“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” –Jesus– (Matthew 11:28)
Ahhhh…rest…. Who among us doesn’t need rest??
We are all weary.
Some of us might only say we’re a little tired… Some of us might acknowledge that we’re pretty worn out… Some of us might go so far as to say, actually, we’re exhausted… Some of us might be drained beyond words, on the verge of being totally depleted…
Wherever we fall on that continuum, we are all weary.
And we are all carrying heavy burdens.
For some of us those burdens might be externally apparent– Perhaps family or work or church or other responsibilities… Perhaps visible health concerns, known losses, or shared struggles… For others of us our burdens might be internally held– Perhaps hidden grief or secret shame or unspoken despair… Perhaps unacknowledged addiction or abuse, or long-buried resentment or rage… For some of us–perhaps most of us–the burdens are of both types…
Whether externally apparent or internally held, we are all carrying heavy burdens.
So what do we do? How do we get the rest that Jesus promises? How do we let him lighten our load, ease our burdens, and tend to our souls?
That’s a question each of us has to answer for ourselves.
What do you do to allow space in your life for soul-tending?
What do you do to grant Jesus access to your weariness and burdens?
How do you respond to his invitation, “Come to me…and I will give you rest?”
One of the ways I respond, when I recognize that my spirit needs tending, is by getting away to stillness and solitude. It may only be for an hour, for a hike in the nearby hills, or–when I’m both very much in need and very lucky (and the planets are in alignment!), it may be for twenty-four hours [or, as it turns out, forty-eight!], for an overnight stay/silent retreat at a nearby monastery (which is where I am as I write this, as the Our Lady of Guadalupe Abbey in Pecos–the picture below is from last night).
We are all weary, and we are all carrying heavy burdens, and our souls all need tending.
“Come to me…and I will give you rest,” Jesus promises.
How do you respond?
Peace, and rest for our weary souls, be with us all. Deb
“That evening, at sunset, they brought to [Jesus] all who were sick or possessed with demons….And he cured many who were sick with various diseases, and cast out many demons….” (Mark 1:32, 34)
When I read passages like this in the Bible, I’m immediately grateful that I don’t have a demon. There are stories where someone has a demon who throws that person into the fire, or onto the ground; there are stories where someone with a demon is mute and another howls and cuts himself. In all of these stories, Jesus casts out the demons and restores their former “hosts” to wholeness; but still–I read them and feel very grateful that I don’t need that kind of healing from Jesus.
I’m especially thankful that I don’t have a demon that throws me into the fire–because this is where I’ve been spending a LOT of time in recent weeks:
But…as I think about it…I realize that there is something within me that can pull me away from wholeness, and forcefully.
There is no demon within me that pushes me to the ground…but there is, sometimes, something within me that does try to push me down–telling me things like I’m not good enough, I’m not capable enough, I don’t know enough….
Similarly, there is no unclean spirit within me that causes me to be mute…but there is, sometimes, something within me that influences me to be silent when I should speak up, that keeps me from speaking what I know to be true when that truth feels too uncomfortable or painful or risky….
As for cutting myself, there is no evil spirit within me that has led me to do that…but I have, at times, listened to something within me that has allowed me to chose to harm myself in other ways–by not addressing unhealthy relationships, for example, or by not listening to my own voice among all those I listen to for wisdom and guidance.
I am more comfortable calling the “something within me” that puts me down, my “inner critic” instead of the voice of a demon, but it is similarly destructive. And while I’m more likely to think of those thoughts that try to silence me as coming from a place of fear and insecurity rather than an “unclean spirit,” couldn’t fear and insecurity be considered something similar?? And the variation on self-harm? Well, the voice within me that persuades me to not value myself appropriately could perhaps be considered an “evil spirit.”
Maybe I do have demons that need to be cast out by Jesus–demons within me that cause me to doubt my goodness and my capabilities, to doubt the truth that I know, to doubt my own wisdom and authority.
Maybe I do need Jesus to cast them out, so that there will be more space for a sense of my belovedness, and so that I can more fully trust God’s goodness and truth and wisdom within me.
Maybe I do need “that kind of healing” from Jesus….
