That Wasn't the Plan

Earlier this week, I saw a quote from popular American priest, author and speaker on spirituality, Richard Rohr. Over a picture of him in his Franciscan habit, casually patting an elderly black dog, it said “Jesus never said ‘worship me,’ but he often said ‘follow me.’”

I like Richard Rohr. He’s sometimes criticized for straying from traditional church teachings, being too progressive and over-emphasizing spirituality over religion, but that seems to me more like a compliment than a criticism. This quote’s a really good example.

It reminds me of the age-old question: if Jesus were to walk into a church today, would he be happy about the way we worship him? As often as people may have brought it up, I also think we’ve tended to ask it with the perspective of what we perceive to be the quality of our worship. Is it good enough for Jesus? Is it solemn, sacred, holy, respectful, repentant and righteous enough? Is it meaningful enough? Meaningful for what? I’m not sure anyone questioned why.

By the way, one of the people commenting on the post of Rohr’s quote said that the Bible says we should worship God, and isn’t Jesus God? They quote the opening verses of John’s gospel to support that and then also several places in the gospels where it indicates people “worshipped” Jesus. 

Okay, that’s a fair perspective. But I’d also suggest that the point of “the Word became flesh” wasn’t simply so that we’d learn to worship God in a different way. I think the point was to show how the divine was present in our humanity - in all humanity and in all creation - and help us reconnect with God’s presence, within us, around us and between us. Jesus shows us how to reconnect with the divine that’s in each of us and live the good that’s in us. That’s the “heaven on earth” Jesus talks about. Jesus shows us how to live whole and well, not so that we can worship better but so that we can live better.

And, by the way, I don’t think Jesus was at all comfortable with people worshipping him in person, either. I think he tried to get away. I think he knew that if people worshipped him it would be so much easier to set him apart and see all that he did as something “only Jesus could do.” That wasn’t the plan.

Getting back to that question, about Jesus being happy about how we worship, I think Rohr’s right on. I think Jesus would reply by asking if we’re caring for each other, especially the poor and the sick, if we’re loving our neighbour everyday, not just an hour on Sunday, and loving ourselves. He’d ask if we’re trying to build peaceful, honourable relationships with those we think are our enemies. He’d ask if we’re welcoming people just as they are and getting to know them, affirming and honouring different traditions, thoughts and beliefs. He’d ask if we nurture and encourage people to be true to themselves and the good that’s in them. He’d ask if we were following his lead.

He’d probably look around and say this is all very nice if it helps you do those things. But don’t worship me. Live me.

Campfire Connections

Sometimes I worry that the way we read the gospels in church each week gives the impression that Jesus’ life is a highlight reel of miracles and important sayings. That’s pretty much how we know all scripture, unless of course, you’re reading the Bible at home, too.

Each week we get a story. Or some sayings or a single psalm or a few words of wisdom from a prophet. Bits and pieces that highlight a theme or emphasize a particular life lesson. I’m not suggesting this isn’t helpful (it is), nor am I suggesting I have a better way or that we should spend a few more hours than we do, listening to someone read entire chapters or books of the Bible. (Again, you can do that at home.)

Thing is, though, it’s the life Jesus lived that we learn the most from, not just the highlights. We need the continuity of the story, how moments are connected, how Jesus lived love into each moment, how Jesus showed us that love is in us, too, and we are capable of living as Jesus did, embracing the divine spirit and human soul together. 

We need to remember and spend some time with those untitled moments in Jesus’ life. The ones that, like those untitled moments in our own lives, are just about getting us from here to there, the moments that are about taking time to rest, to spend some time apart and pray, to take a sabbath rest and just be with God. That doesn’t make for very interesting reading, but it’s important to remember that Jesus would have experienced them, just as we do, and that Jesus would have leaned into them so that he was ready for the next big moment.

That’s not to say Jesus would necessarily have been any better at it than we are. Jesus gets tired, Jesus gets frustrated, Jesus loses his cool sometimes. And how many times do we hear about how Jesus was trying to get away from the crowds, but they followed him. He sees they’re like “sheep without a shepherd” and he takes the time to show compassion and grace. I like to think that, for every one of those moments, Jesus managed to find sometime somewhere else to rest, refresh and rejuvenate. Just like the lessons of love, compassion, grace and connection, the lesson of wholeness is at the heart of Jesus’ life.

