Sunday, February 27, 2011

money, stress and flowers

Edvard Munch, "Anxiety"




I am a world-class worrier.  I’m fairly certain that if there were some sort of worrying competition, I would at least place, I’m that good. In fact, I don’t just worry when things are going badly or there are frightening threats on the horizon, I worry when things seem to be going too well – because that is just a set up for disaster, it says so right in the worry manual, the handbook for perfect anxiety.
For someone prone to worry, tonight’s text is not terribly good news. First, because it’s nice that God cares about the flowers and birds and all, but what about the 1000 Libyans who brutally lost their lives these past two weeks, crying out for freedom? What about Iraqi children and Haitian families and the neighbor who lost her house in a fire and the friend who cannot, no matter what it seems, find a job? 
So for a world-class worrier, this text is cold comfort. It raises more questions than it answers. You can’t fool us, Jesus. There’s a lot to worry about. And despite the promise that God will care for us, God doesn’t seem to be wrapping up these loose ends any time soon.
The second reason this text is not great news for a world-class worrier is that it makes you start to worry about how much you’re worrying. It makes you question your faith, and not in a good way.  By telling you you shouldn’t worry, it gives you more to worry about. Why can’t I just “let go and let God?” What’s wrong with my faith? Would God take care of me more if I backed off?  If I just tried harder not to worry so much, would that make me more secure, less afraid?  And so, without realizing it or meaning to, you’ve let anxiety take the reigns again.

On the flip side, it’s a beautiful passage. Really poetic and lovely. And if it didn’t need to mean something to my daily life or the really messed up world we live in, I would like it very much. So, there’s that.

It does make a few interesting observations about worry.
Certainly, I do realize that by worrying I cannot add one cubit to my life span – whatever a cubit is – one second, hour, moment. In fact, if studies are to be believed, I actually can take time off my life by worrying. Time with elevated heart rate and increased blood pressure and heightened fight or flight response and it all takes a toll on your longevity.  (So, there’s something else to be worried about).

The other thing it points out is that worrying is necessarily future-oriented.  We worry about what is going to happen. We live in today – with enough troubles of its own, but we worry about tomorrow. We worry what the test results will show or what the teacher will say or what will happen when the last of the money runs out.  We worry about what we will do, and what they will say, and how we will survive whatever crisis looms on the horizon.

In fact, we miss a whole lot of the present by living in the future, and not in a pleasant dreamy way, but in a wholly worrisome way.  And when the future becomes the present many of the things we worried about ahead of time never come to pass, or we find ourselves coping with what in advance had seemed insurmountable.

So truly, tomorrow will bring worries of its own and today has enough trouble of its own and there is no need to go borrowing more, and I do appreciate the text for at least acknowledging that, and not pretending today is all rosy and tomorrow only hunky-dory.

It’s interesting that these two pericopes – that is what we call little units of scripture that contain a complete thought – that both of these pericopes, the one about money and the one about worry -  are together for today’s reading. It’s the “therefore”: when we read these together we can see, as my dad used to say “what the therefore is there for” – For this reason, because of what I have just said, having heard this, don’t be anxious. Don’t be anxious!
Don’t be anxious about your life, because you can’t serve God and wealth. You can’t be ruled by money and by God, so don’t be worried. Pick your lord. And you couldn’t find two more different.

Let’s just take a moment to remind ourselves where we stand when we read this text. We are, yes, STILL in the Sermon on the Mount. We’ve already concluded that the point of the whole lengthy sermon is to talk about what this kingdom of God life looks like when it is lived out.  We’ve seen that it means people are upheld and respected, mutual love and support is the way people relate, what it means that God is God and we are God’s people in concrete, visible ways.
And Jesus is still going on. He has covered relationship with God, with others, has addressed conflict and division, divorce and arguments and all these other real life experiences, and given a pretty compelling picture of what it looks like when the love-driven life of God in Christ is the life-blood of your own life and relationships. So now we come to anxiety. And money.

Money and worry.  It would be ludicrous not to worry, especially about money. In a world of insurance and accidents and investments and retirement and unforeseen circumstances and medical conditions and rising college tuition and passenger side air bags and long-term care facilities, and not leaving baggage unattended, and home security systems and supplemental insurance, telling people not to worry, and particularly to not worry about money, is just about the dumbest advice you can give.

