"Astounded at his teaching"

Who says so?

I’m sure you’ve heard that before.  Remember on the playground, maybe, when you were a child?  It’s usually followed by “gonna make me?”

Authority exercised by might: the power of physical force to make something go the way you say it should.  Except it’s not from the play ground, is it?  It’s everywhere.  Every news cycle is full of it. Look at North Korea and the US.  Or North Korea and anybody, really.  (Although there’s that whole Olympics deal with South Korea now, so maybe there’s hope.)  Or, to be fair, the US and anybody.  In fact, there seems to be more than a few nations who operate on the “who’s gonna make me” principle.  Most militaries are on alert and they just moved the Doomsday Clock up to two minutes to midnight.  Thank you, authority exercised by might.

Who says so?

Society says so.  We elect, appoint or otherwise engage people in leadership positions and give them a title.  With that title goes authority.  Sometimes we even put that in the name - The Port Authority, for example - or it’s what we call those who enforce the rules we, as a society, set down, “the authorities.”  We always try to elect, appoint or approve the best people whom we have fully researched and confirmed.  We call this “being qualified” to be in a position of authority.

Wait.  That’s a little too optimistic. We should.  But lately, many people seem to think completely unqualified is okay.  Or maybe they just have a different idea of what “qualified” means.  Let’s not go down that rabbit hole, I think you get the point about society giving authority by a title or position. 

Who say so?

Expertise says so.  Years of education, research and experience.  That’s what “qualifies” us to be in those positions of leadership.  Of course, we are who we are, as a person, and all that expertise doesn’t make us be thoughtful or unselfish in how we wield it.

Who says so?

According to the Gospel of Mark, “who says so?” was not the first thing that people in the synagogue thought when they heard Jesus speak to them.  “...And when the sabbath came, he entered the synagogue and taught.  They were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes” (Mark 1:21-22).  There’s no indication that these people knew Jesus, he didn’t seem to have any education, he had no title and he certainly had no army.  And he didn’t teach like the “scribes,” temple officials who were the keepers and interpreters of the law.  So what was this authority that so astounded the people?

It would be easy to answer “who says so?” with, simply, Jesus.  But I believe Jesus showed them something we can share with each other, too: the sincerity of Jesus teaching.  Jesus taught a love that was genuine in its justice, compassion and care.  It was without hypocrisy or pretense.  It was true.  And, just as important as the truth of his teaching, was the sincerity with which he lived it.

According to Mark, the very next thing Jesus does - action follows his words - is to heal a man possessed by a demon spirit.  He teaches what may make us whole, and then helps someone to become whole.

Who says so?  The one who, like Jesus, lives the sincerity of what they teach.

Maybe it's time for a change

When it comes to bible stories, I’m sometimes torn between wonder and explanation. That sounds like a loaded statement, but it’s not a bad thing, I don’t think.

The thing is, I think the stories in the bible have an essential truth at the heart of them. That’s why the bible is still relevant - yes it is - and as long as reaching that essential truth is our goal, the manner in which we reach it might be through wonder or explanation. Hmm. Maybe I’m not torn so much as I just waffle between them. I need both.

Miracle stories are a great example. I think that different facets of what’s true can be revealed through wonder at the seemingly unnatural as well as through a reasoned interpretation that puts understanding in our hands as well as our hearts.  Spirit and body, creative and practical, inspiration and action, we need them both.

But the story that’s got me thinking about this isn’t one that we’d necessarily think of as a “miracle.” I think it’s a miracle, in it’s own way, but when Jesus calls his first disciples, we tend to just think of it as an example to follow (no pun intended) just as it is.  Jesus calls us and we will follow.

I’m speaking of the story in Mark, Matthew and Luke, of course. In John, as we talked about last week, the story’s a little different. There, the first disciples of Jesus were followers of John the Baptist. He tells them to check out Jesus because that’s the guy he’s been saying is coming, they do, Jesus says “come and see,” they do and decide to follow him.

The other three gospels tell the familiar story of Jesus walking by the sea. He sees the fishermen and calls to Simon, Andrew, James and John and says “follow me and I will make you fish for people.” They drop everything and go. They don’t hesitate, they drop everything and go because Jesus calls them.

You can see why the church has always liked this story. It’s simple and straight forward and reflects the power of Jesus.

Maybe. And there’s a variety of ways that you could address that. One might think that there would have been many fishermen by the lake and Jesus picked these ones. Did Jesus, being of God, somehow know them already? Did they recognize something in Jesus that caused them to follow? Maybe, in their hearts, they knew Jesus already. Maybe they just wanted to get away from a life of back-breaking hard work. Maybe it was time for a change. Maybe.

