Bringing Bones to Life

I'm tired.

Are you tired?

I'm tired.

Not like "I need a nap" tired or "I need a good night's sleep" tired, or even "I need a vacation" tired.  All those things would be great, but no, not that kind of tired.  I mean "spiritually" tired, I guess.  Uninspired, lacking enthusiasm and an overall "joie de vivre."  I think you probably know what I mean.  You might even be feeling it, too.

And that's not good.  Because it's Pentecost this week, the so-called "Birthday of the Church," the day that celebrates the Holy Spirit coming into the apostles and empowering them to preach and teach and spread the story of Jesus.

But I'm tired.  That's a little awkward.  I need to be able to deliver some inspiring words of wisdom, some spirited words of inspiration and enthusiasm.  That should be easy because it's a great story.  The disciples have spent some time with the resurrected Jesus and he's left them, but he left them with the promise of the Holy Spirit, advocate and comforter, that would come to them and empower them to carry on what he had taught and showed them.  And here it was, the feast of Pentecost, and there is a mighty wind and tongues of fire and they begin to prophesy in every language of those who could hear them so that all could understand.  Come, Holy Spirit, come!

But I'm not feeling it, to be honest.  I've got nothing new.  I've got some great Bible Study material, sure, but just can't find the inspiration.

To be honest, I don't really feel like those apostles who were anticipating the coming of the Holy Spirit.  Yes, Jesus died and that was scary, but Jesus is alive again, "as he said," and he also said that the Holy Spirit was coming.  You can sense the anticipation.  And here it is.  That's awesome.

But I'm feeling more like that story in Ezekiel about the valley of dry bones (Ezekiel 37:1-14).  Dry bones, just lying there in the sun.  Waiting, not anticipating anything.  Just lying there until Ezekiel brings the word of God to them.

Anyway, I could think of nothing to say.  So I went and mowed the lawn.

Yeah, that's right, on a Wednesday afternoon even.  (Of course, now I'm writing this in the middle of the night.)  And if you've read me before, you know that I don't garden - I have a black thumb - and I only mow the lawn or prune trees because I have to, and I'm not real happy about doing that.  But I have to do something.

Yes.  Yes I do.  I have to do something.

And that's just the flesh and sinew.  In the story from Ezekiel, the first prophesy of Ezekiel puts flesh and sinew on the bones, but the bodies are still not alive.  It's only with the prophecy of the breath of the four winds, the breath of God, that they become alive.

How often do we just act out or go through the motions of doing the right thing, saying that we are following Jesus because we are doing the things "church" says we should?  I doubt that organization or structure was on the agenda of the apostles the day after Pentecost.  I bet their "agenda" said three things: one, know that Jesus is in your heart; two, be like Jesus; three, show others how to be like Jesus.

That's the breath of God, the fire of God and the voice of God.

Don't get me wrong, I love the church.  I love the community, I love the sharing of heartfelt joy, questions about life and seeking wholeness.  I love the heart.  But, sometimes, maybe we could have less meetings. Maybe, instead, we could meet a neighbour for coffee, you know, that neighbour who'd had a little trouble recently or lost a family member.  Maybe you can't be in the building Sunday morning, but you can help plant the community garden Saturday morning.  Maybe you could bring that neighbour with you.  Maybe a service isn't for you, but you have questions about that thing Jesus said and you'd like to talk about it.  Maybe a pew's not for you, but you know that Jesus is.

This Pentecost, I hope our little community of faith never loses its heart.  Buildings and bodies are useful, even meaningful when used with heart, but the Spirit is more than bones, more than flesh, it's the breath of God that brings life.

An Act, not a label

In the Bible, the book of The Acts of the Apostles tells the story of the first days of the church.  It's the companion book to the Gospel of Luke and they're generally considered to have been authored by the same person (or persons), the gospel telling the story of Jesus, Acts, the story of the apostles.

Well, kind of.  It rather depends on how you define apostle.  Some people hear apostle and disciple as being interchangeable depending on what's happening rather than who's doing it.  The word "apostle" means a messenger or missionary, someone sent out.  "Disciple," on the other hand, means a student, a learner or follower of a teacher.  There's certainly plenty of both, and not just in the Bible.

But, for some people, there were only twelve apostles, the original ones chosen and commissioned by Jesus.  Or thirteen, depending on how you count.

The Book of Acts - lets just call it that for now, to focus on the action rather than the doers - begins with the transitional story of Jesus ascending to heaven.  Then, one might expect, the story of Pentecost is next, the coming of the Holy Spirit that Jesus promised.  But, according to Luke, something else has to happen first.