But it depends, I suppose, on which system you choose to live in,  which master you’ve chosen, back in the last pericope. Instead of being defined by a system of anxiety and accumulation, we are invited to be defined by rest, beauty, cooperation and interconnectedness, each having what each needs to thrive – no more and no less.  We’re invited to live from the kingdom of God.

In a few weeks we’re going on an all-church retreat that is focused on Sabbath. And Sabbath itself, as we will talk about then, is a form of resistance. A powerful form of resistance. It is, in fact, what this very passage is talking about.  Truly resting, as God rested, is to live in opposition to a system designed around anxiety. A system that doesn’t rest. A system of 24/7 business and commerce where you are defined by your trading power and your net worth and your ability to consume and spend. Where participation means economic involvement, spending power. 

Sabbath is resistance to this culture; it is the ridiculous notion that you are free to stop doing. That your person and your time is valuable without producing or selling or proving or buying a thing. It is a wildly alternative mindset, a dramatically different form of living, a completely other system. A system of wholeness and abundance, where participation means connecting and caring, relationships and creativity, honest grief and wholehearted laughter. 
It means, like birds and flowers, living out your essential you-ness and trusting that it is part of a greater whole.   And you may not see the whole picture or even yet recognize what song or scent you contribute to the world, but you are part of it all anyway. It means your life and existence does not depend solely on yourself or your striving. You cannot ultimately make or break it.

There are incredible gifts within the fabric of this life that we skim right by because we’re so caught up on preserving our own lives or promoting our own agendas that we miss the bird and the flowers and each other and the gifts we’ve been given and the invitations extended to us right here and now to give the same gifts to others.  We’re so worried. So anxious. So fearful.
But Sabbath counters this.  It says, I am going to stop for a day. I am going to step off the crazy moving sidewalk and sit down and be here, right here, right now and not be driven by anxiety and worry, not think that I am personally so integral to the world moving forward that it can’t get along without me.
My God is not money, not accumulation and consumption, my God is the one who worked hard to make the world and then looked around and declared it good and flopped down for a nice long nap.  A day to rest. To let it all germinate. To take pleasure in the goodness of what God made, the ongoing life of it, to smell those lilies and listen to those birds sing, to relax and enjoy it. 
And my God is also the one who was born into all the anxious, worried, fearful moments in life and shared them with us to remind us that God is God and we are not alone.

So when we rest, we trust. We trust in God.  That despite what we see on the news and on the CT scan and on the bank statement that God IS in control in some way. That God IS loving. That God is God and we are not alone.

Jesus is always encouraging us to live like the kingdom of God is now, is here, live like it in the face of its absence, in opposition to those who would preach and live otherwise.  
Jesus is saying through all of this, in multiple ways,
Don’t participate blindly in the systems that dehumanize and threaten people, in systems that tell you you never have enough and you must always be about stockpiling and insuring and protecting.  
Instead, live from abundance and joy, live freely and love fully, be generous and authentic and leave tomorrow in the future. Today has enough adventure of its own. Today is where you are, and where God is, and where life really happens, after all.

This is not something that can be done alone, this not worrying thing, this not worshiping money thing, this living in today thing.  For human beings to be true human beings, like bird are birds and flowers are flowers and God is God, we must live interdependently, connected, supporting one another.  We can’t NOT worry alone. We choose not to worry together.

Seek first God’s kingdom and God’s righteousness – live out God’s justice and care for common humanity and creation, bind up the brokenhearted and look after the poor and love one another and let go of anger and be about the business of God in the world- and all these things, food, clothing, basic needs, will be covered. 
If we’re all caring for each other we are all cared for. If we are all sharing what we have with others we are all shared with.  There’s enough to go around, and in God’s kingdom all have what they need.  The kingdom of God takes the future of God’s promise and invites us to live it now, and in living it now, we are reminded of the future that is promised.