As a pastor, I probably shouldn’t confess this, but I have a hard time with some of the stories the Bible tells about Jesus. His zapping a fig tree for not bearing fruit (when it wasn’t the season for figs) is one. (Mark 11:12-25) His chastising Martha for being busy in the kitchen is another. (Luke 10:38-42) How else was dinner going to get fixed?
These days—eleven months into the pandemic, economic upheaval, and virtual church—the story of Jesus calming the storm (Mark 4:35-41) is at the top of the list. According to Mark’s Gospel, one night Jesus decides he wants to get to the other side of the Sea of Galilee. Peter and the other fishermen-turned-disciples humor him and set sail. Before they reach shore, they get caught in a storm that threatens to swamp the boat and dump all of them into the drink.
But in the midst of the howling wind and crashing waves, Jesus calmly rebukes the storm. “Peace, be still,” he says, according to the King James Version. J.B. Phillips translates Jesus’ words as “hush now” and the Wycliffe Bible as “Wax dumb.” The Message translates Jesus’ command as “settle down,” as if Jesus were talking to an errant child, and not a raging storm that’s about to drown them all.
Given the myriad of storms that swirl around us—from the pandemic to economic upheaval to “alternate facts” to conspiracy plots—I need a Jesus who does more than say “hush now” or “settle down” to the howling winds. Speaking personally, on a day in which my computer was hacked, my dog figured out how to unlatch the back gate to get out, and a backlog of work swamps my desk, I need a Jesus who stands up to the chaos and pushes back at the waves of disruption, be they global or part of daily life.
Believe it or not, that’s the Jesus in this story. In the Gospel’s original Greek, he snarls at the screeching wind and crashing waves: “Put a muzzle on it!” That’s the literal translation of how this story was first told. It’s a far cry from the gentle, long-suffering Jesus of some later translations.
I find Jesus’ snarl to the wind and waves comforting. When the storms of life rage around us and within us, it’s good to remember that Jesus didn’t stay safe on the shore but was in the boat with Peter and the others that night—and is with us as well. When like those fishermen, we’re caught in storms we’re not sure we can weather, I’m glad for the One whose power can silence even the loudest clamor. When we can’t calm our own waves of doubt or quiet the inner howls of despair, I’m thankful for the One who can put a muzzle on it all.
Most of all, I’m thankful for the One whose voice we can still hear through such an ancient story that still offers new life. Perhaps you are, too.a
I am not the only one who watched the storming of the Capitol in utter horror. And I am certainly not the only one who watched it without surprise. We knew this was coming, we knew for decades that this was going to happen.
What was unexpected to the neoliberals was what I and other marginalized peoples have been warning about for decades. As we departed from Evangelicalism and conservative ideologies, as we grew up in open opposition to the powers that oppress us, and as we ran to mainline and progressive havens, we warned about the dangers to come. But we were not heard. Instead, we could neither truly escape the past nor shrug off the painful present, leaving us in rage and silence.
The terrorists that stormed the Capitol did so with signs like ‘Jesus Saves’ and American flags, Confederate flags, and ‘Proud American Christian’ flags. Their jubilance was palpable as they attacked the press and stood on the Capitol for steps an hours-long photo-op. They invaded offices of members of Congress, planted bombs, and posed in the chambers themselves. Their purpose was clear: to defy the will of the people and vaunt the power of white supremacy and Christian nationalism.
And yet, all I see from the media and from ecumenical responses are denouncements of violence. The media and our political institutions use symbolic language to talk about America’s status as a place of peace and hope. Church leaders talk about Jesus’ nonviolence as if it were enshrouded in sacred history and understood as truth by all. They shame their institutions and denominations.
To say that Jesus was nonviolent is to ignore the Scriptures. The man who spoke out in synagogues and on mountainsides in the face of Roman colonial and Pharisaical rule did so with the knowledge that his teachings and practices were a violent rejection of them. The man who braided a whip and struck people and livestock, overturning tables in the temple of the Lord was not nonviolent. The man who preached that we were to turn our cheek once slapped to allow only a dishonorable strike be the next one was not nonviolent. The man who announced that his was the way of truth and life; the man whose death spawned an entire religion that would for centuries violently oppose powers and principalities was not nonviolent. Even in its appropriation as state religion, Christianity has ever been a religion of violence. To say otherwise cherry picks church history in the same manner we malign Evangelicals for.
