The Tempting Cinder Block (Reflections on Lent 1, Year A 2023)

 

Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him. (Matthew 4:11)

I don’t talk about this much, but one of the less-attractive aspects of my life is the fact that I’m an alcoholic. This is a rather unfortunate characteristic for one whose job requires taking a small sip of wine every Sunday morning, but I rather consider that small sip as the true blood of our Lord and Savior, so it hasn’t done me any harm in the 30+ years since I’ve avoided less temperate indulgence. That being said, like all stupid drinkers, I came to a point where I realized I just wasn’t having any fun anymore. I decided it was time for me to give up this nasty habit which was proving to be both expensive and conducive to promoting the less convivial aspects of my otherwise sunny personality. The problem, however, was I had grown so accustomed to having booze in my life that I didn’t know who I was or what I’d do without it. 

My own analogy for addiction looks something like this: Imagine your life as a bookshelf. You can picture on that shelf the brightly colored spines of an impressive collection of erudite tomes—books of philosophy and art and all manner of knowledge. These are the stuff of your life and personality. Except that the books aren’t real. What is really on the shelf is your addiction. It’s a great big cinder block taking up space, but painted up to look like all the magnificent aspects you wish your life would contain. This block is filling the shelf, and if you want to put something real and truly valuable there, you’re going to have to get rid of the cinder block. 

But here’s the problem. Once you remove the cinder block, the shelf is empty. You look at it and feel like you have nothing. You become too impatient to find the valuable things which should really be on that shelf, so you give in to temptation and slam the cinder block back on it. It may be an empty waste of the space of your life, but at least it’s something. Or so you think. 

This is the situation we find Jesus in in our gospel reading for Lent 1, Year A (Matthew 4:1-11). Up to this point, he’s been a carpenter. I’m sure he had plenty of work to do. Now, however, he’s encountered John the Baptist, he’s been baptized, the Holy Spirit has descended upon  him, and God’s voice has declared him God’s beloved son. Everything normal and familiar is gone, and the Spirit sends him out into the wilderness, away from everybody and with nothing to eat. 

How would you feel when everything familiar has slipped away? Here’s Jesus in a transitional stage. He’s left his old life. He’s got no one to talk to. He’s got nothing to eat. He’s in a desert and, as far as the eye can see, there’s nothing to look at. Was he frightened, do you think? Was he lonely? Did he feel confused? How would you feel? 

This is the moment when temptation always seems to strike. Whenever we feel we’ve lost something familiar—even if that thing was toxic to us—we become vulnerable. Maybe it was a bad relationship. Maybe it was a job. Maybe it was your health or a favorite hobby you can’t do anymore. Maybe you’ve retired and are sitting at home wondering what to do with your time. Maybe your children have gone off to college or moved away and you no longer have the identity of being a parent and care-giver anymore. Maybe your spouse has died. At such moments the Devil loves to whisper stupid stuff in your ears. 

Every transition is a little death. It’s always tempting to dwell on what was lost instead of focusing on the possibilities of what may be ahead. Grief can take us into really frightening places, places where we’d rather eat the rocks of bitterness than taste the real bread of life. Or perhaps we’re ready to throw ourselves off the pinnacle of the temple. It may not be a temptation to suicide, but a great temptation to think because something that mattered has gone, nothing matters anymore. There may be the temptation to despair, which Luther called a “great and shameful sin.[i]” 

So here’s Jesus all alone in a wasteland facing the Devil by himself. What does he have to defend himself with? He has God’s Word. He has the promise of scripture. But I take comfort in two things. First, that Jesus never was really alone. God was always there. In our times of liminal confusion and temptation, Jesus has been where we are. Jesus has felt the loneliness, the emptiness, and the temptation just as we do. There’s no place we’ll go where he hasn’t been. 

The second thing which really jumps out at me as I read this passage of the gospel again, is that angels were there to minister to the tempted. I would never have been able to beat my own addiction if it hadn’t been for those in whom I confided, to whom I confess, and who were there to say, “Yeah, I’ve been there too.” 

When I’m called on to officiate a funeral service, I always close my interview with the grieving family members with a prayer. I pray that God will put into their lives the people who need to be there, who will be understanding and supportive during this wilderness time. So often in my own life, in times of transition, I’ve been waited on by God’s messengers in human form. 

Our wilderness times can be challenging and frightening and leave us vulnerable to temptation. But God’s Word dwells within us, and God’s angels are never far away.

Perhaps you'll be an angel yourself this week. A blessed Lent, my friend, and thanks for stopping by.

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[i] See Luther’s explanation to the Sixth Petition of the Lord’s Prayer in the Small Catechism.

