Greek-ing out (& other Bible thoughts)

Doubting in Community (a sermon on John 20:19-31, part 2)

Hi friends,

Last week I posted the first half of a sermon on “Doubting Thomas.” This is the second half!

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I noticed something else, too, when reflecting on this passage—something I hadn’t really thought much about before.

I noticed that there’s a whole week in between when Jesus appears to the first group of disciples (without Thomas, in the locked room) and when Jesus appears again to that same group of disciples (this time including Thomas). The English translation says “a week later”; the Greek literally reads, “after eight days.”

Jesus could have come back and shown himself to Thomas any time. Any time at all.

He could have appeared to Thomas wherever Thomas was hanging out that night, while the rest of the disciples were together. I don’t know what Thomas was doing that evening. But Jesus did. He could have gone and found him.

Or Jesus could have appeared to Thomas anytime during that week. But he didn’t.

For some reason, he waited eight days. And for Thomas, those were likely eight lonnng days.

Eight long days of hearing his friends insist that they saw Jesus, but not quite knowing whether to believe it. Were his friends trying to pull one over on him, like saying gullible is written on the ceiling when it isn’t? If it was a joke, Thomas may have thought, it wasn’t a very funny one.

Or maybe his friends were imagining things—a sort of collective hallucination born out of the extreme stress of losing a dear friend and then fearing for their own lives at the hands of the same authorities who hated Jesus enough to want him dead.

Maybe these were eight long days, for Thomas, of wondering whether Jesus cared about him enough to show himself to him. Wondering whether he would have to just take his friends’ word for it in the end (or not), or if he would get to see Jesus for himself. Wondering where Jesus was, what Jesus was doing. Wondering if Jesus had really risen from the dead at all.

It might be easy to call Thomas a doubter. But his experience was legitimately different from that of his friends. They had gotten to see Jesus. Thomas had not. Thomas wanted that experience for himself.

I wonder how Thomas was formed in this time of waiting. How did that time change him?

I wonder this, because I wonder it about us, too. We often live in those eight long days, don’t we? I wrestle with Easter in that way.

Yes, Jesus was resurrected. Yes, there is the promise, in the end, of resurrection and eternal life for us as well.

But we live in the in between. We often live in those eight days between hearing testimony that Jesus rose and seeing him in a tangible way for ourselves.

How are we changed in the wait? And what do we do in the wait?

I don’t have all the answers to this—and even if I did, I don’t think I would lay them out as if they could be condensed into nice little bullet points, maybe something that spells out a cute little acronym. I don’t think wisdom is like that.

But I do want to offer one observation. Whatever else Thomas might have been doing in those eight long days, we know this: he kept spending time with his friends, his fellow disciples of Jesus.

I want to unpack this a bit. We might be tempted to gloss over it. But, to me, it feels like a big deal.

Thomas kept spending time with the community of disciples—even after they said “we have seen the Lord,” and Thomas wasn’t so sure. He didn’t let their certainty, when he felt none, tear apart the relationships they had built. He didn’t let them make him feel guilty about his doubts, or ashamed of them—or if he did feel some guilt or shame, he didn’t go hide by himself because of it.

He didn’t keep his real thoughts from them. He said exactly what he was thinking: Unless I see, unless I feel, unless I have evidence of this for myself in a way I can understand, I will not believe.

Thomas may have had his doubts. But he was honest. He didn’t pretend to believe because everyone else around him did. And he was self-aware; he articulated what he needed in order to believe.

And his friends, for their part—the other disciples—kept hanging out with Thomas, too. We don’t know from the text exactly how they responded to Thomas saying he wouldn’t believe until he, too, saw. But we know they kept all spending time together. We know this because we know they were all together eight days later, the next time Jesus appeared.

The other disciples didn’t shun Thomas because he didn’t believe the same things they did at that moment. They didn’t cast him out as an unbeliever. They didn’t feel threatened by him—or if they did feel threatened, they didn’t reject him because of it.

They accepted him. They accepted where he was at. Unbelief and all.

This is not to be taken lightly.

I think of a time, several years ago, at a church I used to be a part of, when I was asked if I might consider being part of the church prayer team. That meant being available right after church services to pray for anyone who would like some prayer.

I told the church leader who asked me, Thanks for asking, but I don’t know if that’s a good fit for me right now. To be honest, I haven’t been praying much in my personal life, so I don’t know if it quite feels right to be up front offering to pray for others at church.

The church leader didn’t miss a beat in replying, Ah, feeling a little convicted, are we?

I wasn’t, in fact, feeling convicted. I did feel sad, at times, that my prayer life wasn’t what it used to be. And I needed people I could process that with honestly. I needed people who would listen, and maybe ask some open-ended questions, and not judge.

Imagine if the church leader instead had said, I know how that feels. Everyone goes through times when their prayer life is struggling, or nonexistent, or just really different from how it was five or ten years ago. That’s okay. Let me know if you want to talk about that more. Or something like that. Something that opens up relationship. Something that opens up opportunities to know each other better. Something that doesn’t end with judgment.

That’s what I see in Thomas’ community: people willing to receive his honesty and not judge. And that’s what I see in Jesus, too, in this story. This openness, this non-judgmentalness.