America is not a place of peace and nonviolence. Our arms and munitions fund wars all around the world and have done so for an exceedingly long time. Our laws and governments privilege violence against the marginalized to keep us marginalized. Our culture is rooted in violent destruction of those who oppose us. We are not a shining beacon of democracy; we are an imperial power inherited from colonial Europe.
No broad civil rights movement has ever been achieved in America without violence. From the Civil War to recognize black bodies as human; to women’s suffrage and the street carnage; to the Civil Rights Movement of the 60s that saw still more black and brown bodies murdered and brutalized; to the Stonewall Riots that demanded LGBT bodies be seen and not murdered or brutalized; to the Black Lives Matter and ANTIFA marches in recent years. Martin Luther King Jr. knowingly incited violence during his marches, and toward the end of his life he was on the crux of announcing far bolder and violent measures to take racial equality by force. As police moved in to arrest and brutalize and murder LGBT people at Stonewall, they stood up and fought back directly. Had they not, I wouldn’t have the right to be where I am today.
In my coming out and coming to understand my peoples’ history and culture, I am horrified at the violent methods by which transgender bodies have been systematically oppressed, brutalized, and murdered. I live with the terror of knowing that not passing in public subjects me to the possibility of verbal abuse, a beating, or being killed. Simply by choosing to be myself I am an act of violence, of violent rejection of the multifold violence done to me.
Religious and political institutions ignore the fact that violence is not and has never been solely an expression of physical force. Violence takes many forms, and most often it is epistemic and psychological. While we distract from the real issue at hand and titillate on the use of violence, we must understand that the epistemic and psychological forms of violence are the most common tools of those in power. For us on the margins, it is not just physical violence that we face when we march in the streets, but the epistemic and psychological violence by institutions seeking to rip legitimacy away from us. Marching in and of itself is an act of violence, violently rejecting the oppressive powers that would see us isolated and alone in order to be more quietly brutalized and murdered.
When we read Scripture, we find Christ is most often present where power and violence clash with the marginalized. Christ is a force of violence, but where the state privileges power, Christ privileges people. Two ideologies – power and people – clashing against each other necessitate violence, or otherwise there would be no opposition. When American neoliberal culture and Evangelicalism perpetuate the idea that violence is evil, they take away the opportunity for opposition to them, and instead rule unchecked. This is nothing less than hypocrisy and perpetuates still more violence and oppression. Neoliberals and Evangelicals alike are horrified by it and yet don’t hesitate to use it when it benefits them. We should condemn why the terrorists were at the Capitol rather than critiquing the methodology when we were just cheering Black Lives Matter on and acknowledging the only language that gets the attention of those in power is violence. It is nothing short of hypocrisy and grandstanding.
It’s not just our burden, but our requirement as Christians to check this oppressive power with the people. Whether marching in the streets, teaching a different curriculum, or favoring the marginalized over those in power, these are all acts of violence. They are also immense acts of love and compassion and empathy, binding us together in solidarity against power and violence. If we do not acknowledge those facts and cower in the shadows when the word violence is used like a slur, then we will never achieve equality and we will never be truly heard on the margins.
Let us remember where the true war is being fought. Let us adjust course and fight the fight as Jesus and the Prophets did, knowing that things can be better. Knowing that one day our children and grandchildren will know a world in which violence is no longer necessary because there is nothing but the people. Until then, we fight.
“But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.” (Mark 13:24-25)
This was part of the scripture that was read at this past Sunday evening’s (Zoom) vespers service at White Rock Presbyterian Church.
It was the Gospel reading for Sunday, the first Sunday of Advent (yes, really! Already! Crazy…). As I listened to the passage being read, I was struck by the words at the very beginning, the words I quoted above: “in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken.”
And I felt a heaviness as I thought, “Not just ‘in those days’…but in these days!”
In these days, when there has been and continues to be so much suffering and darkness.
In these days, when there has been and continues to be so much chaos, that we are left feeling like the stars are falling from the sky and the powers in the heavens have been shaken.
Not just “in those days”…but in these days….
