When the Spirit Needs a Bath (Reflections on Epiphany 4, Year B 2024)

 

²¹ They went to Capernaum, and when the Sabbath came, he entered the synagogue and taught. ²² They were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority and not as the scribes. ²³ Just then there was in their synagogue a man with an unclean spirit, ²⁴ and he cried out, “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.” ²⁵ But Jesus rebuked him, saying, “Be quiet and come out of him!” ²⁶ And the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying with a loud voice, came out of him. ²⁷ They were all amazed, and they kept on asking one another, “What is this? A new teaching—with authority! He^[a] commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.” ²⁸ At once his fame began to spread throughout the surrounding region of Galilee. (Mark 1:21-28)

Okay, so just how exactly did all of this go down? Whenever I’ve read the above passage (our gospel lesson for Epiphany 4, Year B in the Revised Common Lectionary), I imagine Jesus just blithely preaching his interesting little homily when suddenly—BANG!—the doors of the synagogue burst open and some drooling, demon-possessed maniac rushes in and starts ranting at the Lord. This time, however, I’m really paying attention to that bit about his teaching them “as one having authority and not as their scribes.”

So maybe it happened like this. The good folks of Capernaum were used to getting their Sabbath lessons from scribes—guys specially trained to copy sacred texts. The scribes weren’t theologians themselves. Instead, they parroted the interpretations they heard from other rabbis and gave the folks the party line. I’m thinking that line was probably full of a lot of “Thou shalt nots.” There were reminders that Gentiles and Samaritans were icky. Good Jews should steer clear of them. They probably went on about eating good kosher diets, making proper sacrifices, and avoiding anybody suspected of being a sinner or in some way impure. I bet it was some pretty boring stuff week after week, but it made some folks feel comfortable and smugly superior to sinners, the infirm, and foreigners.

But, just when going to synagogue was becoming a lazy, zombie-like routine, along comes this guy Jesus. Jesus isn’t quoting any long-dead sage. He’s interpreting the scriptures in a new way. He’s preaching a living message about love, forgiveness, inclusion, and compassion. He’s lifting up the poor. He’s telling them God desires mercy more than ritual sacrifice. He’s telling them God is not distant but near them and among them.

And it’s pissing some folks off.

Some old geezer is sitting in the synagogue just fuming because he’s not hearing what he expects to hear. He’s getting his Fruit of the Looms in a bunch because this Nazarene rabbi is assaulting the conventions he’s always held ever since he was taught them in Hebrew school. He hears in the teaching of Jesus an attack on his idea of what it means to be a Jew and a follower of the Scriptures, and he doesn’t like it one little bit. Finally, he’s heard enough, and that unclean spirit of self-righteousness within him explodes. He shouts out, “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth??!! You’re not even from around here, and you’re tearing down everything we hold sacred! Have you come to destroy us? Who do you think you are—the Holy One of God??!!”

Well. As a matter of fact, he is the Holy One of God. And, as the Holy One of God, he’s not about to let a heckler throw him off his game. He calls out the unclean spirit—not condemning the man himself—but calls the spirit of fear, self-righteousness, arrogance, and complacency for what it is. Such spirits aren’t anything we ever give up without a struggle because having our convictions challenged always means a loss of part of our identity. We fear we won’t know who we are anymore when we’re forced to see things in a new way. Any attempt to get us to change our minds can be met with a convulsion.

When Pope John XXIII told Catholics they should say the mass in their native language and not in Latin, some folks had a convulsion. For a lot of folks, this change was just too much, and they reacted with an unclean spirit of defiance.

When the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod’s Concordia Seminary started to suggest that not every single word in the Bible should be taken literally, an unclean spirit of denial and oppression arose among the denomination’s leadership which ripped that communion apart.

When the ELCA’s 2009 Churchwide Assembly declared LGBTQ+ people could be qualified for ordained ministry, an unclean spirit of rebellion broke out, and many congregations walked away from the national church body.

Whenever our long-held beliefs are challenged, whenever we sense an existential threat to our identity, we go into convulsions and our unclean spirits percolate to the surface. Asking some Americans to confront the injustices of the past or to embraces policies which aid those they feel are undeserving is causing a massive convulsion in our land. How do we address this?

We must always remember that Jesus rebukes the spirit, but never the person. It’s the spirit—the outmoded ideas, the stubbornness, the arrogance—which is unclean, but there are no unclean people. We must rely on the authority of Jesus. We must lean on Christ’s teaching of love of enemies, compassion for the poor, and repentance leading to absolution and healing. Technology, culture, and institutions change, but the authority of Christ remains constant.

And let’s try to be aware of our own spirits. Sometimes they could use a good bath in the words of Jesus.

Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think.

God Doesn't Stutter (Reflections on Epiphany 3, Year B 2024)

 

"Calling of Peter & Andrew" J. Tissot (French 19th Cent.)