We live in a time when our leaders seem to command more followers with their charisma or their physical appearance rather than wisdom or insight. Or empty promises and ideas about who to blame rather than how to fix it, or quick fixes at the expense of others. It doesn’t seem like “follow because I said so” is a good model for today.

But is this that model? I’ve always preferred the story in John because it seems like Jesus invites people to come and see what he’s doing before choosing to follow him and this one seems like Jesus just exerts his power over them and compels them. Yes, this may be a miracle moment when Jesus and his first followers know each other. But it may also be more a miracle of understanding.

The story doesn’t begin with “follow me and I will make you fish for people.” Jesus’ ministry begins with “Jesus came to Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news” (Mark 1:14-15) He was already teaching and preaching. He was already ministering.

Maybe Simon and Andrew came so willingly because they’d already heard the message and it resonated with them. Maybe Zebedee, the father of James and John, was okay with losing two hard working sons from his boat because he’d heard the message too and saw how it touched them. Maybe Jesus wasn’t displaying his power over others, but his connectedness, his ability to engage and touch people’s hearts and minds with a message about making a world of love and grace, peace and hope. 

Listen. Maybe we can all hear it.

Come and See and Experience and Share

Many people are familiar with the Bible story about Jesus calling his first disciples from their boats by the sea of Galilee.  They’re fishermen, and Jesus invites them to follow him and they will “fish for people” (Mark 1:17).  It’s a powerful image of individual call or vocation to bring others to Jesus that appears in the Gospels of Mark, Matthew and Luke.

But there’s another story about Jesus and the first disciples that presents a different perspective.  In John’s Gospel, it’s John the Baptist (not the writer of the Gospel) that points out Jesus to those who will become his first followers.  Jesus is not seeking them, they go to him because John tells them that Jesus is the messiah that he, John, was sent to announce.  They go to Jesus and he asks them “‘what are you looking for?’  They said to him, ‘Rabbi’ (which translated means Teacher), ‘where are you staying?’  He said to them, ‘come and see’” (John 1:38-39).  They remain with him for the afternoon and then one of them, Andrew, goes to invite his brother Simon to join them. And, before you know it, Jesus has invited Philip to follow and Philip’s inviting someone to “come and see.”

Come and see.  Experience.  Share.  I think that this is at the heart of what “church” is really supposed to be about.

The invitation, to “come and see,” is not just for a few, but for everyone.  Sure, if you were interested, you could get a pamphlet from every church, synagogue, mosque, temple and meeting hall and read about what that particular religion, denomination or faith believes.  Better still, you could go online and read up on everyone on the internet.  Then you’d never have to leave your home.

But that misses the whole point of the invitation.  To “come and see” is to participate and experience, and to do so in the company of others.

It’s dated now, but we use to call that “fellowship.”  It’s dated, in part, because it’s been co-opted into so many other uses that it’s lost some of its integrity.  But it’s also, rightly, no longer recognized as being inclusive enough.  So how about a new word like “familyship.”  After all, that’s truly what we should be seeking, the experience of learning, living and growing together in the family of God.  Returning to that fundamental point reminds us that we are all children of God, whatever we believe that God to be, whatever we call that God, however we come to that God, we are all members of one family.

That doesn’t mean we all have to be the same, of course.  That’s often the hardest thing to get our heads around, “us” and “them.”  With God, there is no “us” and “them.”  We might not ever come to know that completely in this life, but we will only come to understand it better through experience, by being open enough to “come and see.”

And do.  Let’s not forget that we bring our own selves to any “familyship.”  To really know, you have to bring yourself, your creativity and your energy and share it with others.  For the church family, this means everyone sharing their gifts with enthusiasm, inspired to live as Jesus teaches, inspired to live more than the institution, more than the obligation or expectation, inspired to live into the satisfaction, comfort and joy of relationship with each other.  And the struggle, challenge and hard work of relationship with each other.  It’s an ideal to reach for, but we’re not perfect, families aren’t either.

So you’ve found this familyship and you’ve experienced it.  Now what?  Now we share.

We can do that, first, by living our church familyship into the familyship of our community.  Just as Jesus did, it’s not enough to talk about it, we must show that it is within our lives as well as our words.

But the words can be important, too.  How else will we share what we have learned but to tell others, to invite them to be part of this familyship?