In the midst of a crisis, and all on my own, I could spin into a fantastic worrying vortex of death.  I need to be connected to other people who remind me of the truth, who keep me grounded in today and help me avoid obsessing over the million possibilities of what might be that threaten to strangle me.  I need to see myself not as a sole individual in the world, but as a part of the Body of Christ, just one little part and I can faithfully do my part but the whole body will care for one another, the whole body belongs to the God of past, present and future. 
And by the way, this isn’t about not feeling worried when the late notice or the lump appears. This isn’t about fixing your feelings. It is about together choosing to live in an alternative system, a kingdom reality. It’s about not letting worry or anxiety rule us or tell us how we are to live.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again and again: we remind each other of the truth, with our words and our actions, our money and our mouth, our shared struggles and joys.  We continue to tell each other who we are, and who God is, and which system, which kingdom, which reality, we are going to live from, and how we see that kingdom unfolding in the world.
Together we can live out faith, which is to say, we’ll practice trust in God. Together. And trust is a powerful anxiety reliever.  Worry paralyzes us, and prevents us from really living. But trust sets us free to participate joyfully in the life of God.  And we can be a people who practice trust.
“I have calmed and quieted my soul,” says the Psalmist, “like a weaned child with its mother; my soul is like the weaned child that is with me.  O Israel, hope in the LORD from this time on and forevermore.”
Amen.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Creating Ritual - Practicing faith with children

Last week my Methodist minister friend Mandy and I took our children on our annual winter "pilgrimage" to a small retreat center in Northern Minnesota.  Each year the kids are older and the dynamics are different, but it is rich and surprising every time.  This year we had two six year olds, a four year old, a three year old and a nine month old. Two moms and five kids in a cabin in the woods with no TV or video games.  It is our living sacrifice, our spiritual service of worship.

This is our third time, and we've perfected the packing: a huge tub of outdoor clothing and boots, sleds, a giant bin of legos, a small tent, a novel or small set of children's books, a couple of board games and a container of craft supplies - which sits in my storage room completely packed until the next year's trip rolls around.  We do not deviate from this assortment. It's tried and true. Oh, and a mix cd. Each year has its own mix cd.

While we're together at "Cabin in the Woods" we practice a "Goodnight Circle" - each sharing what we are glad about, and what we are sad or worried about from our day, and then praying for one another. We walk a labyrinth a few times a day - a remarkable feat (and great risk) with short legs in the snow, where monkey business or carelessness could ruin the whole design.  But from the first time, these children held a sacredness to the practice - even when run with speed and playfulness, they respected the common experience and rejoiced in the rhythm.  This year the snow labyrinth at the retreat center was not maintained, and the children missed it so much that we decided to create our own.  We found a book with instructions, and what followed was a poignant, joyful project that I will never, ever forget.










Most days we follow a trail to a prayer gazebo, where we light a candle and everyone "writes" prayers on small papers and shoves them in the cracks between the rocks.  Their paper prayers have gone from scribbles to single letters to whole words and now sentences as they quietly add their message to the silent, faded joys and griefs of visitors gone before.  Then we must sneak down the trail past the hermitage where someone is tucked away in silence and solitude with God, either blissfully unaware of, or mirthfully peeking out at, the parade of tiny, simultaneously sweaty and cold pilgrims in snowsuits and boots trudging through the trees.

Every day we eat lunch in the lodge, startling, overwhelming (and delighting?) solitary adult guests who are staying in retreat.  There the children fall into the lunch rhythm, which includes a reading - for which they must sit silently, and concludes with singing the World Peace Prayer, which in theory is sung by people at lunchtime in every timezone making it an endless prayer for global peace.

Bread is important to our time, for every meal and snacks, both because it is delicious and because the variety of heathy, organic vegetarian meals does not include anything remotely like pizza or chicken nuggets. (Wine is also important for the mommies' late night chats when all the kids are snoring under handmade quilts).  Mandy and I give each other breaks from the chaos; one of us will stay in the cottage with the kids while the other spends a couple of hours in the lodge for adult conversation, silent prayer, or to check email and Facebook.  And we end every night by the fire with our feet up and the deep forest darkness wrapping the cottage in stillness.

