Some Uncomfortable Stuff From Jesus (Reflections on Pentecost 19, Year B 2021)

 

“Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” (Mark 10:15)

I got a call from an old buddy this past week, and I hope he won’t mind my using his situation as a sermon illustration. It seems that after about thirty years of marriage he and his missus are about to call it quits. As any divorced person knows, this really sucks—it doesn’t matter what the circumstances are. Broken relationships are painful, and a broken marriage can really sting in light of the gospel lesson assigned for Pentecost 19, Year B (Mark 10:2-16) in the Revised Common Lectionary for 2021.

Yup. It’s that nasty passage in which Jesus talks about divorce and adultery. Since my buddy and his wife are Catholic, this is a pretty tough piece of scripture to choke down. Our Roman brethren frown on couples who split up and have been doing so for centuries. Did you know that in Ireland, the most Catholic country in Europe, it was—as late as 1996—actually illegal to get a divorce? I mean, what were they thinking? Your spouse could be a brutal junkie, a criminal, or a psychopathic murderer, but you had to stay with them because divorcing them was a sin. Really..?

The best way to approach this subject—or any subject in the Bible that makes us feel a little queasy—is to look at the context. I’d like to remind my old friend that the Bible was written a long time ago and in a culture much different from ours. The most crucial thing to remember, however, is the radical nature of the guy who is being quoted—Our Lord and Savior. Jesus is at times prone to a bit of hyperbole. Just check out his warning to believers whose actions or words screw with the faith of newer and more vulnerable Christians (See last week’s gospel lesson Mark 9:42-50). I know we might like to think of Jesus as that gentle shepherd, blessing children and comforting the sinners, but he’s also that wild, freaky guy who overturns the tables of the money changers and pisses off the religious leaders. Sometimes he says extreme things to get our attention. If his teachings don’t make us uncomfortable every once in a while, maybe we’re not really hearing what he’s saying.

At the time this story takes place, it wasn’t uncommon for Pharisees to debate each other over every aspect of the Law of Moses. These guys really loved to split hairs. In Deuteronomy 24:1-4, it says a man can divorce his wife if she doesn’t please him or he finds something objectionable about her. But how do you define “objectionable?” I imagine these Pharisees wanted to hear Jesus’ take on this so they could pigeonhole him. But Jesus isn’t having it.

In Mark’s gospel Jesus makes it clear that a broken relationship—for any reason—is still a manifestation of sin. In Matthew’s gospel, which we believe was written later than Mark’s, Jesus makes a little caveat that you can divorce your spouse for “unchastity” (See Matthew 5:32). This is usually understood to mean adultery, but there’s a little more baggage attached to this word. The Greek word is porneo (from which our word “pornography” comes) and could refer to incest which might have been common in some parts of the ancient world. The older text, however, reflects Jesus’ reminder that a certificate of divorce—however legal it might be—doesn’t erase the fact that two people failed to get along and good faith was broken.

But good faith is broken all the time. One of Jesus’ wildest statements is made in Matthew 5:28 when he opines that anyone who eyeballs an attractive person who isn’t his or her partner and starts to imagine hooking up with them is committing adultery. Even just asking yourself “What if?” means you’ve kicked the Sixth Commandment to the curb. And that means just about every last one of us has been an adulterer at one time or another.

It is also likely Jesus is aware of the consequences of sin in his time. If a man did show his spouse the door, it was possible he was dooming her to a life of poverty. Jesus’ radical words might well have been in support of the rights of women and a reminder of the duty we all have to protect and care for the vulnerable.

We sinners really love making a hierarchy of our sins—usually ranking the ones we don’t think we’ll commit as worse than others. But Jesus reminds us of the truth: sin is sin—and we all do it, say it, or think it every day of our lives. We all are guilty, and we all are forgiven by God’s grace. The best we can do this side of the kingdom of God is be grateful, accept the consequences of our actions, and try to triage the hard choices we make based on what will do the most or least harm.

It’s anyone’s guess why Mark glued Jesus’ teaching on divorce to the incident related in verses 13-16. Here Jesus scolds the disciples for trying to stop folks from bringing their children for him to bless. Perhaps Mark liked the juxtaposition of innocent kids—kids who haven’t yet learned how to judge others or become their own jailhouse lawyers—with the legalistic and excuse-making Pharisees. Jesus says that we all need to approach him like children who need to be loved and are willing to accept love and forgiveness. That’s how we get through this life with all our past mistakes and our incurable human tendency to sin. We just come into Jesus’ embrace, cry a little on his shoulder, say we’re sorry, and promise to do better next time.

