A Law of Love and Compassion

Of course it’s more complicated than it appears.

Like everyone else, I’ve been reading the stories of what’s happening with our neighbours to the south. I know, there’s so much, I should be more specific. Just this moment, I’m thinking of families crossing into the US illegally being separated at the border, banning immigrants from certain countries, scaling back welfare programs and cutting health care for the poor. And now, playing hard ball with friends and allies while engaging those who, for good reason, haven’t been.

Wait, don’t stop reading - this isn’t about politics. Well, it is, in a way, I suppose, but give me a minute, please, while I wade into some murky waters.

Sorry that list so quickly became more general than specific. And those things are happening in more places than the US, they just make the most media headlines. Here, too, these issues come again and again because safety and security, financial stability, comfort and standard of living are important to the well-being of any community, local, national or global. And these issues are complicated, diverse and interconnected. Even when we seem to do well at balancing things, no system is fool proof. Good thing we have politicians and lawyers to sort things out for us. 

Perhaps fool proof is a bad choice of words.

Maybe that’s an unkind thing to say, but I mean it in the truest sense of being unwise. Sometimes I wonder whether it’s foolishness or it’s calculated and I’d rather hope for foolishness.

See, my real concern is the use of God and The Bible to justify actions of the government and the apparent willingness of some religious institutions to not only back those actions, but to suggest that certain governments and politicians may be “ordained by God.” They’re entitled to their opinion, of course, and I have one, too.

Recently, for example, the US Attorney General cited a verse from Paul’s Letter to the Romans to support the manner in which illegal immigrants to the US were being treated. The single verse he cited calls for everyone to obey the law and the government because they are established by God. Fair enough, but it doesn’t take wise theologians or even a late night talk show host who taught Sunday school to see the flaw in quoting one verse out of context. A few verses later, Paul also writes that all the laws “are summed up in this one command: ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.’ Love does no harm to a neighbour. Therefore love is the fulfillment of the law.” (Romans 13: 10)

There’s a pile more wrong with that particular incident and wiser people than I have already had there say. What I’d like to say about it is that it’s a piece of a larger and more widespread problem: an absence of love and compassion.

There’s a beautiful story within a story in Mark when Jesus meets a crowd of people, just as he steps out of a boat. In that crowd is a man, Jairus, a leader of the synagogue. He would have been of high standing in the community, perhaps even wealthy, certainly educated and respected. His daughter is ill, so he asks Jesus to come heal her. Jesus heads there right away, but, on the way, being something of a celebrity now, Jesus is surrounded by a crowd of people. In that crowd is a woman who has been ill for many years. Her illness cost her all she had financially, spent on doctors, and her standing in the community, because she would be considered “unclean” and an outcast. She believes that if she could just touch Jesus she would be healed. She does and she is, but Jesus notices. In all that crowd, he notices what she has “taken” from him. So he stops and demands to know who did that. She fearfully confesses and he tells her “your faith has healed you.”

In the meantime, someone has come from Jairus’ house to say that his daughter has died. Jairus gives up, but Jesus tells him “don’t be afraid. Believe.” Jesus goes to the house and tells the daughter to get up. She does and is restored to health and her family. Jesus even calls for someone to bring her food.

There’s so much in those intertwined stories, but overarching them both is Jesus’ love and compassion. The easily ignored woman - no one saw her in the crowd - poor, outcast and forgotten, is worthy of the same compassion as the daughter of a community leader. Both come in desperation, even fear, and they are each, equally, answered with healing.

Imagine how differently we’d be hearing the stories we’re currently hearing if they all began with love as the fulfillment of the law. Imagine if compassion, grace and respect were offered, rather than fear and force. Imagine if our attitude didn’t instil fear, but offered hope.

Then, maybe, we could say that we are truly followers of Jesus.

To get to the other side

As miracles go, the story of Jesus calming a storm while in a boat with the disciples is definitely a chart topper. It’s an epic demonstration of the power of Jesus, not just to heal people or to cast out demons, but over nature itself. “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” (Mark 4:41)

That’s what the disciples are thinking after all this happens. And you can’t blame them. It had been a long day to begin with and then Jesus wants to cross the lake at night. In the dark. Well, okay, they’re seasoned fishermen, they can do that. But “a great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped.” (Mark 4:37) The guys used to the water are afraid, but not Jesus. He’s napping in the back. They wake him up and he stops the storm - just like that. He asks them why they’re afraid and questions their faith. By now, they’re probably more afraid of Jesus than the storm.