Somehow this crazy little trip to the last place you could ever imagine bringing children (winter, Northern Minnesota, a generally adult retreat center) has become an annual Sabbath ritual for us that we cannot imagine our lives without, and which has impacted us and our families in profound ways.
 Whether it is the kids' requests for the World Peace Prayer or ARC bread for dinner, the way the goodnight circle lingers in our evenings for a few months and resurfaces from time to time after that, the labyrinths they draw or are drawn to in worship settings, or the freedom with which they talk about God hearing their prayers, the power of this ritual has permeated our children.

And it has shown me that maybe one of the greatest spiritual gifts we can give our children is ritual.  Bedtime prayers, mealtime candles, Advent calendars and deep woods walks - helping our kids notice and experience God in ways other than speaking and listening, frees them.  It, paradoxically, helps to give them words.  It loosens up questions and opens up connections. It helps them see the sacredness of the world and the mystery of their place within it.  It gives them permission as children to create patterns  for themselves - (my daughter demands the Doxology as her bedtime song and my son collects prayer stones and shells).  It places their experience in church -- the lessons in Sunday school, the hymns in worship, the passing of the bread and cup -- in a wider, more generous context, and calls them personally to engage.  It reminds them that they belong to God, and that God is always with them.

And as parents, it gives us greater permission and courage to talk about God with our kids.  Ritual provides shared experiences and contexts from which to raise questions and tell stories. Impromptu praying or talking about God's presence in world events and frightening circumstances, struggling together with ethical issues and wondering what difference Jesus makes in our daily life and relationships becomes easier because we have shared in a common spoken and unspoken language of faith.  And for Mandy and myself, whose vocation is to speak about God ad naseaum, these simple rituals give us an alternative way to express faith, and to encounter God, our children and ourselves.

Most importantly, practicing simple rituals with our kids reiterates the oft-forgotten truth that faith in God is not a destination but a journey. Faith is not about learning right answers or correct beliefs.  It is about learning to trust ever more in the Creator of all who came to share this life with us -- birth and death and everything in between.  Faith is about discovering ourselves in the hands of the one who overcame death with life, and who is moving and breathing hope in the world even now.
And that is a journey we can share together.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

What such life looks like


"Reconciliation" - Coventry Cathedral

What do we really think of Jesus’ words? If he walked in here today stood in front of us and said them to us outloud, how would we react? Would we think him weak? Idealistic? Impractical?  Would we consider him harsh, demanding, out of touch with real life?

It’s hard to consider this as unrealistic as I might normally when just last week, through mostly nonviolent means, the people of Egypt overthrew a 30 year rule. Standing together, praying together, camping together, refusing to back down but not resorting to violence. It’s hard to call this totally impractical when this very passage inspired Ghandi’s non-violent resistance – who said “I like your Christ, I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”
When Martin Luther King Jr. and the civil rights movement that brought such an astounding change to our nation were so informed by these words, it gives them some credibility on the large scale, which is all well and good, but leaves me a little at a loss with what to do with them in my own life.

I have the privilege of knowing a few truly, deeply honest people. People of fearsome integrity who need their lives and their words to mean something. So when they read something like this: be perfect as your father in heaven is perfect – it really upsets them. They’re unable to explain it away or ignore it or pretend they didn’t read it. They can’t just see it as a nice religious pipe dream, a goal to aim for but never actually consider achieving, like most of us might. They can’t use historical context or rhetorical style to excuse what it seems to be demanding, or consider it broad guidelines for a peaceful revolution that don’t speak directly to you and me.  This kind of scripture really messes with them. These people really think it should mean something when Jesus says to turn the other cheek or go the extra mile.

We’ve been talking about the bible for several weeks in Adult Ed, and we have learned that the lens you read scripture with will shape what you get from it.  So try on this lens, which some of us may have had at some point in our lives. What if the whole point of this faith, the central claim, the goal of it all was this: God is in charge and God wants people to be good. And God is punitive. God is harsh and judging. God has high standards and most of us will not make it.  But we’re supposed to try anyway.
So turn the other cheek, go the extra mile, pray for your enemies, and be perfect.  Be the impossible. Be good because God is good. You’ll most likely fail, but you’re supposed to die trying. And then hopefully God will make up the difference and let you in in the end anyway.