After those eight long long days, when Jesus finally does show up when Thomas is there, there’s no judgment. He just identifies what Thomas said he needed, and he offers this to Thomas. Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side.

There’s no shame. No mocking. No “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” that you didn’t believe. There is compassion. There’s a desire for Thomas to believe.

We may find ourselves, in this season, at the beginning of those eight long days—or somewhere in the middle, unsure how long they will last.

We may find ourselves rejoicing, like the disciples did, at some way we have seen Jesus, some way we’ve seen God at work in our lives or in our communities.

Or we may find ourselves confused, like so many characters in these resurrection stories. We understand some things but feel totally lacking in understanding others. We may see Jesus but not know it yet, like Mary and the gardener, or the other disciples who were fishing and saw him on the shore.

We may feel disoriented because Jesus isn’t showing up in the same ways he used to for us.

It’s okay to be in any of these places. God does not judge us for being in any of these places.

Instead, God gently guides us in a process of learning to articulate what we need, and bringing these needs into community—not pulling back from faith community when things are hard or we don’t even know what we believe, but sharing honestly where we’re at and continuing in the relationships we’ve built over time.

God can hold us in all of these spaces, at all points in this journey. And, at their best, faith communities can hold us, too.

This is good news.

There is room for the believers, and room for the unbelievers.

There is room for the faith and room for the doubt. There is no shame in that doubt.

There is room for those who believe without seeing and room for those—and that’s most of us—who feel like we need to see something.

There is room for all of us. There is room, especially, for our honesty.

So, we can show up as we are, like Thomas did. And we can embrace those whose doubts might feel bigger, scarier, or different from our own. We can wait, together, in community, for Jesus to show up in the ways we need him to.

Peace to you this week,

Liz

Permission to Doubt (a sermon on John 20:19-31, part 1)

Hi friends,

I was thankful to be able to guest preach a couple weeks ago at Normandy Park United Church of Christ. I thought I’d share a written version of the sermon here, too.

Because I feel like I benefited from having to think a lot about Thomas, and faith, and doubt, and “believing without seeing,” and holding all the contradictions of these things together in our lives. And I hope you might enjoy thinking about these things too.

I’ve split the sermon into two parts. Here’s the scripture text:

19 When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors were locked where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 20 After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. 21 Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” 22 When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. 23 If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”

24 But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. 25 So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

26 A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” 27 Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” 28 Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” 29 Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

30 Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. 31 But these are written so that you may continue to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.

And here’s the first part of the sermon:

A few weeks ago, I went out to lunch at a place I hadn’t been to before, with my husband Ken and another friend. I stepped away for a moment, and when I came back, the two of them were giggling about something, and I wasn’t sure what. Ken said, “gullible is written on the ceiling,” and they both burst out laughing.

I thought, I’m not going to fall for that one. That’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. You can’t fool me! But they insisted that it really was written there. So eventually I caved and looked up, and sure enough, someone really had written the word “gullible” in small white letters on the dark ceiling.

I share this story because I think it’s funny—it was just so unexpected to actually see the word gullible on the ceiling—but also because I think it can get us thinking about gullibility, and doubt, and belief.

I share it because I wonder if it helps us understand our scripture text—about Thomas, and the way he responded when he heard that the other disciples saw Jesus and he didn’t.

He often gets called “Doubting Thomas.” As though his doubt sets him apart from the rest of the disciples. And as though his doubt is a bad thing. As if it’s a cautionary tale we have to learn from so that we can be different. Because we are all shining examples of constant, amazing, wholehearted, complete, unwavering, infallible, total faith, right? . . . Maybe some of you are; I sure know I’m not.

But I’m not so sure Thomas’ doubt is all that bad. Because really: Who among us would want to be the person who looks up at the ceiling every time someone says “gullible” is written there? I think most of us believe, at some level, that some amount of doubt is actually a good thing.

We don’t want to be so ready to believe anything we hear that we end up believing a ton of things that aren’t actually true. We want to be wise. We want to be discerning.

When people talk about this passage we often talk about “Doubting Thomas,” but the word that’s used over and over and over in this passage—five times, to be exact—is not doubt but belief, or believe. This is a word that could also be translated, have trust in, or have faith in.

Even the word that’s translated often as “doubt”—when Jesus tells Thomas, “stop doubting and believe”—is not actually its own separate word in the original Greek language. It’s just the negative form of believe. Literally, Jesus tells Thomas, “do not be unbelieving, but believing.”

This story is all about believing. But it isn’t about believing mindlessly or thoughtlessly.

I think about this when I think about what it means to believe without seeing. Our text says that Jesus told Thomas: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” But I feel like this is complicated.

What does that mean? What does it mean to believe without seeing? When I read the last couple chapters of the gospel of John, I’m struck by the observation that no one in these stories really believes without seeing.

Take the “disciple Jesus loved,” who was probably John the gospel writer. The text says John believes when he sees the empty tomb and Jesus’ burial clothes lying there—although what exactly he believes seems a little unclear, since right after that we find out that John and Peter, who was with him, did not yet understand that Jesus must rise from the dead (v. 8-9).

Or take Mary Magdalene. The text doesn’t say that Mary “believed” in that exact language, but she sees and recognizes the risen Jesus, and then she goes and tells the other disciples that she has seen the Lord (v. 16-18). She got to see him.