The disciples were gathered together.  And by disciples - that is, the followers of Jesus - Luke says there's the eleven chosen by Jesus (Judas was now dead) plus others, including women, numbering about 120.  Peter stands up and says that there needs to be a replacement for Judas.  He says that scripture had to be fulfilled in Judas, but he might just as easily have said that Jesus picked twelve, so there needs to be twelve, a full team.  They need a replacement.  Two names are proposed and they pick Matthias … who is never mentioned by name again.

We don't even know who Matthias was.  The only criteria Peter gave was that the person had to have been a disciple "from the baptism of John until the day when he was taken from us" and that they "become a witness with us to the resurrection" (Acts 1:22).  Then they pray for God to show them which of the two is chosen and it's Matthias.  The story moves on to the promised coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost.

By Peter's criteria, then, Paul - the one known as "apostle to the Gentiles" - would not be an apostle.  He wasn't there.  No one since would be an apostle, either.  But Matthias, even though he was there, apparently, still was not chosen by Jesus.  Judas was chosen by Jesus, but Judas seems to have made his own choice not to be a disciple.  Or an apostle.  Or so we think.  There's some thought now that Judas was the truest of disciples who did what no other follower could, or would, do.

But this is why I think Matthias is so special.  He's not a nobody, he's officially the first person who chose to accept the call to be an apostle who was not called by Jesus in person.  There have been so many more, those who chose to be disciples and became apostles as well.

That's why I think we have to go with the meaning of the word, not the exclusive club of those chosen personally (no offense, original eleven).  Because, like everyone, from the first called to the most recent chosen, we can be both disciple and apostle.  Jesus calls us to be both, to be learners and teachers, followers and leaders, each in our own way.  Sometimes we experience that as a personal call from Jesus, sometimes we recognize it in a request from a friend, a stranger's need or community's desire.

Mathias isn't a nobody.  He's you and me.

It's astounding!

I spent the day of the Alberta provincial election in Saskatchewan.  Don't worry, I voted in the advance poll.  As I was driving back the next day, I approached the border with some trepidation.  From all that I'd read on social media, I was expecting there to be a great chasm at the border and, beyond it, "a barren wasteland, riddled with fire and ash and dust.  The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume."  (That's Boromir's description of Mordor, from the Lord of the Rings, by the way.)

Of course, it wasn't.  In fact, the road got a little better and there was a little more traffic - not rushing out of the province, either, as I was expecting - and things were pretty much as they were the day before.  Yes, time will tell.  But shouldn't we give a little time?  So we can tell?  We're all people, after all, people who we hope are doing their best and, whoever we all voted for, maybe we should give these people a chance.

Lately, I've heard more than a few people worried, in a similar way, about the future of the church, the United Church, specifically, but I think this applies more generally, too.  There are some ideas being proposed that are pretty radical and different, some of which require us to put more trust in ordinary people, different people than before, people that might be different from us.

I think that ought to be cause for hope, for confidence in an exciting future full of possibility.  But I'm getting the impression that lots of people don't feel that way.

That's fair, I guess.  We hold fast to what we know, what's familiar, that we feel has been working for us.  But sometimes, the community as a whole might need to move in another direction.  The community as a whole, of course, means recognizing all the community, even - especially - the parts we find hardest to engage.  You know, people we think of us "them," whatever "them" might be.

That's not new.  The Book of Acts in the Bible records the story of the earliest days of the followers of Jesus becoming the early church.  It includes the story of Pentecost, the conversion of Paul, the spread of the Good News of Jesus and a dream.

The early church was not without challenges and an initial one was the need for all followers of Jesus to be Jews and adhere to the Jewish law.  In other words, you had to be one of us before you could be one of us.  But Peter had a dream.  In it, Peter saw all the animals of the earth and a voice told him he could eat any of them.  Peter said no because some were ritually unclean by Jewish law.  But the voice said "what God has made clean, you must not call profane."  Peter didn't understand at first, but some people appeared and asked him to come and talk to a man named Cornelius.  He wasn't Jewish, but he'd had a vision of an angel telling him to call Peter and hear what he has to say.  When Peter meets him and hears his story, he realizes the meaning of the dream: the message of Jesus is for all, Jews and Gentiles alike.  As he's telling them this, "the circumcised believers who had come with Peter were astounded that the gift of the Holy Spirit had been poured out even on the Gentiles" (Acts 10:45).  Peter knew that the love of Jesus was for all.  All.