Don't Block the Priest (Reflections on Pentecost 18, Year B 2021)

 

For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.” (Mark 9:43)

“You’re good, Father!” said John the toll booth guy at the Burlington/Bristol Bridge.

“Say what?” I asked.

“You’re good. The guy ahead of you paid your toll for you. Have a nice day.”

Cool, I thought. It’s starting out to be a pretty good morning. And what a generous thing for some stranger to pay the $4 it costs for me to cross the Delaware River into Pennsylvania.ⁱ I wonder why they did it? Were they just in the mood to do a good deed, or did they look in their rearview mirror, see my clergy collar, and figure they’d do a kindness for one who bears the name of Christ? I guess they won’t be losing their reward!

Martin Luther would say that anything we do in Christ’s name for anyone else is a priestly act. A priest is, historically, anyone who makes the intercession between human beings and God. Anyone whose words or deeds do Christ’s work is, essentially, a priest. You don’t need a seminary degree or a stole around your neck. And all of us are called to some kind of priestly vocation.

In both our gospel and Hebrew Scripture lessons assigned for Pentecost 18 in the Revised Common Lectionary (Mark 9:38-50 and Numbers 11:4-6, 10-16, 24-29) we read stories of folks who may not have been officially sanctioned but were carrying out priestly duties. In Mark, the apostle John gets his shorts in a bunch because some folks are performing exorcisms in the name of Jesus but they’re not officially Jesus’ disciples. “Casting out demons” as the text says (v. 38), could be taken literally, but it could also be a reference to prayers for healing since our early Christian ancestors believed that sickness was caused by demons. Jesus orders John not to stop these guys. After all, it would be like telling someone not to give a bleeding accident victim first aid unless you’re wearing a paramedic’s badge.

The Lectionary pairs this passage with a story form the exodus journey. The children of Israel—as they were wont to do—had been griping and whining about the crappy food in the desert and a host of other petty grievances. This was really getting on Moses’ nerves, and he starts to complain to God that his workload in caring for these ungrateful crybabies is getting to be too much for him. God then suggests that Moses delegate some responsibility to a church council. Moses gathers seventy elders, and God anoints them with some of Moses’ spirit. Two other guys, Eldad and Medad (who clearly didn’t get the memo they were supposed to report to the tent of meeting like the other seventy dudes), also got dosed with some spirt. They begin to prophesy, even though they’re not on the church council. This ruffles the feathers of Moses’ right-hand guy, Joshua, who doesn’t like to get his prophecy from anyone but the main man. He tells Moses to stop these two unsanctioned prophets, but Moses lets them go on. He’s probably just glad that someone is talking about the word of God and not bellyaching about having to eat manna at every meal.

It’s a sad commentary on Christians that we believe we all have a priestly vocation but we constantly try to keep others from exercising that vocation. We just love to throw rocks in their way. It’s not just the Jim Bakkers or the Jimmy Swaggarts or the pedophile priests whose hypocrisy turns people off from the faith. It’s been all the rest of us who have tried to narrowly define what the priestly mission is and limit who has the right to do it. Over the millennia we’ve told gifted ambassadors of the Word, “No. You can’t be a priest.” We’ve barred the door because someone is a woman, or LGBTQ, or not the right race, or not educated enough. We’ve thrown so many stumbling blocks in the way of ministry that we’ve begun to trip over our own feet.

My own particular stumbling block is denominational loyalty. I know Lutheranism is the way God speaks to me, but I sometimes forget that it might not be the only way God is speaking. If giving a cup of water in the name of Jesus is a sign of God’s presence, than God is certainly present with our Seventh Day Adventist brothers and sisters who have just given out 100,000 bottles of water to victims of the August 14^th earthquake in Haiti.

It’s so easy to limit God’s spirit in our own selves. Over the years I’ve spent in parish ministry I’ve heard people complain when a lay music leader gave a theological explanation of a new worship song. A grumbling member told me it should be the pastor’s job to explain doctrine. He didn’t trust it coming from anyone else. Similarly, there are those who believe only the pastor should do home visitations, or pray at a committee meeting, or lead a Bible study. Lay people just aren’t good enough. Some have even feared their own priestly vocation and doubted their ability to share their faith with their own children.