That’s how one lens might read it. Does read it.  But we can’t read this as a command to be the impossible, as some unreachable goal we aim for and hope for the best because we have a different lens.  We’ve pretty much agreed that the central claim of all of scripture, the purpose of it, in fact, that which Jesus embodies in the flesh and speaks of with his words, that which the disciples proclaim and gospel authors write, and the Old Testament stories explore and the New Testament letters explain and church communities throughout time are founded upon and our whole faith revolves around is this:
God loves us. God wants a relationship with us. God creates and sustains and empowers life so that God can be in relationship with God’s creatures and God’s creation.  And God wants us to be in relationship with each other that reflects this love.

So this passage isn’t saying be good or God will get you. It is saying be love because God is love.  This scripture is another stanza in this lengthy teaching –we are still in the Sermon on the Mount here, that began with the Beatitudes, blessed are the brokenhearted for they will be comforted! - another in a long line of Jesus talking about what life really is, about what it means to really live, about the kingdom of God that upholds the weak and cares for the poor – the kingdom where all people are loved and respected, and each person is fully, wholly, completely human. The kingdom of love we now are to live out.

Be perfect, it says. Not American, perfectionistic, I’s dotted and T’s crossed, botoxed, honor roll, pageant perfect. It comes from the Greek word, telos or goal, end, completion. Be complete, be whole, be fully you, just as God is fully God. Have the same goal – that is love and connection – that God has.  Live in God’s fullness.

We live half-way much of the time.  We demand respect but don’t respect others. We rank and judge people and think some deserve things others don’t. We keep track of the wrongs done to us, and hurt those who hurt us.  We limit our own humanity and that of others because we are consumed with fairness, and we know how to look out for number one even at the expense of anything or anyone else. An eye for an eye keeps us in check because we’re more likely to rip off the whole face.

But what would it be to live so secure in our life and the love of God that when someone slapped you on the cheek you could look them in the eye, and then offer them your other cheek as well? That when someone sued you for the shirt off your back you’d give them your coat also. Here! Might as well take this too. It’s a matching set! 
What does such an astounding and unexpected response do to the whole fabric of the situation?  How does it change both people involved?

Two weeks ago the session headed to ARC Retreat Center for our annual retreat.  Surrounded by the majesty of tall creaking trees and the stillness of the snow, we sat by a fire with mugs of hot coffee and tea and pondered what it means to live in God’s welcome. We talked about what it is to really welcome one another each time and every time, mutually, authentically.  Not to take each other for granted. Not to act as though we had anything to lose. To be generous, open, honest, trusting, seeing each other, hearing each other, recognizing and appreciating each person for who they are and not just the role they play. What would we be, we wondered, if we really deeply embodied God’s hospitality? What power is there in that for this little community? For the world?

Last weekend I was in Atlanta to baptize little Sloan Elizabeth Flemming.  I looked out on a congregation of people making vows to this child, vows that, let’s be honest, most of them wont do anything about keeping.
I put the water on her head, and it was just water, wet and messy and a little cold, nothing magical about it. I spoke words over her, just words, ordinary, human words, nothing powerful, no incantations or charms. And we prayed for her. We asked God to do something.

And that’s the thing. We are just human beings. We are not in this alone. On our own it’s a pointless ritual, this baptism, a mime, a mockery even. On our own it’s a lie. Death will get you.  There is nothing more than this life, that we have to offer. Violence is powerful and atrophy and disease and decay are part of the order of things, and relationships fall apart and people betray you and this community making promises to you will fail you at some point or another, and you will let yourself down time and again, and life has got some pretty awful surprises up its sleeve, and we are all play-acting if we stand around that font and think that what we are doing has the power to change any of that.

But we prayed, and we asked God to do something, and we believe God does something, because it’s not about us. It’s not up to us. This message, here, today, is not about us. Jesus, sitting among his disciples, pounding it into them - Matthew just packing all these things together in the world’s longest, most dense sermon- like if we just keep saying it in different ways it might eventually sink in.

I am telling you about a different way of being! A different way of living! A way that is not like this world, and not naturally within you, and not like anything you could dream up. I am telling you about what God is up to.  God is making a world where the blind can see and the lame can walk and the powerless are made strong and justice is real and hope is shared by all and people are free to be fully alive, to love God and one another unabashedly.

