It's personal and it needs to be more than said

Back in February, I wrote about how Jesus uses the images of salt and light to describe who we are in Matthew 5.  I've come back to that passage this week, specifically the light image: “You are the light of the world.  A city built on a hill cannot be hid.  No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house.  In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven."  (Matthew 5:14-16).

I said then, and I'll say it again and probably again and again, that the most important point here is the obvious one: Jesus doesn't say that you can be light, or that you should do this and then you'll be light.  He says "you are the light of the world."

Let me repeat it one more time, so we're clear: you ARE the light of the world.

Now let me just point out something that's not in the story.  After Jesus tells the disciples that they're the light of the world and that they should let their light shine, the disciples do not all go "oh gosh, Jesus, that's nice of you to say, but no, I'm nothing special" or "aw shucks, Jesus, thanks, but … nah"  and then blush because they're embarrassed.  The disciples don't then tell Jesus to keep it quiet because they don't want others hearing that.  "People don't need to know that, Jesus," they didn't say.

Because they do need to know that.  That's the point.

Sure, humility's important, but this isn't about that.  This is about honestly and realistically recognizing the importance of sharing our gifts in a way that is a light to others, that inspires others and engages others in a way that leads them to find the light in themselves, too.

Now I know that someone might read this and say "oh, yeah, Robin, 'cause you do that all the time."  Yes, I do.  And I wish I didn't and I need to be reminded as much as anyone.

Two reasons that I'm reminding myself with this passage this week.

We're dedicating new stained glass windows - five of them - in our church in Bashaw.  They're beautiful and … enlightening.  They wouldn't be there to engage and inspire us if not for Fern, who sought out local artist Pauline Borreson and worked with her to design and create them.  Fern won't really like it that I outed her, but here's the thing: she said that she wasn't creative and she "wished" she could be.  And she is.  And she made this happen.  I think that's inspiring.  And that it's Fern makes it personal and real, not just an idea.  Everyday that I see those beautiful windows created by Pauline and Fern (and framed by Dwayne, who's awesome with wood), I'm reminded that everyone is capable of being light.

The other is this: Jonathan Langille's family is honouring his memory and wanting to support and inspire others in this community that he loved, though he didn't live in Bashaw long.  So they planned an event for September 20th.  It's evolved into something a little different than they planned, but it's happening and I think you should want to be there.  I know people are busy, and that's okay, but if you live in or around Bashaw please try.  It's not about whether you knew him or how he died or where or even when he lived.  This is about sharing the one light that we all have.  That's not a talent or a skill, it's love.  His family and his memory are giving their love to us, can we not offer them our love?  And our care and our support?

Please don't leave others in the dark.  Be the light.

Looking for a more radical perspective

There's a moment in the 2009 film 'Passchendaele,' Paul Gross's Canadian epic about the First World War, which serves to remind me of the importance of perspective.

A doctor, who has never been to the battlefield, is addressing a room full of doctors and nurses about artillery wounds and the damage shrapnel can inflict.  He says that the new artillery represents the greatest single challenge to an individual on the battlefield.  He turns to Gross's Sgt. Dunne and says "Sergeant, do you agree?"  After thinking a minute, and remembering his own experience, he says "no sir, I'm sorry, I don't.  The single greatest challenge to an individual on the battlefield is trying to keep his matches dry."  Everyone laughs, thinking it a joke.  Everyone except Dunne's commander, who is embarrassed and angry.  He doesn't give Dunne a chance to say anymore then, but later, he has an opportunity to be clear: "if you're in the middle of a barrage and you reach for a smoke to steady your nerves and your matches are wet, well sir, your whole world buckles. It feels like it's coming apart at the seams."

One simple little thing.  The hinge on which rests other, much more complex things.

From the comfort of distance and disassociation, the doctor assumes the most obvious thing is the most important.  The thing which, coincidentally, is something he can deal with - physical trauma - and exert some control or influence over (he thinks).

But there's another, more radical perspective.  And when the audience hears it, they  aren't prepared for it and laugh it off as if it's a joke.  It was too different, too radical to hear.  Especially when they'd already heard what they wanted to: the "expert" opinion that suited their situation.  Their situation of comfort.

Right now we're in the middle of a series of Sundays on which we hear Jesus telling parables.  Sometimes, I think we hear many of Jesus parables as simple stories with a simple message.  One that we're now comfortable with hearing.  One that, while still meaningful in it's own way, we can put into a simple slogan about how we should behave.