In the gospel lesson Jesus gets pretty graphic in his description of what it means to discourage others in their faith. I always say that my job as a Christian is to find the way of Christ in other people and then be that way of Christ for other people. We should be on our guard against limiting the Holy Spirit’s inspiration in others or in ourselves.

This week someone crossing the Burlington/Bristol Bridge might’ve thought they were doing a priest a favor. I wonder if they knew they were the priest.

God’s peace, my priestly friend.

i^ Interestingly, there is no toll if you cross from west to east. It’s free to go to New Jersey, but you have to pay to get out.

When Jesus Comes from Afghanistan (Reflections on Pentecost 17, Year B 2021)

 

“Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.” Then he took a little child and put it among them; and taking it in his arms, he said to them, “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes not me but the one who sent me.” (Mark 9:35-37) 

I was checking out at the Dollar Tree a few weeks ago, just about the time the first planeload of refugees was arriving in Philadelphia from Afghanistan. As usual, it seemed that continental drift was moving faster than this check-out lane. I looked on with envy as the folks in the adjacent aisle zipped through, each one greeted with a “Have a nice day!” from a portly African American woman cashier whose joyful demeanor contrasted starkly with the wooden-faced employee holding up my line. 

I couldn’t help but notice a lady in the next aisle who was dressed in full Muslim garb, her head modestly covered with a hijab. As she approached the register, the cheerful cashier, taking her (I can only assume) for a newly-arrived Afghani, turned on her 5,000 watt smile[i] and almost shouted “Welcome to Philadelphia!” The Muslim lady thanked her, but sweetly informed her that, although she was an immigrant, she was not Afghani and had been living in Philly for many years. 

I have to give credit to the cashier, even if she was a bit premature. She did what good hospitality and the Bible demand: she welcomed the stranger. I like to think she was welcoming Jesus, too. After all, as Matthew’s gospel tells us, Jesus was once a refugee himself.[ii] 

In our gospel lesson in the Revised Common Lectionary for Pentecost 17 (Mark 9: 30-37), Jesus tries to teach his disciples about welcoming, receiving, and caring for the least and most vulnerable. He’s already told these boys that his lot is to be rejected, reviled and killed. In fact, he’s tried to tell them a couple of times now. They still don’t get it and they’re too afraid to ask him to explain. So, he does what any good teacher in the ancient Mediterranean world would do: he uses an object lesson. He takes a little child (I’m thinking this is a little girl because, although all kids were considered like property, girls were even less valued than boys)[iii] and tells them that this needy, powerless, lowest in the pecking order individual is just as valued and adored in the eyes of God as any of them. They are to welcome and receive the lowest in the society as if they are receiving their own beloved rabbi. 

This must’ve blown their minds. After all, like all the rest of us sinners, they were hung up on status and priority in the societal food chain. I’m sure they truly loved Jesus and were passionately devoted to creating a new world as his disciples. Still, it seems they were taking themselves a little too seriously and were just a little too obsessed with their own importance. Self-importance leads to self-righteousness and self-pity—which are not particularly attractive traits. I guess the disciples knew this deep down, because they were embarrassed to confess to Jesus their stupid argument about their own merits. 

There’s certainly a part of me which identifies with the twelve. I don’t particularly like dealing with needy people. When I have to do so (which is pretty often these days), I feel ever so slightly superior. It’s pretty easy when, let’s say, my congregation has housed a homeless family for a month. I secretly think I’ve earned another merit badge on my heavenly Scout uniform. But serving isn’t above and beyond the call. It IS the call. 

Jesus doesn’t stutter when he tells us what discipleship means. It means serving the least and the lowest. If we love Jesus, we will be servants. If we are to be the church, we’d best be thinking first about the needs of the world around us.

I'm glad you stopped by this week. Please come again, and may God bless your servanthood.

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[i] At least I THINK she was smiling—she was wearing a COVID mask so it was hard to tell!

[ii] See Matthew Chapter 2

[iii] If you want to get really wonky about this—and who doesn’t?—the word Mark uses in Greek for “little child” is paidion (paidion). The word for house maid or slave girl is paidiske (paidiskh). I guess you can tell from the similarity where little girls ranked in the society.