¹⁴Now after John was arrested, Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, ¹⁵and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.” ¹⁶As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea—for they were fishermen. ¹⁷And Jesus said to them, “Follow me and I will make you fish for people.” ¹⁸And immediately they left their nets and followed him. ¹⁹As he went a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John, who were in their boat mending the nets. ²⁰Immediately he called them; and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men, and followed him. (Mark 1:14-20)

Don’t you ever, when you read the above gospel lesson, wonder what Old Man Zebedee was thinking? I see this old guy sitting alone in his boat, looking up at God and saying, “Have I offend thee, O Lord, that thou hast given me two schmendricks for sons? Did I do something wrong that my boys should leave a perfectly good job in the fishing industry to follow this meshuggeneh rabbi from Nazareth? Please tell me, God! Oy vey!”

I guess when you have to go, you have to go. This lesson is the second “call story” we get in the Revised Common Lectionary during the Epiphany season. Unlike last week’s stories, there’s nothing ambiguous going on here. There’s no questioning or wrestling with God in either the gospel or the First Lesson (Jonah 3:1-5, 10).

In my last post I referenced the great C.S. Lewis who turned his back on Christianity as an adolescent (as many of us do), endured some real lousy times, and found his way back to a mature and profound faith in Christ later in life. I also mentioned the wonderful Rachel Held Evans who was raised in a fundamentalist Evangelical tradition, began to question the church’s teachings, but staggered her way to an expression of Christianity which seemed authentic and genuinely compassionate and congruent with the Jesus she experienced in Scripture. Our Epiphany 2 lessons featured a snarky, questioning Nathanael and a very confused Samuel. There’s none of that groping, questioning, or debating in the lessons for Epiphany 3. God is calling. It’s time to leave the nets and follow.

The difference between these “call” stories is, I think, the difference between our call to faith and our call to discipleship. The call to faith is—and I think it always should be—a process. Throughout our lives we should keep questioning, debating with ourselves and others, and seeking a better understanding of God and our Church’s core beliefs. We can never have too much knowledge, can we? And we have to expect that our perspectives will—and should—change as we get older.

The call to discipleship, on the other hand, can be very specific and very immediate. Luke’s version of the call of the first disciples gives a convenient miracle story about an amazing catch of fish (Luke 5:1-11) to explain the reaction of the fishermen to Jesus’ invitation to be his followers. Matthew and Mark give us bupkis as to why these guys would bail on their livelihood and just walk off behind Jesus. Jesus just says, “Follow me,” and off they go. It makes me wonder if there were some in Galilee who said, “No thanks, Jesus. I’d rather stay here and fish.” You think? But maybe our heroes Peter, Andrew, James, and John felt in their hearts the pressing and immediate need to hear this rabbi and be part of whatever mission he was on. I wonder if there wasn’t a certain sense of desperation in the land that told them the time to act is right now.

The RCL marries this call story to the second call of Jonah in that delightful and wickedly funny little novella tucked in to the canon of the Minor Prophets, Jonah. Jonah, if you remember, gets called to go to the Assyrian capital of Ninevah—the headquarters of some real badass folks—to proclaim God’s displeasure and intention to open a giant can of whoop ‘em on the whole town. Quite naturally, Jonah doesn’t want to heed God’s very direct call to preach to people who are his enemies and will probably kill him for his trouble. You know the story: he runs away to sea, get eaten by a fish, repents, gets barfed out on land, yadda, yadda.

The thing which strikes me about this story and its RCL juxtaposition with the gospel lesson is that God doesn’t stutter in either of these tales. Jesus says “follow me.” God tells Jonah, “Go and do this thing.” The characters in the stories know God is calling, and know they must answer in the affirmative.

They also know there’s going to be a cost. The fishermen leave a sure thing for something uncertain. James and John also, I’m sure, upset their old man by abandoning the family business and leaving him to fish by himself. Jonah goes on a dangerous mission to save people he really doesn’t like. Sometimes the Holy Spirit tells us to do something we wish she hadn’t mentioned.

But sometimes the time is now. It’s time to make a change, confront an issue, or speak a word of exhortation. It might be about something in your home or here in church or in your community. It’s time to ask yourself, “What do I really care about?” and “What do I do about it?” It’s time to say, as Samuel did last week, “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening,” and be ready to hear the answer.

May God be with you this week to grant you wisdom and courage in all you do!

Good Question! (Reflections on Epiphany 2, Year B 2024)

 

Nathanael said to him, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Philip said to him, “Come and see.” (John 1:46)

What’s your call story? Do you ever think about it? I’m not talking about a call to join a monastery or go off to serve starving children in Swaziland (are they starving in Swaziland? I wouldn’t know) or to take a new job or adopt a Ukrainian orphan. No. Before we can be called to any of that stuff we first have to be called to faith.