Dust We Are (Reflections on Ash Wednesday, 2023)

 

“By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19) 

It was Ash Wednesday 2018, just five years ago. Fourteen-year-old Alyssa Alhadeff went off to school that day, probably looking forward to soccer practice. She loved the game, and she dreamed that one day she’d play on the US Olympic Women’s Team. Alyssa was the smallest girl on her school’s team, but it is said she was the feistiest. The girls on her team said she was a natural leader. 

But Alyssa never came home from school that day. Neither did sixteen others—students and staff—who were at Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida on that Ash Wednesday five years ago. A newspaper image published after the horrible events of that day shows two mothers embracing—one clearly displaying a cross smudged in ashes on her forehead. 

How could anyone know, when they awoke that morning, what the day would bring? How can any of us prepare ourselves in a world where death seems to come so randomly? An earthquake takes over forty thousand lives, and we call this an act of God. Yet godless acts are all around us—over 500 homicides in the city of Philadelphia in 2022. As of last Friday there have been 76 mass shootings in the United States since January 1^st of this year, leaving 87 dead and 205 wounded. A day at school, a trip to the mall or grocery store, sitting in the bleachers at your grandson’s basketball game—who knows at what moment your whole life will change? Or end? 

How do we respond? With fear or denial? I heard a program on National Public Radio this past week about the ways we respond to traumatic events. Some will always choose to see the most emotionally crushing occurrences as motivation to make changes. They will seek some way to bring a beam of grace out of the shadows of horror. The two mothers I mentioned above, whose children were lost in the Parkland shooting, have each become advocates for gun safety. 

But the pundits interviewed by NPR also mentioned the importance of ritual remembrance. Ritual and ceremony are our ways to try to heal the curse of being human—the curse articulated in the third chapter of Genesis: “Dust you are, and to dust you shall return.” So we gather together to remember our fragile humanity. We stamp the remembrance on our consciences, and on Ash Wednesday we mark it on our foreheads to remind ourselves and those who see us how very vulnerable we are. And, perhaps, in the knowledge of that vulnerability, will come the remembrance of how precious each life is. 

We make the mark of our shared mortality in the shape of a cross, which also serves to remind us of how God entered into our vulnerable, breakable, human lives and endured the violence and the pain that are so much—and too much—a part of our experience. He walked with us, and, in these forty days of Lent, we walk with him. 

Ash Wednesday is our annual wake-up call, our day of remembrance that life is so delicate and uncontrollable. It is the day we hear St. Paul remind us “Now is the acceptable time; see, now is the day of salvation.” It is a time to look at the tiny blink of God’s eye that is our allotted time on earth and rededicate our lives to loving God and one another and making Christ known. 

We are called to remember the disciplines of these forty days. We are called to be generous—not as the hypocrites who seek to gain by giving. After all, if we think what we do will influence God, we are only fooling ourselves. Our efforts at appeasement aren’t religious. They’re superstitious. Now is the time to let God influence us. Our reward is in knowing we have done what is righteous—what has been the fruit of our relationship with God. We must ask if we wish to be remembered for what we’ve acquired or for what we’ve given away. 

We are also called into prayer. And prayer can take different forms. It might just be the quiet meditation, the stilling of our minds, focusing on what really matters to us. It might be in contemplation of words of faith. What is faith? What is salvation? What is righteousness? What is religion? We might even try to contemplate what is God? But the contemplation of our own precarious position may lead us to prayers of intercession for all of those around us who hurt or need healing. Our prayers take us out of ourselves and open our hearts to others. 

Finally, in Lent we are called to fast. It’s not about losing weight or punishing ourselves. The self-denial of this season is meant to be a time of re-evaluation. If we give up a fattening food or a pack of cigarettes, do we consider how much better we feel and how much less of a burden we’d be to others should our bad habits cause us health issues? If we give up binging on the internet, can we have more time for prayer? For sharing with our loved ones? For reading the Scriptures? For simply putting our lives in order? Can we use these forty days to shed some toxins from our lives? 

In biblical times ashes were signs of shame or grief or, in some cases, could be used to staunch wounds. Now is the time, at the start of this holy season, to wear the ashes. Ashes of shame which Jesus forgives. Ashes of grief which Jesus comforts. Ashes for healing to staunch the flow of either denial or fear. 

Dust we are, and to dust we shall return—but not today.

In the Classroom with Jesus (Reflections on Epiphany 6, Year A 2023)

 

"Sermon on the Mount" Carl Bloch, 19th Cent.

My tenth grade English teacher, Mr. Hollis, was a nervous sort of man, but he always tried to be tactful and compassionate with his students. One day he had the unpleasant duty of informing our class that the essays we’d just written had, unfortunately, sucked. He returned the batch of them to us, each essay defaced with blood red corrections, proofreader’s marks, and copious notes written in the margins in his tidy, professorial handwriting. He then launched on a patient but comprehensive refresher lecture on how we might attempt to put cogent thoughts on paper in an intelligible manner. 