But hang on, what about the radical Jesus who wanted us to transform our lives with love and respect and grace for all?  The story may be simple, sure, but is the message always that one obvious thing?

Look at the parable of the mustard seed.  The kingdom of heaven is like this tiniest of seeds that grows into a great shrub or even a tree that birds can nest in.  Okay, obvious exaggeration aside (mustard doesn't grow a tree), it seems simple enough: from the smallest of things comes something great.

But isn't there more to this image?  Mustard's a weed.  Weeds are invasive, they try to take over wherever they crop up and farmers and gardeners alike are always trying to get rid of them.  Can the kingdom of heaven really be an invasive weed?  Why not?  It can be subversive as it breaks in where you least expect it.  It can take over and influence the world around it.

And being a "weed" is part of our perspective.  Not everyone has the same negative perspective: when a child brings a parent a beautiful bouquet of fresh picked dandelions, do you see a noxious weed or an offering of love?

Deeper.  Different perspectives can take us deeper, especially if they are ones that challenge us or discomfort us.  And different perspectives can lead us to action, to go beyond the platitude into transformation, making a difference to our lives.

For all

Last year, our Bashaw Community Theatre presented a small ensemble of young people (and one old piano player) in a production of 'Godspell.'  It was a great show, lively and energetic, full of all that life you wish that a Sunday morning in church would have.

There's some great music in 'Godspell' and the story is really the parables of Jesus from Matthew and Luke.  These are presented by Jesus and his followers as if they were a travelling troupe of actors, using whatever props or set happen to be handy.  So the parables are not just words, but are brought to life by the characters.  Again, wouldn't it be great if we always put that much life into them.

The Parable of the Sower (Matthew 13:1-23) is interesting because the troupe portrays the seed and the different environments it lands in: the path, the rocky ground, the thorns and the good soil.  So the parable is already, in a way, being interpreted in how they act it out - it's about people, isn't it?  As Jesus explains, "when anyone hears the word of the kingdom and does not understand it, the evil one comes and snatches away what is sown in the heart; this is what was sown on the path.  As for what was sown on rocky ground, this is the one who hears the word and immediately receives it with joy; yet such a person has no root, but endures only for a while, and when trouble or persecution arises on account of the word, that person immediately falls away.  As for what was sown among thorns, this is the one who hears the word, but the cares of the world and the lure of wealth choke the word, and it yields nothing.  But as for what was sown on good soil, this is the one who hears the word and understands it, who indeed bears fruit" (Matthew 13:19-23).

So we have it acted out as Jesus explains it.  Clearly we are the different landscapes the word lands on and we definitely want to be good soil.

Okay, that's one perspective.  So how do we be good soil if we're rock?  Or weedy?  Or always on the go (that's how I like to think of the seed that lands on the path)?  And, by the way, good soil is still not enough for us to grow.  We also need sunlight and water and nurture and the occasional bit of fertilizer.

Of course we want to be the well-tilled and cared for soil, but I also think that each of us is capable of being any of those other things - hard as a rock, overwhelmed or shallow - at various times in our lives, just as easily as we can judge others to be so (something else we seem to do).

Good thing the sower still casts the seed everywhere.  I know it seems counter to our need to maximize efficiency and invest in the best potential return, but God's love isn't like that: it's for all.  And Jesus didn't share God's love with only those who society deemed to be the most fertile ground, he shared it with those whose lives were hard, the marginalized, persecuted and oppressed, those who rejected society as much as society rejected them.

We might sometimes think it wasteful, but God's love makes new paths, it finds its way into the cracks and overwhelms the thorns.  We, too, must live God's love as Jesus did, casting it widely for all, not just those we think will welcome it.  We, too, must love those whose journey is different, whose life is complicated, who need compassion, care and support.  We, too, must love those who challenge us and reject us.  We, too, must risk loving with this kind of extravagance.

It's good

Do you wonder about the beginning?

I love the creation story in Genesis.  Stories, I guess, since there's more than one.  I love the creation stories, but I don't love the arguments.  You know, the creation versus science arguments.  Personally, I don't think they're exclusive, I think they're complimentary, but that's for another time.  The question I'm asking isn't about knowing facts and understanding how things work, it's about wonder.

Each day, God created a piece of this awesome universe, noting, as any great artist would, that it was good.  And after "six days" of work - a substantial enough shift, considering all that was built - "God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good" (Gen.1:31).  Then, God rested.