I get that the gospel writers might not have thought those moments were important, but it’s the ordinary moments that help us connect with Jesus so that we can be a part of the spectacular ones, too. It’s the ordinary ones that bring Jesus close, someone we can sit with and talk, just as I think he must have with everyone he met. “Tell me your story,” I think he’d say.

Our children’s summer program this year was called “Campfire Tales.” We structured the stories around the idea that Jesus and his disciples walked everywhere and would likely have camped a lot at night. They might share conversation around the campfire and Jesus might tell a story or two, maybe even one of the stories he told the people earlier or the next day. They might have chatted about, well, “things.”  Just like we would. Those are the moments that bring us together with Jesus.

What would it take?

Herod had a dinner. It didn't end well.

The gospel of Mark (and Matthew) tells how Herod, a minor client king of the Romans, had a birthday party at which he persuaded his wife's daughter to dance for him by promising her anything she desired. She dances and her mother tells her to ask for "the head of John the Baptist on a platter." Herod reluctantly grants her wish. Herod had arrested John because he was publicly critical of the king marrying his brother's wife, Herodias. But Herod regarded John as a prophet and didn’t want to kill him. Herodias wanted him dead.

I suppose you could argue that someone got their way and went away happy. But revenge doesn't bring happiness. This is a story about power over others, power to manipulate and control, hurt and destroy. That kind of power is potent and seductive and altogether too familiar in the news, in our entertainment, in our day to day lives and, sadly, becoming more prominent in the rhetoric of politicians.

There's no likeable characters in this story, no sympathetic ones, no positive message. If you’re interested in the Herodian family, look them up. They make Game of Thrones look like a soap opera. And John wasn’t the easiest person to get along with. He certainly spoke his mind. That’s what prophets do, and it can be very discomfiting. Speaking truth to power has a price in this story.

I believe that, from the very beginning, our “factory setting” is good, but we have freewill and choice and we’ve established pretty clearly that we’re more than capable of choosing something else. The power to kill over the power to give life; the power to destroy over the power to create; the power to hurt over the power of compassion; the power of hate over the power of love. We frequently chose "power over" rather than "power with."

So here’s a story in which that is concentrated. Herod only has power because it is allowed him by the Romans who have power by force and oppression. Herod extends that oppression and cruelty to his own people and throws in a dash of excess when it comes to his own lifestyle. And yet, he is not the one with power here. It's Herodias and her seductive daughter, and they abuse the celebratory moment by taking a life out of vengeance. Like it’s an everyday thing.

Mark’s gospel moves on from here to the miracle story of Jesus feeding the multitude of people who’ve come to hear him speak. Five loaves and two fish, blessed by Jesus, is all it takes to feed the crowd.

Jesus may have done something miraculous with the loaves and fishes. Or, it certainly would be a miracle that an initial act of sharing inspired so many others to find that they had something they could share and, more importantly, that they did share. All were fed and went away satisfied because so many were willing to look beyond themselves to the good of all. That’s a miracle.

So why is the brutal execution of someone speaking truth to power not so shocking and the feeding of a crowd of hungry people a miracle? 

What would it take for us to find the second story less a miracle and more a reality? How can we make the forces of oppression, the selfishness of all the Herods and the ruthless hatefulness of all the Herodiases an aberration, rather than an everyday norm?  What would it take for us to find our way back to the good, "the image of God," which is the root of our creation? What would it take? Jesus has a way: it would take love.

How do you really know?

Hard to know who or what to believe, isn’t it?

People say things, you read or see things in the news, on the internet, social media - however you acquire information - and you need to decide what you think is true.

How?

Well, I’d say we need to be more discerning and not just accept what we’re hearing and seeing as fact without more thought and consideration of the source and context. Can you trust the source and what’s the context? What’s your criteria for discerning that? 

In a world that’s so complex and diverse, so multi-layered and structured, I think we tend to lean towards what we know, what we want to hear and what we’re comfortable with. I think we have a tendency towards “me first,” not just out of selfishness, but out of safety. Our natural inclination is to protect ourselves, our own needs and what’s important to us as individuals. Besides, being more discerning and thoughtful can be a whole lot more work.

We’re more inclined to choose the narrative that already supports our view, not the one that challenges it and especially not the one that critiques it. Whether it’s something that benefits us, rights a perceived wrong (to us), or feeds our superficial distaste or fear of  something unfamiliar or different, we’re likely to listen to the loud voice that rages with us and follow the action that helps us feel more powerful and important. It becomes easy to dismiss experts, experience and intellect, and, most importantly, find simple, superficial ways to negate them. “I know you and you’re no better than me,” for example.

