The Way is Still LOVE, Damn It!

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about "The Way is Love."  If you read it online, I led with the title "The Way is Love, Damn It," but if you read it in the newspaper, I chickened out and modified it to "… Darn It."

Somehow, I guess I was thinking that ministers aren't supposed to say damn and people might be offended.  If you are, by the way, since I've used it three times already, I'm sorry.  Maybe a simple exclamation mark would have punctuated it, but sometimes I think you need a little more emphasis.

And I wanted a little more emphasis because I went on to take quite a strong stand on there being a difference between claiming to act for God and acting out for our religious beliefs.  I won't recap for you, but suffice it to say that it eventually struck me that it was a little incongruous, those strong words with a namby-pamby, wishy-washy "darn it" at the top.  Maybe I should have said "gosh darn it."

Nope.  I would say damn it, trying to be as emphatic about it as I could.  I'm sorry, I said it again, but I'm trying to make the point that changing it - not being true to how I would really express it - weakened the authority of what I said.

I think sincerity is a key element of true authority.  So is love.

In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus begins his ministry in Capernaum, teaching and casting an "unclean spirit" out of a man in the synagogue.  The response of the people is pretty much unanimous: they're astounded and amazed because he teaches with authority and "he commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him."  This is "new," this kind of authority, not like the scribes (the teachers of the law).  (Mark 1:21-28.)

Of course it seems "new:" I think Jesus taught with sincerity about living the heart of the law, not the letter of it.  At this point, Mark doesn't seem interested in saying exactly what Jesus was teaching, but only the effect it was having on those who heard him.  Laying claim to this new "authority," and we'll hear more of what Jesus was teaching as the "good news" gospel progresses, but what's important here is establishing that authority by how people responded.

But it's not just sincerity in the word and action, it's the action itself: love.  So Jesus heals this man with an "unclean spirit."  Perhaps we hear this story and picture an exorcism like in the movies or one of those televangelist faith healers who might smack him on the forehead and shout "be healed!" as he falls backwards into the arms of Jesus' followers.  Given how often we've seen it, maybe that image - and its inherent insincerity - immediately come to mind.

But I think the unclean spirit was impelled to leave the man because Jesus gave him the attention, the understanding and the love that others had denied him.  And instead of showing horror and anger that Jesus would even give him the time of day, people responded with amazement at the power of this kind of authority.

Mark says, in the briefest of exchanges, that Jesus told the unclean spirit (or demon or whatever term might be best understood here) to "be silent, and come out of him."  But maybe what the people witnessed was a longer exchange, a moment of recognition, maybe a touch or hug of understanding and a promise of love and caring.  That might well have been cause for some real amazement.

Martin Luther King, Jr., said "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.  Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

We've made authority something very complex.  Is it about power or position or status, wealth or title or rank?  Is it cultural or based in gender or age?  Is it something that is claimed or something that's awarded or vested in someone or something by others?  It is, truly, all those things, differently perceived by different people.  And it seems the more complex it becomes, the more we want to challenge it, test it and even attack it, sometimes rationally and reasonably.  Sometimes not.  Sometimes, with anger and irrationality and hate as the primary tools, figures of authority are attacked simply because they are seen to represent one of those kinds of authority.

So it's still love, damn it.  Sincere, heart-felt love.  Surely, if our action is sincerely rooted in love, that action not only carries authority, but healing and reconciliation, and it recognizes it and respects it, too, even in disagreement.

The Way is LOVE, damn it!

Most pastors (ministers and priests, too), sooner or later, are asked to tell their "call story."  That's simply the story of how they came to feel called to be a pastor (or minister or priest).  Actually, "simply" isn't the best word there, because the stories are rarely as simple as hearing a heavenly voice saying "come and follow me."

It seems it was for the disciples, though.  Whether it's Jesus calling the disciples by the sea to "come follow me," or John's telling of the story where Jesus invites the first disciples to just "come and see" what he's doing, there's a pretty clear invitation.  And maybe some pastors feel that way.

Not for lots of us, though.  For many, it's more like the call of the prophet Samuel.  As a child living in the temple, Samuel hears a voice calling his name.  He thinks it's Eli, the high priest, and goes to him, but Eli says no, it wasn't him.  After this happens three times, Eli realizes who's voice Samuel is hearing and tells him how to respond.  So when Samuel next hears the voice, he answers "speak, for your servant is listening."  And God does.  God has some difficult stuff for Samuel to do and it begins right away with having to tell Eli some bad news.  God calls, it takes Samuel a few tries and some help to figure it out, but then the work - the hard work - begins.

Well maybe there is a little more similarity with the disciples.  Whether invited by Jesus to come and follow or come and see, the disciples followed first.  They learned from Jesus and got to know Jesus and what all this "good news" was about.  It was a journey, with lots of questions, doubt and struggle, and lots of help, before they became leaders.  Oh, yeah, and the Holy Spirit helped, too.