And you can be part of that now! Even now, in this life where people hit you and sue you and talk only to their friends and hate their enemies really well – you can be part of what God is up to by refusing to participate in that reality. It looks like this:
You may hit me if you choose, but I will not hit you back, I will not spit on your or call you names. I will not cower from you. I will offer you my other cheek, and in this way I will choose my role, not you, and not fear. I choose to use my power differently than you are using yours. I will meet you and you will meet me. I am not defined by this moment, but by something greater.
If you take something from me, I will give you even more. I will not live as though life is filled with scarcity and dread, pitting us against one another to survive. Instead I will live in abundance, having what I need, and you will have to see me, to deal with me; I will give you my cloak and you will have to reach out your hand to take it from mine. Human to human. You are not defined by this moment, but by something greater.

What would it look like if one, two, ten, a hundred, a thousand, a whole community, a movement or a nation, the Church of Jesus Christ in the whole world, began practicing this?  This kingdom of God living, this upside down and inside out, illogical love-driven living? 
If nobody hits back, what would happen to the hitting? If everybody is giving things away, what stealing can there be?  If people go around praying for each other, could there hardly be an enemy left?  Because how can you imagine God holding someone, how can you ask God to care for someone, to see and hear them, and not begin to see and hear them yourself?  To see the ways you are both connected? To hear the struggles you share, to recognize the humanity that comes out for each of you in broken ways?

You’re not going to get this right every time. In fact, most of the time you’ll slap that cheek right back before you’ve realized what you’re doing, and then you’ll have to apologize all over the place.  But there is hope here for us because it is not about us.  There is hope for the world because God loves the world. God is loving the world. Jesus is here today, among us, between us, with us and for us.

Be whole, live in God’s fullness, exist in God’s love the way God does.  It’s an invitation. It’s a possibility.  It’s a prayer.  God, help us to live your kingdom of love!  And let it change us. Let it change the world.
Amen.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Confessions of a Humbled Multi-tasker or Lessons in Grace

I was just recalling this experience with a friend.  This post is from January 2010 - all you Minister Moms out there know the challenges... they soften and shape us.




I was bit today in church. With teeth.
 An angry 5 year old knew he had me over a barrel, unable to escort him out or chew him out. With too much self consciousness to have a real, full-throttle outburst, he chose instead to writhe, bite, crawl under pews, whimper, and finally to slide his chair past all the pews up to the communion table while I was officiating, and generously bring another chair along for his little sister.

All in a whisper I bargained, cajoled, threatened (a lot), scolded, pleaded, and was bested. Daddy was away teaching, a guest preacher shared the word with us today, and I sat in the pews with my children. Which may have been manageable if that was all I did, but I also led communion, and was involved enough in the rest of the service that I couldn't leave for a kneeling in the hallway come-to-Jesus, or a family escape to a room with toys.  Instead I did the concluding prayer with one kid sobbing on my hip and the other thrashing on the floor in the center of sanctuary.

I made the mommy-minister mistake: I crossed the line. For other minister-moms it might be different. But for my family, we have a line.  We had set it up that there are are certain times mommy is not available.  And over time, we had all gotten to be ok with this.  Mommy just doesn't sit with us in church.  We can see her, and shake her hand at the passing of the peace, and stand with her at the end when she says good morning to people, but she is not here to sit with us.  But today, I thought, why not?
Ohhh. That's why not.

My friend asked me, on the phone afterwards, “What did you learn from this?” I sheepishly admitted that I cannot do it all (especially at the same time), and that next time I would arrange for someone else to watch them, or let them spend the day with Grandma, or otherwise try not to be all things to all people, because then I am not very much for anybody.
Sorry children.  Sorry congregation.

I can't help but hope that when they grow older our minister-mom line will disappear. That one day they, and I, will be able to handle me being in both roles simultaneously.  And I can't help but wonder and worry what they are absorbing subconsciously, what our actions are teaching them about God, or church, or grace.
But I do know that when things are really bad - like today- they still feel from the congregation that they belong. That they are loved.  As when they were included in the communion circle despite their refusal to participate in anything else.  As when someone brought them instruments for the closing hymn, despite their brazen flaunting of order and decorum.