Martin Luther King had a dream, that his children "will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character."  Ghandi dreamed of a world of peace.  Mandela dreamed of a world of love and respect.  

I have those dreams, too, and I bet many others do.  I also dream that one day we'll understand that unity and uniformity are not the same thing and that a world built on the uniquenesses of many is vastly more colourful, exciting and joyful than one of conformity and barren sameness.  And I dream that we won't be afraid of that or fear the change that comes with it or, most especially, that we won't fear those who bring the change.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that it's all going to be good or easy, nor that we should just let things go unchallenged when they need to be.  We should be part of it, engage it, learn from it and with it, and grow together.

God showed Peter that there are no barriers to the love of Jesus, there's no exclusivity and there's no favouritism.  The gift of the Spirit - the power of love - is for all.   Love shared, brings those dreams to life.  Love shared, brings us through change.  Love shared, brings us to each other.  Perhaps, one day, we'll stop being "astounded" when it happens and know it for what it should be, our daily life.

Already thinking of harvest

I love the image of the vine that Jesus shares in the Gospel of John (15:1-8).  Jesus says that he is the vine, God is the vine grower and we are the branches.   It's multilayered and not without it's challenges, but to me, that just reminds me of how vines work: long stems, busy tendrils, clingy roots, dense leaves.  It speaks to a relationship, a connectedness that is deeply rooted, nurturing and mutually beneficial.  Health and wholeness in this image is a dense, complicated, bushy plant.

At least, that's how I imagine it.  I'm not much of a gardner (not at all, even - I have a "black thumb") and I wouldn't really know what to do with a vine.  I know that when I prune the lilac bushes and fruit trees around our house, my wife usually reacts with horror and disappointment that I "killed" them.  To be fair, it sure looks like it, too, but they seem to survive and occasionally thrive.  Probably luck, though, because I don't really know what I'm doing.

Good thing it's God that's the vine grower.

I wonder if "pruning" isn't in those moments when we are challenged by life and, with God's loving presence, Jesus' living example and the Spirit's inspiration, we learn to grow and live past the challenge.  God knows us and God's love and grace is for us, helping us to know where to cut or graft, tie up, let go or reshape.  Remembering that God is the life gardener might also help us to better understand that our role, as branches, is about relationship with others, not judgement of others.  You and I don't get to "prune" others off the vine: we get to grow with them, because the vine is the living example of the love which is at the heart of our own living.

Good thing it's Jesus that's the vine.

The message of Jesus is about love and grace.  And we can talk, teach, sing and preach about it as much as we want, but Jesus' message is "do."  Health and wholeness comes with doing the life of Jesus, not talking about it or telling others how they should do it.  Doing Jesus means being vulnerable in offering love and receiving love, remembering that God is with us when it's time to prune, just as much as in the sun and rain, the warm weather and gentle breezes.

See, it's a great image to explore the relational nature of our existence, our connectedness in community, our complex, intimate living together in creation.

And we so often stop right there.  It's just about the relationship or the system or the structure.  But it's not, it's about fruit.

The fruit is the gift of the vine beyond itself, the thing it offers to the world.  The individual benefits to the branches and the vine, the things we gain by being in relationship with each other and Jesus, these are part of the nurture of the vine.  The fruit doesn't feed the vine, the fruit feeds the world of which the vine is a part.

All communities of faith should see in this image that the goal of the very community they build is beyond itself: it's to be fruitful in ways that feed all.  Perhaps the first two questions we ask ourselves should be "where is the journey taking us today" and "how can we be fruitful as we travel that journey?"

Of course, we are planted in a vineyard and there are many vines.  Communities built on positive, nurturing relationships bear fruit.  Communities of all shapes and sizes, families, friends, lovers, communities of people, communities of faith, aren't they all vines that could bear fruit to feed others?

So what fruit is your vine offering the world?

Life Giving Life

May I talk about manure for a moment?

No, I don't mean that metaphorically.  Not just yet.  I mean the actual thing.  I didn't grow up on a farm and, as a gardner, I'm useless (I have a black thumb), but even I know it's amazing stuff.  In the beginning, it's organic feed for animals, providing them with essential nutrients - fuel - for living.  That goes on a miraculous journey through the animal, digested and excreted as waste.  But it's not wasted.  It provides essential nutrients to the ground - fuel, even - to help grow more of that very foliage that fed the animal that produced the manure that fed the soil that … you see what I mean.  Amazing stuff.  Life-giving even.

I wouldn't want to have to stand around in it, though.  And, with all due respect to farmers and gardeners, I wouldn't want it's delicate aroma wafting over my breakfast cereal every day.

