A Theology of Forward

Everyone has a birthday.   It goes without saying really, doesn't it: you have a day of birth, you have to have a birthday.

Perhaps you don't celebrate it.  Some don't because of religious or cultural reasons.  Some don't' think it's ever a big deal and for others it's a big deal or not depending on how old you are.

When you're very little, it's a big deal because "wow, people are making a fuss about me and there's presents."  Then you get a little older and it's more like "soon I'll be old enough for a driver's license and there's presents."  Then it's "soon I'll be able to vote and consume alcoholic beverages (though definitely only in moderation and never at the same time - voting and drinking, I mean) and there's presents."  Before you know it there's a job, marriage and children and then you're 30 or 40 or 50 and we might start to think birthdays are somehow not important anymore.  And, before you know it, we've had so many we'd like to stop counting.

But then there's sometimes a little change: we've had so many that every one begins to count more because it's another one.  But even that gets a little tiresome.  After all, it's been so many.

And there's the birthday conundrum: you have a day of birth, therefore you must have a birthday.  Our view of birthdays is based primarily on the view that it's an anniversary.  We count the years past.  We look back.  Even when we look at ourselves and ponder where we are on this year's birthday, our reference point is the rear view mirror.

When people have a birthday at our church, we sing a birthday song for them.  Not the standard "happy birthday," this one goes "Happy birthday to you, oh happy birthday to you!  May you feel Jesus near every day of the year.  Oh happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you!  Have the best year you've ever had."  The year ahead, that is, may this year be the best ever.  And may you feel the presence of Jesus each day of this year ahead.  Ahead.  Forward.

Pentecost is the church's birthday.  Not just our church, but the whole church, the day we celebrate the beginning of the christian church.  Pentecost was a Jewish harvest festival (it still is, called "shavuot"), and all of Jesus' original disciples were meeting to celebrate.  The story (Acts 2) tells how the Holy Spirit came to them as wind and fire and inspired them to begin preaching and teaching the story of Jesus.  The "church" was born!

Perhaps the best part of the story from the past to remember is that the Spirit inspired them to "begin," to take all that they had learned and experienced with Jesus and move forward with it, to make change happen and make this world a better place.  Looking back over the past 2,000 years that's not always happened.  The world hasn't always been made better by church.  Or by it's absence, either.

But here we are, looking back again.  Sure, a glance to see what we might learn can be helpful, but let's remember the Spirit inspires us to begin, not end; to go forward, not back; to step out, not retreat in; to live, not just survive.

Jesus promised that the Spirit would work among us, teaching us and inspiring us to live - and love - as he had taught (John 14:26).   It began with the disciples, it goes forward with us.

This Pentecost, celebrate the church's birthday with the excitement and enthusiasm of new life.  Let's live a theology of forward.

What I meant to say

"I know you believe you understand what you think I said, but I am not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant."

I experienced this a week ago.  And of my own doing, by the way.  I know that funny quote is often used as a critique of people's listening skills, but it real does go both ways and, on this occasion, it was absolutely my fault.

We were celebrating Rural Life Sunday.  I asked everyone to bring a handful of dirt to church with them so that we could celebrate the earth and ask for God's blessing "on the land beneath our feet; on the seed planted there; on the animals that graze upon it; on the sun and rain that fall upon it; on the farmers and gardeners who till it and on shepherds, ranchers, beekeepers and botanists."  We might not be able to go to everyone's farm or garden, but we could bring a piece of it here.

We all put our handful (and more, for some!) in a wheelbarrow at the front and I talked to the children about the importance of farming and feeding the world.  "Don't let anyone ever tell you," I said, "that there's any job more important than a farmer."

Didn't occur to me until later that afternoon that it wasn't actually what I had planned to say.  Bet they heard it, though: I repeated it twice.  Bet everyone else heard it, too.  Teachers, parents, accountants, business people.  Wonder if they were thinking where I'd put them in the ranking I seem to have created.  After farmers.  Good one, Robin.

Please don't get me wrong, farmers deserve the praise.  They feed the world.  Literally.  But I didn't mean to say "don't let anyone ever tell you that there's any job more important than a farmer."  Literally.

What I meant to say was "don't let anyone ever tell you that there's any job more important than growing stuff."  Because there isn't.

