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.

---

[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!

---

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

Blessings, Curses, and a Talking Donkey

 

He has told you, O mortal, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God? (Micah 6:8) 

Don’t you just love those weird, arcane, and totally unbelievable stories out of the Hebrew Scriptures? You know: the ones that make you ask, “Why the freak is this story in the Bible, and what is it trying to tell me?” Perhaps it’s my perverse love of the whimsical which makes me want to explain all the obscure references which pop up in our Hebrew Scripture lessons lately. 

For Epiphany 4, Year A in the Revised Common Lectionary our First Reading is Micah 6:1-8. If you skip reading verses 1 through 7 and just read verse 8 (quoted above) you’ll pretty much get the point. Nevertheless, I’m feeling a strange compulsion to explain the bizarre stuff referenced in verse 5: 

O my people, remember now what King Balak of Moab devised, what Balaam son of Beor answered him, and what happened from Shittim to Gilgal, that you may know the saving acts of the Lord. 

Before I do, however, let me just say that I think we could summarize the prophet’s discourse here by saying, “Hey, you guys! God was good to you, so you owe it to God to be good to others.” Simple, right? But, being a Jewish prophet and prone to rather ornate discourse, Micah appeals to the culture of the people with a few nostalgic references which you probably don’t remember from Sunday school.[i] 

So what happened from Shittim to Gilgal?[ii] God’s homeless refugee people were finally allowed to cross the river into the Promised Land. No need for them to wade across because they were following a group of priests carrying the Ark of the Covenant. As soon as the first priest hit the water of the Jordan, the river parted and the folks walked across on dry land. If you ask me, this seems slightly less miraculous than parting the Red Sea (the Jordan has a lot less water in it), but it was a miracle all the same. 

I’ll bet you probably don’t remember all that jazz about King Balak of Moab or Balaam son of Beor.[iii] This story takes place while this caravan of God’s refugees are still wandering around in the wilderness looking for a home. They’re about to cross the border into Moab, but the Moabite king, Balak, doesn’t want these foreigners in his country. He doesn’t have time to build a wall and he has no busses to ship them off to sanctuary cities. So what does he do? He hears about this sooth-sayer named Balaam who seems to be pretty tight with God or whatever powers are running the universe. He sends some delegates to him to ask him to come to Moab and curse the refugees so they will all die or turn around or something. Balaam meditates on this, and God tells him it’s a bad idea since God really loves these homeless people. Balak asks him again, and God decides to have a little fun with Balaam (God has a sense of humor, and is fond of jerking us around. If you live long enough, you’ll figure this out!). 

God gives Balaam permission to go to Moab, so he sets off on his donkey with Balak’s guys to meet the king. On his way, God puts an angel with a fiery sword on the road to block his path. But Balaam, the seer, is prevented from seeing the angel. No self-respecting donkey is going to mess with an angel with a fiery sword, so the donkey veers off the road. This ignites Balaam’s ire, so he whoops the poor donkey. The donkey then heads down a narrow side street, causing Balaam to scrape his foot against a wall. Balaam is even more pissed off now, and he whoops the donkey again. Balaam then finds himself in a narrow passage where he can’t even turn around. The angel is blocking his way, so the donkey does the only thing he can think to do, which is lie down. This really gets Balamm’s goat, and he starts to wail on the donkey a third time. 

Now God does a really wacky thing: He lets the donkey talk. (I can’t ever read this story without thinking the donkey sounds like Eddie Murphy as the talking donkey in the Shrek movies[iv].) The donkey goes off on Balaam, reminding him he’s been a pretty darn faithful critter for all these years and demanding to know why he’s getting a beat-down just for avoiding an angel with a fiery sword. God then opens Balaam’s eyes, and he sees the angel. The angel says he’d gladly kill Balaam for animal cruelty and let the donkey go free. 

Ultimately, Balaam has an audience with King Balak and tells him in no uncertain terms that these rag-tag refugees he’s so afraid of are God’s chosen people and Balak should be blessing them rather than asking for them to be cursed. Even if Balak offers him a boatload of cash, Balaam won’t go against God. 

All of this begs the question of who is blessed and who is cursed. In the story of the Exodus, the homeless refugees from an oppressive regime—the ones who are feared and not wanted—are the ones through whom God will bless the nations. In the gospel reading (Matthew 5:1-12) Jesus gives an in-service lesson to his disciples (that’s us, by the way) and tells them the ones who’ve been beaten down in spirit, who are mourning, who are humble, non-violent, and hurting for the world’s situation—in short, all the ones who don’t conform to the world’s selfish standards of success or worthiness--are the ones God loves. They are to be loved by us and welcomed and cared for. 