And why wouldn’t they be? That’s a thing with miracles: even when it benefits us, like saving our life, the fact that it can’t be explained is a little scary. And when the miracle is in the hands of a single person who suddenly exhibits inhuman power and ability, well, that’s pretty scary, too. Our gratitude is tinged with a little fear.

I wonder if those contrasting fears is a learning from this story. The disciples are afraid of the storm, justifiably so because they know what the storm can do. “We are perishing,” they say to Jesus (Mark 4:38), and I think they’re expecting to die. This is the right moment for Jesus to say “don’t be afraid.”

But then he does this thing that they never could have imagined possible. He stops the storm. That’s not just a “how’d he do that” magician’s trick. It’s the kind of moment that should make the hair stand up on the back of your neck. It’s the kind of fear that you feel in the pit of your stomach. It’s the fear of the unknown.

It doesn’t say that Jesus makes any further response to the disciples in the story, but I bet if he did, it wasn’t “don’t be afraid.” This time it would be “embrace your fear.” Engage the wonder, amazement and awe. There’s an energy in that, so let that drive you to the next shore.

That’s what it does for the disciples in this story. Nobody bales on Jesus soon as they get out of the boats. They’ve got a story to tell, for sure, but it’s a story of Jesus calming their fear of the storm and inspiring their fear of the unknown.

Here’s what I mean. Why did Jesus and the disciples get in the boat in the first place? To get to the other side. And just like the chicken, I don’t think the disciples knew what was on the other side of the lake. Maybe Jesus didn’t know either. It was just another stop on the journey. And the Sea of Galilee isn’t that wide, so it’s not that far and they crossed at night. It’s almost as if it were setup for something to happen.

And it does. It always does, because life is full of crossing the lake moments. Life is lived forward, it has to be in order to be “alive.” When you feel afraid of what you know, Jesus says “don’t be afraid, I’m here with you,whatever happens we’ll do it together.” When you feel afraid of the unknown, Jesus says “embrace it, engage it and find your way, I’m here with you, whatever happens we’ll do it together.” And, for Jesus, “together” is always more than you think. It’s more than the presence of Jesus in you, it’s the presence of Jesus in all of us with you. 

What's your story?

There was a story recently that prosperity gospel televangelist Jesse Duplantis was asking his followers to contribute towards a new personal jet for his ministry. $54 million US is all it would cost for him to add this fourth plane to his fleet. He told his followers that he needed it to get closer to Jesus and spread the gospel. Jesus himself, he said, had told him so. According to CNN, he also said that “all it's gonna do is it's going to touch people, it's going to reach people, it's going to change lives one soul at a time … I really believe that if Jesus was physically on the earth today, he wouldn't be riding a donkey.”

In a followup story a week later, Duplantis seemed to be backing away from the request for financial support, saying instead that he asked people to “believe for it.”

Okay. Well, I’m not really interested in debating the prosperity gospel here or questioning the sincerity of his ministry. He claims his “ministry reaches 2 billion people worldwide” (CNN again) and that’s a few more than me and, hey, he’s already got those three other planes, a $3 million house and $40 million net worth. That’s a lot of prosperity to back up his preaching. I have enough trouble keeping my 12 year old car on the road - I hope that’s not a sign of the success of my ministry.

I would like to pick up on something he said about the plane, though. It sounds to me like he believes that the new plane means he can reach more people and, though he says “one soul at a time,” I have a feeling he means in the context of very large meetings of thousands of people. And if Jesus were here today, that’s how Jesus would do it, too.

I don’t know that I agree with that. I don’t mean the first part. I’m sure that Jesse thinks he’ll reach more people, no doubt about that, it’s just that I don’t see how he’ll be doing that “one soul at a time” flying into big meetings, events, conferences and conventions. Or through his media empire, either, and you don’t need a plane for that.

