Some Wonky Thoughts on Washing Up (Reflections on Pentecost 14, Year B 2021)

Then he called the crowd again and said to them, “Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defiles.” (Mark 7:14-15) 

It’s one of my wonkier traits that I often find myself having imaginary conversations with atheists. I think of it as channeling my inner C.S. Lewis. I like to daydream about how I can best articulate the Christian faith to those who think it’s either some made-up b.s. concocted by diabolical oppressors to keep an ignorant peasantry in line, or just some fairy tales less sophisticated folks repeat to keep themselves from fearing death. 

When I preach on the appointed text for this week, I know I’ll have a lot of visitors in attendance at Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia. A family from the neighborhood (not members of our congregation) has asked to have a double baptism on this particular Sunday. In my experience, this means we’ll have guests who might not have any idea what Christian ritual is all about. There may be younger folks who’ve been brought up in America’s great religious vacuum, so I’ll get the chance to do some explaining to them. 

Religious wonk that I am, I have to start by saying any explanation I give is not for the purpose of conversion to the faith. My religion teaches that no one is ever converted by an argument of logic. My purpose is just to create greater understanding. 

I’ll start in a Socratic way by asking you: what is religion? The dictionary says a religion is a system of beliefs about ultimate things. You know—life, death, meaning, origins, etc. which inform our ethical behavior in this life. Religions usually have a shared mythology. By myth, I don’t mean a made-up supernatural story. I mean stories which have stood the test of the millennia because—even if they are about things which never actually happened—they teach us about the human condition which never changes. My old boss, Dr. Tim Kennedy, used to say true myths are stories of things which maybe never were but always are. Our rituals are the things which reinforce the lessons of the mythology. 

The Gospel lesson appointed for Pentecost 14, Year B (Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23)[i] has Jesus squaring off with some religious big shots over the question of ritual (in this case, washing your hands a certain way before eating) versus real, heart-felt piety. In this time of COVID, I’d certainly be the last guy ever to preach against washing your hands. The deal here is these uber religious dudes felt that everybody should observe the rituals they observed, and they looked down on anyone who didn’t. 

So, since the Gospel lesson is all about washing up, it seems to work out pretty well that one of the rituals we’ll observe this Sunday is the washing of two children through Holy Baptism. If we were to get all hung-up on the ritual like the Pharisees in the Gospel, we might say that these two kids will be doomed to Hell or Limbo unless I pour some water over their heads. And that would be to turn the sacrament into a fetish. We need to see the meaning behind the act. We wash these children and all new Christians as a way of reminding ourselves of God’s grace and love which was intended for them from the beginning of time. These would be God’s children—as, indeed, we all are—even without the ritual, but we wash them to remind ourselves of the goodness and love of God. 

Why water? Because water gives life, refreshment, and cleanliness. It can also bring death and destruction as we’ve seen in the floods in Tennessee and New England this week. The waters of baptism are intended to remind us that God’s love drowns that defiling nature which is, unfortunately, characteristic of every human born on this planet. 

It may be hard to imagine that a newborn baby is the heir of sin and defilement. But, if you’re born on the beach you’re going to get sandy, and if you’re born in this world, you’re going to be selfish, petulant, and prone to anger and resentment and jealousy and a whole host of things we’d rather not have but can’t seem to shake off. A newborn is adorable. A thirteen-year-old not so much. But baptism—that which recalls death and rebirth, crucifixion and resurrection—can and should remind us that God’s restorative and cleansing love transcends our defiling nature. 

I’ll bet the ancestors of the Pharisees in our Gospel had a really good reason for inventing their hand washing rituals. But I’m thinking that, by the time these guys came along, the reasons were lost to antiquity and the ritual itself became the main focus. By observing it, the Pharisees could claim they were law-abiding and pious. This gave them the freedom to look down on others who weren’t as conscientious of their hygiene. Basically, observing one rule gave them the freedom to ignore another rule—that “love thy neighbor” thing. 

If baptism is to be truly a sacrament, it can’t be just “one-and-done.” Rather, it is “one-and-forever.” We don’t rely on the act of baptism, but in the on-going state of being baptized. We mustn’t think that we were baptized, but, rather that we are baptized. And because we are, we live in the knowledge that every day we are drowned to our selfish selves, forgiven, and brought to a new moment of gratitude, grace, and love. 

Thanks for stopping by!

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[i] This cut-and-paste reading leaves out some really good stuff. I’d recommend reading Mark 7:1-23 straight through. I think the compilers of the Revised Common Lectionary didn’t want us to get distracted by Jesus’ scolding the Pharisees about the doctrine of corban or by his reference to pooping. This is a rather sanitized reading which concentrates only on the issue of washing your hands.