It’s not our doctrine or our worship or our worldly status that counts. We, like the wandering children of Israel, are blessed to be a blessing. How we act with and for one another reflects our relationship with God. 

God bless you, my friend. Thanks for visiting my page this week.

---

[i] To be honest, neither did I. I had to look this stuff up. If you’re so inclined, you can check out the Bible passages in the succeeding end notes.

[ii] See Joshua 3:1-4:19

[iii] See Numbers 22-24

[iv] You remember the talking donkey from Shrek, right? Just click on the link donkey. C’mon. You know you want to.

Jesus is Calling and it's for You (Reflections on Epiphany 3, Year A 2023)

 

And he said to them, “Follow me, and I will make you fish for people.” (Matthew 4:19) 

I wonder what Peter and Andrew and James and John were thinking when they got up that morning. You know: the morning described in our gospel lesson in the RCL for Epiphany 3, Year A (Matthew 4:12-23). I bet they just figured this was going to be another day out on the fishing boat, hauling in the catch, separating out the saleable fish from the empty beer bottles and other assorted crap that got caught in their nets, then mending the nets, washing down the boat, and going home. Just a typical day. They didn’t expect that they were going to be called to be disciples of the Messiah. Boy. Some days really turn out weird, don’t they? 

Have you ever felt yourself called? Ever started out to do one thing and found out God had other plans for you? Ever fancy you heard Jesus whisper, “Hey. Stop what you’re doing. I need you over here?” 

When I think about it, I have a whole boatload of “call stories,” and not just the ones that led me to ordained ministry (although maybe they did). Once upon a time I taught in the theater department of a community college in Southern California. Among my classes was a general ed course I was assigned to teach on the Industrial Arts campus. I wasn’t too thrilled about this because a) Industrial Arts students weren’t going to be serious about the theater and go on to major in the subject, b) the IA campus was in a crappy part of town, and c) the class was at night. 

I felt my department chair had sent me to Siberia by giving me this assignment, and I complained about it to my singing coach, a brilliant African American vocalist named Adrian Shaw.[i] Adrian was a beautiful Christian man, and he gave me some advice. “Owen,” he said, “you need to pray about this. If this is where the Lord wants you to be, the Lord will put the desire to be there in your heart.” 

I taught that class for three more years, and loved every minute of it. 

I continued to teach my non-major night class after budget cuts eliminated the courses I taught on the college’s main campus. I did a lot of odd jobs then, some in show business and some not. I was working as an extra on the NBC TV series Highway to Heaven when one of my fellow “Background Specialists” suggested I apply to be a substitute teacher with the Los Angeles Unified School District. I thought, “Why not?” I had an MFA degree and a lifetime community college teaching credential, and I could easily see myself, when not auditioning for a play or movie, giving erudite talks on Shakespeare or Dickens to high school students. 

God had other plans. One of my first assignments was in junior high special education. It was a good day which somehow caused the powers that be at the LAUSD to decide I was a junior high special ed teacher. With no credentials or experience with learning disabled youth at all, I spent the next six years in long-term junior high special ed assignments. This wasn’t what I had planned, but the experience gave me a perspective on people and society I wouldn’t have had otherwise. Against my will God was trying to make me a better person. 

When I accepted the call to Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia twenty-four years ago, I had no idea I’d be here as long as I have. I also had no idea that I would become the Barry Bonds of neighborhood funerals. I thought I might extend my ministry at Faith to being a chaplain at the local hospital or a nursing home or something. I had no idea I’d be doing over 900 memorial services, of which barely 10% had anything to do with the folks at Faith Lutheran. But this seems to be what God wants me to do for now. It’s not always pleasant as I’ve had to deal with drug overdoses, suicides, and homicides over the years, but as a ministry there is a curious satisfaction in doing it. I guess the Lord has put the desire in my heart. 

So what about you? When did God steer you away from your “fishing boat” to an opportunity uphold others? And how is Jesus calling you now to be part of the net that reveals him to someone who might really need him? Have you even considered that you have been called? Have you told anyone about it? It might be a good story to share. 

The season of Epiphany is the time we celebrate how Jesus was revealed as God’s Messiah. The Epiphany 3 gospel is married to a reading from Isaiah 9. Our evangelist Matthew quotes this passage as a way of letting folks know God had been planning this for Jesus all along. 

What, do you think, has God planned for you? 

God’s peace, my friend. Thanks for reading.

---

[i] Actually, I complained abut this to everyone. I’m a complainer.

Behold the Lamb (Reflections on Epiphany 2, Year A 2023)

 

"Lamb of God" van Eyck from Ghent altarpiece 15th Cent.