No, I don’t think Jesus would ride a donkey, but I also don’t think reaching as many people as possible was what Jesus was about. I truly believe gathering as a faith community is important - however and whenever one does that - and that we should communicate with any and all kinds of media that are available - whichever might connect with people. But I think we get caught up in numbers: the point isn’t the many, it’s the one. And then the next one and the next one.

Jesus didn’t seek out crowds. They sought him. Jesus sought individuals or maybe two or three people over a meal. I think Jesus was more interested in how many people experienced him than heard his words. Jesus wanted to meet people, one on one, and connect with them. I think he wants to know us as much as we know him.

That’s why I think the gospels are basically a highlight reel. None of them had room for all the details, but there are hints of more. So here’s how I picture Jesus’ ministry. First of all, I think Jesus sought out the broken, the hurting, the marginalized and the forgotten. And it was never a question of bring me more or filling a room.  I think Jesus had a gift for making an individual feel like they were the whole world to him, that’s part of what healed them. I hear Jesus beginning with “what’s your story?” and listening to what they had to say before doing anything else with them. Knowing them, meeting them where they were most vulnerable and honouring their story was the beginning of their healing.

And when Jesus had to move on, that wasn’t the end for anyone. They had a new life and a new story to share. And they did. And soon crowds were following Jesus. More importantly, a single person’s story, shared with many, was helping to spread Jesus’ message of love, grace and caring, of turning back to God and living a life that was good and whole. That message was deeper and more personal than just words and it wasn’t spread by Jesus addressing vast crowds, it all began with Jesus and one person who knew his love.

The parable of the mustard seed is a classic among Jesus’ stories (Mark 4:30-32). The kingdom of God is like a tiny little seed that grows into “the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.” A pretty obvious metaphor for great things can come from the smallest gesture or moment or act of kindness or even a single person. Great, except how it grows into its greatness is just as important.

Jesus didn’t use an oak for his metaphor, or even a Lebanon cedar. No mighty trees, but rather a lowly mustard. Mustard is a weed. It’s invasive, it creeps in, it takes over, it’s hard to get rid of no matter how hard you try. All it takes is one seed and, before you know it, it’s taken over your field. That’s definitely how the kingdom of God grows.

But mustard being a “weed” depends on your perspective. Even in Jesus’ day it was also a useful crop, producing spice, greens, oil and pigment. With the right care and nurture, it can produce abundantly. That’s the kingdom, too.

Either way, it all begins with one.

Are you out of your mind?

I suppose that I’m stating the obvious here, but I think Jesus taught in two important ways.

One is that he preached. And by that, I mean that he proclaimed a message of love, grace and care for others which he backed up with action. It’s easy to say that preaching is just talk, but the real thing is what Jesus did: he lived what he proclaimed. We don’t just learn from his words, but his living.

The other is that he told stories. Mostly parables, but I’m sure he just told some good old stories. Nothing makes a point like a story. After all, we live in story, right? When we describe what happened to someone else or even recall it for ourselves, it’s a story we’re telling, our version of things. It’s no wonder Jesus liked to use stories, so that people could relate to his point. That, unfortunately, is also where it gets tricky because stories tend to become our version of things and we can easily interpret what we see and hear differently.

By the way, if someone is teaching you a story of Jesus that leaves you feeling judged, found wanting and fearful, then I think you need another teacher. The stories told by Jesus, like the story of Jesus, were meant to help us live better lives, not make us feel like we failed.

Of course, though I feel pretty confident in saying that, it’s my interpretation, isn’t it? We all hear the message our own way. So you can understand why people in positions of authority might find Jesus to be a problem and why they, and others, might think Jesus is out of his mind.

I use that expression deliberately because that’s the scene early on in the gospel of Mark. Jesus has been busy, so busy that he decides he needs help and appoints the twelve apostles. He’s been performing miracles, healing people and casting out demons, and preaching his message of love. And he’s been attracting a lot of attention. The crowds are overwhelming, some think he’s gone “out of his mind,” (Mark 3:21), his family shows up to get him out of there, the authorities show up and Jesus just keeps on going - it’s just a really busy, if not chaotic, scene.