But then I heard the words that came next: “Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory.” (Mark 13:26) And my heaviness turned to hope!
Precisely in the presence of great suffering, when the darkness is so great that it feels like the sun has stopped shining and the moon ‘will not give its light,’ then Jesus will come! Then God will make God’s presence known!
In the wake of tremendous pain, when the resulting chaos has led to feelings of the world being turned completely upside down, when uncertainty seems to reign, then the Son of Man will come! Then God’s power and glory will be made manifest and will be seen!
“But in those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light, and the stars will be falling from heaven, and the powers in the heavens will be shaken….”
And I know, not just “in those days,” but certainly, in these days….
But “then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory….”
And I pray, not just in those days…but also in these days. If not now, when??
Come, Lord Jesus! We are waiting… We are watching… We are hoping… We are praying.
Peace be with us all, in this sorely needed season of Advent.
Ecclesiastes 3:1 reminds us that, “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” Is there a season for a pandemic? Is there a time for Covid-19? Is there a time when this social-distancing and mask-wearing will end?
As I spend time during this Covid-19 pandemic reflecting on more than 32 years of ordained ministry with the United Church of Christ, there is always some sorrow as one ministry concludes, and another begins.
image credit: Doug Ross, multimedia journalist
I resigned from a pastoral team at a church that I had been serving for seven-and-a-half years in 2013 because (1) that “season” had ended and (2) God was calling me and some other ministers to try a new sort of ministry in our city. The purpose of this new calling was to launch a parachurch ministry to reach and serve the rapidly growing number of people who were choosing not to engage in traditional churches. Our downtown-based ministry was called “BreakAway” because it did not sound like a name of a church. We rented space upstairs, above a popular restaurant, right across the street from our county courthouse, in a place that did not look like a church. “BreakAway Ministry” began gradually in 2013, was full-time by 2015, and then (as quickly as we had begun) we were called on to something new. By 2016 this season for this unique downtown ministry had come to an end; God’s still-speaking voice had called me onward to a new form of ministry in rural Indiana.
Moving out of our rental space, shutting down a Facebook page, obtaining a new email address, dis-assembling our webpage, printing hard copies of a three-year inspirational blog, thanking our donors, and saying “good-bye” to those who had shared a BreakAway journey with us… carried significant sorrow. What was once effective and worthwhile, no longer could be “packaged” in the same way. BreakAway lived for three years and sustained countless people on a spiritual journey who may never find their way back to the organized church again. Our memories of a three-year ministry (2013 to 2016) are always tinged with joy and gladness as we reflect on them now.
image credit: Doug Ross, multimedia journalist
The Covid-19 pandemic has changed us. Some of what once was, shall never return. Parts of what used to work in our lives and in ministry may not work now…or in the future. Could it be that God reminds us through this pandemic that pieces of what was meaningful, effective, and useful in the not-so-distant past…are already gone? With God’s grace, we shall move through this pandemic and onto new ways of doing things. This season of a pandemic teaches us that sometimes we must break away from the way things used to be… and make some bold, new discoveries in this moment in time. In just 6 months of this pandemic, many of our churches (and various ministries) already have changed and adapted. Will we ever be the same again? Probably not.
Look to Jesus as our example; his ministry adapted to the situation in which he found himself. He certainly broke away from the religious establishment of his day and he met people where they were, and in the ways that he could. Jesus met with lepers, tax collectors, and prostitutes (to name a few). He met them on a mountain, by the river, on a lake, and in an upper room.
image credit: Doug Ross, multimedia journalist
There is a season. There is a time. There are people waiting…here and now…to hear God’s word of grace and peace.
Prayer for this season: Oh God, you are the One who enables us to break away from whatever holds us back. Enable us to adapt in the ways that we must during this pandemic so that what we do glorifies you and uplifts other people along the way. Amen.
“You were called to this kind of endurance, because Christ suffered on your behalf. He left you an example so that you might follow in his footsteps.” (1 Peter 2:21)
“…and I will seek You in the morning, and I will learn to walk in your ways, and step by step you’ll lead me, and I will follow you all of my days… …and on this road to righteousness sometimes the climb can be so steep, I may falter in my steps but never beyond your reach…”)
For a few days of my vacation last week, I was camping with Ryan and John at Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve, just north of Alamosa, CO. What an incredible place! They had camped there a few years ago with their Boy Scout troop, and convinced me that one of the things we needed to do while we were there was hike to the peak. “Sure,” I said, always up for a hike with my kids (especially one that THEY were eager to do!).