Or take the group of disciples who got together in that locked room, the first time, without Thomas. They got to see Jesus’ hands and side (v. 20). And it’s then that the disciples recognize Jesus and rejoice.

No one really believed without seeing.

I feel like this was just generally a confusing time for everybody. Mary thinks Jesus is the gardener (v. 15). Peter and John just go home after seeing the empty tomb, because they don’t understand what’s happening (v. 10). In the next story right after ours, Jesus stands on the beach while some of the disciples are fishing, and they don’t recognize them until he helps them catch a miraculous haul of fish (chapter 21).

Everyone’s confused. Everyone’s doubting in their own doubting ways. Everyone’s processing what’s happening in their own different ways that we all process things. Everyone’s taking their own time to come to their own conclusions about Jesus rising from the dead and appearing before them.

And that’s okay. That’s what’s real about these stories. Maybe that’s where we find ourselves.

I’ll be back next week with the second half. Peace to you until then,

Liz

Peace to be fearless

Hi friends,

This Easter week has me thinking about what most of Jesus’ disciples did, as recorded in John’s gospel, right after Jesus’ resurrection. Just that morning, Mary Magdalene found the tomb empty and then saw the risen Jesus (looking a lot like a gardener; John 20:11-18). And now the disciples have gone and locked themselves in a room because they’re afraid (John 20:19-23).

They’re hiding, afraid of what the religious authorities might do if they found them.

I feel like we can look back and read this now and think, That’s silly. Jesus literally just rose from the dead that morning. What do they have to be afraid of? Don’t they know God’s power by now?

But I would also like to say this: Religious authorities can be terrifying.

Perhaps when we blame the disciples for being afraid of them, it’s a form of victim-blaming. Really, it isn’t really people’s fault that they feel afraid. It’s the religious leaders’ fault for making them feel afraid.

A few months back, one of my fellow church elders—another “younger” person in the group (which, in the Presbyterian world, means under forty, lol)—told me, You aren’t afraid of anybody.

I got what he meant. Sometimes I ask questions or share opinions in our elder meetings that could evoke a negative reaction. I took my fellow elder’s comment as high praise.

But, of course, in a literal sense, he was wrong. It isn’t at all true that I’m not afraid of anybody. I’m afraid of most people, much of the time. But I’ll still say potentially unpopular things if I feel like they’re important.

It feels important to me that—where I have a choice, like with churches—I’m not sticking around in environments where fear is a governing force. Sure, it may feel scary to put certain thoughts out there in a room where others might disagree or might not understand. But people’s responses to my thoughts at our elders’ meetings have not reinforced my fear. People have generally been appreciative. No one is trying to intimidate me into silence.

I say this because I feel like there are many religious environments that are not this way. Not unlike the religious authorities that the disciples were hiding from in that locked room two thousand years ago, many church leaders today still try to intimidate people into conforming to particular ways of thinking and living.

Most churches I know of aren’t trying to do crucifixion-type stuff, or Inquisition-type stuff. But the psychological terror of no longer belonging in a community you once called home and family is very real. These are, still, high stakes.

What does it mean, then, for Jesus to appear today and speak “peace”—the first thing out of his mouth when he walked into that locked room so long ago? Maybe it involves some of these things:

Peace, to know that God is more powerful than the religious leaders who claim to represent God but do not.

Peace, to be fully yourself, to be honest about who you are and what you really do or don’t believe.

Peace, to know that you are okay, you are good, you are enough.

Peace, to get out of environments where people are telling you otherwise, where you’re made to feel like you’re not okay, where your honesty is seen as a threat rather than a blessing.

Peace, to no longer place yourself under the leadership of religious authorities who evoke fear in you.

Maybe this is (part of) what Easter means. Maybe a belief in resurrection can help make us fearless—not in the sense that we don’t feel fear, but in the sense that we aren’t controlled by it.

So, peace to you this week.

Liz

On Palm Sunday (a poem)

Hi friends,

Reflecting on Palm Sunday, when Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey greeted by crowds crying “Hosanna!” (meaning “Save us!”), I wrote a poem about some of the things we might need salvation from (and for).

If you connect with any of it, or have something you’d like to add, I’d love to hear.

Peace,

Liz

On Palm Sunday

The masses weren’t thinking of pie in the sky
in the sweet by and by.
They were unwashed and shouting and impolite and
holy.
They turned not to the strong-looking warrior in a suit of armor*
but to the unarmed rabbi riding on a donkey.
To him they yelled out, “Save us!”

Save us, oh God, save us.
I don’t know where we go when we die
but I trust it’s a place of love, of peace,
of communion and community.
That’s the easy kind of salvation.
But what we need is salvation now.
Save us, now. We need it, now.

Save us from the fears that tyrannize us
and keep us unjustly silent.
When we fear death, we fail to live.
Save us from the forces that immobilize us
when we could be on the move.

Save us from those who want to save us
with their own ideas, but do not know us.
Save us from those who make their own plans for us
and do not care for our wellbeing.

Save us from callousness. Save us to care.
Save us to become soft spaces where weary ones can land.
Save us when we are those weary ones;
make room for us then, too.

Save us from the ones who want our sacrifices
but do not want us to flourish,
from those who want us to value everyone else but ourselves.
Save us to choose us.