Hard Stuff (Reflections on Pentecost 13, Year B, 2021)

 

"When many of the disciples heard it, they said, ‘This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?’” (John 6:60) 

I can’t say that I blame the disciples for saying what they say in the above quote from the appointed Gospel reading for Pentecost 13, Year B (John 6: 56-69). After all, Jesus just told them “Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. (v.56)” Even the most devoted of followers might cavil just a bit at cannibalism (I know I would!). 

But, of course, Jesus isn’t really talking about eating human flesh or drinking human blood. Smart Bible scholar guys figured out that by the time John wrote his Gospel the practice of Holy Communion (or the shared meal which eventually morphed into the sacrament as we know it today) was probably something just about every Christian did or knew about. John doesn’t even bother adding the sacrament to his narrative of Jesus’ last Passover supper—he might’ve figured it was so ubiquitous he didn’t need to write about it. Either that, or verse 56 was added to his Gospel by a later editor who was really into Communion and felt it should be in the Gospel somewhere. Who knows? 

It doesn’t really matter, though. The teaching about meeting Jesus in a shared meal doesn’t seem that hard to me. I like saying mass and participating in the sacrament. I also like the explanation a cool Bible scholar named Bruce Chilton[i] suggested that the sacrifice of a shared meal—the intimate coming together of family and friends—was more acceptable in God’s eyes than the ritual spilling of blood in the temple of Jerusalem. Anyone can offer food and drink, but not anyone was deemed holy enough to offer a temple sacrifice. Jesus’ ritual was inclusive and loving. Also, he promised us he’d be with us when we share the bread and wine. I’m perfectly okay with saying that when we come together in peace, each of us acknowledging our hunger for forgiveness, we just have to experience a sense of mutual forbearance and compassion. And that’s when Jesus shows up. 

So what’s so hard about this Gospel lesson? I mean, besides the fact that some folks thought Christians were practicing cannibalism? The hard part might come in verse 65 where Jesus says, “…no one can come to me unless it is granted by the Father.” That makes us ask, so what if it’s not granted by the Father? Does God actually choose to exclude people from grace? Some Christians—even some Reformation era Christians—thought so. You might’ve heard of the doctrine of Predestination. This is, roughly speaking, a tenant some held in which God decided in advance which of us would find our souls in Heaven and which of us would fry eternally in damnation. In this doctrine, God’s mind is made up. You’re either in or out, and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

Martin Luther agreed with this doctrine to a certain extent. He’d tell you that God has already decided that you are beloved, worthy, a great candidate for forgiveness and blessing, and someone God would like to spend all eternity with. God’s mind is pretty much made up on that point. Luther would also agree that it is only the will of the Father which allows you to come to grace. In fact, Luther says in his explanation to the Third Article of the Apostles Creed: 

“I believe that by my own understanding or strength I cannot believe in Jesus Christ my Lord or come to him, but the Holy Spirit has called me through the Gospel…” 

This is to say that none of us would’ve been able to get our stupid, selfish minds off of our own stuff long enough to even try to imagine the nature of God if God hadn’t revealed God’s self through Jesus Christ. We only come to know God because God wants us to know God. 

Unfortunately, there are always going to be those who are too wrapped up in themselves to care about God, other people, or the planet we live on. They are going to go on being jerks and causing the rest of us lots of pain because they have chosen to do so. God’s part in this is simple: We can only be free to love and serve God if we’re free to ignore or deny God. This freedom makes our love real, but it also causes us all a whole lot of hurt. 

In our Gospel lesson from John 6 we’re told that Jesus already knew who would choose not to believe and who would choose to betray (v.64). But foreknowledge does not mean causality. A good teacher can always tell which students will pass and which will fail. This doesn’t mean she causes the success or lack of success of her pupils. I know the sun will rise tomorrow morning—but that doesn’t mean I’ll cause it to come up. 

God’s will is for all of us to know peace, forgiveness, and joy. Since we know we already have God’s love, we might as well respond to it by heeding Jesus’ words of eternal life. This might not be easy. Compassion, forgiveness, love of the stranger, generosity, hope—these things are hard. But the hard stuff is always the most worthwhile. 

God’s peace to you, my friend.

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[i] See Chilton, Bruce: Rabbi Jesus: An Intimate Biography. (New York: Doubleday, 2000) It’s really good.

