One more year to dig around it and add manure.  One more year of cultivating and tilling.  One more year of patience.  If the fig tree doesn’t bear fruit after a year, then cut it down. 

The traditional interpretations I’ve heard of this parable is that God is the owner and Jesus is the gardener.  God wants to wipe out the barren tree. But Jesus asks for more time.  Jesus is the one standing between us and an angry, vengeful God.   If we live as if our lives are about saying no, then this interpretation fits quite nicely.  But if we’re about saying yes, then it no longer works. 

I don’t believe that God is the owner who wants the tree cut down.  I think God is the gardener.  I think God is the one wants to have more time with us, more time to cultivate and till and love.  I think this parable is more about divine patience and grace then it is about rooting out what doesn’t bear fruit.  I realize that this interpretation begs the question, “who then is the man?”  I don’t have a definitive answer.  But I wonder if it’s us. 

What we don’t get in this story is an ending – happy or otherwise.  We don’t know what happens.  We don’t know if the fig tree begins to bear fruit or if it’s cut down.  We just know that because of the gardener’s willingness to be patient and to do more work, a different future for the tree is now possible. 

Isn’t that true for us as well?  Ultimately I believe that the future is in God’s hands, and those are certainly good hands to be in.  But even saying that, I think Jesus’ words remind us that we have a choice about whether we’re going to say yes or no.  Are we going to say no?  Are we going to live as though God is just waiting to smack us down?  Are we going to constantly see the terrible things that happen in life as proof of God’s punishment for our sins?  Are we going to believe that God’s will is merely about hurting us when we’ve been bad?  Or are we going to say yes?  Are we going to live boldly into our faith, knowing that we all sin and mess up and fall down and fall away, but that our mistakes don’t have the power to diminish God’s grace?  Our mistakes don’t have the power to diminish God’s grace.  Indeed it is that very grace which imbues the world with God’s love.  May we continue to find the courage, during this season of Lent and in every season, to say yes to God.  May we continue to trust and imagine that there is a different future for us all.  Let all God’s children say, “Amen.”