Do you take time to wonder how "good" the world is?  I think that's the key to our role as stewards of creation.  It's not just that God says that we should take care of the earth, it's that our relationship with the earth - as a part of the great creation - includes that we, created in the image of God, take time to wonder that it is "good."  Not merely useful or pretty, but good.

It's pretty easy to get bogged down in things like the order in which God created or the time frame.  But what's really important is that all that was created was created in relationship to each other.  And that's good.  In fact, the web of creation is pretty awesome.

That's another reason why we need to take the time to wonder at how "good" it really is - each strand of the web, each piece of creation needs, and is needed by, another.  Except us, some scientists believe.  They think that the world would get on just fine without human beings, since no part of creation really needs us.

So why are we here?

To love.  That's our role as stewards of the earth, to love it.  That's our purpose with each other and with God, to love.  That means respect and care, to take only what we need and give back whatever we are able that nurtures and supports, to be aware of the needs of the earth and each other as much as ourselves. 

That's good.  Now take a moment to rest and wonder at how good that really is.

What are you thinking?

I know I said that my blog would be my weekly early ruminations on the lectionary text for the week, but I wanted to talk about this.  It may seem a little off track - and a couple days late - but it's all part of the journey, isn't it?  And this week's gospel reading is the story of the disciples who meet Jesus on the road to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35).  Seems to me it fits.  Well, you decide.

Some of the churches in our local Presbytery, or region, of the United Church of Canada got together last week for a workshop called Unstoppable Church.  Mostly, we called it that after the organization that led it, Unstoppable Conversations.  But I think many of us hoped - and do hope - that our churches might be inspired to be just that: unstoppable.

A key part of the method that opens up these "unstoppable conversations" is the idea that we need to change our thinking.  I know, heard it before, right?  But what that usually means is different solutions for the problem we think we have: everything focuses on the problem and what the solution will be.  But that's not what Unstoppable Conversations does.  They offer no solutions to any problems.  Instead, they focus on the thinking behind the actions we take to address an issue.  Transforming that thinking is what creates positive action that achieves something.

It's not about changing how we act, it's about changing how we think.  That's what makes transformation happen.  So we did an exercise where we identified some key issues or circumstances in our churches and the actions (or lack of action) that lead to them.  Then we considered what some of the root thinking might be behind that and we came up with some pretty simple things: I'm flawed; No one can do it as well as me; They don't care; What are people gonna think; They might rock the boat; Why do I have to do it; Why don't they like me; They'll say no; I'm too busy; There's not enough; and I'm not loved.

That's pretty depressing, isn't it?  But then we made a list of the "New Thinking" that we'd like to replace that old thinking with, and it looked like this: We are love; We have value; Technology works; Willing to risk; I have courage; We have intelligence; Accept Opportunities; Open minded; We have enough; Be grateful; Respect; Commit to something; We are unique; Be inclusive; Christ-like; Unconditional.

That's an awesome list of "New Thinking."  And yet, it seems oddly familiar.  To me, it's the themes that permeate our message each and every week in church.  To me, it's the message of Jesus.  So why is it our list of "New Thinking" - shouldn't it already be our thinking?

Well, yes, it should.  But here's one of my little epiphanies from this weekend: do people attending churches hear, or, better still, experience a message about new life, about how we live, with ourselves, each other and God, or do people simply hear us telling them how to act (often with an "or else")?  Because church isn't about how you act, it's about how you live.  Authentically and genuinely how you live.

I Believe

In the days and weeks after that first Easter morning, the gospels tell stories of Jesus appearing to people, showing them that he was truly alive.  Each story has its own “recognition” moment, especially the story about Thomas, the disciple who wouldn’t believe until he had proof.

I'm not doubting the text, but I wonder just what it is that he will not believe.

Thomas wasn’t there when Jesus first appeared to the other disciples.  And when they told him they had seen Jesus, he refused to believe them.  He needed to see Jesus for himself, touch the wounds of his death and hear his voice.  And when he does, he acknowledges Jesus as “my Lord and my God!”  “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe,” says Jesus (John 20:28-29).  Encouragement for us all. 

  

Poor Thomas.  He quickly became known as Doubting Thomas.  But, hang on, what is it exactly that he doesn't believe?  Their story that they'd seen Jesus?  Because none of the other disciples believed it had happened either, it seems, until Jesus appeared to them.

Each of the gospel stories include this feature of unbelief until Jesus appears.  So why single out poor Thomas, the Doubter who was not strong enough to believe? 