And so when someone looks into my kid's face and says, "The body of Christ, broken for YOU" and then helps him pass it to the next person, I guess my kids are learning an awful lot about God, and church, and grace.  And maybe they teach us something too, or me, at least.  That this is a place - or THE place - where we bring all of who we are, messy and tidy, and participate as much as we are able.  And together we share in the task of being human, with and for one another, and letting each other be human, as we gather in the presence of God who shared our humanity, God with and for us.
May I learn that lesson too.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Calvin and the Chimpmunks

In the past few months, I have had the privilege of working with the group of theologically savvy and incredibly creative folks behind the newish confirmation curriculum, re:form, writing and participating in the creation of the new segment, being released this Spring - re:form Traditions.
So all you Lutherans, Methodists and Reformed types, check it out - this is some really excellent material!

Sunday, February 6, 2011

You are salt.



We are still in the season of Epiphany, where we notice the light that has come into the world, the Light OF the World. Where we talk about Jesus’ ministry and mission and see that everything has changed, all is now illuminated.
That is why it is strange to me, to hear the words of this passage.  Jesus’ words to his disciples immediately after the Beatitudes.  “You are the light of the world.” he says, We are? You must mean, we have the light of the world, don’t you? You must mean we bring or hold or see the light of the world… because, after all, Jesus, YOU are the light of the world. You said so yourself!  

And so we hear it with dubious ears, with insecure and unsure and unlistening ears.  It’s safer, we conclude, to assume he is saying, “You should be the light of the world, and you had better be the salt of the earth, if you want to be of any use to me, that is.” That must be what he means. 
We should do good works, you know, like random acts of kindness, we should pray a lot and help other people and hold our tongues and just try really, really hard to be who God must want us to be.  We’re an example, or something, right? We’re supposed to be Christians, whatever that means anymore. So maybe we just work really hard not to look like what we think people think Christians look like… and just try to be “good” instead. So, “You are the salt of the earth, the light of the world.” means, “You should be good. really really good.”

But that is not what he is saying at all.  Have you ever known salt to lose its saltiness? Salt is always salty, that’s what makes it salt. It could dissolve or something, but it couldn’t really get unsalty, it would cease to be salt, as he says, and would be good for nothing at all, but maybe, as some traction for road worn sandals, if that.  
And what’s up with this bushel? Jesus points out that nobody lights a candle and puts a basket on top if it if they don’t want to start the thing on fire, or put it out right away.  It’s just not really done; it makes no sense.  These examples Jesus gives are absurd. And yet we cannot hear what he is saying, still. We think we had better start shining, better buckle down and get salty.

I love that when Jesus is teaching people about the kingdom of heaven, about what it means that the God of the universe is involved in all this, about things holy and magnificent, he uses salt, candles, bread, wine, day laborers, farmers planting fields, camels and needles and utterly ordinary and everyday things that we ordinary and everyday people can identify.  It’s disturbing, actually, how completely human he assumes his listeners to be. I mean, come on, we’re supposed to be super holy and spiritual, right?  We’ve decided that already, but you keep throwing us off by talking about sheep and runaway sons and women losing coins, and salt.

People, you are salt. Not you are like salt, you are. You are the light of the world.  A statement. A declaration. You. are. salt.  You bring out the flavor of everything else. You are an essential ingredient that helps the dish be whatever it is meant to be.  You’re not the be all, end all; you’re not the whole cookie. You’re the salt.

I once made a huge batch of chocolate chip cookies and I forgot to add the salt.  They were gorgeous coming out of the oven, and they smelled divine, but when you bit into them you discovered they were bland and tasteless. Lumps of chewy nothing with some chocolate here and there. After trying to make it work with some milk-dunking and whatnot, I finally threw the whole batch away. Salt matters.

It does. Apparently, wars have been fought over the stuff. I looked it up. There are approximately 14,000 uses for salt.  Salt preserves, cleans, disinfects, heals, treats, refines, flavors, de-ices, softens, processes, conditions, de-greases, protects, blanches, pickles, cures, brines, and soothes - to name just a few.  Salt is important stuff. But by itself, alone, it’s just… salt. It doesn’t do anything.  It’s only helpful when it’s mixed up, spread on, scrubbed into, sprinkled throughout, or dissolved within.  In other words, it needs something to react to, to interact with; it has its purpose in relation to something else.