In the midst of it, Jesus makes some pretty startling pronouncements. The authorities accuse him of acting for the devil, so he debunks that and, in doing so, uses a short, simple parable for what he’s all about. He says “no one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man; then indeed the house can be plundered.” A somewhat obtuse metaphor to us, I guess, but essentially he means that he is the one who comes to the world (the house) to “tie up” evil (the strong man) and change the world. In a recent Working Preacher blog post, theologian Matt Skinner describes the whole of the gospel of Mark as “a story about the reign of God coming to displace another reign, and that other one will not relinquish its power without a fight.” That sounds pretty subversive and alarming.

Jesus goes on to say that there is a sin that cannot be forgiven, a sin against the Holy Spirit. But I wonder if the sin here, the “blasphemy” (Mark 3:29), isn’t simply the rejection of what the Spirit offers. There’s no possibility of knowing forgiveness if you don’t accept that it’s been given. The language is harsh, but realistic: how will you ever know forgiveness if you don’t accept the grace that gives it? Again, pretty subversive and alarming talk. But it gets worse.

Jesus dismisses his blood relations and claims his family to be something different, something bigger, something not defined by the rigid structures of a hierarchical Hebrew society. It’s those who “do the will of God” (Mark 3:35). You can imagine how outrageous that would have sounded in that day. It still does today, even with a more global worldview, even with a better understanding of different societal structures, even with a better appreciation of how dysfunctional families can be, even then, it sounds, well, crazy. He must be out of his mind.

But look, right from the beginning, Jesus was clear that things were going to change, needed to change and wanted to change. Nowhere did Jesus say it would be easy and comfortable. If our relationships are built on structures that perpetuate brokenness, exert power over others, exclude and subjugate them, then those relationships need to change. That’s not crazy talk. That’s love in action. That’s empowering and life giving.

Making a life-giving sabbath

There’s no doubt in my mind that everyone needs a sabbath. There’s no doubt in my heart that’s the reason it’s one of the Ten Commandments. Like the rest of them, it wouldn’t be there if it weren’t an important part of life. To me, that’s why it’s important: it’s life-giving.

That’s the nature of the day of rest part of sabbath. Everyone needs a rest. Not just a break from working or a day off, but a time that refreshes, restores, re-energizes and inspires us to engage life. There’s a lot of ways to do that, including doing “nothing.” Except, of course, that we’re not doing “nothing” - any form of relaxing that’s restorative, including sleep, is doing something. If it weren’t, we wouldn’t be, well, alive.

So there’s an important criteria for being sabbath: it’s rest. And that’s not just for us, it’s for how we engage the world. It’s like that moment on the plane when they do the pre-flight instructions: should the oxygen masks deploy in the event of depressurization, put your own on first before helping others.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve been on a plane, they’re still going to remind you. We need to be reminded. We need to be told. The Hebrews did, too, that’s why it’s a commandment. And that’s where context becomes another part of the nature of sabbath.

When Moses received the Ten Commandments, the sabbath command says that “in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but rested the seventh day” (Ex. 20:11). So the sabbath is the seventh day. That seems pretty clear to me. And it is for Jews and some christian traditions.

But for many others, Sunday, the first day of the week, supplanted Saturday as the day of rest. Especially after Constantine - he was the Roman emperor who made christianity the religion of the state - declared Sunday to be the day of rest in 321. But even before that, the earliest followers of Jesus (who were good Jews, just like Jesus) would go to synagogue on Saturday and celebrate there own gathering the next day on the first day of the week, the day of resurrection. There are other factors and it’s way more complicated than there’s room to discuss here, but the point is that Sunday became sabbath for lots of people.

So, with the day of rest, the criteria for sabbath also has the meaning of when the community gathered to worship God and share in the community’s rituals.

The Commandments don’t just appear in Exodus, though, when they’re received by the newly freed people who have just begun their desert wanderings. They’re restated in Deuteronomy to the new generation of people about to enter “the promised land.” That second time, the sabbath command isn’t framed with the creation story, it’s framed with the Exodus one. In other words, sabbath is the day to remember that God brought not just creation, but the freedom to live in it.