Saint of the Month: Pastor Louisa Groce

 

It’s been a while since I’ve written a “Saint of the Month” post. I guess it’s because of COVID-19 and being away from my office all those months last year that got me out of my hagiological habit. Now, as the church celebrates the Feast of Mary, Mother of Our Lord (August 15), I’ve started to think of those special women whom God has called to be bearers of Christ. I confess, being an old white dude, I so often pick my saints for the pool of old white dudes. This time, however, I want to honor a woman of color—and one who made  a marvelous impression on me but, sadly, was called home to her eternal reward earlier this year.

“You don’t have to call me ‘Miss Louisa,’” she said to me when I was assigned as her field education student at Emanuel Lutheran Church at 4th and Carpenter Streets in South Philadelphia back in 1995. I, however, couldn’t think of addressing the seventy-something woman in any other way than with the title of respect used for mature ladies in that mostly African American neighborhood. There was just something about the dignified way she stood, her carriage, her demeanor, that made me feel a sense of reverence for Louisa Groce. I was in my mid-thirties at the time and, in addition to the natural respect youth owes to age, I saw in her wonderful dignity, in the elegant way she dressed, and in the warmth of her smile something which made me feel I was in the presence of everyone’s favorite grandmother. 

You couldn’t help but feel comfortable around Louisa. She had a winning smile and a way about her that just put you at ease—even though you could tell she was a lady of accomplishments. I really didn’t know how accomplished she was until I read her obituary this past year. Louisa was an Ivy League graduate. She held an MA in Special Education from Columbia University and had spent over thirty years in the Philadelphia public schools as a teacher, counselor, administrator and program supervisor. During her tenure she created programs which took city youth across the country, to Canada, and even to the People’s Republic of China. It amazes me how one slender, soft-spoken Black lady could’ve touched so many lives. 

When I was assigned to work with her at Emanuel she held the august title of “Associate in Ministry.” The old, 19^th century German church, with its bell tower dominating the neighborhood around the Southwark Plaza Housing Projects, was in a state of disrepair. The tiny congregation gathered Sundays in the ground floor chapel as many of the elderly members couldn’t make it up the steep flight of stairs which led to the church’s 1,100 seat main sanctuary. Emanuel hadn’t had a called pastor in years, so it was up to Louisa to keep things running, provide for supply pastors, supervise repair work, and visit the sick or homebound. This the former educator did with relish, as it had always been her dream to be full-time in the service of God. 

I have wonderful memories of my year at Emanuel—mostly because I was permitted by the Bishop to consecrate my first mass there even before I was ordained, but also because of the wonderful spirit of the congregation and the constant encouragement and approval of Louisa Groce. It was one of the best experiences of my seminary years for this white boy from California to be accepted by a Black congregation in Philly, and I learned a great deal from the folks at Emanuel about what real Christian hospitality should be. My fondest memory might be just watching Louisa worship. She’d been a life-long Lutheran, but when the hymn-singing started there was no question about how much she loved praising the Lord. 

Louisa and I shared two things in common: we were both former special ed teachers, and we’d both been brought up in the conservative Lutheran Church Missouri Synod. Louisa’s brother, Harvey Davis, had been so inspired that he had become an ordained LCMS pastor. Louisa, because of the strict gender rules of that denomination, was denied the right to pursue a career as a minister of Word and Sacrament. She therefore joined the more liberal Lutheran Church in America (a predecessor body of today’s ELCA) and began seminary studies at the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia (Today the United Lutheran Seminary—Philadelphia). 

On September 12, 1999 Louisa was ordained to Word and Sacrament Ministry and installed as pastor of Redeemer Lutheran Church of Jersey City, NJ. She was eighty-one years of age, the oldest person ever to be ordained in the ELCA. She served Redeemer faithfully until her retirement ten years later, but continued to lead Bible studies, volunteer at a local hospice, and serve as a substitute or “supply” pastor when needed. She passed away peacefully last March at the age of 102. 

I had not seen Louisa for many years, but I will always remember her. Her insight, piety, and dedication to God’s people remind me that, in the words of the great Yogi Berra, “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.” God can use us at any age, and our “Third Act” might turn out to be the most meaningful of all. 

May God bless and keep Miss Louisa, and all the faithful women who have meant so much to so many.

 

Wonder Bread (Reflections on Pentecost 11, Year B 2021)

 

“I am the bread of life.” (John 6:48) 

Where do we see God? Do we even bother to look for God in our everyday world? I, for one, walk around like a zombie most of the time, my mind on whatever trivial crap I have to do in the moment, and I don’t often let my waiting-to-get-senile brain soak up some of the cool stuff that God keeps throwing at me. And yet, there’s something of the holy in just about everything if we’re open enough to see it. 