I guess what I’m asking is, when was the moment when you first realized you really were a Christian? Not just someone who went to your parents’ church or adapted to the culture of Western society, but a real honest-to-Jesus believing Christian.

You don’t know? Me neither. Sometimes it’s just something that happens to you when you don’t try to think about it. Martin Luther said in the Small Catechism that he couldn’t believe in Jesus Christ or come to him through his own logic, but the Holy Spirit called him—as she calls us all—through the gospel.[i]

I’m just now re-reading the late Rachel Held Evans’ touching and beautifully written memoir of faith called Searching for Sunday[ii]. I’m on the chapter in which twenty-year-old Rachel, an English major at Bryan College in Tennessee, starts to question everything she’s been taught in Sunday school. I’m certainly glad she became so skeptical of the dogma of her evangelical upbringing, because, had she not, the world would never have the thoughtful and beautiful meditations on faith found in her books. Likewise, dear old C.S. Lewis, creator of the Chronicles of Narnia, considered the rite of Confirmation his graduation from church and himself an atheist for years before returning, “kicking and screaming” as he said, to the Christian faith. Some of us, like Paul said to the Philippians, work out our salvation with fear and trembling[iii]. Of course, not every faith story requires a detour through apostacy, but I strongly doubt any authentic faith comes from floating down a smooth stream of thought on a rubber raft of unquestioning acquiescence.

True adult faith demands questioning.

Both the gospel (John 1:43-51) and the Hebrew Scriptures (1 Samuel 3:1-20) lesson for Epiphany 3, Year B in the Revised Common Lectionary tell skeptical call stories. In the gospel, Philip tells his buddy Nathaniel that he’d found the guy Moses and the prophets had spoken about, and it turns out it’s Jesus of Nazareth. Nathaniel isn’t buying it. This guy knows his scriptures, and he knows there’s nothing written there about a Messiah coming from a hick place like Nazareth. Besides, Nazareth is kind of the armpit of Galilee—nothing good comes from there. But Philip says to him, “Come and see,” and Nathaniel is open-minded enough to go along. Of course, he’s going to question Jesus when Jesus claims to know something about him. Nobody understands what that fig tree thing was about, except, apparently, Nathaniel.

In the story in 1 Samuel, the writer tells us that disembodied spirit voices and divine visions weren’t exactly everyday occurrences. When something supernatural happens, both Eli and Samual misinterpret it. Samuel thinks he’s being called by Eli, and Eli probably thinks the kid is hearing things in his sleep. The encounter with God comes only after some doubt and confusion. Understanding may take a while, and sometimes we have to ask lots of questions.

Audrey West, Associate Professor of New Testament at the Lutheran School of Theology in Chicago, notes in her essay on the Working Preacher website that John’s gospel contains several instances of people questioning Jesus. Look at Nicodemus (“What do you mean by ‘born from above?’”) or the Samaritan woman at the well (“So does God want us to worship on Mt. Gerizim or Mt. Zion?”). Both these folks have some theological issues they want to take up with Jesus but find themselves dumbfounded by his mind-blowing answers. Even Pontius Pilate has an existential question to put to the Lord (“What is truth?”), and, of course, there’s “Doubting Thomas” who, like Nathaniel, isn’t about to swallow something whole on somebody else’s say-so alone. True belief, it seems, emerges from skepticism, doubt, and questioning.

So what kind of questions should we be asking ourselves? I’d say we might want to go back to some basic stuff like:

·         What is religion?

·         Why is religion important?

·         What is the point of the stories we tell?

·         What do these stories mean to me?

·         How am I different because I embrace these stories?

·         What does it mean to the world that I am a Christian?

·         Who is Jesus to me?

·         How is Jesus revealed through me?

(We can leave the tougher questions like “How did the Bible come to be written?” “What cultural expressions shaped early Christian doctrine?” and “If God loves us so much, why do we suffer?” for a later time.)

As Americans we are often, I think, politely silent on matters of faith. I think we need to learn to question our faith and to have meaningful conversations about the questions we ask ourselves. We won’t grow or mature by passivity. That will lead us only to childish superstition, unbelief, or dogmatism—none of which are particularly attractive.

Perhaps a reason churchgoing in America is on the decline is because we haven’t challenged ourselves enough. We know God loves us just as we are, but if we have the opportunity to dig a little deeper, shouldn’t we take it?

A blessed Epiphany, my friend. Keep being curious.

---

[i] That’s Luther’s explanation to Article 3 of the Apostles Creed in case you were wondering.

[ii] Evans, Rachel Held, Searching for Sunday (Thomas Nelson: 2015). Rachel was a journalist and wonderful Christan writer who passed away tragically from medical complications in 2019. She was only 38 years old.