Save us from the lie that we can do it on our own,
or we are superior if we do.
Move us to lean on one another
and become those who can be leaned on.

Save us from our dreams of greatness
for ourselves, at the expense of others.
Make our hearts happy for those who rejoice;
their successes, our own.

Save us from untimely death,
from officers’ guns and civilians’ assault rifles,
from anti-abortion laws that care nothing for women’s lives.
We simply want to live, to not be robbed of years.

Save us from accusations of weakness when we weep.
Save us from our own survival strategies,
self-destructing by holding onto habits
that served us well once, but not anymore.
Save us to feel, and in so doing, to hope again.

Save us from constricting notions of masculinity and femininity.
Save women from being trampled on.
Save men from thinking they’re manly for doing the trampling.
Save us all to be more fully human, compassionate and strong.

Save Earth who trembles and breaks
and rises up to protest what we’ve done to her.
We cannot survive without her.
Save her, God.

Save us from those who say “peace” when there is no peace,
who suppress the voices of those who suffer.
Save those who have no homes from abuses
hurled at them because they are vulnerable.

Save us from pastors who think they know best
but do not listen, do not know, choose not to know.
What they teach will not save us.
We need more.

Save us from the judgment of those who think they are holy.
Free us from the need to conform ourselves
to their expectations of what righteousness looks like.

Save us from self-righteous Christians
and from the self-righteousness within us.
Save us from power-hungry politicians.
Save us from every force that silences,
every burden that oppresses.
Save us from injustice.
We carry the weight of it, and we perpetrate it too.

Save us.
Save us, God.
Hosanna.

*This is a reference to Roman imperial governor Pontius Pilate's simultaneous entrance into Jerusalem on the other side of the city. Empire's military power vs Jesus'...very different kind of power.

Spiritual conversations and the Samaritan woman (reflections on John 4:1-26)

Hi friends,

A couple weeks back, my church’s sermon and small group discussions centered on the (sadly unnamed) Samaritan woman at the well, and her conversation with Jesus as told in John 4:1-26.

At our small group meeting, I happened to pick up a version of the Bible that has Jesus’ words in red letters. The previous week we had talked about Nicodemus’ conversation with Jesus in John 3, and I was struck by a simple observation: the conversation with Nicodemus has a lot more red letters all together.

In other words, Jesus’ conversation with the Samaritan woman is much more of a mutual, two-way conversation. With Nicodemus, Jesus has some things he wants to say, and he says them. The Samaritan woman, on the other hand, brings a lot more of herself into the conversation. And I think Jesus appreciates that.

Recently, my very awesome friend Christin, who’s training to be a Buddhist chaplain, invited me to record a conversation with her about Buddhism and Christianity and spiritual life in general. This was a very new thing for me—both the video-recorded aspect of it and the public interfaith conversation aspect of it. So feel free to check it out if you like, as long as you have low expectations and lots of grace!

Is this my YouTube face? Lol…

Regardless of the self-consciousness induced by being on YouTube, I enjoyed talking with Christin, and I deeply appreciated her honest reflections and questions.

I was thinking about this conversation (and conversations like it) in conjunction with the story of the Samaritan woman at the well. And I was thinking about how much my own perspective has changed over time.

I used to see the woman’s conversation with Jesus as more of an evangelistic encounter. She has thoughts and questions, yes, but the main point is that he tells her what she needs to know to believe in him, and then she goes back home and tells her community.

Now I see it as more of a legitimately two-way dialogue. Not one person trying to convert the other, but both people bringing their full personalities, histories, and spiritual journeys to the table to challenge and encourage one another, to help each other learn and grow.

This is what I hope for, now, in interfaith dialogue. We don’t need to change someone else or make them see things the way we do. We do need to bring our full selves and speak honestly from our own background, perspective, and experiences. We need to respect one another, hear one another, honor one another as intelligent beings created in God’s image with all the wisdom and agency that entails.

I think of Jesus and the Samaritan woman’s conversation about worshiping God “in spirit and truth” (John 4:23-4). Maybe this is what that means. Not necessarily that there is One Right and True Way to worship God—but more that it is crucial that we all worship in ways that are authentic for us. Ways that are true to our experience. Ways that resonate with our deepest spirits, that heal our spirits and do not do violence to them.

I used to think it was a bit of baloney to be “spiritual but not religious.” I toed the evangelical line that puts a high emphasis on actively being part of a church if you want to have an authentic, growing spiritual life.

Now I think differently. Personally, I’m still part of a church, because I see value in it. But I don’t necessarily think church is for everyone—or for everyone at this particular point in time—or for those who don’t currently have access to a church community that will do more good than harm in their lives.

Jesus said it’s not about worshiping in this place or that one (John 4:19-21). Not this mountain or that mountain. Not this cultural context or that one. Not this kind of church or that kind of church, or even this or that kind of religious tradition.

It’s about spirit and truth. What heals our spirits, drawing us to engage more fully with our experience in this world and with our communities’ gifts and needs? What rings deeply true to us, while also ringing deeply true for those most vulnerable among us?

This is what I want worship to look like. No conversion necessary. Mutual, two-sided, honest spiritual conversations always welcome.

As always (speaking of two-sided), I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Peace,

Liz

Our insecurities and Jesus’ temptations

Hi friends,

Prompted by church and church small group in the last week or so, I’ve been thinking about the temptations of Jesus, as recorded in Matthew 4:1-11.