The next day John again was standing with two of his disciples, and as he watched Jesus walk by, he exclaimed, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” (John 1: 35-36) 

Have you seen those “He Gets Us” spots that have been running on commercial TV lately? They’re a collection of very graphic images in black and white photography of scenes from modern life. They’re snapshots of quotidian angst, poverty, injustice, alienation, etcetera—you know: the kind of stuff we all spiritually mud-wrestle with. The accompanying narrations and captions point out that Jesus Christ had to deal with the same crap. The images infer a modern and relevant context to the life of Jesus, humanizing him, and making him relatable.[i] 

Personally, I think this is a pretty good way to point folks in the direction of Jesus. The “He Gets Us” campaign presents the Lord as one who has lived in poverty and struggled with finances, a refugee, someone who had to deal with criticism, someone who knew loneliness, and someone who believed in inclusivity and reconciliation. All of that stuff really is biblical. Of course, there are always going to be some who get their Fruit of the Looms bunched up if you make Jesus too human and not God enough.[ii] For my money, however, I think anyway we can point people to Jesus is worth a try. Let’s face it, my dears, this world is pretty messed up right now and we could all use a little Jesus. 

The gospel lesson for the Epiphany 2, Year A (John 1:29-42) presents us with good ol’ John the Baptist pointing his disciples—in this case Andrew and a player to be named later—to Jesus, “a man who ranks ahead of me because he was before me.” I always think it’s cool that John knows when his time has come to step aside and let Jesus take the spotlight. Up to this time, John’s been the big man on campus, but he has the spiritual maturity and good sense to recognize that his whole job was to be the advance man for the guy he’s going to call “The Lamb of God.” 

One of the wonky little details that appeal to me is verse 36. In the New Revised Standard Version of the New Testament, this verse renders the rather prosaic phrase, “as he watched Jesus walk by.” The term “watched,” however, packs a harder punch in the ancient Greek. The Greek New testament uses the term emblepsas[iii], which means John “fixed his eyes” on Jesus. He didn’t just happen to notice a pedestrian savior in the neighborhood. He really looked at the guy, really took him in, and saw what he was about. 

And what did John see? He’d already seen the Holy Spirit alight on Jesus at Jesus’ baptism. What he told his disciples to observe (or “Behold!” as the old King James Bible puts it) was the “Lamb of God.” This lamb image has a couple of meanings. It can relate Jesus to the “lamb led to the slaughter” referenced in Isaiah 53:7, in which case John was seeing a servant who was prepared to go all in for the people, even if that servanthood meant giving up his own life. Most likely, it also referred to the Passover lamb.[iv] This is a really loaded image, but it boils down to seeing Jesus as the avenue by which we come to God. 

If you remember the story of the Exodus, the Passover lamb had a bunch of functions. The blood of the lamb on the door post marked the people as belonging to God, just as our baptism into Christ marks us. The meat of the lamb consumed before the great journey nourished the people for the ordeal they were about to have, just as the words of Jesus nourish and sustain us for the journey through the messier parts of our human life. The sign of the lamb protected the people, just as we lean on God for safety through this insane world. Finally, the blood of the lamb saved the people from bondage, just as faith in Christ and adherence to his love, forgiveness, and compassion has the power to rescue us from depression, despair, anger, addiction, bitterness, and so many of the things which trap us in slavery to sin. 

Just as John was willing to see Jesus, step back, and let his followers walk a new path, I’m ready to see the American church look at Jesus, step back, and start on a new journey. Personally, I can’t see the old emphasis on individual salvation making any real difference to 21^st century listeners. I can’t believe the God who created the magnificence of the universe is so petty as to inflict eternal torment on anyone just because they can’t pass a catechetical exam. Similarly, as I look at Jesus in the scriptures, I can’t see him being about that. 

No. The Jesus who forgave sinners, who healed the sick, who fed the hungry, who challenged injustice, who crossed racial boundaries, and taught generosity, faith, and humility is the Jesus we need to rediscover and look to now. If eternal life is really eternal, we’re living part of it now. The best way for Christians to do that is to look to Jesus and, in his heartbreaking humanity, discover the holiness of God. I agree with those folks who started the TV campaign. Yup. He gets us. I just hope we learn to get him. 

May the peace of God that passes our understanding keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. Thanks for reading this week. Let me know what you think.

---

[i] You can check out all the spots (They’re only 30 – 60 seconds long) on the “He Gets Us” website: https://hegetsus.com/en

[ii] You can read Natasha Crain’s more fundamentalist critique of “He Gets Us” at: https://natashacrain.com/7-problems-with-the-he-gets-us-campaign/

[iii] Embleyas for you ancient Greek lovers out there.