Maybe that's why farmers and gardeners are so close to the Creator.  They don't just understand manure, they're okay being knee-deep in it.  They know it's necessary.

It might seem like an odd segue, but can I talk about Easter for a moment now?

When we talk about Easter in church this week, we'll be celebrating the resurrection.  The tomb, a place for the dead, is empty and Jesus, who was dead, is alive.  And we'll sing cheerful hymns and songs about the new life Jesus brings, and we'll have bright flowers, easter eggs, bunnies and butterflies, all the beautiful things that help make our Easter so special.  And clean.

Even the cross, a tool of oppression, cruelty and death, becomes a symbol of love and life.  But not until after a journey has been travelled.  And will be travelled again and again.

The Good News that feeds us, the life and love of Jesus that nourishes and nurtures us leads us to the very story of Holy Week.  A story full of the things that make life challenging: celebration, conflict, hurt, friendship, betrayal, power, oppression, cruelty, death, silence.  And a new dawn.  A new day full of the possibility of life and love.

That's not clean.  But it is life-giving.  And we do have to stand knee-deep in it.  

It's up to you to choose where you stand.  The life Jesus teaches, the Way for which Jesus gave his own life, is alive each new day.  Every morning is an Easter morning, full of hope and the potential for life, for joy and love and grace.  It isn't always clean and it doesn't always smell like lilies, but it's life-giving and affirming and engaging.

Which one will you step in today?

More than just the facts

Have you ever been to Zambia?

I haven't.  But I know where it is.  It's in Africa.

Zambia's centrally located, a land-locked country towards the southern tip.  Its capital is Lusaka and most of it's population is urban, centred around the capital and the province called Copperbelt.  It's called that because of the copper which has historically been Zambia's chief export.  There's other mining as well, but agriculture employs more.  And there's tourism, with the Zambesi River and the famous Victoria Falls.  The official language of government is english, but there are at least 72 different ethnic groups, most of which speak Bantu.

Unfortunately, about 68% of Zambians live below the nationally recognized poverty line and inflation is still quite high.  There are some social programmes, but very few are able to get out of poverty.  Public health spending is among the lowest in Africa and, despite a recent decline, Zambia faces an HIV/aids epidemic.  The average life expectancy is 51 years.

Well, that's enough.  You can read the rest on Wikipedia or BBC News or Lonely Planet.  Or the CIA website in their World Fact Book.  Yes, they have a website.

But knowing all that stuff doesn't make any connections with the country or the people there, does it?  Our church recently decided to raise some money to send a member of our congregation to Zambia as part of a Habitat for Humanity team.  They'll be building a house for a family that takes in orphans, many who've lost parents to the HIV epidemic.  It's good, important work that supports people in need.

It also provides us with an opportunity to connect, even through just one person, to get to know about people and life there.  That doesn't only inform us with facts, but makes it more personal, more about experience and interaction.  We can't all go, perhaps, but even one person sharing what they experienced brings us to a more personal understanding.

Writing to the people of Corinth, Paul says that he has "been all things to all people, so that I might by all means save some" (1 Corinthians 9:22).  It surprises me, sometimes, that many people - and many churches - still try to understand Paul literally.  We should surely know by now that we can't be all things to all people.  And trying to do so simply results in a lot of disappointment for a lot of people.  But I don't think that's really what Paul means.

I think he means that we need to be ourselves, but to meet others where they are and respect where they are.  Seek to understand their perspective, where they're coming from, what their traditions are, what their "language" is.  That allows us to offer what we can, but also receive what others offer.  That builds relationships that are whole, healthy and respectful.  That creates a place where thoughts and ideas and even beliefs can be shared.

Given the manner in which we often impose ourselves on others or expect them to "speak our language," it may seem a novel idea, but it's not new to Paul.  Jesus met people where they were, especially the sick, the poor, and the outcast.

Even from the beginning of his ministry, the gospel of Mark says, people flocked to Jesus.  When Jesus was there, "the whole city was gathered around the door" and "everyone is searching for" him (Mark 1:33, 37).  But it wasn't because they were looking for a name, a figure or a brand, they were looking for the guy who healed people, who made them whole.  They were looking for the one who taught about love and showed love to all, no matter who they were.  They were looking for the one who took the time and offered the grace that it was enough to be who we are.

We're just human beings.  So was Paul, and there's certainly lots of evidence to suggest he wasn't always that good at being "all things to all people."  But Jesus calls us to try, to reach out with respect and engage people where they are.

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.