I explored one angle on these temptations last year, over at Feminism and Religion, in a piece called The Gendered Temptation of Jesus (based on Luke’s version of the story). I reflected on the gendered differences in how power and authority operate in our world, and I wondered how the devil might have tempted Jesus differently had Jesus been a woman.

This year, I find myself reading the story of Jesus’ temptations and thinking about how frickin’ insecure everyone is. Okay, maybe not everyone, and maybe not all the time—but most people, much of the time.

Is there a nicer way to say that? Probably. But maybe it’s helpful to say it bluntly. Most of us are a walking pile of insecurities.

I feel like this is one of those things that is true but isn’t always obvious to me—probably, at least in part, because everyone expresses their insecurities in different ways.

Other people’s insecurities don’t look the same ways mine do. So I don’t always see it. And most people don’t talk about their insecurities directly.

Most people, most of the time, don’t say “I’m feeling insecure about my job performance at work right now. I’m not sure whether my supervisor thinks I’m doing a good job, or whether my coworkers respect me.”

Instead, someone might say, “Ugh, my supervisor is the worst, she never gives me any positive feedback. Who let her manage a team?” Or, “My coworker Bob is so annoying. He talks about himself all the time, and does he even get any work done?” Instead of saying, “I’m worried people think I talk about myself too much at work, or that they think I’m lazy.”

These are just a couple of examples. I’m sure you can think of other things people feel insecure about and other ways they (indirectly) express those insecurities. Some people (hi) get quiet. Others get loud. Some flatter and fawn. Others speak harshly and abrasively.

This year, as I read the Bible story about the temptations of Jesus, I notice that the thing the devil keeps coming back to is this big chubby “IF.” “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from the temple.”

As in, Are you really the Son of God? If you are, then prove it to me. Right now. In these very specific ways I want you to prove it.

When Jesus resists these temptations, he’s saying, in effect, No, I’m not going to do that. Of course I’m the Son of God, but I have no need to prove it to you. I know who I am. God knows who I am. That’s all I need. That is enough for me.

I think this is helpful. It feels helpful to me in my own insecurities, and so I offer it in case it’s helpful for you too. We aren’t exactly the Son of God in the same way Jesus was—but we are God’s beloved family. We are created by God, known by God, loved by God. This is powerful.

We know who we are. And that is enough.

So when we feel insecure at work and feel the urge to turn it around and blame Bob somehow, perhaps instead we can pause, take a moment, and reflect. We can decide we don’t need to prove our own usefulness at work by calling Bob lazy in comparison.

We can also remind ourselves that our insecurities are human. Maybe we can even find the courage to talk about our insecurities directly—to share them with people we trust who can remind us that we don’t have to prove ourselves, that we are enough.

Communicating honestly and kindly about our insecurities can forge closer bonds between people, whereas acting in unkind or unproductive ways because of our insecurities tears people and communities apart.

It’s okay to feel insecure. But we don’t have to act harmfully out of it. And when we do, we can acknowledge the harm and seek repair. This is all part of what it is to be human, and to be in community together.

Like Jesus, we are God’s beloved. This is the truest thing about us, and it does not change. We do not have to earn love.

When we feel insecure, may we learn to rest in this belovedness, this enough-ness. And may it free us from the need to operate out of our insecurities in ways that harm ourselves and people around us.

Amen.

Magi, Wisdom, People Younger Than Me

Note: This week and next week I have the privilege of sharing some scripture and life reflections with my church community via our weekly newsletter. I’ve been asked to reflect on the theme of epiphany – what do I feel like God is revealing to me, and what do I do with that? I wanted to share these reflections with you, too. Here’s the first.

A cool image of the magi / Photo by Marcel Eberle on Unsplash

On New Year’s Day, Pastor Lina preached on the Epiphany story (Matthew 2:1-12). She reflected on the ways God speaks to and through people whom Christians might consider religious “outsiders,” like the magi in the story. God’s wisdom and love is bigger than we often imagine.

As I reflect on the Epiphany story, I notice how the magi set out to worship “the one who has been born king” (Matt 2:2). They talk about birth, so it sounds like they knew he was still a baby. And yet, what must it have been like to actually get there and see that this was the king they came to worship (v. 11)? He was just a tiny infant. Maybe sleeping, maybe crying, maybe breastfeeding.

What did that feel like? What did it do to the magi’s ideas of kingliness—and, more generally, to their ideas about power, and wisdom, and who does or doesn’t have these things?

I used to work in college campus ministry, and I’ve done a lot of listening to people younger than myself—trying to encourage them, root for them, cultivate loving spaces where they can grow and thrive. But sometimes I catch myself assuming I know better than them. Of course I do—I remember how little I knew at their age.

And yet. Wisdom comes through God’s Spirit, who dwells in people of all ages. There is also wisdom that comes from life experience, and older people often have more of this. But people younger than me have had life experiences different from my own, and they have gained wisdom from these experiences. I want to pay attention to that.

In the First Nations Version, the magi say, “We saw [Messiah’s] star where the sun rises and have come to humble ourselves before him and honor him” (v. 2). This translation uses the words “humble” and “honor” where other translations often say “worship.” I like this.