So Who Are You Anyway? (Reflections on Pentecost 16,Year B 2021)

 

“For those who want to save their soul will lose it, and those who lose their soul for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.” (Mark 8:35) 

“Who are you anyway?” the angry man yelled at me. He’d heard me scolding his son who was riding his bicycle through the playground of the St. Michael Lutheran Summer Tutorial Day Camp in the East Mount Airy section of Philadelphia. Younger children were playing there, and, as Camp Director, I was getting pretty fed up with neighborhood kids using our property as their BMX track and endangering the safety of my campers. 

I thought, “What do you mean asking ‘Who am I?’ It should be obvious. I’m an adult and your son’s a kid and he has no business doing what he’s doing. I have every right to chastise the little miscreant.” 

But I didn’t take into consideration the fact that I was a white dude in a shirt and tie in a predominantly Black neighborhood. When I thought about the rather acrimonious encounter I’d had with this angry father, I realized “Who are you anyway?” wasn’t intended as an insult to impugn my right or authority. It was actually a legitimate demand that I identify myself. 

The next day I saw the father out in his yard. I went over and apologized to him, told him who I was, and explained the difficulty the camp had been having with neighborhood bike riders. We ended up shaking hands and he promised to tell his son not to ride on St. Michael’s property when the younger kids were there. 

So who are you anyway? Who do you think you are? Who do people say you are? What gives you identity? Who are you in your soul? 

The gospel lesson in the Revised Common Lectionary for Pentecost 16, Year B (Mark 8:27-38) has Jesus asking this question about his identity. When the disciples answer him, it seems like everybody has some idea of who this weird rabbi from Nazareth is or is supposed to be. There are some pretty interesting guesses, but they’re wrong. Finally, the Holy Ghost whispers into Peter’s ear, and he blurts out, “You’re the Messiah!” 

Then Jesus does whacky thing. He tells the disciples to keep his identity under wraps. Why? I always figured it was because nobody really understood what being the Messiah was supposed to mean. Jesus would rather be just an obscure itinerant preacher from the sticks than have everybody and their Uncle Ralph hail him as something he never had any intention of being. 

Who is he? He’s the guy who is going to hang on a cross. He’s the guy who is going to be the object of hatred and scorn. He’s the guy who will watch as, within the space of a few days, all his acclaim is stripped away and he becomes someone the folks will be happy to do without. He’s the guy who is going to look like a failure, a blasphemer, and a self-deluded whacko. 

Of course, Peter isn’t having any of this because he doesn’t get who the Messiah is supposed to be any more than anyone else does. Jesus has to take him to task for this, which, I imagine, didn’t make Peter feel very good. Still, the world’s ideas of glory, prestige, honor, and whatever are not who Jesus is. To follow Jesus means to give up your own idea of what’s important. It’s about giving up your identity. Jesus, in this text, actually asks us to give up our souls. 

Now, I’ll grant that this may sound a little counterintuitive. The New Revised Standard Version Bible translates the Greek word psyche (yuch) as “life.”[i] You might figure from this that Jesus is telling the lads they’d better be ready to die for him—and that’s probably true. The word can mean physical life. But: it can also mean inner life or our inmost being. So, Jesus might be asking us to give up our sense of self-identity or our idea of ourselves. He’s asking us to surrender all that we value—or hate—about ourselves for his sake. 

If someone were to ask me today “Who are you?” I’d happily and proudly tell them I’m the pastor of Faith Lutheran Church of Philadelphia. I must confess I’d be pretty self-satisfied saying that. But it’s starting to dawn on me that there’s more of my active ministry life behind me now than ahead of me. Who will I say that I am when I no longer do what I do? I must confess I’m not looking forward to asking myself that question. 

But then I can look to Jesus—the one who let all his identity go when he hung on the cross. He was anointed by God, not for praise and position, but for sacrifice and loss. Jesus knew we’d all suffer and face some loss of our inner selves. He came to guide us through our delusions into the truth. To answer the question, “Who are you?” might mean answering the question “Who is Jesus to you?” 

The old hymn says: 

Forbid it, Lord that I should boast

save in the death of Christ my God.

All the vain things that charm me most,

I sacrifice them to his blood.       

Know who you are, my friend. Thanks for reading me this week!   