All of this brings me to the very essence of sabbath. Even in the words of the commandment, it comes before all the practical instruction: “remember the sabbath and keep it holy.” Keep it holy. That speaks to me of a connectedness with God, of a time set apart to reflect, pray and engage the sacredness that is in all things.

That’s the most important part. Holiness isn’t something set apart from you, it’s in the connectedness of you with God. What makes a place, a thing or a person holy isn’t just the presence of God, it’s us experiencing it, being in tune with it and knowing that we are a part of it. It’s that feeling of “oneness” with all things that can come in gathering as a community to worship, in personal prayer or meditation, a moment of true peace and quiet, in a church, in the woods, in a valley or on a mountain top, on a trail, in a comfortable chair or on a bike, a hike or a swim or just take a breath - it’s the moment that we are holy and whole, a time of completeness that renews our energy and our life. We find it in many ways and there should be no shortage of sabbath moments.

When Jesus was challenged by the religious authorities that he and his disciples did not properly observe the sabbath to the letter of the law, he reminds them that the sabbath was made for the people, not people for the sabbath (Mark 2:27). And yet, we make the sabbath by making those moments when rest and ritual are freely wound together to make a holy time with God. Are you making time for that?

Stumbling towards the light

The story of Nicodemus might be familiar to you. Or it might not. More often than not, the character himself isn’t the most important part of his own story. I think we might all feel like that sometimes, so maybe that’s one of the ways we can all identify with him.

Nicodemus appears three times in the gospel of John and only in John. Since he isn’t in any of the more narrative gospels that have similar sources, some people have speculated that Nicodemus is a fictional character created to facilitate the writer’s point. Or that he’s a composite character that represents those who are drawn to Jesus’ message but find it hard to let go of the old ways. Perhaps that also ought to be a way we can identify with him.

Nicodemus is described as a pharisee, a leader in the Jewish community. He comes to talk with Jesus (John 3:1-17), he later reminds the Sanhedrin (the assembly of Jewish leaders) that their law requires someone have a chance to speak before they are judged (John 7:50) and he assists Joseph of Arimathea with Jesus’ burial (John 19:39-42).

That conversation with Jesus gives us some of the most familiar words of the gospels: that we must be “born again” and that “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life.” There’s a lot more there and we’ve mined it for its truth as best we can, but we often fixate on those two pieces. And that’s too bad. They’re great, they are, and need to be studied and thought about and understood and wondered about. But they can also be taken out of their context and when we do that, they can take on a life of their own. Before you know it we think we have all the answers.

I don’t. And I’m not doing an in depth study of the content of this story here, nor am I focusing on a particular piece. That’s important and necessary and we do so regularly. Today, I just want to wonder about why the story might be told this way in the first place.

I do like to identify with Nicodemus. I’ve given a couple of reasons above why we all might be able to and I like to wonder about Nicodemus a little less literally and a little more metaphorically.

Here’s Nicodemus, a pharisee, a leader of the community, a teacher. So he’s an intelligent person. He comes to Jesus at night, the story says. He acknowledges that Jesus must be from God because of all the things he’s done. Jesus tries to explain to him about the spirit and Nicodemus doesn’t seem to understand, something Jesus wonders at. And then Jesus keeps talking and there’s no further mention of Nicodemus. At all. It’s almost as if the sole reason for Nicodemus being in the story was for Jesus to say some important things.

And that would be okay. But what if we thought for a minute about how we’re like Nicodemus, how we hear important stuff and how we understand. And don’t. Hear me out, because it’s not a bad thing to still be wondering.

Nicodemus may have come to Jesus at night because he didn’t want to be seen. Sure. He might have worried what the other Pharisees would think, or even the general public. They might wonder if he’s sympathetic to someone who’s been challenging the status quo. It could also be that he was busy all day and after sundown was the time he was available. It doesn’t say. It could also be a metaphor: Nicodemus is in the dark when it comes to what Jesus is teaching. He’s seeking enlightenment. That metaphor makes sense in the context of the story because, at the end, Jesus talks about how the light has come to the world (in himself) and those who do what is true will come to the light.

And I like that. I’ve often thought that the story should have wrapped up with them talking all night and Nicodemus leaving in the bright light of day. Comes in the dark, leaves in the light, right?