I think where this is leading me is that following the way comes before leading people on it.

Last week, with the story of Jesus' baptism, I suggested that we are all, as Jesus was, beloved by God.  God is "well pleased" with each of us in the sense that, since we all come from God, God knows us and is happy with us just because we "be."  I further suggested that the power of the Holy Spirit comes alive in us when we realize that, that we are loved by God, and start to share that love with others.  

Now, follow the embodiment of that.  Jesus.  Or, for that matter, any other great leader who lives love and shares love.  Martin Luther King Jr. or Mother Theresa or Gandhi in the last century.  The Dalai Lama.  Pope Francis.

Yes, Pope Francis.  I'm not Roman Catholic and I don't have to agree with everything that he says to see that he models the love of God.  I'd add the current Moderator of the United Church to that list and some ministers, priests, rabbis and imams and just ordinary people that I've known that followed the way.

Not one of them will tell you that their God wants them to kill, maim, hurt or destroy anyone or anything.  Except maybe poverty or hunger.  Not one will tell you that God wants you to hurt others in God's name.  I believe that's because God loves.  When we listen for God's voice or wonder where God is, that's what we should be listening for or looking for. 

We should wonder more often whose voice it is we are hearing.  Is it God?  Or is it our own frail, fearful human voices.  Is it God we are following or is it the very fallible and very human-made religion or institution that we've built up around God, the very walls of which keep us from hearing God's call.  The call to love.

Terrorist, fundamentalist, crusader, of any stripe, I believe you're mistaken if you claim to act in the name of your God, whatever you call God, or even if you call it "right."  You may be acting in the name of your religion, but that's not the same.  And I don't believe that God is "well pleased" with your religion.  Not at all.

Living as Loved

"You are my son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased."  Mark 1:11.

Wouldn't we all hope to hear that?  Son or daughter, friend or partner, wouldn't we all hope to hear that we're beloved and that someone is pleased - probably "filled with joy" would be better - with us?

Well, you are.  You, whoever and however you are, are beloved by God.  Yes, you are.  Hold on to that thought, I'll be coming back to it in a minute.  But you should hold on to it longer than that because it's true, God loves you.  Really.

This verse from the Gospel of Mark comes from the story of Jesus being baptized in the Jordan river by John, the Baptizer.  It's, quite literally, the beginning: Mark begins with John and Jesus first appears when he comes to John to be baptized.  It's very straight forward: "In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan.  And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him.  And a voice came from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased.”

John had been calling people to repent and be baptized in preparation for Jesus.  John's baptism was a washing away of an old life, a sign that people had turned away from sin and back to God.  But, as he reminded people, it was only that: "I have baptized you with water; but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit" (Mark 1:8).

But Jesus' baptism changed things.  It was the foundation of his ministry.  Immediately after being baptized, Jesus goes into the wilderness (we'll talk about that in Lent in a few weeks) and then on to Galilee to begin his ministry.   There was something different when John baptized Jesus.  "You are my son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased."

I wonder if this isn't how we might begin to understand the baptism of the Spirit.  Not a baptism of repentance, but an awareness of something - something different: you are beloved by God and God's joy is with you.

Baptism isn't the sign of something accomplished, but the sign of something begun.  The beginning of living a life filled with the realization that we are loved by God and that we, with joy, may live out that love with others.

Perhaps that's why Mark begins here, because it's - literally - "the beginning of the Good News of Jesus Christ, the Son of God" (Mark 1:1).  Jesus is not just aware of God's love and God's presence, but begins to put that into action, into ministry, in his life.  Jesus lives out his baptism.

We, too, are beloved by God.  So much so, that God came to us as Jesus.  Not so much that we would worship Jesus, but that we would learn to be like Jesus.  The baptism that we observe now, as a ritual, is a sign for us of that beginning.  But the true baptism of the Spirit is that moment of welcoming the awareness that we are beloved, that God is with us, and that, in our life, we will endeavour to live that out with others.

Come to the Manger

We had a Christmas Pageant.  It was Great.

We have one every year.  Some years it's a rehearsed, scripted play with sets and costumes and some years it's more informal, more a series of tableaus with narration.  The kind with kids in bathrobes with towels on their heads and angels wearing bedsheets that may be white or might have a lovely floral pattern.  You know what I mean.

This year, we called it The World's Greatest Christmas Pageant - and it was.  It was "the world's greatest" because everyone could be in it, and you being in it made it great.  The point was for everyone to be "in" the story.  You could be whomever you want to be and you could bring your own costume or wear some of the things we had available.

To be honest, I was hoping for a Ninja Turtle or a dinosaur or Batman, just to shake things up a bit.  There were a couple of John Deere flavoured outfits and a superman t-shirt, though.  And a very dapper looking Jesus.