[iv] This is the most logical interpretation, given how the Fourth Gospel juxtaposes the Crucifixion with the day the Passover lambs were slaughtered.

Righteous! (Reflections on the Baptism of Our Lord, 2023)

 

But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.” (Matthew 3:15) 

I’m reading a great book at bedtime. It’s Doris Kearns Goodwin’s The Bully Pulpit. No, it’s not a book about intimidating sermons. It’s a history about the relationship between Presidents Theodore Roosevelt and his successor, William Howard Taft. The two men started out their political careers as great friends and allies, but by 1912 the two Republicans found themselves in a bitter battle for their party’s nomination. I’m almost to the end of the 700+ page history, and I really hope these two great Americans shake hands and make up (Don’t anyone spoil the book for me if you know whether or not they did!). In just the same way I hope Wills and Harry (You know: King Charles’ boys) get over their kerfuffle and act like brothers again. And maybe someday the Republicans and Democrats in Congress might put aside a few of their differences and actually get something worthwhile done for our country. 

It really bites when folks who have so much in common can’t get along. After all, relationship is what it’s all about, don’t you think? 

Relationship—right relationship—is key to the gospel lesson we read for the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord (Matthew 3:13-17). The term righteousness does not mean being morally perfect. It means being in a reconciling relationship with God. Often this means admitting that we’re pretty darn morally imperfect. 

Diane Chin, Professor of New Testament at the Palmer Theological Seminary in St. David’s, PA, suggests that it would be one tough road for a first century Jewish guy to walk to come to John the Baptist, publicly admit his faults, and ask to be washed clean[i]. Honor and shame were pretty big deals in that culture[ii], but the only way to become righteous was to suck it up and say a big “I’m sorry.” Dr. Chin says Abraham was reckoned to be righteous because he believed God and was willing to do what God asked. This put him in relationship with God, and that’s what was considered righteous. Abe certainly wasn’t a paragon of virtue[iii]. 

When Jesus comes down to the Jordan, he establishes relationships. John gets a little uneasy about this because he figures the right relationship is for him to be subordinate to Jesus. You have to admire the guy’s humility because John was the big hairy deal up to this point. But Jesus knows that he has to undergo everything we undergo in order to be in relationship with us. When Jesus washes, as I like to say, in our dirty bathwater, God proclaims the relationship he has with him. “You’re my kid and you make me happy!” 

That’s the relationship we have with God through our baptism. The sacrament does two things: it makes us family, and it promises us that we’ll be family no matter what. 

When I do my five-minute catechesis with drive-by baptism mommies over the phone, I like to explain the subtle difference between how we Lutherans understand baptism as opposed to how our Roman brothers understand it. Both traditions acknowledge the doctrine of Original Sin. That is, we all know that, however cute your baby might be, he/she is born human and is going to do dumb things. If you’re born on the beach, you’re going to get sandy. If you’re born human, you’re going to be a sinner. You just are. You can’t help it. The Catholic Church teaches that the sacrament of baptism frees the baptized from the stain of Original Sin. BUT: There’s a problem. After you’re baptized you just might sin again. Then you have to go to confession, do some penance, and work off that sin. 

Martin Luther taught that baptism “brings forgiveness of sins, redeems from death and the devil, and gives eternal salvation to all who believe it.[iv]” In a nutshell, when we’re baptized we believe we’ve come into relationship with God. We’re now God’s kids, part of the family. You know how it is with your own kids. You always love them even when you don’t necessarily like them at times. They just never stop being your kids. That’s our relationship with God of which Holy Baptism is the sign. We may screw up millions of times in our lives (and, don’t doubt it, we will), but the relationship is never broken. It’s 100% guaranteed for life. There’s no need for penance. Our weekly confession and trips to God’s dinner table at Holy Communion are just signs to remind us of the righteousness—the family relationship—we already possess through God’s grace. 

Wouldn’t it be great if we could see all our relationships through the lens of God’s righteousness? I think it would be swell to consider that all of the issues we have with one another—however acrimonious—are only temporary setbacks. The bond of family is always there, and forgiveness is never impossible.

---

[i] I’ve stolen a bit from her article on the Working Preacher website.

[ii] As opposed to OUR culture where nobody seems to have any shame at all these days!

[iii] See Genesis 15:6. If you read through Genesis you’ll see that Abraham could be a real jerk at times. So could Noah and just about all the other patriarchs. None of them were any more perfect than you or I.

[iv] Check out the Small Catechism.