But it doesn’t. Maybe Nicodemus didn’t stay long, he got frustrated and moved on. Maybe he left just as the first light of dawn was brightening the sky. The beauty of the sunrise might grab his attention, but it’s not really illuminating the path very well just yet. The story doesn’t say and we, if we’re even still thinking about Nicodemus, we’re left to wonder. Just like him.

And that’s just it: I think he went away with wonder. Maybe that’s why he reappears a couple more times. Maybe Nicodemus’ perspective here isn’t about getting full and complete answers. Maybe it’s about engagement and building a relationship with Jesus. Maybe Nicodemus isn’t a detail guy, maybe he’s more interested in the big picture, maybe a long term relationship. Maybe he’s still just stumbling around in the dark, but trying to do what is true and he’s coming to the light. 

It's complicated. And powerful.

Think for a minute about all the ways in which we use the word spirit. I’m going to talk about the Holy Spirit in a minute, but the same language might apply to its other uses.

When someone is spirited, in high spirits or full of spirit, we mean they’re energetic, enthusiastic. Sometimes we say they’re on fire or they move like the wind. When we describe spirits in the supernatural sense, we mean something that’s ethereal or ghostly, something that’s there, but we can’t quite grasp it. We call certain kinds of alcohol spirits because of the manner in which they’re distilled - the vapour collected in the process is a “spirit” of the original material. And then there’s how we seem to use spirit and soul interchangeably. We shouldn’t, I guess - that has to do with how we’re attached to our soul, but our spirit is the energy and force that moves us. It’s complicated. It’s all complicated.

What’s true of all those things, though, is that spirit is not something you can hold in your hand. Ok, other than if it’s over ice in a glass. But you get my point: the spirit is something we can’t really see or touch, but we describe it’s energy and it’s power with elemental imagery. And that’s what I want to focus on for just a minute because this week, for many churches, includes Pentecost, the event we refer to as the birth of the church.

The story (Acts 2:1-21) begins fifty days after Easter (that’s what Pentecost means, “fifty”). The apostles are together and suddenly there’s a mighty wind and there’s tongues of flame above each of them and they start speaking in a variety of languages. People hear them and come to see and what they hear is the apostles speaking about God and Jesus in their - as Eugene Peterson puts it in The Message - “mother tongue.” Famously, some think they’re drunk, but Peter explains that it’s the Spirit of God at work, revealing the Good News of Jesus.

From this moment, the story of Jesus spreads quickly and communities of followers are established in many places. This is why many people refer to Pentecost as the birthday of the church.

How is the spirit described? Wind and fire, elements of energy, power and motion. These elements have signalled God’s active presence before, even from the very beginning when “the Spirit of God hovered over the waters” (Gen. 1:2), the burning bush, the fiery cloud that signalled God’s presence on Sinai, the breath of God (“ruach” in hebrew scripture) that blew through the valley of dry bones and many other places, the dove alighting on Jesus at baptism, Jesus breathing on the disciples the spirit of peace - the list is long. And that’s not including the fiery passion of the prophets or the breath of life.

Water is another element that we associate with the spirit. It’s the essence of life, used for both purification and healing, also present in creation from the beginning. It, too, has power in motion and energy as it flows. Even in stillness, it has the power to give life.

So the Spirit is described in elemental terms with air, fire and water. But it’s also in the earth because it’s in us. We are, according to Genesis, made from the earth - that’s what “adam” means. But we are also filled with the breath of life, the water of creation and the fire of inspiration. That’s the power of the Spirit represented in this story.

And what did that power give the apostles? It gave them the ability to speak in the “mother tongue” of those around them. In other words, they were able to connect with them, to share with them a story that would reach as deeply into their hearts as it did the disciples’. It gave them the understanding that, in order to truly reach others, to share with them this amazing life-giving story, they couldn’t rely on what had meaning to themselves only. They needed to communicate with what was familiar to the one hearing the message, so familiar that it had the intimacy and depth of their own language, the language of their home. That’s how others would feel they believed in, and belonged with, the Good News.

Isn’t that really the basis of a faith community - a church - that we belong. Not just to the community, but to the story as well. Is that how we’re telling it?