We started out reasonably early Tuesday morning (about 8:45–remember these are two teenage boys who had been in the habit of sleeping in until noon or later most of the summer!), and made pretty good time…for a little while. But the air got warmer, the sand got hotter, and the dunes got steeper! More than once I had to stop to catch my breath and take a swig of water, shouting at Ryan–whose longer (and stronger!) legs seemed to cover more ground both more quickly and more easily–to hold up. John, who hasn’t quite surpassed me in height–or length of leg!–YET, more naturally kept pace closer to me.
The midway point, looking back to where we began (the green!)
As the peak got closer, the dunes got steeper and my needs for a break, more frequent! Walking in sand, even on level ground, is difficult; and walking up fairly steep sand dunes felt like a clear case of two steps forward, one step back! At one point, the boys told me I could stop and just stay where I was while they went to the peak, and they would “pick me up” on the way back. There was no way in heck I was going to do that!
So I plodded on…and at some point realized that it was easier to make progress if I made an effort to step in John’s (and/or Ryan’s) footsteps, if I didn’t feel like I had to forge my own path when they had already created a path of sorts for me to follow. So from that point on, that’s what I did–I no longer looked up to see how much further we had to go, I didn’t check to make sure we were going in the right direction, I didn’t feel badly if the boys got too far ahead of me. I just kept my head down and took one step at a time, focusing only on putting my feet in the footsteps they left as they walked in front of me. I figured I’d get to the peak if they got to the peak, and they seemed to know how to get there!
Same place, looking toward the peak (the farthest, highest point!)
And we made it! And it was awesome! Well, truth be told, it was brutal! A killer hike! Way harder than I had expected it to be!! BUT…we did it. We all made it. Even the 50+ year old mom in the group! And did it feel good when we got to the peak! Really, really good. And not just because the worst was over (although I confess, there was tremendous relief in knowing that!). But because we had worked so hard to get there. Really, really hard!
In some ways I feel like we are all doing something like that in these times. We are doing a hard thing, living in and through these uncertain times, doing things that are harder than we had expected them to be, with these “things” lasting longer than we thought they would….
And even beyond “these times,” just living life presents us all with hard things. Things that wear us out and wear us down, things that necessitate stopping for a break, sometimes more frequently than at other times. Challenges in our lives that cause us to feel like others are forging ahead with more ease and strength, more clarity of direction and purpose….
In those times, and in these times, perhaps we can take some comfort in following in Jesus’s footsteps.
In those times, and in these times, perhaps we can, at least for a time, stop trying to figure out “how much further” we have to go, and stop worrying about whether we’re going in the right direction, and let go of our need to compare our progress to that of anyone else around us…
In those times, and in these times, what if we focused on just taking the next step, and doing what we can to make sure that that “next step” is one Jesus left for us to follow, trusting that the direction his footsteps lead us is where, in fact, we want to be going….
It might be a hard path to follow. In fact, I can almost guarantee it will be a hard path to follow. It might even be harder than we expect it to be.
But I have no doubt that the destination will be awesome.
Peace, and persistence, be with us all…as we follow in Jesus’s footsteps, one step at a time.
“We are all meant to be mothers of God . . . for God is always needing to be born.”
Meister Eckhart
One Christmas I ventured into the kitchen at Grandma’s house. She and my mom and my aunt were scurrying to clear the table, put away food, and wash dishes, all while chattering about this church friend, that neighbor, or some distant relative’s Christmas letter. Their movements were fluid, fast-paced, and well-rehearsed from years of repetition. I could only imagine their energy before dinner.
Until that particular Christmas, I had only known the “living room” side of family holidays. The guys sat lazily on comfortable furniture, predicted outcomes of college bowl games, avoided politics (it wasn’t safe then either but for different reasons), and stared at the tree. We kids piled presents neatly at everyone’s traditional seats, so as to be ready the moment our hostesses emerged. How different these two distinct experiences of the same day were!