When he finished the talk and gave the next assignment, he quietly asked, “Owen? Could I see you at my desk for a moment?” I realized that he had not yet returned my paper, and, although I felt I’d done a pretty good job on it, I feared I too had disappointed him with my insipid prose. To my relief he returned my essay with very few correction marks and whispered, “You actually did very well on this, so I’m going to exempt you from the re-write assignment.” He then opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a small, battered, and dog-eared red paperback book. He handed it to me furtively, as if he were giving me a bag of weed. Indeed, that little volume was contraband, a volume not sanctioned by any school district back in the day. It was The Catcher in the Rye. Mr. Hollis said, “I think you might like this.” I did. 

I’ve had great teachers and professors in my academic life, all of whom have been kind to me and have taught me great facts and skills. But Richard Hollis was the teacher who taught me how to organize thoughts on paper, how to see hidden or potential ideas, and how to present them in a clear and meaningful way. He was the teacher who taught me how to think. 

Jesus is also a teacher who compels us to examine our ideas and question what we think we know. Let’s remember that Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount wasn’t really a sermon. It was a teachable moment for those who chose to be his pupils. Jesus the rabbi teaches us how to think and see things in a different and more profound way. The passage selected by the Revised Common Lectionary for Epiphany 6, Year A (Matthew5:21-37) is almost a master class in didacticism. Bible scholars call this part of the Sermon the antitheses—that is, Jesus states a thesis and then presents a different view. 

Like a good salesman, Jesus starts by getting us to say, “yes.” Murder is bad, right? We shouldn’t go around killing people, right? But what about hate or anger? What about insults which dehumanize another person? Don’t these attitudes and behaviors come from the same place as murder? Aren’t they just mini murders? Are they less of a sin because no human life is lost? Aren’t we all murderers in some way? 

And what about adultery? Yes, we all agree we shouldn’t go stepping out on our spouses. But what about lust? Is the thought of infidelity as damaging as the deed? Doesn’t such a thought intimate a crack in a sacred relationship? Or, should we have no partner to whom we may be disloyal, doesn’t the wandering eye make its object into a thing for our own gratification and deny the essential humanity of the one after whom it lusts? 

Are there such things as big or little sins? Or is a sin just a sin? It’s tempting—isn’t it?—to be able to look down on those whom we consider to be “bigger sinners” than we ourselves are, but Jesus’ teaching compels us to think about our own ideas and actions. We’re forced to recognize that, as we sit in our pews on Sunday morning, we’re surrounded by our fellow murderers and adulterers. The knowledge of our sin, as Martin Luther would remind us, drives us back to our need for God’s forgiving grace. Possibly, if we see ourselves as sinners and have compassion for our own shortcomings, the knowledge of our sin will create in us a sense of compassion for others. Perhaps we will be driven to be less judgmental and more understanding. 

As a teacher, Jesus is always pushing us to look beyond the surface. You’ll notice whenever Jesus is questioned, he rarely gives a straight answer. He often answers questions with more questions, causing the questioner to go deeper and examine his own motives. We don't betray or deny our faith when we question it; rather, we participate in it.

Jesus even questioned the accepted teachings of his day. He acknowledges that divorce was certainly legal, but he challenges his pupils to question whether or not it was ethical. This issue takes a little explanation, and we should certainly look at it in light of the time in which the story takes place. Divorce was a controversial hot topic in Jesus’ time—not unlike abortion or LGBTQ rights are today[i]. Some Jews figured it was perfectly acceptable to kick their wives to the curb if they found something displeasing in her. This could result in the women becoming destitute. Jesus is actually standing up for women’s rights when he denounces this cavalier practice. It may be legal, but it’s still a breach of faith.[ii] 

But then we have to ask, is it right to look down on divorced folks if we’re all adulterers in some way? And if Jesus denounced divorce to protect the women, shouldn’t we encourage divorce if a woman is in an abusive relationship? 

Just as my old English teacher taught me to look at how I presented ideas, Jesus in this passage encourages us to consider the things we say and how we say them. Remember that most people in Jesus’ time weren’t all that literate. A verbal vow was taken as a contract. Jesus asks us to consider our behavior, our intentions, and our respect for God’s divinity. If we say “yes,” it should be yes. Our character, example, and respect for the truth makes anything more unnecessary. 

As Christians we are life-long learners. Our classroom is the Bible and being in daily conversation with Jesus. 

Thanks for stopping by this week.

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[i] See Matthew 19:1-12. This issue keeps cropping up.

