What to do with Clorox Jesus? (Reflections on Transfiguration, Year C 2022)

 

“And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white.” (Luke 9:29) 

I never know quite what to do with the story of “Clorox Jesus[i]” in the Revised Common Lectionary (Luke 9:28-43a). The feast of the Transfiguration has always puzzled me. It’s so weird. Okay. So Jesus goes up on the mountain with a few of his buddies, he prays, and then his clothes turn “dazzling white” like he’s doing an ad for some kind of laundry detergent, and two dead prophets magically appear with him. I always wonder how, in the days before photographs, the disciples knew these mysterious figures were Moses and Elijah. Did they wear name tags? And what’s so special about this event in the first place? 

I’ve been reading a fascinating book lately called How Jesus Became God by Bart Ehrman[ii], a professor of religious studies at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. Dr. Ehrman suggests that this tale of the dazzling white clad Jesus might have been an afterthought. That is, after Jesus was resurrected his disciples and followers—who thought for sure their rabbi was just a regular Joe like themselves until he appeared to them after having been crucified—might have scratched their heads and said, “You know, I’ll bet he was divine all along and we just didn’t know it.” The story of the mountaintop prayer retreat was circulated orally throughout the early Christian communities, and, as it made the rounds, details got added and embellished until it landed decades later in a pretty similar form in each of the synoptic gospels. 

Of course Dr. Ehrman is just spitballing a theory. If you’re a Fundamentalist you’ll maintain that the Transfiguration story went down exactly as it’s described in the gospels and Ehrman is going to Hell for suggesting otherwise. The older I get, however, the less convinced I am that there’s only one way to look at the Bible. I like to think of the Bible as a living document, rather like the US Constitution. The late Justice Antonin Scalia championed a theory of the Constitution he called “Originalism.” That is, he liked to try to interpret the document based on what he thought the original writers originally intended. Good luck trying that with the Bible! You see, we don’t know what the original writers intended. We don’t even know for sure who the original writers were[iii]. Our scriptures are separated from us by time, geography, and culture. Some stuff may seem perfectly clear, but a lot leaves us standing with our mouths open going, “Huh..?” 

But, as I said, I like to think of the Bible as a living document. We love the Bible because the stories and letters we read have an enduring message which isn’t tied to time, place, or culture. It’s a message which always speaks to our shared humanity and can mean different things to different people in different circumstances—yet each difference can be valid and holy. 

Liturgically, we use the story of the Transfiguration as a transition point. In our historic Roman ordo (of which Luther approved!), Transfiguration marks the turning point where the characters stop seeing the glory of Jesus and start seeing how his message gets him in trouble. In Luke’s gospel in particular, this story is the start of Jesus’ journey to Jerusalem and crucifixion. It’s the last up-beat moment before a bunch of bad guys make their entrance and we in the Church enter the more somber season of Lent. 

If we look at the Transfiguration as a living story, we’ll find a bunch of pretty cool details here, any one of which could make for a good sermon. Just to pick one, I’ll point out that Jesus isn’t going on his prayer retreat with his whole posse. He’s been a pretty busy guy, just having fed five thousand people with a few loaves and fish and engaging his disciples in a pretty intense conversation about who they think he is and what his mission is supposed to be. When he heads up the mountain, he asks only Peter and James and John to come with him. Maybe it’s because these are the friends he trusts the most, and with whom he can reveal himself. These are the guys who, at this time, are willing to stay up with him and pray with him—something they don’t seem to be able to do later in the Garden of Gethsemane. It’s pretty important to have friends like this in your life. You know, the ones you can really be yourself with. The ones who are willing to see your divinity. 

When I read the Transfiguration story this year, I note that Luke says the “appearance” of Jesus’ face changed. He doesn’t say Jesus changed, just the way he appeared to his buddies. Perhaps this prayer retreat gave these three guys a new appreciation of their friend and rabbi. Maybe, if only for a moment, they had a real, personal, connection with their friend which wasn’t colored by their expectations or projections. And maybe, in such close inter-personal moments with each other, we are closest to God. 

Unfortunately, such encounters are only momentary. I like that the RCL lets us read on to verse 43a where Jesus and his pals come down off the mountain and get right back to dealing with a needy crowd. The moment of intimacy is over, and it’s back to work. (Jesus even seems a bit cranky in verse 41, don’t you think?). 

I wish we all could take the time to see the divinity in the people God has placed in our lives, and that we all are blessed with people willing to see God’s presence in us in an honest, loving, and non-judgmental way. We need such fleeting moments to help us see us through the cloudy times ahead. 

God bless you, and thanks for sharing these few moments with me.