The Nativity narrative sounds very “living room” to me this year, telling the tale from the guys’ point of view. The Holy Couple’s journey seems to be all about Joseph. The innkeeper pointed to the stable from his establishment’s doorway. Shepherds (almost always males then) experienced the wonder of an angelic birth announcement. Privileged Magi decoded a star’s mysterious meaning and called on the king of Judea before delivering beneficent gifts to a different king’s impoverished family. Yes definitely, a carol-inspiring guys lens on Christmas. I imagine Mary describing Jesus’s birth quite differently.
There can be no question that she was uncomfortable at that point in her pregnancy. Her mother tried to hide her worry while Mary smiled through her own fear and anxiety at the prospect of leaving the familiarity and support network of her hometown. The shifting backbone of a walking donkey is no friend to a widening cervix. We aren’t told exactly when Mary’s water broke, if she thought her back pain was just from the 4- to 7-day trip, or just how long she was in labor. At some point, the contractions got closer together, lasted longer, and wrenched a first baby through a virgin’s birth canal. Where was the epidural, the episiotomy? Were there any experienced mothers or midwives at the manger?! Or was it only an inexperienced Joseph holding her hand, telling her to breathe, that it would be OK, sweating beside her albeit for different reasons.
Not all births had happy outcomes then – or now. But when they did, when they do, a feeling that ‘everything is right with the world’ arrives too. Sometimes it comes after the first cry and baby turns pink, or after the last push and the placenta’s exit, or maybe even after the OMG moment that this baby is beautiful and ours. Sometimes it settles in after the relief that baby has latched onto mommy’s nipple and is nursing. It’s the realization that a miracle just happened. And with that moment, everything that mommy’s just been through yields to the joy of what’s just happened and what can happen next.
All of that had to have been part of Matthew’s, “Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way,” (Matthew 1:18) but no one recorded it. We have trouble remembering it. And we need to remember – especially in these days – we need to remember how the birth of Jesus happened for Mary if we are going to live into our roles as “mothers of God.”
John’s never-read-at-Christmas account of Jesus’s birth makes our ‘mother of God’ role crystal clear (Rev. 12).And no wonder we don’t read it! An expectant mother is about to give birth while an incarnation of evil waits to catch and devour her baby the moment the child is delivered. For John, we (the Church) are that expectant mother, the agent through which Jesus arrives in our time and our place. And just like Mary’s experience, our delivery of the Christ in the world is fraught with fears, painful and exhausting, and includes blood, sweat, and tears. But we don’t really want to hear that version of the nativity on Christmas Eve.
Neither do we want to hear the after-birth Gospel accounts about the Holy Family fleeing for their lives and seeking asylum in Egypt, or the ensuing slaughter of Bethlehem’s children under age two. Still, those stories are part of the Holy Family’s Christmas experience. Tragically, stories like those are the Christmas experience still of too many families in poverty, facing violence, being trafficked, at our country’s borders, separated, and in detention.
I wonder exactly when Christmas became the story of Jesus coming into the world to deliver individuals from personal sin. That wasn’t Mary’s experience. Mary’s song about Christmas (Luke 1:46-55) was about bringing down the mighty and filling up the hungry. Delivering Jesus into the world was a painful, messy, labor-intensive task. But the outcome was, and is, new life in our midst! Mary’s lens on Christmas promised a time when everything would be made right again. As long as we are willing to be “mothers of God” and deliver Jesus into our world, Christmas still holds that promise.
When Jesus does arrive through our acts of charity, advocacy, generosity, solidarity, or justice restored, we can experience, like I imagine Mary experiencing, the truth of John’s words: When a woman is in labor, she has pain, because her hour has come. But when her child is born, she no longer remembers the anguish because of the joy of having brought a human being into the world. (John 16:21) May these Twelve Days of Christmas revive and renew you, strengthen and encourage you, empower and embolden you as mothers of God in our time. May joy be yours every time you bring Jesus into the world, joy so profound that everything you just went through in the process melts into God’s forgiving forgetfulness. And be assured of this: everything in that moment is right with the world.