Just ask Jesus.

One minute, people are impressed with his teaching and wisdom and wonder at how he could be so prophetic and the next minute, in his hometown, even, he’s dismissed as the local carpenter’s son, a nobody “from here” who couldn’t possibly achieve such greatness (Mark 6:3 and others). One minute, the temple authorities dismiss him as an uneducated nobody and the next minute the crowds are astonished that he speaks with such authority (Mark 1:22 and others). What authority? He’s a poor guy, with no title or training, from Nazareth and “can anything good come from Nazareth?” (John 1:46)

Well, yes, as it happens. And that’s the point. Good doesn’t come from a geographic location, a place in society or a title, it comes from the heart. In order to discern what is true and good we need to go deeper, to the deepest part of our hearts in which is the good we come into this life with. Experience, fear and ego may stand in the way, but going deeper takes us to the source of what is true and good. It’s the only criteria Jesus used: is it love?

Reaching Out

Here’s a story from Mark’s gospel about Jesus healing people.

Jairus, a local leader of the synagogue, comes to Jesus and begs for his help. His daughter is very sick and he's desperate. Jesus agrees to go with him to his home, but, by now, he's constantly surrounded by crowds who've heard the stories about him, and he's not moving too quickly. A woman, "who had been suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years" that no doctor could heal, comes up to Jesus in the crowd, desperately believing that if she could only touch him, she would be healed. She does, and is healed, but Jesus notices that something's happened and asks who touched him. Afraid, the woman admits to it and Jesus tells her that her faith has healed her and sends her on her way. But that's held Jesus up and people come from Jairus' house to tell him that his daughter is dead. Jesus says to him, "do not fear, only believe," and heads to his house anyway. He tells them that she is not dead, but only sleeping. He takes her hand and tells her to get up. She does and is alive and, as if to prove it, hungry.

Mark tells it way better (Matthew and Luke do, as well). It's a long story, but that’s the gist of it. You might even be tempted to say it’s two stories, not one, and one interrupts the other. Sure, they’re two separate interactions, but they’re stronger together and share a common theme.

Is this a miracle story? You bet! And if you’re happy with “Jesus has the power to heal physical ailments, even death,” sure, yes, that could be the story here. But we can draw closer to Jesus and learn the most by recognizing another life giving miracle that we’re all capable of. 

Jairus is a leader of the community, he has status and probably some wealth. He even gets a name in the story. But that can't help his daughter who's dying, so he reaches out to Jesus in desperation. The woman who literally reaches out in desperation may well have once been wealthy - she could afford doctors - but her illness has made her poor and an outcast. Her illness would have made her ritually unclean. She shouldn’t have been anywhere near the crowd, let alone in it and close enough to Jesus to touch him. As far as society was concerned, she was already dead. Just like Jairus’s daughter seems to be when he gets there. And yet, he touches her - something which would have made Jesus ritually unclean - and tells her to get up.

Other than the potential for them both to render Jesus ritually unclean in front of many witnesses, it seems like they couldn’t be more different.

Except they’re not, at least not to Jesus. He makes time for them both, as they need, and returns them both to life - in front of many witnesses.

There’s another miracle here. It’s not just the two that are healed of illness, it’s the many people who were healed of their fear of helping others by seeing Jesus boldly embrace those in need. It’s the many who were healed of their fear of challenging society’s structures and engaging someone in need simply because they were in need. Who they are, how they are, whatever society may have said about them, none of that matters to Jesus. All God’s children are worthy of love, grace and healing as they need and when they need. There’s always time for compassion.

There it is again: don't be afraid

David and Goliath.

Just to mention the names brings to mind a particular scenario. Underdog versus overwhelming adversary. Little guy takes on the big and powerful. Little versus big, weak versus strong, it’s used in sports, business, politics, science - pretty much everywhere with that singular meaning. Even the name Goliath has come to mean someone or something huge, gigantic, strong and powerful.

This is the power of a metaphor. This situation is like that situation, so we use this as a colourful way to describe it. I’ve been talking about metaphors a lot lately, especially the ones Jesus uses, as well as the parables. I’ve been encouraging a deeper dive, suggesting that metaphors are really an invitation to look more closely at something, to ask more questions and learn more. Unfortunately, we tend to use them to simplify, to point at one particular meaning. That’s too bad and often does a disservice to both the thing we’re highlighting and the thing - or story - we’re using to describe it.