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[i] I have to thank my esteemed colleague the Rev. Lauren Heywood-Bruno for this witticism.

[ii] How Jesus Became God: The Exaltation of a Jewish Preacher from Galilee. Bart D. Ehrman. Harper Press. 2015

[iii] Okay, except for Paul. We know who he was, but we’re not sure if he actually wrote all the letters attributed to him. It was a common practice back in the day to ascribe your teacher’s name to something you wrote based on his philosophy. My old Sunday School KJV Bible lists Paul as the writer of Hebrews, but now most scholars don’t think it makes the cut.

A Really Tough Ask (Reflections on Epiphany 7, Year C, 2022)

 

“But I say to you that listen, love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.” (Luke 6:27) 

My wife and I have an Advent tradition. We regularly attend a community event near our home in South Jersey which features, among other things, a craft fair and a choral concert from one of the local high schools. At the craft stall we met this guy whom I’ll call “Ed.[i]” He’s a retired fellow who recently told us a remarkable story quite germane to the gospel lesson appointed for Epiphany 7, Year C in the RCL (Luke 6:27-38). 

It seems that one day not too long ago Ed was crossing a busy street, just minding his own business. A motorist—who apparently was not minding her business—raced through the crosswalk and struck this venerable older gentleman, sending him to the pavement. The young female driver immediately stopped her car, got out, called 911, and sat with Ed until the police and ambulance arrived. All the while she apologized for running him down—which was, of course, the very least she could do under the circumstances. 

Help arrived and Ed was loaded into the ambulance. When the police officer took his statement, Ed (who is Pentecostal and very devout) begged the officer not to charge the motorist who ran him over. “It was just an accident,” he said. The officer obliged, and, to my knowledge, the young lady was never charged.[ii] 

A racist psycho named Dylann Roof entered the Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina on June 17, 2015 and ruthlessly gunned down nine innocent people during a Bible study. Among the nine was Ethel Lance, whose daughter, Nadine Collier, while offering her impact statement at Roof’s sentencing, said she forgave the murderer and prayed God would have mercy on him. 

In 1998 Aaron McKinney and an accomplice lured a young gay man, Matthew Shepherd, out of a bar near Laramie, Wyoming, tied him to a fence, beat him, and left him to die. When McKinney faced the death penalty, Shepherd’s parents, Dennis and Judy, asked the judge to spare his life in their son’s name. 

Ed, Nadine Collier, and Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd are stunning examples of forgiving the otherwise unforgiveable. They embody the teaching Jesus gives us in Luke chapter 6 about loving an enemy and praying for those who clearly wronged others. 

Of all the admonishments Jesus gives us, this one might be the toughest to swallow. After all, people need to pay for their crimes, don’t they? Are we supposed to let the bad guys just get away with being bad? If we can’t strike back, do we choose to let ourselves be abused? And what about that jazz about giving to all who beg? Are we supposed to let dead-beats freeload off society? Why is God kind to the ungrateful and the wicked (v.35)? That’s not fair! 

I think one of the hardest things for us to do as Christians is balance justice with God’s mercy. The truth is, it’s never going to be about who “deserves” mercy. All sin and all fall short. Of course we can’t let people go around cutting each other’s throats without trying to do something about it. But why does Jesus ask us to love enemies, ignore insults and abuse, pray for persecutors, give to beggars, and forgive the misdeeds of others? 

It’s simple: because hate is poison to our souls. Martin Luther would maintain that the first reason God gave us the 10 Commandments is to restrain lawlessness and create good order so all could live in peace. Unfortunately, in a sinful world we trash these commands to love God and one another every chance we get, thereby jeopardizing peace and brotherhood. So, just as unfortunately, we have to have punishments as deterrents to our willful disobedience. Punishment, however, is not the opposite of forgiveness. Resentment is the opposite of forgiveness. Resentment has nothing to do with good order. It has to do with our personal relationship with God and ourselves. 

Living with smoldering anger does nothing but alienate us from God, ourselves, and those around us. I’ve heard it said that resentment is like drinking poison in the hopes your enemy will die. There is nothing redemptive about violence or hatred. Force may be needed to end a war, prohibit further crimes, or protect the innocent, but I don’t imagine punishment ever produces a feeling of peace or well-being in the punisher. In fact, often the opposite is the case. 

Maybe the hardest thing Jesus asks us to do is to look beyond the wounds inflicted by our enemies and see the wounds inflicted on our enemies. We are asked to go beyond grievance to compassion. I’ll admit, it’s not an easy ask. 