[iii] Philippians 2:12

Welcome to the Family (Reflections on the Baptism of Our Lord, 2024)

 

And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.” (Mark 1:11)

“Someday, when she’s old enough to understand, you’ll have to tell Eloise that she’s adopted.” These are the words with which I plan to begin my homily for the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord this year. We at Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia will be kicking off 2024 with a baptism on that most appropriate of liturgical feasts, the First Sunday of the Epiphany, the Sunday which celebrates Jesus’ baptism. I’m going to tell Eloise’s mommy and daddy that, just as the heavens were torn apart when John baptized Jesus and the voice declared Jesus to be Son and Beloved, (See Mark 1:4-11) so, when the water is poured on baby Eloise’s head, she will be adopted into God’s family, become a little sister to all of us, and will forever be an inheritor of God’s forgiving grace.

I have to give our evangelist, St. Mark, props for just giving us the main points of the story. Compared with the other evangelists, Mark’s version is like the Cliffs Notes:

·         John calls people to a baptism of repentance.

·         People get baptized confessing their sins.

·         John tells people Jesus is coming and will baptize with the Holy Spirit.

·         Jesus gets baptized.

·         The heavens open, the Spirit descends, and God declares, “Yup! That’s my boy! And he makes me really happy.”

That’s it. You get washed, and you’re family. I always say that Jesus getting baptized is like washing in our dirty bath water. He’s totally okay with wading into the sin and weirdness we’re trying to wash off because he wants us to know that we’re all in this thing together, and he’s not afraid to be in it with us. He’s willing to do whatever we do, and to go through whatever we go through. That’s how God’s family rolls.

So, I thought this year I’d go over some of the stuff that’s important in this adoption ritual we do[i]. Before we make a confession of what we believe and what it means to be a Christian, we first have to distance ourselves from the stuff we don’t believe and don’t want to be part of our new life and family. Candidates for baptism—or, more frequently, their parents and sponsors since the candidate may be just a little too young to speak for him or herself—are asked to renounce the devil and the forces which defy God, the powers of this world which rebel against God, and the ways of sin which draw us away from God.

I’ll admit I don’t talk or write a whole lot about the devil. What’s more, I don’t think you have to believe in an anthropomorphic demon figure with horns and a pitchfork to get what this liturgical statement is saying. You would do well, however, to acknowledge that there’s some pretty nasty stuff that going on in this world—stuff you don’t want to be part of and you don’t want your children or anyone you love to embrace. There are spirits of selfishness, hatred, and anger that are running loose on this planet. There’s the desire to worship raw power for its own sake, to make a false god out of victory, to dehumanize others for the sake of self-aggrandizement, to conquer, acquire, and consume at the expense of the helpless, to control through cruelty and humiliation, and to waste the resources of God’s creation. In short, there is sin. And we need to know it, see it, and reject it.

We are also called upon in our baptismal rite to reject the powers of this world. That doesn’t mean that we renounce the world and live in caves like hermits, which, let’s face it, would be difficult to do as there are only so many caves to go around. It also doesn’t mean we blow the raspberry at all forms of secular government. What it does mean is that we differentiate between what baptism tells us and what the culture tells us. Baptism tells us we’re God’s kids, we’re beloved, and God delights in us. We’re adopted because God our daddy loves us just as we are—sin and all. The world, by contrast, tells us we can be beloved if we’re thin enough, pretty enough, accomplished enough, rich enough, wear the right clothes, drive the right car, live in the right neighborhood, have the right job, etc., etc. You get the idea. God doesn’t have time for that slop. God just loves us.

Finally, we’re asked to renounce the ways of sin that draw us personally away from God. We all have to learn to take our own inventory at times. We’ve got check our supply of grievance, cynicism, pessimism, arrogance, perfectionism, frustration, addiction, indifference, intolerance…yeah. Again, you get the idea. And sometimes you just have to be okay with not being okay. You have to remind yourself that, however big a screw-up you are, you’re still baptized. You’re still part of the fam. Because whenever you think you’ve got it all handled on your own, whenever you think you know better, whenever you’re convinced you’re right and the rest of the world is wrong, that’s probably when you’re being the biggest jerk of all.

If you were a God-fearing Jewish person back in John the Baptist’s day, you’d take plenty of ritual baths. You’d get washed if you’d been sick, if you’re girl and you had your period, if you touched blood, or touched dead things. But the bath we take with Jesus in our baptism is a one-shot-guaranteed-for-eternal-life deal. It says you’re adopted and you’re family no matter what. That’s God’s contract with us—a contract we remember every time we come with the other adoptees as a family to our Father’s dinner table. Our part of the deal? Just to feel our Father’s love and respond as our heart tells us to.

God’s blessings to you, my fellow adopted sibling! May you have a wonderful and meaningful New Year.

---

[i] You can find the liturgy I use for Holy Baptism in Evangelical Lutheran Worship (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress Publishers, 2006 pew edition) pages 227-231.