And light, what is light all alone with nothing to shine on? Might as well stick a basket on top of it for all the good it does.  Light illuminates, light reveals, light uncovers and exposes and brightens and clarifies. It enables you to see, it enables.  Light makes possible other things, it helps life to be lived, and work to be done, and discoveries to be made and interactions to occur.  It reveals beauty and uncovers ugliness and drives away the demons that lurk in the shadows and illuminates exquisite moments both ordinary and extraordinary.

You have a purpose, Jesus says. You are the salt of the earth, the light of the world. The world is made more savory, stronger, healthier because of you, lies are exposed and hope is detected because of you.  Colors are brightened and textures uncovered, pain is diminished and wounds are cleansed, because of you. I have already put you in the world for a reason.  All you have to do is be you. 

And sometimes that is one of the hardest things there is. To be a human being with other human beings. Not to turn away from their sorrow or ugliness.  Not to retreat into the safety of darkness in the face of conflict or corruption.  To stay present, to stay involved, to stay invested. 
The bad news, then, is tied up in the good. You don’t get to choose not to be salt or light. That’s who you are, even when you aren’t acting like it. It’s your identity, your purpose, you reason for being.  You’re the one in the situation who is not allowed to stay silent, not allowed to turn away, not allowed to close your eyes.  You’re in it.  Like Jesus is.
A city on a hill, after all, can’t be hidden.
The good news is there too, though. You don’t make yourself salt and you can’t muster up the light. That is God’s decision, God’s creation and God’s power.  You just need to be real. You just need to be awake, present, engaged.  To see others.  To notice.  To participate.  God is already doing something, and we are part of it. That’s the bottom line.

I am passing around a picture that has haunted me all week long.  I’ve watched in fascination as the Egyptian people have cried out for freedom and made their voices heard in protest.  And this photo captures a moment within that.  It is a picture of Christians standing guard around Muslims who are bowing down in prayer. Creating a human wall to protect their brothers and sisters kneeling behind them.  And as soon as I saw it I was struck by it.  We don’t go out and “Be good Christians.” You’ve heard the old saying, “salt of the earth woman, she is.” like she just walks around sinless and preserved in isolated, artificial goodness.  Our life, our faith, is always in relation to others.  This is them being salt, being light. Linking arms with each other around these brothers and sisters and guarding them as they pray.  This is not about what they think or believe, any of them, it’s not keeping themselves pure or trying to change the essential nature of the people around them, or proving anything at all.  It is purely acting in the midst of that situation, as true human beings, acting from love. Acting from our connection with one another. And here they are. salt. light.

The other thing to recognize about all this is that our self-conscious ears hear this individually. YOU, person, are the salt. YOU are the light. “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.” Come hell or highwater, baby, I wont let Satan blow it out!  But YOU is plural, it is communal.  You are the salt. Together, arms linked, all of you. 
So I guess I can think of ways we collectively could lose, or at least deny, our saltiness. We could turn on each other or divide ourselves from one another. We could forget we’re salt and act like we’re the meat and potatoes instead. But the church does not exist for itself. The church exists for the world. The world that God loves; all of humanity and creation that God is redeeming. The church is meant to illuminate, brighten, expose, flavor, heal, preserve, enhance, restore and light up the world.  We are who we are for a reason.

So, as much as we’d like, in our spiritual insecurity, to hear this as a command, it is really more of a benediction. A blessing.  A naming. You are the salt of the earth, lucky earth, delighted and grateful earth! You’re there to bring out its flavor and tend its sore places!

You are the light of the world, powerful light, bright and vivid light, what wonders you reveal when you shine! What sadnesses you uncover and joys you divulge!  The world cannot escape you, nor you it. You are in it, for it, and that is as it should be!

May we taste our saltiness and recognize our radiance and not shy away from our purpose.  May the world be blessed, and we a blessing.  May our “light shine for others and give glory to God.”

How to Repent (It's not how you think)

Psalm 46 ,  Jeremiah 31:31-34 When I was in college, I spent the large part of one summer sleeping on a 3-foot round papason chair cushion o...