Wait, that's wrong.  It should be, why single out brave Thomas, the Questioner who was strong enough to wonder?

Thomas wondered how it could be that Jesus was physically alive.  Just like Thomas wondered earlier in John's gospel about where Jesus was going.  In the well-known passage in which Jesus tells the disciples that in God’s house are many dwelling places and that he goes ahead to prepare a place for us, he tells them that they know the way.  It’s Thomas who says no, they don’t, and asks Jesus “how can we know the way?”  He replies “I am the way, and the truth and the life” (John 14:1-7).

I wonder where Thomas was when Jesus appears to the rest of the disciples who are hiding in fear behind a locked door.  Why wasn't he with them?  I doubt (there's that word again) he went for groceries.  The gospel doesn't say, but I like to think he was the only one brave enough to be outside, trying to find out what was happening.  And why was it a whole week before Thomas was with them again?  I like to wonder if maybe he was out talking to people about Jesus, getting on with living the life that Jesus had taught him to live through his own life.  Maybe Jesus was already alive for Thomas.

I don't think that questioning their story - that Jesus might be physically alive - moved Thomas away from Jesus, but closer to him, closer to the Truth of what Jesus was about.  When Thomas questions, it prompts wisdom and truth from Jesus that brings us closer to God, too.

And isn't that the point?  Like I said, it doesn't say much in the story about Thomas or what he was doing.  But what is revealed to Thomas, and to us, is that essential truth: "blessed are those who have not seen and yet come to believe" (John 20:29).

The message of Easter is that Jesus is alive.  Do you believe it?  Why?

Is it because the Bible tells me so?  Because it does and, to quote Anna Warner, it also tells me that Jesus loves me and that Jesus teaches me how to live fully and wholely.

Is it because we can see Jesus alive in the people around us and in their relationships with us and others?

Is it because we know Jesus is alive in ourselves?  That's often the hardest one to embrace - Jesus loves me, yes, but Jesus is in me, too.

Is it because Jesus is alive, as the Word is alive, as God is alive in what is true and genuine: love, grace and compassion for all?

We can see, Jesus, we can see.

Death is not the end

My sisters send Lori and I cards for most every holiday and our birthdays.  They're good at that.  They remember stuff like that.  And they find the best cards ever, always funny or beautiful, always appropriate.

We just got their Easter card.  It's crazy funny (if you have a sense of humour like mine …).  The card was great, but what they wrote on the inside was even better: "some cards are worth repeating, like Easter itself!"  They thought that they had already sent this one sometime in the past, I guess.  I certainly didn't remember it, but, like I said, they're really good at this card thing.

Or they knew that I'd appreciate the deeply insightful theological commentary that's right in tune with my thinking this Easter.

It's worth repeating.  Oh, yes it is.

Let's put aside the chocolate, the eggs, the bunnies, the big dinners, even the great cards, for a minute.  You know, all those things that we use to celebrate "The Day" we call Easter.  Let's tell the story.

Only days after being welcomed to Jerusalem by adoring crowds, Jesus is suddenly, shockingly, unbelievably dead, killed in a cruel and humiliating manner.  His closest followers are in hiding, fearful for their own lives, grieving the end of their life with Jesus.  But it's not the end.  After the sabbath, Mary says she's seen Jesus alive, others say the tomb was empty and then Jesus appears to all the disciples.  He's alive, just as he promised.  And Jesus' followers tell the story and share his teaching - his life - with everyone they can.

There's more to explore in the story, there always is.  But this is the part that most bears repeating: death isn't the end of the story.  The disciples certainly thought so.  So did the Jewish authorities, the Roman authorities, the crowd that called for his death - everyone who thought about it at all, thought is was all over.  Jesus was dead.

But death isn't the end of the story.  The power of the resurrection story is that there was death and it wasn't the end.  That bears repeating, just as it is, because by knowing what "was" in the story, we know what "is" in our lives.

In our own lives, we experience hurt, grief and pain.  We experience the sudden shock of loss, crushing and dispiriting.  We experience moments of "crucifixion."  No matter how others might regard or value them, we know those moments for the feeling we experience.

  

But that's not the end.

Jesus says "I am the resurrection and the life" - am, not just was or will be - and offers life in, and after, each of those life challenging and life changing moments.  In our own moments of "crucifixion," we find life rising out of death.  Or loss or sorrow or grief or fear.  Jesus shows us the way to new life, not just in his death and resurrection, but in his life.  Life comes from living as Jesus taught us to live.  That bears repeating, too.