A lot is happening in the world around us, much of it very troubling. Even more troubling is that some of it is being done by those who claim the name of Christian. So even though I know it’s summer and the living should be easy, here’s a bit of homework—a refresher course in who Jesus Christ was and what he did:
Jesus was born into poverty, as a part of an ethnic and religious community under the oppression of the Empire.
Even before his birth, his parents were displaced people, who had to leave their hometown of Nazareth on the order of that Empire.
After his birth, due to violence in his homeland, his parents fled with him, crossing to the border into Egypt for his safety.
His cousin John was imprisoned and then executed by a quasi-religious king, put in place by the Empire.
Jesus himself was executed by those same imperial powers. As Dean Harold Attridge reminded us recently, it was a political execution, driven by fear of Jesus’ challenge to the Empire.
Throughout his ministry, Jesus respected and valued women, often affirming them in roles outside the cultural norms of the time.
He also respected and cared for people of diverse ethnic, religious, and cultural backgrounds. He healed the daughter of a Rabbi, the servant of a Roman centurion, and the daughter of a Syrian-Phoenician (aka “mixed-race”) woman.
He stayed true to the commitment “to love God and love neighbor,” rooted in both the Levitical and Deuteronomic codes of his Jewish faith. He consistently reached out to those who were outcast (lepers, tax-collectors and other “sinners”) and cared for the poor, widows (i.e., vulnerable women), and orphans (vulnerable children).
Jesus never hesitated to speak his mind when it came to the sin of economic oppression. Yet he said absolutely nothing about homosexuality. Hmmm—what does that tell us about his view of the “sin” of homosexuality?
Bottom-line, Jesus showed us God’s way in this world—the way of love and justice that even our ways of death could not and cannot defeat.
This is the Jesus I seek to follow. I believe you do, too. I also believe that unless you and I get over our reticence to talk about our faith and instead start talking about this Jesus to our friends and acquaintances, others will continue to define Christianity and Jesus in ways that are harmful to others and to this world.
I know it’s summertime. I also know the stakes have never been higher. If we care about this world that God loves, then we need to share what means to follow in the ways of that love, ways shown us by Jesus the Christ.
[Rev. Carol Peterson recently relocated to Tucson, having moved here from Virginia, and was part of the Southern Conference, Eastern Virginia Association. Happy to have Carol as a new contributor!]
I am new to the Southwest Conference and Arizona. I visited Tucson several times over the years from my home in Norfolk, Virginia to spend time with my parents, who, initially came here as “snowbirds”, and later became permanent residents. As they have aged (as have I), my spouse, Loen, and I decided to move out here permanently. So having been in Virginia for the better part of the last 30 years, we had a yard sale, donated much of our belongings, and set out across the country in our pickup truck and four little rescue dogs (sadly now, three), and arrived in Tucson the last week of November 2018, just in time for Thanksgiving.
Since then, we find ourselves still in the throes of transition, trying to find our footing in a new place, a new climate, a new culture in many ways, and new circumstances. How do we meet friends, where do we find connections to the LGBTQ community, and where can we find connections to a spiritual and church community? How then, do we find our place, our way of serving, our connection to community, here?
The gospel readings (Luke 10:1-20)yesterday gave pause, and peace. In it we are told that Jesus sent his followers on ahead of him in pairs to the various towns and villages. When there, he told them, bring peace, heal others, and proclaim to all who would hear you, that the reign of God is near. Don’t bring a lot of baggage, accept the hospitality that is given, eat what is set in front of you, and if you are not received, move on, again proclaiming, the reign of God is near.
I leaned over to Loen during the worship service and said, “I guess we’re one of the two by twos.” Wherever we followers of Jesus are sent, for whatever reason, we are sent to heal, bring peace, accept hospitality, and whatever the outcome, proclaim that the reign of God is near.
Our place is where we are sent. Our connection is to Jesus. Our community is wherever we find hospitality. And our task is to heal, bring peace, and always, proclaim that the reign of God is near. We are, we all are, after all, guest workers, reliant upon the hospitality of those with whom we live and work. And we may rest in the assurance that we are sent to where Jesus intends himself to go. (Luke 10:1).
Blessings to all, and we give thanks to God that we are here.