We used to call this evangelism.  Again, that’s a word that we’ve come to understand in a certain way.  But I don’t have another word for this one - I want this one back.  Because it simply means to share the “good news,” to share that very simple, very open invitation: come and see.

A Little Illumination

When I imagine the Christmas Story, I imagine most things happened in the darkness. Sure, Mary and Joseph probably travelled to Bethlehem by day and, for some reason, I have it my head that the angel Gabriel visited Mary sometime around noon - don’t ask me why - but, generally, the key moments all happened in the dark.

We need the darkness to tell the story.

Of course, because it’s a story about light. From the prophetic - “the people that walked in darkness have seen a great light” and “arise, shine, for your light is come” - to the narrative itself - “the glory of the Lord shone round about them” and the star the magi followed “from its rising” - to John’s great metaphor - “the light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it” - it’s all about the light.

And the dark. And the light.

Okay, we need both. The story isn’t just about the light coming into the world. It can’t be. Because if you look only at the light, you’ll be blinded. What it’s about, is what the light illuminates in the dark.

The light of the angels and the star lead the shepherds and the magi, respectively, to Jesus. But was it exactly what they were expecting? I want to say “I doubt it” because it is absolutely worth remembering that the kind of messiah, the kind of great ruler that the people would likely have been expecting to fulfill the prophecy, would not have been born to poor people, far from home, and placed in a manger for a bed.

So, I doubt that they found what they were expecting. At first. But the story’s not about the light, so much as what the light illuminates. And what the light showed them in that moment was a new life, a new love and the power of love to break into the darkness, just like the light, and show a way forward.

I think the story of the magi, in particular, reminds us that we walk everyday in the light of the unexpected. This is the light of love that draws us in and shows us so much more than our expectations limit us to, a light that shows us the world around us and how we are a part of it. It doesn’t just shine, it illuminates, enlightens and ignites.

This is what the season of Epiphany is all about. Between Christmas and Lent, it’s full of stories about how Jesus is revealed (that’s what “epiphany” means), but to look at it that way would be just like looking at the sun. What’s important is how those stories of revealing illuminate our own journey.

The light, after all, shines on you. It is reflected into the world by you. It is carried into the world by you.

Part of a Bigger Story

A couple of years ago, some friends gave us a beautiful snow globe for Christmas. It’s mostly silver and white with some gold trim on the manger scene in the globe. It’s a simple scene of Mary and Joseph either side of the baby Jesus, wrapped in a cloth in a manger. There’s a couple of curious sheep and three silver palm trees behind them. It's that "special moment" in time, perhaps what the shepherds saw, or the stable animals. My description doesn’t do it justice, of course. It’s beautiful and elegant and all contained within its protective glass shell.

Just the way we like our Christmases.

But that's just the "Christmas" we make.  The one we prepare and package, order and organize to conveniently - or not so conveniently - fit into our holiday schedule.  It's a special moment in time, sure, and it can make many memories, but when we put away the snow globes, the trees and the three cupboards worth of decorations - or is that just at our house? - we're putting that Christmas away, too.

Christmas, real Christmas, is bigger than that.

Argue about the origins of Christmas traditions all you like, the accuracy of the story and how we tell it, the arbitrary date, the pagan customs, the commercialism of today's festivities, but Christmas is bigger than all that, too.

Christmas, for me, is part of a bigger story, a story of life since the beginning, a life we're living now and a life ahead.  It's about how our relationship with God, and each other, was and is, and how it can be changed for the better by love.

For as much as we mark yearly commemorations of the birth and death and resurrection of Jesus, and we mark certain days as moments in the story of his life, they're all surely less important than the life itself.  Struggling as we were, since the beginning, in our relationship with God and each other, it was that life, that daily living of love, compassion and grace, that became our example for living.  In living, Jesus showed us how we can make life better.

And how we've struggled with that since.  And often failed.  But perhaps that might partly be because we mark these "moments in time" and celebrate them without truly realizing that they are "moments for time."  The love that came down at Christmas, to paraphrase Christina Rosetti's poem, didn't stay in the stable.  That love lives, and we can give it life each day, as it gives us life, every day.

One of my Christmas traditions is to watch the 1951 classic film of A Christmas Carol.  In it, there's a wonderful moment when Scrooge first meets the Ghost of Christmas Present.  The Ghost, a grand, jovial sort, tells him this: "Mortal! We Spirits of Christmas do not live only one day of our year.  We live the whole three-hundred and sixty-five.  So is it true of the Child born in Bethlehem.  He does not live in men's hearts one day of the year, but in all days of the year."

The Christmas story is big.  It's life, every day.