I don’t want to worship people younger than me. But I do want to humble myself and honor them. I don’t want to assume I have nothing to learn.

Dominant U.S. society has norms around who has power, who is expected to lead, who is assumed to have expertise and wisdom, who is followed and heard: white, male, straight, able-bodied, upper-middle-class, ages 35-70.

There is no part of me that truly believes these things are qualifications for leadership. And yet, these subliminal expectations are deeply ingrained in me, and in many of us. Operating otherwise feels like swimming upstream. But this is what God invites us to do.

What to do with this? For me, I think humbling myself and honoring young(er) folks means choosing not to take a piece of writing, a spoken word, a poem, a piece of art, or anything else less seriously when it was written, spoken, or created by someone younger than me. It means listening to people younger than myself not just to support them but also to see what I can learn from them. It means hearing their words of dissent, dissatisfaction, or critique with openness rather than defensiveness.

Humility and honor: this is what we have to offer one another as humans. Across ages, across generations, across race and class and gender and orientation and all the other differences that often divide us. My hope is that a posture of humility and honor comes to mark both my life and our life together as a community.

Peace to you this week.

Liz

On wealth, poverty, and caring without being overwhelmed (reflections on Luke 16:19-31)

16:19 “There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day.

16:20 And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores,

16:21 who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores.

16:22 The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried.

16:23 In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side.

16:24 He called out, ‘Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.’

16:25 But Abraham said, ‘Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony.

16:26 Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.’

16:27 He said, ‘Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house–

16:28 for I have five brothers–that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.’

16:29 Abraham replied, ‘They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.’

16:30 He said, ‘No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.’

16:31 He said to him, ‘If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.'”

-Jesus (Luke 16:19-31)

What a story Jesus tells. It’s a story that might raise some big questions: questions of heaven and afterlife, questions of hell and eternal conscious torment, questions of works and faith, questions of wealth and poverty and its relation to salvation. So many questions.

I resist answering these questions here—both because this reflection is supposed to be brief, and because I think these questions are better wrestled with in community than explained with too-easy answers from just one person.

I also don’t think these questions are quite the main point of Jesus’ story. I think the point is less abstract and more pragmatic. It’s not so much about what doctrines we believe, but about the way we live.

And—although it feels worth noting that the materially poor person in our story is named, and that in this naming there is an affirmation of dignity—the story focuses much more on the rich person than on Lazarus. The rich person is the one who speaks, the one whose story is followed from beginning to end.

It is this rich person who was aware of Lazarus’ illness and hunger, lying there at his doorway—he even knew him by name—but nonetheless ignored him. New Testament and Jewish Studies professor Amy-Jill Levine suggests in Short Stories by Jesus that perhaps Lazarus’ community had carried him there because they knew the rich person had plenty to share. But the rich person did not share. The dogs tried to take care of Lazarus in the way they knew how, by cleaning his wounds; the rich person did less than the dogs did.

Even after death, the rich person is still trying to order Lazarus around. He still doesn’t quite seem to think of Lazarus as an equal, as fully human. Send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, he tells Abraham. Send him to my father’s house to warn my brothers. In other words, basically: I still think Lazarus is here to serve me. I have no regrets about the way I treated him in life. I don’t see what was wrong with it. Send Lazarus. Send Lazarus.

As Dr. Amy-Jill Levine writes, perhaps the rich person “has not yet learned what landed him in torment in the first place. He wants to see his brothers saved from torment, not to ease the pain felt by the millions who lack food, shelter, or health care” (Short Stories by Jesus, p. 291).

In a world full of these kinds of pains, I wonder what Jesus’ story asks of us. Most of us may not be filthy rich like the sumptuously-feasting man. But perhaps the story asks of us, too: How do we see people? How do we treat people? Do we want to see people’s needs met and their pains eased? What would that look like? What might we do?

Several years ago, I led a small group through a curriculum called Lazarus at the Gate, offered by the Boston Faith and Justice Network. One thing I still remember from that study is the idea that globalization has placed millions of “Lazaruses” at our metaphorical gate. We know so much more than people in other times in history did about what’s going on all over our world, including and especially the ways things are difficult and people are suffering. Climate disasters, wars, and displacement, just to name a few things, bring so many Lazaruses to our gates—or at least our phone and computer screens—every day we’re paying attention.

I feel this. I want to help. And yet, I also feel the reality that we as finite fragile humans were not designed to process all of the information that is thrown at us all the time. We did not evolve to be able to hold in our minds and hearts and bodies all the concerns of the world. It is too much for us.

Humans spent most of human history living in villages and kinship networks small enough so that we could know what was going on with everyone—the good and the bad. We could serve and help one another well within this context. People’s suffering was not too much to know. It did not overwhelm us on a regular basis.

I don’t have easy solutions to these tensions. But I do want all of us to find the good that we can do and do it. To find ways of not getting so overwhelmed with the needy world’s needs that we can’t do anything.

I was recently reading Dr. Brenda Salter McNeil’s book Becoming Brave: Finding the Courage to Pursue Racial Justice Now. In it there’s a reflection from Catholic Bishop Ken Untener often known as the Romero Prayer. I was struck by these words from this prayer: “We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well.”