Farmers grow our food.  Thank you for that.  Teachers grow children's minds and bodies.  Thank you for that.  Children grow imagination.  Thank you for that. Accountants and business people grow our economy.  Thank you for that.  Doctors and care workers grow our health.  Thank you for that.  Police and lawyers grow justice.  Thank you for that.  Soldiers grow peace.  Thank you for that.  Scientists grow our wonder.  Thank you for that.  Ministers grow faith.  Thank you for that.  Families grow communities.  Thank you for that.  Parents grow people.  Thank you for that.

Somewhere there I'm sure I missed someone.  I'm sorry about that, but I think you get my point.  And, yes, I've been pretty free and creative with how I describe what some of them grow.  

But a week after this happened, it was still on my mind because it was Mother's Day.  So don't let anyone tell you there's a more important job than being a mother.

Now wait a minute, you know I did that on purpose.  Because on Mother's Day - and, for some churches, it's Christian Family Sunday, too - we celebrate mothers and the gift they are in our lives.  I'm thankful for my mother, that my partner is a mother, that my daughter is a mother and for all women who are mothers.  And I'm thankful, too, that, from them, we may learn more about how to be mothers ourselves, caring and loving, giving and engaging.  What a world we'd grow if we could all be what we believe is a mother.  What a world we can grow, together.

We're hearing from the Gospel of John on Mother's Day.  Jesus prays to God "the glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me" (John 17:22-23).  Thank you for that.

Finding home

Home.

What's that really mean to you?  Seems like a pretty straight forward question.  And there are probably as many answers as people.  And animals, too, for that matter, don't you think?

I mean, everyone has their own idea of what defines "home" for them.  A place of comfort where you can be yourself, for example.  A sense of belonging or being loved or respected or appreciated.   Family.  A place of safety and security.  Somewhere to which you have a special attachment.

There are many more reasons, I'm sure, that people have a sense of "home" somewhere or with someone (and, of course, particular variations of each for each individual).  

Take a minute and just think about that: what is it that really gives you that sense that you're "home?"  What speaks to you or moves you to a sense of being "home?"

I'm thinking that we can develop a criteria for what might make "home" for us, but, even if we could deliver the criteria perfectly, it may still not deliver that sense we crave.  Because it's the "sense" part.  That feeling of home is relational.  It's as much what we give to it as what it gives us.  It depends on the interaction between us and that stuff.  That's what brings us comfort or safety.  In that relationship is the wholeness which is home.

So maybe think about that for a moment.  What do you bring to that place you call home?

Now, follow me on a little excursion with that idea.  

I believe that we all come from God and, after this life, we all return to be with God.  I learned an apt description of that: we go home.  I believe that's a good way to describe it, not because this life isn't "home" as we would understand it in this life, but because being with God is wholeness and completeness of spirit that says "home" to me.

That's not to say that we shouldn't seek that sense of home in this world.  We do, and, like I said above, it's about relationship.  And Jesus teaches us how.

In John 14, Jesus spends a fair bit of time trying to explain this "new" commandment he's given the disciples, to love as he has shown them love.  And he says that "those who love me will keep my word, and my Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them."

Loving - and living - as Jesus teaches us, brings us closer to God.  It brings us into relationship with the world around us in a way that brings us closer in our relationship with God.  "Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me" (Matthew 25:40).  We are all family of God.

Jesus brings us home.

I know that voice

I've mentioned before, probably a few times I think, that there is a dog that lives at our house.  Nikita is my partner Lori's dog.  Let me say that again, just to be clear: Nikita is Lori's dog.  

I don't mean that like a possession.  She's not a purse or a jacket.  And anybody who has a pet knows you don't really "own" a pet.  But you know when they're "yours." And they know when they're "yours," too.

Nikita will play with me, for example, when Lori's not around.  And she allows me to feed her, when Lori's not around.  And she'll go for a walk with me … when Lori's not around.  But I get worried sometimes, especially in the spring, when she goes off in search of good smells.  Or runs ahead of me, completely oblivious to the world around her.  She doesn't like a leash, you see.  But she also doesn't always respond when I call her.  So when she runs into the street expecting the world to make a way for her, and doesn't respond when I call to save her from that oncoming truck, I get a little nervous.

Are you talking to me?  I'm sleeping ....

Lori, she listens to.  Me, no.

See, Nikita hears her voice and "knows" she should respond with appropriate action because she trusts that voice.  Okay, maybe not always.  There are times when she just wants to do her own thing.  And then, after it goes wrong, she actively seeks the "voice" to help her deal with the consequences.