Christmas Stories

Each of the gospels has a story about the arrival of Jesus.

Mark doesn’t have a birth story for Jesus. The gospel that opens with “the beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the son of God,” dives right in with the adult John the Baptist announcing the arrival of the adult Jesus. Here he is, says John, the one I’ve told you about. And there, suddenly, is Jesus, being baptized by John, spending some time wondering in the wilderness and then beginning his ministry.

Matthew begins his story with a lengthy genealogy that establishes that Jesus is descended through Joseph, not just from the great king David, but from Abraham. The angel doesn’t appear to Mary, but to Joseph. Then, when Jesus is born, magi appear seeking the promised child that is “king of the Jews.” Jesus is, then, established as the king that was promised.

Luke tells the story of the angel visiting Mary, the journey to Bethlehem, the birth in the stable, the shepherds, the angels. There are no kings of the sort Matthew’s magi expected to  find. Mary and Joseph are poor. Angels announce the birth to shepherds, the lowest of the low in social standing. Those who need the most care figure prominently in Luke.

It’s these two stories we combine into the “Christmas Story” that we tell with manger scenes, beautiful works of art and music, even pictures on cards. The almost idyllic pastoral scene of the child, “no crying he makes” the song says, surrounded by Mary, Joseph, the donkey and the other stable animals, sheep and shepherds, and magi (usually three kings) with their gifts and their camels. There may be a star overhead and perhaps an angel.

Each of the stories of Matthew and Luke deserve their own time and attention, but I also don’t disparage combining them into a single representative scene. The hope, peace, joy and, most especially, love that’s at the heart of the story are all there. Yes, please go deeper, but this is a good place to start.

That’s the thing, isn’t it. The story-telling is just the beginning. The real beauty of this tableau is in the thoughts, the questions a good story brings. The real beauty is in the wonder.

This story is full of wonder. Mostly, I think, because it’s not full of fear. Luke tells that the very first words the angel says to Mary are “don’t be afraid.” Matthew says it’s the first words of the angel to Joseph. The angel appears to the shepherds and says don’t be afraid. I imagine Joseph said it to Mary more than a few times on the road to Bethlehem. The shepherds might well have said it to Mary and Joseph when the came to see the child with this crazy story of angels singing. And exotic looking magi who travelled a great distance with precious gifts just because they saw a star? Their first words must have been “please, don’t be afraid.”

And I think they weren’t afraid. I think the characters in this story chose wonder over fear. I don’t think it was easy, but I think they did and that brought hope, it brought engagement and relationships and sharing the good news that in this child is God’s love.

This is the kind of love the adult Jesus lived and taught. That same Jesus who had to remind us so frequently, “don’t be afraid.”  See, I think that love is in all of us. Fear masks it. Fear covers it and makes it difficult for us to access it, live it and share it. But wonder opens our hearts to love. Wonder reaches out and, just like in the story, makes connections and builds relationships. That’s the way love gets out and gives life. Love is always there, waiting to be let out.

That’s where the story of Jesus’ arrival in the gospel of John is so important to me. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God … What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it … And the Word became flesh and lived among us.”

This Word isn’t just about words in a story, it’s the spirit of life itself, the energy, the power of creation, the love that connects us and animates us. It can’t be overcome by the darkness of fear. And it’s here, in this child, in the Christmas Story. Wonder about that.

Wool & Straw

Occasionally, I like to write a story or a play. This is the short story version of the play the children presented in Bashaw last week. It's inspired by an old celtic tale of two brothers who didn't get along and the village priest who enlightens them. The characters and the setting are a little different here.

Long, long ago, there was a tiny little town called Bethlehem. It was kind of in the middle of nowhere in a country called Judea, a not very popular place way and gone in the backend of an empire controlled by powerful corporations and mighty conglomerates who were only interested in what they could get out of you, like oil or cheap manufacturing, and then there were the taxes, oh the taxes. But that’s for another time.

In those days, Bethlehem was so small it only had one stable, a tiny little place, full of all kinds of animals. There were cows, chickens, pigs, dogs, cats, mice, even a rabbit or two, a wise old donkey who rarely left his stall … and sheep.

Oh, the sheep. They pretty much ran the show in those days. They weren’t really mean or bossy or anything like that, it was just that … well, there were the sheep of the hills and the sheep of the valley and they never did see eye to eye.