We can’t do everything. But we can do something. We can do something to share food and other resources with one another, with our communities. We can do something to ease people’s suffering. We can do something to take care of one another.

And, in faith communities that share this as a value and a goal, we can do so much more than any of us could do on our own. Here’s to finding, creating, and building those kinds of communities.

As always, all thoughts are welcome – about the story Jesus tells, about how you’ve been able to care for the Lazaruses around us without being overwhelmed, or anything else this makes you think about.

Gutsy faithfulness in a world where money fails (reflections on Luke 16:1-13)

I’ve got another church eblast reflection for you all – unabridged (read: slightly longer) version!

This one’s on Luke 16:1-13:

16:1 Then Jesus said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property.

16:2 So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’

16:3 Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg.

16:4 I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me into their homes.’

16:5 So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’

16:6 He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take your bill, sit down quickly, and make it fifty.’

16:7 Then he asked another, ‘And how much do you owe?’ He replied, ‘A hundred containers of wheat.’ He said to him, ‘Take your bill and make it eighty.’

16:8 And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly; for the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light.

16:9 And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of dishonest wealth so that when it is gone, they may welcome you into the eternal homes.

16:10 Whoever is faithful in a very little is faithful also in much; and whoever is dishonest in a very little is dishonest also in much.

16:11 If then you have not been faithful with the dishonest wealth, who will entrust to you the true riches?

16:12 And if you have not been faithful with what belongs to another, who will give you what is your own?

16:13 No slave can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth.”

When we read parables like these, it can be tempting to try to figure out who exactly every character in the story represents. This is called allegorical interpretation, and many biblical scholars have pushed back against this approach.

Perhaps Jesus’ stories were meant to be just that—stories. Conversation starters. Feeling-evokers. Thought-provokers. Open-ended, with multiple possible interpretations and takeaways. Maybe that’s the beauty of the parables—even though it also makes them…difficult.

I mention this because I am not at all convinced that the “master”—a fraught word, if I ever heard one, given the U.S. history of slavery—in our story this week is meant to represent God. Not only does he engage in dubiously-just firing practices—he lets the steward go based on an accusation from a third party without even bothering to hear his side of the story (v. 1-2)—but also, on top of this, his massive wealth is persistently described as “unjust” or “unrighteous.”

Perhaps the steward, then, feels free to play fast and loose with the master’s money because he knows the whole system is unjust.

What does it mean to be faithful, in a world where a few rich folks hoard while masses of people go hungry? Perhaps crossing our t’s and dotting our i’s when it comes to wealth management takes a back seat to figuring out how to survive—and helping others survive too. Maybe strict adherence to rules and regulations is less important than mercy. And surely mercy is what the steward shows to the debtors when he tells them to lessen the amounts of their debts.

The steward in our story is often referred to as the “shrewd manager,” but I feel like the word “shrewd” can have some funky connotations. In some church contexts, people use the story of the “shrewd manager” to say that we as Christians should also be more shrewd. As in, we should be more cunning. As in, it’s okay to manipulate or mislead people if it’s all for a higher cause. To me, this is hardly what it means to be “children of the light” (v. 8).

Perhaps it helps to know that the word translated as “shrewd” is often translated elsewhere as “prudent.” I’m not here for the manipulative cunning, but I’m okay with Jesus encouraging his followers to be prudent.

Prudent, like counting the cost of our discipleship (see Luke 14:25-35). Prudent, like acknowledging that all wealth in our unjust system is in fact unjust—and, accordingly, holding onto material stuff lightly. Prudent, like refusing to spend our lives serving a cruel death-dealing capitalist system that does not love us—refusing to destroy our souls in service of wealth that will one day be gone (v. 9).

(This word translated as “be gone,” by the way, is actually quite strong in the original Greek; it could be translated as “fails,” “ceases,” or “dies.” As in, money will fail. Money will one day cease to exist. It will die.)

In light of all this, I wonder what we might learn from this passage about what it means to be faithful. Some of us may have been taught that faithfulness is a passive thing, measured by the sins we avoid and the things we do not do. But in Jesus’ story, faithfulness is active. It’s creative. It’s risky. It’s gutsy. It requires intelligence and courage. It involves trying something and being willing to face the consequences of our actions.

The steward is hardly a meek rule-follower. But there is something about him to be admired. With his actions he calls out the lie that unjust wealth is to be served at all costs. He points toward a different way.

Like this steward, we too take part in unjust systems. Under patriarchal white supremacist capitalism, a few rich folks keep getting richer, and any cost is acceptable in terms of human life and wellbeing. We may not be able to completely escape this system—but we can resist it. We can make choices that fly in the face of its logic. We can flout its expectations.

We can rest. We can play. We can build genuine relationships that aren’t just transactional, based on what we can get out of someone. We can be radically for others and refuse to compete. We can treat ourselves with kindness and compassion. We can share resources generously, knowing there is enough for all.

We can’t necessarily avoid unjust systems, but we can refuse to serve them as masters. We can build something new—something sacred and beautiful—in the midst of them.

Peace to you this week. If you have thoughts about what faithfulness means to you (and how that’s changed over time), or how you live in unjust systems without serving these systems as masters, or anything else this passage makes you think about, holler in the comments or otherwise. I’d love to hear from you.