The fourth Sunday of Easter is Good Shepherd Sunday.  Each year, we hear a part of the tenth chapter of John's Gospel, in which Jesus describes our relationship with him as like the sheep with The Good Shepherd.  

We could spend - we probably do spend - lots of time deciding if that whole we're-sheep-Jesus-is-the-shepherd thing is a relevant image today.  Who wants to be sheep?  And what does a shepherd do, anyway?  I'm sure that's really interesting, the historical context and all.  And I know some great shepherds, so no disrespect intended. But that's not really the point, is it?  It's this: "my sheep hear my voice.  I know them, and they follow me" (John 10: 27).

We have a relationship with Jesus.  We know Jesus, and we are known by the manner in which we follow.  It's not about simply saying "we follow Jesus" as if we're wearing some big woolly bumper sticker that says "I'm one of Jesus' sheep."  Nor does our knowing Jesus mean that we're part of an exclusive flock.  To live as one who knows Jesus  means constantly inviting and welcoming newcomers to the fold.  To truly know Jesus means we live as Jesus taught.

But we know something else, as well.  Just like our ovine friends - and Nikita, too - when we are hurt or afraid, we turn for comfort and security to the shepherd whose voice we know.  Jesus knows that, too.  "The Father and I are one," says Jesus (John 10:30) in this same shepherd discourse, calling to mind the words of the psalmist, "the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."

Listen: the voice of Jesus speaks truth, and living true to Jesus' teaching is to follow that voice and to know it.  That same voice speaks to us in green pastures and dark valleys, and promises comfort and peace.

Will you follow?

The last two verses of chapter 20 of the Gospel of John sure sound like an ending to me.  "Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book.  But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name."

Chapter 20 includes the story of the empty tomb, the appearance of Jesus to the disciples and the story of Thomas, the one who doubted.  In the middle of this chapter is a commissioning scene: "'As the Father has sent me, so I send you.'  When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, 'Receive the Holy Spirit.  If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.'"

Like I said, it sure seems like an ending.  But it's not.  There's a chapter 21.

Sure, there's debate about how it was added and who might have added it, but it's there and it seems to be there in the oldest sources.  I don't have an answer for that debate - any more than anyone else has anything really conclusive, I don't suppose - but I like this chapter 21 and I'll tell you why.

Jesus gathered ordinary people to be his closest followers.  And for awhile they followed and learned and experienced life with Jesus.  Then it all came to an end.  When Jesus was arrested, one of them even denied knowing him.  The others all hid in fear.  When he died, they didn't really know what to do.  And then he was there again with them.  Even reappearing for the one who was missing the first time, in order to prove it was really him.  He was there!

Amazing!  Incredible!  A fulfillment of what he had foretold, proof that he was who he had said he was!  And then he breathes the Spirit into them and tells them he is sending them into the world, just as God sent him to us!  Fantastic!  And then what do the disciples do next?  They go fishing.

Say what?

In chapter 21, the six of them that had been fishermen went fishing.  They went back to their everyday, ordinary former lives.  Like, the show's over, we're done with that.  It was great while it lasted - well, mostly, except that last bit with the death and everything - but Jesus is gone now, so let's all get back to where we were.  It's over now.

So Jesus appears again and says "follow me."  There's no going back to ordinariness now, there's no going back to the way things were as if nothing has changed.  Everything has changed.  And it's not over.  "Follow me."

Makes me wonder if that isn't how we should end every Sunday morning church service.  Well, every church service, every church meeting, every church gathering, every "church."  Period.  Isn't the whole point of church to be remembering that it's not over?  If we go to church for an hour, enjoy the show (or at least tolerate it) and leave God behind as we leave the building, how are we accomplishing what Jesus teaches us?  Church is just the beginning, too.

It can't just be inspiring or refreshing, entertaining or momentarily meaningful, it must also be demanding.  In the same way that Jesus demands it of the disciples, Jesus demands it of us: it's not over, it's just beginning.  "Follow me."

Making Connections

I've had an Easter hymn stuck in my head the last few days.  I know, it's still Lent, what am I thinking?  

But it's one I remember from childhood, an old anglican chestnut called "Jesus lives!"  The tune I remember is St. Albinus, one of those huge Victorian things that just demands a big pipe organ cranked to the max.  The language is a little dated now, but I remember every word: the first verse goes "Jesus lives! thy terrors now / can no longer, death, appall us; / Jesus lives! by this we know / thou, O grave, canst not enthrall us. / Alleluia!"