[ii] Bible scholars think the line about “unchastity” being grounds for divorce was added later. It doesn’t appear in the parallel verses in Mark (Mk 10:11-12) or Luke (Lk 16:18). The Greek word for adultery is moicheia. The word used for “unchastity” is porneias (the same root word from which our word pornography comes). This was probably a caveat for divorce added by early Jewish Christians to allow non-Jewish converts to divorce from incestuous marriages permitted in their own culture but distasteful to Jews.

 

Keep Shining! (Reflections on Pentecost 5, Year A 2023)

“Shout out; do not hold back!  Lift up your voice like a trumpet! (Isaiah 58:1a) 

So how much do you know about Isaiah? Most of us know that he was an Old Testament prophet, and that the book which bears his name takes up a big chunk of the Bible. Besides those two things, I don’t think many folks in the pews could say much about the old boy. There’s not a lot of plot in Isaiah. Books like Genesis and Judges and First and Second Samuel have all kinds of exciting blood and gore and sex and are a lot more fun to read at the beach. Isaiah is kind of dry. So! I figured I’d start this post with a little background on this long-winded prophet. 

First off, Isaiah’s not really that long-winded. A whole lot of the stuff that makes up the book of Isaiah was really written long after the prophet had gone to his heavenly reward. In fact, he’d probably been dead a good 300 years by the time the book was put into the form in which we find it in our Bibles. What’s more, the prophet himself probably didn’t write a word of the book, but had some of his prophesies written down by scribes. Other parts of the book were written by his disciples or later writers influenced by Isaiah. It was a thing back in the ancient world—in the days before copyrights and royalty fees—to give your teacher or the person who inspired you credit for the stuff you wrote under his influence[i]. 

The actual prophet Isaiah, as far as anyone can tell, may have started his prophetic work around the year 692 BCE. Things were actually pretty groovy back then for both the northern kingdom of Israel and the southern kingdom of Judah. But Isaiah, being a clever guy, noticed some rather disturbing developments. First, King Uzziah of Judah had just died. He was no longer king at that time because he got a bad case of leprosy and was forced to give up the throne to his son. Some folks said the leprosy was God’s punishment on Uzziah for his pride. Isaiah noticed that pride and political treachery of one kind or another seemed to be the order of the day for both kingdoms. Secondly, the Assyrian Empire was growing in strength and just spoiling to find some nearby disorderly kingdom to pick on. This did not bode well for Israel or Judah. Isaiah began to sound the alarm that, unless the people and their leaders stopped being selfish jerks and began working together for the common good, things were going to go south real quick. He was right. 

For the next three centuries or so, prophets writing in the name of Isaiah would be saying basically the same thing: Get your act together because God won’t protect you from the results of your own selfish, prideful, and compassionless stupidity. They could say the same thing to us in America today. 

Our First Lesson for Pentecost 5 in the Revised Common Lectionary (Isaiah 58:1-9a) was actually addressed (in Isaiah’s name) to the people of the post-exilic nation some 200 years after Isaiah first began his preaching. The exile was over, the families of the captives had been allowed to return to the land promised to their ancestor Abraham, and everything was supposed to be peachy again, just like in the good ol’ days. Except it wasn’t. Some new Isaiah had to tell them their Old Time Religion didn’t mean anything unless it was connected to a sense of justice, compassion, and a mission to be a blessing to the world. The folks needed to stop feeling sorry for themselves and start looking after the needy and the oppressed.

Fast forward to New Testament times. Jesus, in our Gospel Lesson (Matthew 5: 13-20), tells us the same thing all those Isaiahs told us. But he puts a different spin on it. Jesus reminds us that we—all of us who bear the name of Christ—are the salt of the earth. We are the ones who have been blessed with the gospel. We are inheritors of eternal life. We are baptized into God’s forgiving grace. We are given the encouraging gift of the Scriptures, the sacraments, and the fellowship of one another. God’s actually been pretty darn good to us. We have nothing to feel sorry about. We need to stop looking inward and start looking outward to the mission God has given us. 

We can’t keep our light under a bushel basket. Our faith can’t just be about our individual salvation. The church which is emerging today has to be a church concerned with mission and dedicated to the healing of the world. The emerging church doesn’t replace the old church. It builds on its foundation. Just as Jesus tells his disciples that he hasn’t come to abolish the law but to fulfill it (v. 17). The emerging church will be all about fulfilling the law to love God and love everyone else through deeds of mercy and the promotion of social justice. 

But what if all we have is a small congregation of retired folks and widows? In that case, we rejoice that we are the salt of the earth, and that God allows and inspires us to continue to do the ministry we do. Just by being the church we are still able to feed hungry folks, welcome strangers, promote healing, and create fellowship. Our light keeps shining, and that’s a reason to shout. 

Keep shining! Thanks for reading this week!

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[i] Yup. I said “his” influence. Women didn’t seem to be allowed much of a say back then.