All the other animals got along just fine. They shared their stalls and their straw and whenever they went in or out of the stable, they would politely let their friends go first. Not the sheep, though. Sometimes they wouldn’t even use the same door! And whoever happened to come in first would take the best stalls and the best straw and just sit there and stare as the others came in, chewing their straw. Chewing and staring … staring and chewing …

You can imagine that the other animals were not too fond of this arrangement. “I wish they were more friendly,” said one of the dogs. “Why can’t they get along like we do,” said one of the chickens. “I wish they’d share their food,” said one of the pigs. “Mooove them somewhere else,” said the cows. “Something’s coming,” said the donkey.

Some of the animals had their own ideas of what to do about the sheep. “Build them their own stables,” said one of the dogs. “Make them take turns,” said one of the chickens (who secretly wanted their own pecking order). “Make them share their food,” said one of the pigs. “Mooove us somewhere else,” said the cows (who sincerely hoped they were ‘herd’). “Something’s coming,” said the donkey.

The sheep didn’t like any of these ideas. “We want to stay in this stable.  It’s ours,” said the sheep of the hills. “No, it’s ours,” said the sheep of the valley, “and, sure, we could take turns - as long as we go first.” “No, we’re first,” said the sheep of the hills. “And don’t even think about sharing our food.” “Maybe you should move on. That wouldn’t be so baaaad,” said the sheep of the valley. “Something’s coming,” said the donkey.

“What?” said all the sheep together (which really surprised them, since they’d never done anything together).

Now the donkey, whose name was Ezekiel, was an old donkey who’d traveled to many places, and all the other animals knew he was very wise. If anyone could do something about the sheep of the hills and the sheep of the valley, it was Ezekiel. “What do you mean, Ezekial?” said one of the pigs.

“I’ve heard a voice,” he said, “like an angel speaking far away. Something special is coming.  We must be ready. This silly business between the sheep of the hills and the sheep of the valley must stop.”

At that, there was much baaa-ing and snorting from the sheep. They weren’t sure, but they thought some work was coming their way. But Ezekiel had an idea.

“I will be going on a trip,” he said. “While I am gone, I challenge the sheep of the hills to gather their wool and the sheep of the valley to gather their straw, each bringing as much as they can here to the stable. When we meet together on the evening of my return, whoever fills the most space in the stable shall be the winner and be the boss of the stable.”

Well, the sheep of the hills were pretty excited. Their wool was the finest and fluffiest anywhere. And the sheep of the valley knew exactly where the best straw was stored, and lots of it. “What will you bring, Ezekiel?” asked one of the cows, who was secretly concerned that the sheep of the valley might make a mooooove on her hay.

“We shall see,” he replied. And with that, Ezekiel left the stable and walked off down the road out of town.

Now, it wasn’t long before things started to get a little crowded in the stable. There was straw and wool everywhere! There wasn’t much room for the animals, the sheep of the hills and the sheep of the valley still didn’t get along and Ezekiel was nowhere to be seen.

Finally, it was the day that Ezekiel was to return. The sheep of the hills and the sheep of the valley stayed out as late as they could, looking for the very last bit of wool and straw. It was starting to get quite dark when they headed back to the stable and they were almost there when they heard a noise. It was quiet and gentle at first, but soon it was all they could hear and they stopped and looked in amazement: there were angels, singing, in the sky!

And then, just like that, they were gone.

The sheep of the hills hurried down and the sheep of the valley ran quickly up and, as they came to the stable, they were surprised to find Ezekiel standing at the door with the other animals.

“What’s happening?” asked the sheep.

“Ezekiel was right,” said the rabbit, “something special is happening and it’s happening right here! A baby is being born in our stable.”

“Big deal,” said the sheep of the hills. “Yeah,” said the sheep of the valley, “we want to see who won!”

But when the sheep and the other animals followed Ezekiel into the stable, no one noticed the wool piled high towards the roof or the bales of hay stacked against the wall. All eyes were fixed on the baby, sleeping quietly in his mother’s arms.

“Look what Ezekiel brought,” said one of the pigs. And they all watched as the mother gently put him down in the rough wooden manger. And the baby stretched and yawned and began to cry and his crying filled the whole stable.

The sheep of the hills looked at the sheep of the valley.

“I think he’s uncomfortable,” said one. “The wood is very hard,” said another. Then one of the sheep took some wool and another brought some straw and they put them together in the manger under the baby. And the baby smiled and stopped crying. And his mother rocked the manger gently back and forth.

Like the sheep of the hills and the sheep of the valley, we sometimes forget what’s really important, and instead we let little things come between us and others, between us and the rest of the world.  Christmas reminds us that God’s love for all came to us in a baby born in a stable.