Being who you wanted to be in the story, I said, was an opportunity to wonder a little about how we, ourselves come to the manger.  Do we run headlong to the manger or do we sometimes hold back, reluctant to come?  Are we shy or are there things between us and Jesus?  Do we dress ourselves up?  Do we dress Jesus up?

Yes we do, of course.  We have traditions and decorations and rituals.  We have ways that we interpret things and ideas about how they should look and sound and feel.  The more important question is, do they bring us closer to Jesus or just add another layer of stuff that keeps us at a comfortable distance?

Well, I don't have an answer for you.  Only you do.  If you're wondering about "meaning" at Christmas time, you might want to take a moment to wonder about the heart of this story we tell in so many ways: that God - the creator of things, the life of things, or by whatever means or name you know God - became the smallest, weakest, most vulnerable of us in order to be with us and have the opportunity to know us and be known to us as one of us.

Our pageant had many angels (perhaps not a host, but many), many shepherds, quite a few magi (more than three), a couple of Marys and Josephs, an Elizabeth and a Zechariah, sheep (live - in costume, that is - and stuffed), a kitten instead of a donkey (the Marys walked, obviously), a lion, a couple of stuffed cows and two Jesuses, one real.

At the end of our pageant, when everyone returned to their seats, the baby Jesus "lay asleep on the hay."  Well, it was cloth, actually.  And he wasn't wrapped in swaddling clothes, he was well dressed in a fancy vest and pants.  And the stable was a nice warm church and the light wasn't a star, it was a soft floodlight.

But I wasn't thinking about those things.  What I thought was that his sister had been baby Jesus in the pageant a few years ago and his dad had been the grownup Jesus a few years before that.  What I thought was, I know you.

I know you.  I wonder if that isn't where the story wants to take us, that we might come to know God better, not to fear, but to love; not to possess, but to share; not to hurt with, but to care for.  That would be a good Christmas.

Expectation and Wonder

We have a Christmas Pageant in church on the third Sunday of Advent.  Or a play or some dramatic way of telling the Christmas story.  It will hopefully involve children and often might be very well organized, prepared and rehearsed.  Other times it might be intentionally not any of those things and a little chaotic.  But hopefully still with children.

The fourth Sunday of Advent we have Stories and Music for Christmas, favourite carols and stories about Christmas.  Not necessarily the Christmas story itself, but stories that help to reveal what "The Story" is all about.

Yes, by the way, I acknowledge it's still Advent.  I grew up in a tradition that emphasized the importance of Advent and held off the rush to Christmas stuff until it's time and there are moments when I remember how important that is - to take the time, I mean.  But our stories are told to be heard and to be understood and, hopefully, to speak to us in a way that brings meaning to our lives.

That's the thing about "traditions."  I'm sure I'm not the first person to point out that a "tradition" isn't something that you do every year or over and over again just because "we've always done it that way," because it's easier to just re-do it the same way or because "people expect it."  Frankly, that's just doing something that way because "you've always done it that way."  It's not a tradition.

Something becomes a tradition because it continues to have something to say, it continues to be meaningful, it still communicates a message.

That's why I love Christmas Pageants, especially ones with children.  It's a real tradition.  The story itself has meaning, but put it in the hands of children and it can take you places.  Tell the story live, when anything can happen, and something will happen.

I'm writing this before this year's pageant, so I'm not really sure how it's going to go.  The plan is for everyone - that's everyone - to come in costume or find one, or even a hat, amongst the ones we'll have available and put yourself in the scene that the narrator will be describing.  You could be "on stage" or in your seat, a key character, a shepherd, an angel, a stable animal or even a curious onlooker.  But you're in it.  That's the point.  If you were in the story, how would you come to the manger?

Now make the story part of your life and wonder about this: how do you - the true you, the you God knows - how do you come to the manger?  What does this mean to you?

I don't know how it's going to go.  I'm pretty sure it'll be an adventure, though.  But I've mentioned two words that I know will be key, because I think they're key to how we come to Christmas: expectation and wonder.

Jesus is expected.  Sure, but when?  How?  Despite the constant reminders of Advent that we be prepared precisely because we don't know when or how, we have expectations about that, don't we?  We also have expectations that need to be met about how this Christmas will look, what will happen, who's coming for dinner, what we're having, what gifts we might receive.  But the Christmas story is full of the unexpected.  Mary didn't expect what happened, Joseph sure didn't, the shepherds were surprised, Herod was nervous and you can bet the magi wondered what kind of king was the son of poor people.  The only constant in the story seems to be the words "don't be afraid."