Sometimes it even pushes us to think of the original thing so much in the context of how we’re using it that it loses its original meaning.

Like David and Goliath. 

Sure, little David and big Goliath. Sometimes when we use it that simply, it’s not even about who wins, but the comparison of the adversaries. Except the story’s not about that.

To begin with, it’s not just about two individuals, it’s a story. So it’s more than a metaphor, it’s an allegory, an expanded metaphor that’s complex, nuanced and detailed. And the story of David and Goliath isn’t just about an underdog facing an overwhelmingly superior opponent.

1 Samuel 17 records the Israelites, under King Saul, coming to battle the Philistines at Elah. In a tradition of the ancient world, the Philistines sent out a champion so that the day could be decided by single combat, sparing the two armies. Goliath is described as huge, wearing armour, carrying a spear and shield. He’s a great warrior who taunts the Israelites to send out their best.

The Israelites are afraid. No one wants to fight Goliath. David is a boy who takes care of sheep and runs errands to his older brothers who are with Saul. David isn’t afraid and is willing to fight Goliath. David has a plan.

See, I imagine David was just as scared as everyone else. But he wasn’t afraid, in that same way that Jesus means when he tells us “don’t be afraid.” It’s okay, sensible even, to be scared, but David knows that God is with him, whatever happens. Not that God would take care of everything for him, but that the spirit inspired him to know that his skill with a sling could make the difference. And it does. He knocks down Goliath, takes Goliath’s own sword and cuts his head off. (Yeah, that’s the part we often leave out - it’s not the sling that kills him, it just brings him down.)

The story’s really about believing in yourself and the power of the spirit to engage even the greatest obstacles in our life. That’s God at work in each of us. Don’t be afraid.

An Invitation to Dig Deeper

Who doesn’t like a good metaphor?

Or a simile for that matter. They serve the same purpose, essentially, in describing or comparing something based on their similarities. More specifically, similes use “like” or “as” to connect things and metaphors just say something “is” something else when it literally isn’t. (Grammar police, please don’t come for me. I know that’s pretty simplistic and there’s more to it. That’s kind of where I’m going. You’ll see.)

It’s such a handy way of describing things and helping people understand. “I’m busy as a bee” or “just covering the bases,” for example, “they’re the star of the team” or “the kingdom of God is like a tiny seed.”

Yes, it’s one of Jesus’ most important teaching tools. He used a lot of metaphors and similes, often in the form of parables which are really just metaphors extended into a narrative. 

The thing is, metaphors are inherently flawed, aren’t they? Or, at least, incomplete. Without a lot of thought, we get the impression that two things are the same and they’re very much not. They’re like each other or similar, but they’re not the same. It’s important to note the differences as well as the similarities and to remember that metaphors only represent a particular perspective. There’s always more to it.

This is sometimes more obvious than others. When Jesus tells a parable about farming, for example, it’s pretty clear that, while he’s trying to connect with a predominantly agrarian audience, he’s definitely not a farmer. In the parable of the sower, he says the sower throws the seed willy-nilly wherever and some of it lands in the worst places. No farmer would waste seed like that. Of course, that’s part of the point of the story, but you need to dig a little deeper than the face of the story in order to find out. (There’s a metaphor right there.)

Or when he talks about how the kingdom of heaven is like the seed that’s planted and, day and night, it grows but the farmer doesn’t know how. The earth does all the work. Try telling a farmer that. Or the mustard seed, which Jesus says is the smallest of all the seeds and grows into a big shrub with branches big enough for birds to nest in. It isn’t and they don’t.

In that same passage from Mark - and elsewhere - the author says that Jesus “spoke the word” to the people in parables “as they were able to hear it,” but he explained everything to the disciples. Well of course he did. I don’t think this is about secret knowledge or not trusting the people to understand or ensuring the future of the priesthood set apart from the people. I wonder if it’s more like preaching and bible study. The people heard the word proclaimed and those who wanted or needed to know more, learned more. And I wonder if, when the gospel writers refer to “the disciples” in these moments, they may have meant any followers of Jesus, not just the twelve.

Because that’s what good metaphors should do. It’s certainly what the parables do. They’re an invitation to dig deeper. When people heard Jesus, I doubt they went away thinking they’d been told how it is. I think they went away thinking about it. Some might have stayed, or come back, to learn more. The parable just opened the door. There’s another metaphor.