Dylann Roof and Aaron McKinney will spend the rest of their lives in jail for their deeds, but Nadine Collier and the Shepherds have chosen not to be imprisoned by hate. The girl who ran over our friend Ed is probably paying a higher auto insurance premium these days, but Ed has a great story to tell and feels perfectly comfortable having obeyed the teaching of his Savior. 

May we all know the freedom which comes from obedience to Jesus. Thanks for reading. 

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[i] Because that’s his name.

[ii] BTW, for an old guy, Ed has made a rather miraculous recovery. He still walks with a cane, but he’s otherwise pretty okay.

Let the Woe Show (Reflections on Epiphany 6, Year C 2022)

 

“And all in the crowd were trying to touch him, for power came out of him and healed all of them.” (Luke 6:19) 

In my last year in seminary I took this elective class on preaching controversial subjects*. This is not exactly the kind of sermon some Lutherans are comfortable hearing, but I thought the class would be interesting and, indeed, it proved to be so. Each of the students were assigned two touchy subjects to preach about. The first one I was assigned was childhood sexual abuse. I’ll confess, the topic made me pretty nervous, but I charged ahead. I received some helpful criticisms from my classmates and the professor and (as I recall) I got a “B” on the assignment.**

 A few weeks after I presented my childhood abuse sermon, I got an invitation to sub for my intern supervisor who was going on vacation. The assigned gospel text for that Sunday was the same text I’d used for my class assignment, so I thought, “Cool! I’ve already got a sermon prepared.” 

When I preached my sermon, I could almost feel the congregation squirming as I related the gospel lesson to this very delicate subject; nevertheless, nobody said anything to me about it after the service. They just smiled politely and said how nice it was to see their old vicar back again. 

The following week I received a letter from a lady in the congregation. She explained to me that she had been the victim of childhood sexual abuse. She thanked me for taking on the subject and told me that she had never heard a preacher breath a word about this topic from the pulpit before. Theology aside (and I don’t even remember exactly what I said in that sermon—it was a pretty long time ago!), it was meaningful for her just to have someone acknowledge her situation. It was the first time she had felt her pain had been recognized. 

What strikes me about the gospel appointed for Epiphany 6, Year C (Luke 6:17-26) is Jesus’ acknowledgement of the poor, the depressed, and the marginalized. The text tells us that all kinds of folks were hanging around, waiting for Jesus to come down from his prayer retreat so they might be touched and healed. It’s pretty hard to touch someone without recognizing them and looking at them. Everyone needed a hand laid on them. Everyone yearend to have someone have a real encounter with them. The scripture tells us it was people from all walks of life—Jews and gentiles, rich and poor, men and women. Everyone was in need. 

 I heard it said on the radio last week that one of the saddest things elderly people in nursing homes experience is the absence of touch, the absence of substantial human interaction. Jesus not only touches, but blesses those whom the culture says are cursed.    

The culture and Jesus never see eye-to-eye on the subject of blessings and curses. In the world of the gospel, any pious Jew would still believe if your life was crap it was because you somehow got on the wrong side of God. It staggers my already staggered brain when I think that two thousand years later we still clutch onto the same nonsense. We still live in a cult of enforced “happiness.” We’re like the twenty-eight-year-old who doesn’t want to go to his high school reunion because he hasn’t become the howling success his class yearbook predicted he’d be. We go on Facebook and eat up each other’s propaganda about how cool their lives are, and we somehow feel ashamed that we’re missing out and not living a good enough existence. If we’re not basking in bliss all the time we feel guilty. 

We also try to rationalize away our “woes.” When disaster strikes, when we feel those devastating reversals of fortune, we try to explain them away by saying they’re God’s will or God is trying to teach us something. The reality is, we just don’t know. Sometimes crappy stuff just happens. And, as Jesus the apocalyptic prophet is telling us, it can—and will—happen to everyone at some time or other. 

Money, security, and popularity are not in and of themselves bad things. But they don’t protect us from sickness, death, or other losses. The thing we hold onto is the knowledge that God has seen us and called us “blessed.” No reversal of fortune takes away our baptism. It’s okay to be and feel the way we do. The passage of scripture tells us that all who suffered from the unclean spirits—the Jews and gentiles, rich and poor, blessed or woebegone—were cured. 

And it is no sin to be needy. 

May Christ’s spirit reach out and touch you today. Thanks for reading, my friend.

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*The fancy word for this is homiletics. Just thought you might be interested in case it ever comes up on Jeopardy.