Switch those seats (reflections on Luke 14:1,7-14)

On one occasion when Jesus was going to the house of a leader of the Pharisees to eat a meal on the sabbath, they were watching him closely.

When he noticed how the guests chose the places of honor, he told them a parable.

“When you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your host; and the host who invited both of you may come and say to you, ‘Give this person your place,’ and then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place.

But when you are invited, go and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher’; then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you. For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

He said also to the one who had invited him, “When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”

-Luke 14:1,7-14

This week I’ve got another (longer version of my) lectionary reflection from the church eblast for y’all—on taking up space, adopting a learning posture, expanding our circles, and questioning the assumption that some people cannot repay:

In our scripture passage this week, Jesus has two things to say. The first is for people invited to a banquet. Don’t sit in the place of honor, he says. Sit instead at the lowest place. The second is for those hosting a banquet. Don’t invite those who can repay the invitation in turn. Instead, invite those who can’t.

These are instructions born out of a world pretty far removed from my own. I don’t immediately relate to this idea of seats of honor—or, in the Greek, it’s possible that this refers to a whole different room, or at least a different table, where the most valued guests are seated.

I also don’t readily connect with the idea of throwing a banquet for the people Jesus calls the poor ones, the maimed ones, the lame ones, the blind ones. For one thing, that sounds like it calls for more house space than I have on hand. The best I generally have time and energy for is inviting a couple people over for brunch. (My husband Ken makes a mean buttermilk pancake.)

The only time I’ve really come close to throwing a banquet was when Ken and I got married. But we made a seating chart and had everyone pick up a card with their name, table number, and dinner order on it as they walked in, so that everyone would know where to sit. No one needed to be moved from a more honorable place to a lesser one, or vice versa. Problem solved. (Although all of our guests pretty much fell in the “friends and relatives” category, so I suppose we didn’t exactly follow Jesus’ second instruction.)

I wonder if—for those of us for whom throwing massive feasts and being invited to such feasts is not necessarily part of our everyday lives—the specific context of a banquet is not the only way for us to understand what Jesus is saying here. I wonder if his words could be taken as a broader life philosophy—relevant, really, whenever we walk into a room. I wonder if they’re more about our general mindset as we approach life and show up in community.

We might not be explicitly ranking people by level of honor and seating them accordingly. But when we gather, there are certainly those who take up more space and those who take up less space. There are certainly those who walk into a meeting expecting to speak whenever they feel like it and be heard, and there are those who expect to mostly listen, perhaps speaking only when spoken to.

Cathy Park Hong’s words from Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning have stuck with me: “The man or woman who feels comfortable holding court at a dinner party will speak in long sentences, with heightened dramatic pauses, assured that no one will interject while they’re mid-thought, whereas I, who am grateful to be invited, speak quickly in clipped compressed bursts, so that I can get a word in before I’m interrupted” (p. 185).

Maybe this is one way the idea of seats with more or less honor plays out in our world today. Who feels free to speak their mind, and to do so at their own pace? Who is struggling to get a word in? How can we all be more mindful of these dynamics so that those who tend to dominate can learn to make more room for others, and those who feel insecure can learn to speak confidently?

When Jesus invites us—and particularly those of us who would not naturally assume we belong there—to take the lowest place, I see this as an invitation into a posture of learning. I’m reminded of theologian Willie James Jennings’ reflections on “the tragic history of Christians who came not to learn anything from indigenous peoples but only to instruct them, and to exorcize and eradicate anything and everything that seemed strange and therefore anti-Christian” (After Whiteness: An Education in Belonging, p. 37).

Christians as a group have often seated themselves at the head of the table. How different our relationship with the world around us would be if we learned to sit in the lowest seat—if we learned to engage with our broader communities as people here to learn, here to listen, here to serve. Not here to judge or instruct, and certainly not here to control or to try to eradicate anything we don’t like. We want to walk into rooms with a posture of humility and openness.

When Jesus talks about what to do and not do—or really, who to invite and not invite—when you’re hosting a banquet, then, maybe we can think about this too in the context of how we show up in community.

Jesus invites us to expand our circles. To think beyond the people who immediately come to mind as the first people we want to hang out with. To take the risk of reaching out and trying to make a new friend—not knowing whether or not this person will be able to “repay” us in whatever ways are meaningful to us.

More than just being open to expanding our circles, though, I think Jesus also invites us to consider what we’re hoping to get out of a relationship, and to be willing to hold these things loosely. We’re not just looking for a transaction. We’re not just looking for what we can get from others. We’re looking for a genuine, mutual relationship.

Personally, I doubt that the host who throws a banquet and only invites those who supposedly can’t repay them really doesn’t receive anything in the process. They might not get a banquet invitation back—because who has the resources for that these days?—but I’d be surprised if there wasn’t something in it for them—in a good way. The guests may have been written off by a society that only values people for their money or beauty or status, but I have no doubt these folks have stories and gifts and personality quirks and character qualities the banquet host would be honored to be in the presence of—not to mention just enjoy.

It’s a matter of learning to see differently from how our capitalistic society sees. In God’s beloved community there is no ranking of people. There is no one unworthy of a seat at the table.

Those who come to the table thinking they don’t belong are assured that they do indeed belong. And those who come to the table with their own agendas and arrogance and assumptions are invited into a different way of being.

Peace and belonging to you this week.