And that's where the wonder comes in.  Don't be afraid of the unexpected in the Christmas story.  Wonder at how an angel might bring a message from God.  Wonder at how that message might be for those who, on the surface, seem the least deserving.  Wonder at how the creator of all things might choose to come to us as a weak, fragile, needy baby.  Wonder at how that was revealed to those wise enough to see.  Wonder at what this birth might mean to you.

And so it begins .... again

There's so much in the gospel reading for the second Sunday of Advent and I seem to keep coming back to the very first verse, the opening verse of the Gospel of Mark: "the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God."  Actually, I'm not even getting past the first two words.

"The beginning."

Mark then introduces us to John the Baptist who introduces us to Jesus - the very adult Jesus - who is the one for whom we must "prepare the way."  There's no birth of Jesus story, Mark cuts right to the chase: here's "the good news" (that's literally what "gospel" means, by the way), here's Jesus.

But three weeks before Christmas, shouldn't we be preparing for the birth story?  We're hearing this in Advent because Advent isn't a chronological season.  It's about preparing for the Jesus who has come, is coming now and will come again.  That's why we can hear about what will happen when Jesus returns (last weeks' gospel), how Jesus ministry is introduced by John, and how Jesus comes to us again this Christmas.  And how the angel Gabriel visits Mary … on the Sunday before Christmas.  It doesn't need to be in real time because it's part of a story whose meaning is timeless.

But back to "the beginning."  There's something else in that.  It's not just about being the beginning of a text that ends (rather abruptly) sixteen chapters later with a rather open-ended ending.  There's no "The End."  It's about the beginning of something that is still going, still growing, still preparing a highway for God (Mark 1:3).

It reminds me that we are constantly at the beginning, the beginning of something new.  This isn't the same Advent as before, or the same Christmas or the same December.  Sure, there may be things that feel or look similar, but they're not the same.  Every moment has the potential for a new beginning.

Now lets add the rest of the sentence: "the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ."  Let's add John's call to be ready, to make the pathway ready for Jesus to come, to repent and turn to follow that path with Jesus.  Every step becomes a new beginning.

It's always Advent

Every Advent, I remember a sign I used to see as a child.  We lived in the east end of Toronto and every time we went downtown, we'd pass over the Don River near the lakeshore and this sign would appear over the edge of the rail, proclaiming in bold red letters "Christ is coming!  Call Jim" and there was a phone number underneath.

It was actually on the roof of an evangelical church.  I never called the number myself, though I heard if you did, there was a recorded message about going to Jim's church.  Hearing that was a little disappointing: I just assumed that Jim knew when Jesus was coming.

The sign was there year round.  For years it was a landmark.  I hope Jim got lots of calls because he's right, Christ is coming.  And not just metaphorically because December 25th is, too.

The earliest followers of Jesus believed he would return, that they would "see ‘the Son of Man coming in clouds’ with great power and glory" (Mark 13:26).  All that cool apocalyptic stuff was going to happen when Jesus returned and his return was imminent.  As in "in my lifetime" kind of imminent.  After all, Jesus said he would come again.

But that's not what happened and many started to believe that maybe they hadn't clearly understood what he meant (how often does that happen?).  And they came to believe that "about that day or hour no one knows … beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come," as Mark's Jesus says (Mark 13:32), not just for your lifetime, but ever.

So Advent is a time of preparation and expectation for the commemoration of the first Christmas and the anticipation of the second coming.  Seems like Advent should be more than four weeks.  If Jesus may appear at anytime, we're really an Advent people all year.

Well, yes, I think we are.  The season of Advent is an opportune time to focus that sense of expectation with the celebration of Christmas.  Advent also begins the church year, so there's the added sense of new beginnings and new life.  But really the end of the world could come at anytime, right?

Whoa.  There's our little problem with this whole impending apocalypse, second coming thing.  Our focus always seems to be on the dark side of the apocalyptic part, the end of the world, the battle with evil, horsemen, scrolls, destruction and death, the end of all these things we live with that are so important to us.  It makes for great television and movies, no matter how wildly interpretive and inaccurate, it sells books and puts fear into people.  But I don't believe that Jesus was ever about the end of things, he was about beginning things.  New life.  New relationships.  Resurrection.  And no matter how hard anyone tries to suggest that there is any doubt about the outcome of the apocalypse stories, there isn't.

New worlds are born when others end.  The new world promised by Jesus is nothing less than the kingdom of God.

Perhaps another little problem is scale.  Our days are filled with moments in which God tries to break into our lives, moments when we might see Jesus standing with us or helping us up when we fall or leading us when we get lost.  Again from part of Mark's gospel called the "little apocalypse" (Mark 13), Jesus says “from the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near.  So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that he is near, at the very gates."  Are we seeing the right signs?  Or are we trying so hard to look for something grand and epic, a moment worthy of the 3D Imax screen, that we miss those little moments that are so important, those little moments of new life and new beginnings.  So small they might fit in a manger.

Perhaps we are an Advent people all year long.