** I think I got a “B” on all my sermons. Maybe I was never Lutheran enough for an “A.” Ya think?

Excuses, Excuses! (Reflections on Epiphany 5, Year C, 2022)

 “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.” (Luke 5:18b) 

It may not exactly be something to boast of, but my late dad was one of the great cussers of all time. This man, when moved to do so, could spew a geyser of profanity for a solid minute without repeating himself. I attribute this skill to his time in the army, but I’d be willing to bet even the most creative of drill instructors would be hard pressed to out curse my Old Man. If there ever was a man of unclean lips, it was surely my dad. And I am just like him. 

Granted, a flair for profanity is not a particularly admirable trait in a clergyman. In fact, I once considered that my potty mouth—among a host of other rather unattractive attributes—should surely disqualify me from pursuing a career in the church. When my pastor, Mary Todd-Pendergast, first suggested I explore a call to ordained ministry, I felt rather like Isaiah in the First Lesson assigned for Epiphany 5, Year C (Isaiah 6:1-8). “Woe is me,” I thought. “I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips.” I was pretty sure I was one of the least holy or pious people around. I told my pastor that, as a stunningly unsuccessful actor, I might be able to pull off an adequate Sunday morning, but I really had no deep knowledge of the scriptures, I’d never been a counselor, and I had zero administrative skills. Pastor Mary shot down these objections with one sentence: “You know, Owen, when you go to seminary they teach you those things.” 

So, okay, I thought. And here I am. 

Reluctance in the face of God’s call seems to be a theme in the lessons appointed for this Sunday. Isaiah has a mind-blowing vison of standing before the throne of God with all these six-winged angels flying around.[i] He’s completely freaked-out by the grandeur and majesty of God, and he’s feeling really unworthy and not a little bit terrified in this awesome presence. God, however, has a plan for this guy, and he wipes away any reluctance Isaiah might have by telling an angel to burn away the uncleanliness from the future prophet’s mouth with a hot coal (I don’t personally recommend this method, but God can get away with it.). 

We see another future prophet, Simon Peter, backing off from a call to serve the Lord in our gospel lesson (Luke 5:1-11). I think it’s pretty clear that Peter knows or at least has heard about Jesus before this story starts. Otherwise, it would be pretty rude of the Lord to just invite himself onto some stranger’s boat.[ii] After hearing Jesus preach, Peter is agreeable to the fishing expedition but probably only out of courtesy to the rabbi. He’s fished all night and caught bupkis. He may even be dog tired, but he’s not going to refuse a request from this popular and charismatic preacher—especially not with everyone watching. So off he goes and is totally blown away when he and his buddies suddenly—in spite of all their expectations—hit the fish jackpot. 

And how does he react? Just like Isaiah. When God is revealed, it scares the crap out of him. He tells Jesus to go away and leave him because he’s too sinful to stand in the presence of the holy or be any earthly use to God. 

But God doesn’t think the way we think. Worthiness in God’s eyes isn’t about what you can put in a resume or find on a background check. If it were, we’d all be in deep trouble. God gives us gifts and challenges us to use them out of love for God and our neighbor. And God doesn’t hang us out on a limb in the hope we figure out how to survive. God equips the saints. 

The miracle in our gospel story convinces Peter of two things. First, it’s an epiphany. Peter sees that there is something unusual and spectacular and deeply holy about this Jesus guy. If he wasn’t impressed by Jesus’ teaching, he’s certainly impressed by his ability to find fish. But this miracle has a promise to it. Jesus has supplied abundance. If not abundance, at least sufficiency—which is just as good.  Peter is laboring at a hard, sweaty, and uncertain job as a fisherman, but I’ll bet he’d think twice about leaving it to travel around the country with this weird new rabbi unless he was convinced that God would be there to provide for him. 

In my own call story, I can only say I left a pretty crazy gig as a junior high school teacher to take up an even crazier gig as a pastor because the Holy Spirit—through the testimony of a lot of really special Christian people—gave me the courage to say “yes.” 

What would happen if we all recognized we’re called as ambassadors for Christ? That God has an answer for all of our excuses to avoid the things the Spirit prompts us to do? What if we all saw ourselves as worthy, gifted, and safe to be bearers of God’s love to those who need it most? 

Think about it. May God’s peace be with you while you do!

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[i] Fun fact: “Feet” in verse 2 is actually a euphemism for genitals. You certainly wouldn’t want your angels flying around flashing their junk in the presence of Almighty God. That would be pretty disrespectful, don’t you think?

[ii] Another fun fact: The hillside around the Sea of Galilee forms a sort of natural amphitheater which would help amplify Jesus’ voice while he taught the crowd. You have to figure that this was a “festival seating” event and Jesus had no security detail. By sitting in the boat and pushing off a bit from the shore he could keep the fans from crowding him (nobody wants to stand in the water) and he could still be heard by everyone present.