As a choirboy, I was never really sure what it was all about, but it sure stuck with me.  Even when I "hear" it now, I hear the great organ, a cathedral full of people just belting it out.  I can feel the excitement that it's Easter morning, just as if I was back there in the '70s.  I think I can even catch a faint whiff of incense and lilies.  That's Easter.

It's like I'm there.

Experience is a powerful connector.  So lack of it can surely be a powerful disconnector, don't you think?  Or at least an opportunity to create distance.

I wonder if that isn't why so many people challenge the relevancy of the Bible and the stories in it.  Sure we can talk about the context of the story and explain what's happening and why.  We can talk about meaning and we can relate it to our present circumstance and marvel at the currency of what's "true."  But it's also really tempting to say "that's just something that happened in a far away place a long time ago.  It's not my culture, it's not my time, it's not my place."

Take the Holy Week story, for example.  Each year on Palm Sunday, we try to do something intergenerational in our worship, something experiential that helps tell the story of Holy Week in a way that's meaningful to all ages.  Something that maybe connects us more closely to the meaning and purpose of those last few days.  We've done dramas and interactive plays; we've given video cameras to small groups and had them act out a piece of the story, presenting the videos together; we've setup "stations" of the different pieces of the story, with a passport to be stamped on the way; we've made a video with the children talking about experiences they'd had similar to the Palm Sunday parade and the Last Supper.

This year, we're looking at "place" in the Holy Week story.  Not a lot of us have been to first century Jerusalem.  Some haven't even been out of this country.  So, how do we make the story a little more real and a little more "in our own backyard?"  How about we consider how the story would appear if it were here, today.  How would things look, how would they unfold if Jesus walked the streets of our town of Bashaw?  Which "temple" would he go to?  Where would he and his followers eat? Where would they pray?  Where would he be held when arrested?  Where would he meet his end?

Can we even imagine it here?  Here in unoccupied Canada where we are all free?  Where there is freedom of speech and no death penalty?  How would this story even play out now?  We'll be thinking about that.

So I have a question for you:  how do you bring the Easter story home to your heart?

Gift of Love, Gift of Grace

The Anointing with Oil and Tears
by Sadao Watanabe, 1979

The story of a woman anointing Jesus with expensive perfumed oil is one of those rare stories that appears in all four of the gospels, in one form or another.  Each gospel includes its own unique features, but the version in John 12:1-11 is perhaps the most detailed.  There is lots here to examine in a Bible Study and some fascinating questions to follow off the main story.

And that's so tempting.  Some of them are fascinating and worthy of more attention.  But, resisting the urge, can we look at the big picture for a minute?

A woman anoints Jesus with expensive oil.  The response made by the those watching - represented in John's story by Judas - is that this is a wasteful extravagance that could have done so much more if it had been sold and the money used for the poor.  Jesus replies that she is anointing him for burial and the poor, unlike Jesus himself, will always be with us.

Okay, so there's the two main features of the story right there: the woman's extravagant gift and the question of its practicality.

Bearing in mind that Mary didn't say anything about why she was doing it - it's Jesus who suggests the reason, foreshadowing what was to come in the next week - everyone watching is left with their own judgement of it's value.  And some would undoubtedly agree with Judas, despite the personal motivation John ascribes to him.  And why not?  Isn't caring for the poor a cornerstone of the ministry to which Jesus leads us?

Some, however, might have first have been moved by the the great love and devotion shown by Mary's actions: an unexpected gift, an act of kindness and humility, freely given.

Are we, then, asked to choose between the value of the act of giving and the gift itself?  Or are we asked to consider the value of Jesus, the recipient of the gift, and the value of feeding the poor?  Surely, practicality and common sense make those answers easy.

If only practicality and common sense were also cornerstones of Jesus' ministry.  But they're not.  Love is.  Living a life of love, as Jesus showed us, isn't always about common sense.  Nor can it be judged for its practicality.  Living a life of love constantly challenges us to put love before cost.  Living a life of love constantly challenges to care for all, not to make choices based on values we may want to ascribe to those we consider more or less deserving.

I don't believe this story tells us that extravagant love and care of the poor are exclusive of each other.  Rather, they are intrinsically linked.  In living the life of Jesus, we are often faced with the difficult choices invited by a practical world.  This story reminds us: love more, judge less.