There’s something of the holy in everybody, too. I’ve been watching the Tokyo Olympics on TV this week, and I find myself wondering just how the heck do those kids do what they do? The women’s gymnastics look to me like something out of the superhero comic books I read as a kid. How do they fly through the air like that? It’s just superhuman! 

And then I start to wonder how these God-given gifts were first manifested and appreciated. When did Simone Biles’ parents know their daughter was blessed with divine super powers? Do they ever think as they watch her that the awe they experience can be a way of worshiping God? 

In the Gospel lesson for Pentecost 11, Year B (John 6:35, 41-51) we meet some folks who just don’t think the ordinary and the divine have anything in common. The “Jews”[i] really get their boxer shorts twisted when Jesus claims to have come down from heaven. They’re not seeing anything divine in this guy. They know who his folks are, and they’re not impressed with his pedigree. In fact, they’re actually rather offended by the chutzpa Jesus shows in claiming to have a divine origin or connection. To these guys, Jesus’ remarks are just plain old blasphemy. They consider it arrogant to claim any close connection to the Father God. In their tradition, you just don’t want to get too close to God.[ii] 

For these religious Judeans, it’s an impertinence to call God by name; nevertheless, here comes Jesus declaring “I AM”—using the name for God—all over the place.[iii] In John’s Gospel, Jesus seems just a little more divine than in the three synoptics. He keeps shoving the one-ness with the Father in everybody’s face. But, if you think about it, where else would we encounter the mystery of God but in a human being, one whom the Hebrew Scriptures tell us was made in God’s image?[iv] 

Some Bible scholars[v] think that John’s Gospel was written in opposition to a bunch of early Christians known as the gnostics. These guys thought they were just a little bit more special because they possessed secret, esoteric knowledge of Jesus which the less spiritually mature weren’t capable of grasping. John, in contrast, always seems to be telling us that God is close at hand, an idea which would make those back-pew sitting Judeans really uncomfortable. If you want to experience God, John tells us, start by looking at the person who was willing to give his life on the cross. Even if you have no belief in a divinity at all, you have to admit that a guy who stands up to the oppressive powers of the day in the full knowledge that he’ll be impaled on a piece of wood and left hanging there to die in consequence of his actions is pretty darn unusual. Love like that just doesn’t come along every day. 

Looking to Jesus should remind us that an amazing, sacrificial, and superhuman love is both possible and real. God is near, and the best way to experience that nearness is to look for God—not in some theoretical heaven—but in the people around us. I always say that my job as a Christian is to seek Christ, to be willing to see Jesus in others and to try to be Jesus for others. But if I’m not willing to see him, I can never be him. 

For me, there can be no other regular reminder of the nearness of God in Jesus than coming with my brothers and sisters to the Lord’s Table. There’s just something both divine and ordinary in sharing a meal. 

I’ll admit that I like to eat, and I also like to cook. At least, I like to cook breakfast. Since my daily schedule and diet are different from that of my Bride (and because I’m a dude and inclined to be bit messy), I often cook my breakfast at church. It’s the most important meal of the day, they tell me, so I make eggs and bacon and have toast and fruit and lots of other stuff. When I’ve consumed this delightful repast, I feel properly fortified to begin my work day. Funny thing, however: by lunch time I’m hungry again. But when I share the bread that is the body of Christ, I have all the sustaining power I need to get through life in this crazy world. His love, his sacrifice, and his presence stay with me. 

Our God is transcendent and imminent. In the bread and cup, in the Word, and in those extraordinary ordinary folks who surround us—he is always near. Isn't that wonderful?

Thanks for visiting with me this week!

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[i] “Jews” might be translated as “Judeans,” but it basically means the religious establishment. You have to figure that Jesus, his disciples, and darn near everyone else we’ll meet in this Gospel is ethnically Jewish.

[ii] You’ll note that the Holy of Holies in the temple was always curtained off from view. The name of God could only be pronounced by the priests. The patriarchal heroes of the Hebrew Scriptures were afraid to look on the face of God. Check out Genesis 32:30; Deuteronomy 5:24; Judges 6:22–23; Judges 13:22; Isaiah 6:5; Revelation 1:17; Exodus 24:10–11.

[iii] I AM can be considered part of the divine name as in “I am who I am” in Exodus 3:14.

[iv] See Genesis 1:26.

[v] Particularly the Princeton scholar Elaine Pagels. See her book Beyond Belief: The Secret Gospel of Thomas (New York: Random House, 2003). It’s really good.