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[i] In the good old King James Bible, the translators translated it as “life” in verse 35 but as “soul” in verses 36 and 37. It’s the same word.

Being Open (Reflections on Pentecost 15, Year B 2021)

"The Syro-phonician Woman and Jesus" Etching by Pietro del Po (1650)
(Note doggie in lower right corner)

 

He said to her, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” (Mark 7:27) 

I think we all get a bit uneasy when we hear the above passage. In our gospel reading for Pentecost 15, Year B (Mark 7:25-27) Jesus seems to be pretty rude to this poor Syro-phoenician lady who has come to him to beg for a healing for her demonically possessed daughter. But, let’s give the Lord a break here. He’s been trying to get a little R & R, so he’s travelling in Gentile territory—well away from his adoring fan base—and is staying incognito in an obscure location. But—wouldn’t you know it?—somebody must’ve spilled the beans about where the prophet and worker of miracles was hanging out, and some shiksa comes around looking for a healing for her kid. 

I’ve never thought that Jesus’ calling this mother and her possessed child “dogs” was really said out of ire at having his personal time interrupted. Rather, I think that Jesus, being a good Jewish boy, was reminding the lady that he’d been sent by God to the people who had been set apart in order to be a blessing to the world. When God first cut a deal with Abraham, God intended that these folks would keep themselves from the ways of the world around them.[i] They needed to get their own act together first before they could be a blessing to the nations. Notice that Jesus doesn’t tell the Syro-phoenician woman her daughter won’t be healed, but foreigners just have to wait their turn. 

I think a lot of folks in America can sign on to that sentiment. Some time ago, a former US president made the pronouncement that he was going to “put American first.” I’ll bet a whole horde of people went, “Yippee!” when he said that. They probably were thinking, “It’s about time! Why should we send good American money overseas when there’s plenty of need right here at home? What has the rest of the world ever done for us, huh? We deserve to keep what is ours, gosh darn it!” 

There’s something in our human nature that just can’t stand the idea that someone might be getting something they’re not entitled to get. We’d much rather see the needy go hungry than see someone jump ahead in line. In this way, we sanctify the credo of “looking out for Number One.” It’s us first, and the rest of you can wait. 

We hear this sentiment in the church, too. Even though no one’s said anything to me yet, I’m wondering if there are some in my parish who are wondering why Pastor is asking for donations to aid Haitian earthquake victims at a time when COVID-19 has decimated our worship attendance, we’re bleeding money like a ruptured artery, and we have to dip our fiscal bucket into reserve funds to pay an organist. They may be asking, “Shouldn’t we be putting our own needs first?”[ii] 

But our ideas of “fairness” may only be an excuse to turn our backs on need. The Syro-phoenician woman isn’t willing to turn away when it’s her own child who is suffering. She’s willing to take the insult from Jesus. She’s even willing to kneel at his feet and beg. She’ll humble herself and do whatever it takes for her child. Wouldn’t you? She reminds Jesus that a sick Syro-phoenician child suffers just as much as a sick Israelite child. She’ll sacrifice her own dignity out of love for another. 

Jesus will do exactly the same for us on the cross. 

As Americans, we can shut our eyes to the world’s needs, but those needs won’t go away. It’s a very small planet we live on, and, one way or another, ignoring the pain of this world will not be possible. It will come back to haunt us somehow. Our eyes must be open to see it, our ears to hear the voices of others, and our speech must be plain and sincere. There is simply no other way to exist. 

Similarly, we as Christians must always be looking outward to be a blessing and a source of hope and consolation to others. The church must be in mission even when that mission seems to be beyond our capabilities or contrary to our self-interest. From our most meagre of resources there will always be some crumbs left over. If we neglect to hand them out, we will divorce ourselves from the purpose for which the church exists. 

Let’s keep our hands and our minds open. Thanks for reading my blog this week. Please come back.

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[i] See Deuteronomy 7:6-11

[ii] The August 14^th quake in Haiti has, so far, cost over 2,200 lives and left a nation that was already in political turmoil in even greater need of the basic tools of survival—particularly clean drinking water. Faith Lutheran partners with the Beersheba Seventh Day Adventist Church which uses our worship space on Saturdays. This church is made up of Haitian immigrants and Haitian-Americans. Many have loved ones still in Haiti who are suffering.

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.